Hot Pursuit (26 page)

The woman shook her head. “They're too small for me, too, but I'll find a way to stretch them. These shoes are so hot I'll feel like Nicole Kidman at the Academy Awards.” Her eyes narrowed. “You look familiar. It was something recent. Wait, you were in that convenience store robbery. The woman that was taken hostage.” She fumbled with the snakeskin shoes, then held out a hand. “Martha Sorensen. You were
amazing
.”

“Taylor O'Toole, and I was scared spitless.”

“Scared or not, you taught those gorillas not to mess with a woman in black leather.”

“I had a little help from the San Francisco SWAT team.” Taylor looked down, not wanting to remember that time of panic and confusion. She picked up a pair of Bruno Magli evening pumps with heavy rhinestone ankle straps, then shook her head. “A little too S&M for me.”

Her new friend held up a pair of velvet shoes with sculpted heels. “These are more your style. Elegant, classic, but a whole lot of
zing
.”

Taylor chuckled. The velvet slides were hard to resist. She checked the size, then slid on one shoe and studied it gravely. “Not bad.”

“Honey, those are fabulous.” Her new friend scanned a display for nearby purses and returned with a tiny beaded bag. “What do you think?”

“That you ought to be working on commission.”

“Don't bring up work. It will ruin my night. Things have gone straight to hell this week since one of our people left without notice.” She frowned at Taylor. “He was there, too, you know. Harris Rains.”

“You work with Rains?” Taylor's mouth suddenly felt dry.

The woman sniffed. “Not to hear
him
tell it. He's Einstein and everyone else is mere slave labor. But someone has to keep the books balanced and the equipment paid for.” She studied a pair of red cowboy boots. “Life would be a lot simpler if I didn't have a shoe obsession.” She glanced at Taylor. “Are you going to take those velvet slides? If not, they're mine. The purse, too.” She smiled a little ruefully. “Not that they'll look half as good on me.”

Taylor examined the velvet shoes, keeping her voice casual. “By the way, what happened to Harris Rains? I haven't seen him since the robbery.”

Martha Sorensen dug through a display of Jimmy Choo slingbacks and gasped when she found a knockout pair in red leather with contrasting white piping. “Excuse me while I faint.” She slid on the shoes and studied the result carefully. “Rains? I still can't forget the nightmare that crumb left at the lab. I mean, what was he
thinking
? We're in the middle of two projects, and he's supposed to be finishing a new R & D proposal.” A waiter passed with a tray, and she snagged a glass of champagne. “Thank God for champagne.” She took a healthy sip, then sighed. “My job is going to kill me.”

“What kind of work does your company do?” Taylor decided a little pumping was in order.

“Recombinant DNA work. Mostly pharmaceuticals.”

“So Rains just vanished one day? Isn't that odd?”

Martha Sorensen put down her champagne and studied the milling crowd. “You bet. He really seemed to lose it about a month ago, always calling in sick, missing lab meetings. If he hadn't been so smart, he would have been fired right then. But results count,” she said grimly. “The man always managed to produce at the last minute.” She stared off into space. “I sometimes wonder if something happened to him during that robbery.”

“Like what?”

The woman shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe the whole experience unhinged him. Blood and death up close, you know what I mean?”

Unfortunately, Taylor knew exactly what she meant, and the memory was not making her feel good.
No more champagne cocktails,
she told herself sternly. “Didn't he call or leave any messages before he left?”

“One day his desk was full, the next day it was stripped bare. Bizarre.” Martha lunged for a pair of silver lamé pumps. “But he'll manage. Harris Rains is like a cat—he'll always land on his feet.”

Taylor frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“Trust me, he could be late for a budget review or behind on quarterly lab assessments, but he'd put the squeeze on his staff until the job got done. He knew things about everyone, and I heard he wasn't afraid to indulge in a little blackmail when he needed it.” She grimaced at the price tag on the silver lamé pumps, then reluctantly put them back. “The one I really feel sorry for is that young girl he was boffing.” Her lips tightened. “Never mind that he's married.”

“He was seeing someone?” Taylor asked, carefully casual.

“She was a temp at the lab. It took him all of a week to reel her in.” Martha was reaching for a purse when she froze, her breath catching audibly. “Hel-lo. I think I'm having my first hot flash.”

Taylor followed the direction of her gaze.

Jack was standing by a potted palm tree. Next to him was a waiter carrying a tray with champagne. Even from behind, Taylor recognized the waiter as Izzy. “You mean those two men?”

“Who else? I'll take one of each—and I don't mean the champagne.”

“I suppose I should tell you that the one in the tux is with me.”

Martha turned, nearly dropping her shoes, and gave a low whistle. “So what are you wasting time on shoes for? Honey, the women here are
sharks
. Leave him alone and he's going to get eaten.” Even as she spoke, a model-thin blonde in a plunging red halter top wiggled up to Jack and offered him a glass of champagne, which he politely refused.

“You're got him well trained, I see.”

“No. He just likes to do the hunting.” Taylor wasn't sure why her voice sounded wistful.

“Most men do.” Martha continued to stare. “He looks like someone who can be dangerous when he has to.” Her brow rose. “Military? No, don't tell me. Marines?”

“Maybe. He doesn't talk about it much.” Taylor was embarrassed to admit that she knew next to nothing about Jack's background. As she stared at him, he turned, gesturing at his watch.

Her new friend sighed. “In that case, I'll go flirt with that lovely waiter.” She smiled conspiratorially at Taylor. “Shoes are good, but they aren't everything.” She held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. O'Toole.”

“Same here. Good luck with your shopping.”

With a flutter of red silk, Martha Sorensen gave a tiny wave, then bore down on Izzy, shoes and empty glass in hand.

“You go, girl,” Taylor murmured, wishing she could see Izzy's face.

Chapter Twenty-nine

FROM TAYLOR'S BOOK OF RULES:
Godiva and antacids do not mix.

The evening should have been fun, with Taylor pushing through the crowd in search of exciting booty. Shopping did that to her.

At least it always had before tonight.

Now the possibility of danger hidden amid the laughter and noisy celebration couldn't be discounted. But there was something else. She watched Jack prowl, checking the crowd, making a small hand gesture to Izzy near the bar.

For some reason, watching Jack at work seemed infinitely more interesting than haggling over slingbacks or evening bags. He was so competent, so cool, so intense that Taylor couldn't take her eyes off him.

She let a pair of satin Manolo Blahniks get past her—at twenty percent off, no less. Was she
crazy
?
Nothing
put her off shopping. Searching for the perfect gift or an unusual trinket was one of her unswerving joys in life.

Up until now.

She felt an odd flutter in her chest. Dear God, she wasn't getting serious about the man, was she? Okay, he was great to look at—in a rough sort of way—and occasionally he charmed her by doing something unexpected, like reading her book. But she was on one life trajectory, and he was on another. Sometime soon, in a week or a month, this mess with Rains would be resolved and Jack Broussard would be no more than a shadow on her doorstep, on his way to becoming a vague, rather pleasant memory. Even a fool could see they were oil to water, fire to ice.

And Taylor was no fool.

But she couldn't resist a long fantasy of ten or twenty years spent fighting and arguing, then making up with wild laughter and mind-blowing sex. From what she'd seen so far, the real thing, when they actually got around to it, was bound to shatter a few records. But it wouldn't last, that was equally obvious. Was a brief pleasure worth the deep pain of splitting up when Jack hit the road, as he certainly would?

The pain of that vision made Taylor's heart skip painfully. She pressed a hand against her chest, trying to catch her breath, trying to stay calm.

“Hey.”

She looked up, startled, as Jack took her arm. “You look pale. Everything okay?”

“Everything's wonderful,” she lied frantically.
No, it's horrible. How did I let this happen?
“Just a little case of nerves.”

He smoothed a curl from her cheek. “There's nothing to be nervous about. All you have to do is smile, pick a number, and break a few hundred male hearts. Then I'll get you out of here.” He looked at the slinky shoes tucked under her arm. “You seemed to be doing some serious bonding with your friend in the red silk.”

“Jostling for shoes can do that.” Taylor tried to keep her eyes off those amazing shoulders, that hard mouth.
Forget about him. He's leaving, remember? He comes in the box marked
do no touch
.

Jack was staring at her oddly. “What's wrong?” Taylor demanded.
Dear God, don't let him know.

“I'm surprised, that's all. I've never seen you with nerves before.”

“Who's nervous?” She forced a laugh. “I'll just catch my breath, then we'll go find the organizers so I can get ready for the auction.”

“No more shopping?” Jack's mouth twitched. “You still have four full minutes left.”

“Don't push your luck, Broussard.” Their bodies touched in the crowd, and Taylor's heart did another slow cartwheel.
Get a grip. The man's history, great body or not.
She took an irritated breath as she spotted a waiter. “I need champagne.”

“Later. Right now you need to have a clear head.”

“That's ridiculous. I don't—”

Jack blocked her path. “That's nonnegotiable.” His voice was like steel. “You're a walking target, and I expect you to remember that.”

“No alcohol?”

He shook his head, already turning so his eyes could skim the nearby crowd, especially their hands.

“You watch their hands, not their faces,” she said quietly. “Why?”

“Because that's where they make their move. Eyes can conceal. Faces can lie. But the hands will always show first, going for the gun or flashing the knife.”

Taylor nodded slowly. “I'll remember that.” Their bodies bumped again, caught in the press of the crowd, and she felt the contact whip all the way to her toes. Forget champagne, what she needed was an animal tranquilizer.

She took a sharp breath and stepped away.

As she did, a big man with a broken nose lumbered in front of her. “Ms. O'Toole?”

Taylor studied him warily. He had a heavy Italian accent and shoulders the size of Tuscany. She felt Jack move to her right, his body tense.

“Mr. de Vito asked me to find you,” the giant continued.

“Uncle Vinnie?” She turned, looking around the crowd. She could always count on Sunny's uncle to make a show of support for her book events, bless his Wiseguy heart.

Jack took her arm, keeping her beside him. “You're going nowhere.”

“It's all right. He's Sunny's uncle.”

Jack's face was unreadable. “Introduce me.”

The giant frowned at Jack, who was standing very close to Taylor. “Is this guy bothering you, Miz O'Toole? You want I should deal with him?”

Jack's eyes narrowed. “In your dreams, Goliath.”

“No, he's a friend,” Taylor said quickly. “It's not a problem, okay?”

She heard her name spoken, the vowels precise, with a hint of an accent.

“Taylor, beautiful as always.” He was a tall man with a creased face and wavy white hair. Taylor noticed some of the women stare as he took her hand, then kissed it with European flair.

So did some of the men.

Probably assuming she was the new mistress. All things considered, being mistress to an aging mobster was probably safer than the general direction her life was headed at the moment. “You look wonderful, Uncle Vinnie.” By tacit consent, she had always referred to him the same way Sunny did.

“Not so bad for an old man.” His brow rose as he saw Jack, whose body language was now set to hostile mode. “Perhaps you'll introduce me to your friend, my dear.”

“Of course.” Taylor took Jack's arm, smiling stiffly while she made the introductions.

“So you are a writer, too, Mr. Broussard?”

“Not in a thousand years.”

“Something more physical, I'd guess.” The old man made a slow assessment. After a long time he nodded. “This is good. Taylor needs a man in her life. Especially now.”

Jack stared at him tensely. “Now?”

“Because of these . . . problems she's been having. My niece is very talkative, you understand. She told me about the slashed tire, the phone calls.” His voice hardened. “The funeral arrangement.”

Jack shot a glance at Taylor. “What was that?”

“We'll discuss it later.” Taylor felt a wave of relief when she spotted one of the benefit sponsors headed their way. “I think the auction is about to begin.”

“Don't let me keep you.” Vinnie patted her hand. “I want to find a good spot, because I plan to go home with that set of your books.”

“I'll be rooting for you.” Taylor was painfully aware of Jack's silence. “It's always wonderful to see you.”

“The pleasure is mine. You make an old man's heart glow.” He delivered the courtly praise with a slight smile that said he was being outrageous and he didn't care a bit. When he strolled off, he was promptly hailed by the mayor's chief aide.

“You make an old man's heart glow?” Jack repeated dryly. “He probably got that from a 1940s' movie.”

“Don't start with me. He's a nice man.”

“Except when he's laundering money or running numbers.”

“Just because he's Italian doesn't mean he's a criminal,” Taylor snapped.

“It doesn't mean he isn't, either.” Jack shook his head as the mayor introduced Sunny's uncle to a starlet who had been making the rounds of the television talk shows. “Gee, he's already found someone younger.”

“It's not like that.”

“No? How is it?”

“He's just a fan, just a nice old man who happens to be my friend's uncle.”

“And a lot of other people's godfather,” Jack muttered. “In case you haven't noticed, normal people don't travel with a gorilla for a bodyguard.”

Taylor glared at him. “
I
do.”

Jack's mouth lifted in a faint smile. “Who said you were normal?”

Before Taylor could answer, the charity sponsor moved in for air kisses and quick chatter about how wonderful Taylor looked. Then Taylor was whisked off toward the garland-covered dais, where she was introduced to two local television hosts and a nasty drive-time radio personality with bad breath. Jack stayed less than five feet away, at the side of the dais steps, where he'd positioned himself after a brief conversation with one of the uniformed security personnel. Taylor noticed he kept his position while she was introduced to the two admirals who were fellow presenters for the auction. The first, a man named Braden, seemed to enjoy the glitter and applause, but for some reason, his eyes kept wandering toward Jack.

In a blur of applause, she was called onstage and the bidding began. The prize was a signed set of all her books, along with one of Lola's canine berets, especially made for the event.

Taylor was stunned when the bids jumped right to $5,000, guided resolutely by Uncle Vinnie. To her surprise, her new friend in the red silk tunic kicked in another two hundred, followed by a bookseller from Santa Cruz and several of the visiting Japanese businessmen. Five minutes later, she was clapping for the winner, who had just forked over $20,000 for charity.

The winner was Uncle Vinnie, looking calmly triumphant and very much like Caesar Romero. On her cue, Taylor took the mike and offered thanks from Lola for this wonderful generosity on behalf of charity. She was ready to escort Uncle Vinnie from the dais when someone called up from the crowd, asking when her next book would be published.

Taylor smiled calmly. “Ask Lola,” she said. “She makes all the business decisions.”

A photographer was waiting to capture the winner with his prize. As the photographer arranged them in position, framed by the starlet and the chain's CEO, Taylor looked up toward the balcony, blinking to avoid the bright lights. Upstairs waiters were carrying champagne bottles and trays of drinks. Remembering Jack's comment, Taylor watched their hands while she waited for the photographer to complete his preparations.

Abruptly she noticed that two of the waiters were talking heatedly near the side staircase, paying no attention to the other staff working around them. Oddly, one had nothing in his hands, while the shorter one carried a small black bowling bag.

A waiter with a bowling bag?

Taylor frowned against the lights, trying to get a better view. She watched the taller man touch his ear, then look down, nodding at someone on the crowded main floor. At the same time, the man with the black bag paced restlessly, then checked his watch and shook his head. Brushing away the other man's hand, he drew the bowling bag to his chest and started for the stairs.

Taylor leaned to one side, trying to see as the two men continued to argue. The shorter man ducked to one side, then turned directly into the glare of the lights, and Taylor realized she was looking up at Harris Rains.

 

“What's wrong with Taylor? She keeps twitching up there.” Izzy's voice snapped through Jack's earphone as the group posed for a photograph.

“I'm not sure. She keeps looking up at the balcony, making little hand gestures. I'd break it up if Admiral Braden weren't standing next to her. You see anything odd upstairs?”

“I can't see the balcony at all down here, but I'm circling back as we speak. Funny thing, though. I keep seeing familiar faces in the crowd.”

“Familiar how?”

“Government types. And they're not here guarding your Navy VIPs, either.”

Jack felt a little jab of apprehension. “What's going on?”

“No one's talking.” Izzy's voice crackled for a moment. “Okay, I'm at the side staircase leading up from the kitchen. Nothing so far. Maybe Taylor's had too much champagne.”

“She's dead sober. I made sure of that.” Jack had to work to hold his position directly in front of the dais near Taylor. “They're almost done, Izzy. Hold on.”

He pushed past the crowd of Japanese businessmen and caught Taylor's eye. “What's wrong?”

“It's Rains. He's up on the balcony,” Taylor hissed. “He's dressed as a waiter.”

Jack snapped into a turn. “You're
sure
?”

“I could swear it was him. He was talking with another waiter, a big man with an earphone.”

“Izzy, Taylor saw Rains on the balcony. Do you copy?” Jack jostled several guests, trying to get closer to Taylor.