Hot Pursuit (19 page)

“No way. Too much work.”

“And you'll call me if your plans change.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, I'm out of here. Good luck with the writing.” Jack's eyes narrowed, and he ran his thumb gently over her cheek. “You've got some ink here.” He traced her lip. “Here, too.”

Taylor tried to ignore an instant kick of desire at his touch. “Occupational hazard.”

“I could get rid of it for you.” His eyes glinted.

Taylor took a jerky breath. “Out, Broussard.” It was only as she was closing the door that she realized Jack had told her nothing about the cars that had followed them the night before. Nor had he given her any more information about the attack in Annie's hospital room.

After a mental head slap, she headed back to her computer. Food could wait. Right now she had a hot date.

Two men and a red Toyota.

 

Jack picked up the banging about twenty minutes later. He shot out of his chair and scanned the hall.

Nothing.

Frowning, he checked the elevator. No sounds there, either. On the way back inside, he passed Taylor's door and heard muffled noises. He pressed one ear to the door, trying to pick out the source of the noise, but it stopped abruptly, replaced by footsteps and low muttering. After that came a thud, like a pillow hitting the wall, followed by more muttering.

Jack was starting to worry when he heard footsteps drum past the door. This time he made out Taylor's voice, lowered in a silky drawl.

“Touch me like that
again
, and I'll have to call the police.” With a throaty laugh, she continued in a deeper voice. “Honey, I
am
the police.”

He heard a ripple of laughter, and then the footsteps moved to the back of her apartment.

The crazy female was writing. Apparently that meant walking, talking, cursing, and banging on walls. Jack shook his head. Who knew that making up stories could be so much work?

Judging by the sounds from her apartment, this writing stuff made a person completely crazy. And if you were Taylor O'Toole, who was already more than a little crazy to start with . . .

For no particular reason, Jack found himself smiling. The lady was a kook all right.

The window opened inside and cool air spilled beneath her door. A chair creaked, and he heard the tap of computer keys, fast and steady.

She was finally in her zone.

Jack walked back into his apartment, frowning as his cell phone vibrated.

“What's Taylor doing?” As usual, Izzy wasted no time on preliminaries.

“She's writing. If you call pillows flying and general cursing behind closed doors writing.”

“Hey, if it was easy, we'd all be doing it. Of course no one would
believe
our stories,” Izzy mused.

The sound of steady typing continued from Taylor's office as Jack opened the briefing file he'd been given the week before. Inside, he found half a dozen photographs.

Taylor in a firing stance beside a police officer in full SWAT gear.

Taylor in a wet suit standing on a beach north of Malibu with an L.A.P.D. rescue team.

He shook his head. “What's with the woman? She sky-dives, she trains with SWAT officers. These people are picky about who they train with. I know that from personal experience.”

“Taylor's not just anyone.” Izzy's chair creaked. “But I think you already noticed that, too.”

“Understatement of this or any other century.” Jack picked up a picture of Taylor with a class of junior high students who appeared to be doing the conga while dressed in Roman togas. “Sometimes I think she's nuts. And others . . .” He cleared his throat. “She gets to you. Somewhere deep.”

“Welcome to the club.” Izzy cleared his throat. “You clear with this assignment? If it's getting too personal—”

“I can deal with my feelings, Teague.” Jack spoke more sharply than he planned. “So can Taylor.”

“We're counting on that,” Izzy said calmly, then disconnected.

Jack picked up another photo with Taylor standing next to her sister. Behind them, a cedar-and-glass building rose over a pristine beach below the cliffs of Big Sur.

This must be the family resort south of Carmel.

The sisters were laughing, caught in the intimacy of some private joke, and Jack could almost feel the force of their connection. He had been relieved when Izzy reported the government had assigned two men to the spa to protect Annie from any future attacks.

He picked up a photo of Taylor in goggles, hunched over a skeleton on an examining table. A sign in the background read
SMITHSONIAN LABS
—
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
.

It was clear that something drove her. Who else would go to these lengths to get every detail right? Jack could understand that kind of determination, since it carried him through every mission, but he still couldn't get a handle on this writing thing. How did you pull people and conversations out of thin air? Where did you get your ideas? None of it made sense to him.

He heard another
thump
as something struck the adjoining wall. After more muttering noises, the keyboard clicked away in high gear again.

Jack shook his head. As far as he could see, there were easier ways to make a living.

Like raising the
Titanic
.

Chapter Twenty-one

At first, Taylor didn't hear her phone. It wasn't only because she was in the middle of a tense confrontation between her heroine, the cop she'd fallen for, and two Triad hit men. The earphones helped, too.

Frowning, she slipped off the regulation airline safety coverings that were her favorite writing accessory. With the big orange ear covers off, she heard ringing, checked her caller ID, then lunged for the phone.

“Annie, is that you?”

“No, Taylor. It's Sam.”

There was something impersonal about his voice that made Taylor frown. “Is everything okay with Annie?”

“She's fine. Just a little tired.” He seemed to hesitate.

“What is it?” Taylor gripped the phone. “Not the baby . . .”

“No, not that.”

Taylor heard a muffled voice in the background. “Is someone there?”

“Izzy sent some men down.” Sam's voice hardened. “I can't be here all the time, and I want Annie protected.”

Taylor stared at the phone, feeling sick. “What happened in the hospital, Sam? No one will tell me.”

“Annie was attacked last night. Izzy had an undercover agent in place, but someone got past him. One more minute and I could have been too late.”

Taylor flinched at the anger in his voice. “Sam, I'm so sorry. I never saw any of this coming. One minute I was doing a favor for a friend, and the next I was being followed.”

Receiving funeral wreaths.

Taken hostage in a robbery gone wrong.

She took a sharp breath. “Sam?”

“I'm here, Taylor.” He didn't sound particularly happy about it, either.

“I didn't think there was any real danger. Definitely not for anyone else. I'm so—” Her voice broke, but she recovered. “So damned sorry.”

The silence stretched out, worse than a slap on the face.

“I'd like to speak to Annie.” Her voice sounded stiff and awkward. “I need to apologize.”

“She's sleeping right now.”

“Then I'll drive down. I can be there in two hours. She'll be awake by then.”

“No.”
Sam bit back a low curse. “This is hard for me to say, but—”

Taylor's fingers were ice cold where they gripped the phone. “You don't want me there, do you? You think it could put Annie at risk.”

“I think it's possible, and I can't take that chance, Taylor. Do you understand?”

She stared at the framed photographs on her desk.

Annie holding a handful of wildflowers from the garden. Annie and Sam with a class of schoolchildren in D.C. Annie and Sam getting married, their faces filled with a glow that radiated right off the paper.

Taylor had threatened all that. She closed her eyes, squeezed back the bite of tears. “I . . . understand. I won't see her. I won't call. Not until all this is over. Just tell her . . .”

Tell her what?

That she was sorry she had always been a screwup? That she was sorry she had endangered the one person she loved most?

So empty. So pointless.

“Tell her hello. That's all.”

Taylor hung up quickly. The windows blurred as she stared out toward the bay, blue and gold in the afternoon sun.

 

The alarm screamed, and Taylor shot upright, clutching her pillow.

3:30
A
.
M
.

Normal
people hadn't even gone to bed yet.

Sighing, she stumbled toward the closet. At least her clothes were hung where she could find them. Otherwise she'd be throwing on red leather with purple plaid.

She'd have worn her favorite black leather jacket except it was history, thanks to the thugs who'd tried to kidnap her at the convenience store. Instead, she held up a pair of nicely fitted black jeans. Okay, so they were nicely
tight
. Thanks to all her surveillance snacking.

She tossed the clothes over her shoulder with a sigh. The next time her publisher asked her to do a warehouse signing, she'd take out a gun and shoot herself.

 

“She did
what?
” Izzy sounded exhausted.

Jack knew exactly how he felt. He was tugging on his shoes and grabbing his jacket as he talked. “She ducked out at 3:45. Lucky I have a silent alarm to alert me when her front door opens.” Jack holstered his gun, sprinted for the door. “She's already in the elevator, damn it. I'll have to call the doorman and ask him to hold her.”

“Good luck.”

Jack rang off, then punched the intercom.

“Yes, Mr. Broussard?”

“Ms. O'Toole is on her way down, and I need to talk to her. Can you tell her to wait for me in the lobby?”

“Happy to, sir. Hold on, please.” There was some bustling, then the sound of footsteps. “Sorry, Mr. Broussard. She says a limousine is waiting. She'd prefer to speak to you later.”

Like hell she would.
“Tell her to wait. There's a fifty-dollar tip in it for you.”

“Yes,
sir
.”

Jack fumed as he waited for the elevator, then jumped on and pounded the button for the lobby. The doors had barely opened when he shot out after Taylor.

The doorman was on the front steps, looking anxious. “Sorry, Mr. Broussard. I tried to stop her, but—”

“Which car?”

“Over there. The black limo. Her publisher always uses the same company.”

Jack didn't hear anything else because he was sprinting along the sidewalk, reaching the limousine just as the driver started out into traffic.

Jack cut him off, standing in the street and blocking his way.

The driver frowned. “Sorry, Ms. O'Toole, but there's some nut out there waving his arms. You know him?”

Taylor stared into the beam of the headlights, then sighed. The nut was her neighbor. “I'll talk to him, Curtis.” She rolled down her window and leaned out. “I'm late, Jack. Could you please move?”

“Get out of the car.” He was dressed all in black, and his eyes could have scored diamonds as he strode around to her window.

“I beg your pardon.”

“
Out.
Now.” When she didn't move fast enough, he slid a hand inside, unlocked her door, and yanked it open.

The driver spun his head. “Hey, buddy, you can't—”

“I just did,” Jack snapped, pulling Taylor outside.

“Ms. O'Toole?”

Taylor crossed her arms as fury tore through her. “Wait a moment, Curtis. I'm certain this is all a mistake.”

“Like hell it is.” Jack scanned the dark street, then motioned to the driver. “You can clear out now. The lady won't need your services. I'll be driving her wherever she needs to go.”

“No way. I can't just drive off.”

“Sure you can.” Jack pulled out a leather wallet with a picture ID. “S.F.P.D. The lady and I have business to finish.” He stared at Taylor. “Don't we, Ms. O'Toole?”

Taylor pulled at his hand, but it was like trying to move a tank. “Jack, this is ridiculous,” she hissed.

“Send the driver away. You won't be needing him.”

“But—”

“Don't waste any more of his time.”

Taylor bit back an angry answer and dredged up a smile. “Thanks, Curtis. I'll get to the signing myself. It will be fine.”

“But, Ms. O'Toole—”

Jack shoved a card at the limo driver. “You heard the lady. If there's a problem about your bill, send it there.” He pulled Taylor back into the building. “It's the least Izzy can do.”

 

“I still don't see the problem.”

Taylor was fuming as she followed Jack through the parking garage. “I was on company business and I have a companyarranged driver. Why are you getting so worked up about this?”

“Why? Because we had an agreement. You gave me your promise.”

“Of course I did. But I didn't think—”

Jack yanked open her door. “Yeah, you don't think. This is real, Taylor. If something goes wrong here, people
bleed
, and the red stuff isn't in your imagination. Maybe you can manage to remember that.”

She stood by the car, livid, her hands opening and closing. “Are you saying I'm irresponsible as well as stupid?”

“I'm saying that there are rules, Taylor. We discussed them, and you agreed. I expect you to abide by them, whether they're convenient, whether you like them, or even whether they make sense. You just follow them.”

She glared at him. “Rules are a big thing with you, Broussard. Do you want me to click my heels and salute now?”

His eyes didn't waver. “No, I want you to get in the damned car. I won't be pulled into an argument or a discussion, even if it will make you feel better.”

She tried for a snappy, biting answer, but all her words were gone, swept away by the nagging thought that he could be right. “Fine. You can drive me.” She slid into the seat, her body stiff. “We're going to Oakland, with one stop on the way.”

“Where in Oakland?”

Taylor rattled off an address, then pointed across the street. “Stop over there first.”

She expected a protest.

She got only cool reserve.

The man had ice in his veins. She
hated
people who evaded her questions—especially when she was in the mood for a nice, full-decibel argument.

 

Bavarian cream.

Vanilla cream.

Chocolate cream.

Muttering, Taylor mulled over the merits of raspberry filling versus marble ribbon frosting. In the end she took a dozen of both, for a grand total of twelve dozen.

To say nothing of five gallons of iced cappuccino.

The flustered young woman rang up what was probably her biggest order ever and laboriously made change. While she boxed the doughnuts, Taylor rubbed her neck and forced herself to relax. She wasn't wrong and she
wasn't
going to apologize. No way. How was she to know that Jack meant she couldn't go
anywhere
, even with a trustworthy driver? She rode with Curtis every time she went to Oakland, for heaven's sake.

And she
wasn't
argumentative.

Jack was waiting at the door when she stepped outside, nearly hidden behind a tower of cardboard boxes.

She made a point of not looking at him.

“I'll take those.”

“I can manage,” Taylor said tightly, hefting the boxes and trying not to drop the large thermos filled with coffee.

She positioned her assorted treasures in Jack's car without a word, and the silence held for almost twenty minutes, until they turned into a huge warehouse parking lot surrounded by floodlights. Even at this early hour, vans and tractor-trailers were revved up beside brawny men who rolled boxes from truck to truck.

Two raised their hands and called out a greeting.

In answer, Taylor held up a doughnut box like a battle prize. By the time she had parked in a space near the front door, there were four men waiting to help her unload.

Jack didn't look happy at her audience. “Friends?”

“The best. They're the ones that keep the books moving—any day and every day. See you later, Broussard.”

She figured the doughnuts would last maybe fifteen minutes, given these guys' appetites. And that was a
generous
estimate.

Experience had taught her that book merchandisers were a hungry lot.

 

Jack watched, frowning. What in the hell was she doing
now
? Hauling a thousand doughnuts into the middle of an Oakland warehouse an hour before dawn?

The front door opened. More people spilled out. They were calling her Ms. Taylor. Jack scratched his head and then the image clicked in.

M.M. Taylor was her pseudonym.

Okay, so it was something to do with her books, but why here? Hotshot writers went to fancy galas at big, glittering hotels, didn't they?

Taylor gave a warm hug to a woman with a long apron and a pencil shoved above her ear. They walked inside together arm in arm.

As the door closed, Jack moved in closer, studying a big poster by the front entrance. Taylor's picture and three book covers were fanned out over white cardboard.

She was signing
here
?

Thoroughly confused, Jack pulled out his phone. If he had to be up at this miserable hour, Izzy might as well be, too.

But Izzy sounded fit and chipper, Jack noted sourly. “Okay, I give up. What's she doing in a warehouse in south Oakland at 5
A
.
M
.?”

“Coffee and doughnuts with the drivers and merchandisers.”

“Merchandisers?”

“The most important people in the literary food chain, buddy. They're the ones who restock the books in grocery stores, pharmacies, discount stores. Everywhere books are sold that isn't a bookstore.”

The picture began to dawn. “Authors do this a lot?”

“Some. Taylor's got a knack for making readers where you wouldn't always expect them.”