I'll Find You (6 page)

“I just want to find Stephen’s son. I want to make sure he’s safe.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What?” He was taken aback.

“I think you’re the one with the agenda.”

He put his face within inches of hers. “I cared about my brother, and I care about his son.”

His voice had lowered to a whisper, but that took nothing away from its intensity. On the contrary, every syllable seemed to hammer into her brain. Callie held his gaze with an effort. The pain in her jaw from the fall had created an overall headache and she wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take.

“What’s the matter?” he asked suddenly.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. You look terrible.”

Was that a news bulletin? Of course she looked terrible. He’d frightened her—
terrorized
her—chased after her and scared her. How could she look any other way?

“Your jaw?” he asked, frowning.

“Yes, my jaw. My whole head hurts. Everything hurts.” When West made an impatient gesture, she embellished, “It’s killing me,” then lifted a hand to cup her chin, wincing a little.

“It’s your own fault,” he said tersely.

“It’s
your
fault. You tackled me and I went facedown.”

“You ran away. I never meant to hurt you.”

“As I recall it, you said you wanted to kill me.”

“Maybe you should lie down,” he said, ignoring her jibe.

“Maybe I should go home?”

He smiled faintly, then sobered as he witnessed her flash of spirit give way to what he thought was pain. He looked down at the table and she sensed he was indecisive about what to do with her. She had a mental image of what he was seeing and understood his doubts. She probably looked like death itself.

“If you’re not Teresa, you look enough like her to be her double. And the bracelet . . .” he said, trailing off as the waitress approached their table.

Callie asked for more tea and West ordered the continental breakfast tray for two.

As the waitress left, Callie realized how hungry she was. She’d missed breakfast and now it was lunchtime.

“If Stephen didn’t give you the bracelet, where did you get it?” West asked.

Tricky territory. “It was—a gift from a friend.”

“What friend?”

“Just someone I know.”

“Who?”

“Her name is Aimee,” she said, telling a half-truth. As soon as she’d said it she wished she’d come up with something else.

“Aimee,” he said doubtfully after a long moment.

“That’s right.”

He shook his head. “There was an accident on Mulholland last year.”

“Yes . . .”

“It just so happens I’m from Los Angeles too.”

“Really.” She found that faintly disturbing.

“You just decided to vacation on Martinique?”

“I came here on my honeymoon. With Jonathan,” she reiterated.

“When was that?”

“Five . . . no, almost six years ago.”

A tray of croissants, jellies, butter, and fresh pineapple rings arrived at that moment. Two more tall glasses of iced tea were put down in front of them and Callie felt her sinking spirits revive at the sight of food.

West didn’t touch the tray. He was distant and remote, staring moodily across the water toward Fort-de-France. “You never met Stephen Laughlin?”

“No. I don’t know Stephen—your brother, you said?—and I don’t know you.” Callie plucked up a croissant and began to butter it.

“Half brother,” West said.

“Still don’t know him.”

“There aren’t two women who look like you with that bracelet on this island.”

“Probably not. But I’m not Teresa. If you don’t believe my identification, then, I don’t know. . . .” She broke off.

West leaned forward. “What?” he asked softly.

“You can call William Lister, the Cantrell family attorney. He’ll tell you who I am. He knows I’m here. I’ll give you the number.”

“Family attorney, huh?”

“That’s right. He’ll tell you everything about me you need to know. Are you ready to write this down, or put it on your phone?”

West pulled out his cell phone. “You know your attorney’s number by heart?”

“Well, yes,” she said.

“You must have a close relationship,” he said dryly. “I expected you to pull out your cell phone.”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Really?”

“Not everyone does,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, but you look like the kind of woman who would.”

“You make a lot of assumptions. What kind of job do you have?” she asked.

“I’m currently unemployed.”

“Really.”

He nodded, apparently unwilling to give her any further information. Callie told him the digits, making certain he repeated them back to her. “It’s William’s office number so his receptionist will probably answer.”

“Who gave you the bracelet?” he asked again as he plugged the number into his call list.

“You think I’ll have a different answer if you just keep asking?”

He lifted his head and half-smiled. But then he said, “That bracelet’s a family heirloom. My grandmother’s. And it’s been missing since Teresa took off.”

Callie didn’t know how to respond. No wonder he thought she was Teresa.

Teresa . . .

Was there any chance
Teresa
was the name Jonathan had called her when they’d first met? Was that just coincidental, something she was trying to make up inside her mind? A connection that wasn’t there?

She recalled it feeling strange, at the time, all the attention the wealthy and charming Jonathan Cantrell had suddenly showered on her. She’d been walking out of a coffee shop when he practically ran into her. Steadying her by her arms as she juggled her paper coffee cup, he’d said a name, then had caught himself up as if he’d just snapped out of a dream. He apologized for almost knocking her down and insisted on helping her to her seat. He’d been charming and good-looking, and wore designer label chinos, shirts, and deck shoes with ease. He’d sat down with her at the metal table for two and coaxed her cell number from her with very little effort, and then had pursued her as if she were the jewel in the crown. In a matter of months he’d gotten down on one knee and proposed and Callie, a teaching assistant at a nearby school who’d been thinking about going for her master’s to become a full-fledged teacher, had accepted with tears in her eyes. The only relationship she’d really had was with Bryan. Bryan had followed his dream while Callie tutored, waited tables, and generally put her life on hold for him. It was years before she could make a final break, and only then when she learned he’d been seeing another wannabe actress who just happened to be pregnant with Bryan’s child.

She was about a year out of that relationship when she met Jonathan. It was a fairy tale from the beginning. The handsome prince saving the drifting, slightly lost midtwenties gal with the red-gold hair. Except nothing about their marriage was magical except Sean.

Teresa . . . or Marissa . . . ?

She remembered Jonathan calling out to her and literally running into her, almost as if he’d done it on purpose. She recalled wondering if it was some ploy on his part. A way to meet women by practically knocking them off their feet. Hey, it was Los Angeles and she’d seen a lot of crazy things.

Her mind reached for that missing piece again. She failed, as ever, to grasp it, but a deep recognition filled her. There
was
a connection. Something . . . something . . . and thinking of Jonathan, and the name Teresa, brought it closer. Had Jonathan seen something of this Teresa in her? Was that why he’d been so eager to make her acquaintance in the first place? God, she wished she could remember fully, but there were big blanks in her memory since the accident. She’d tried to believe they were the result of her injuries, and maybe they were, but she’d needed time at Del Amo to put herself right mentally and emotionally.

Or maybe she was just trying to force a connection as much as West Laughlin was, in order to make sense of everything.

West’s jaw was slid to one side, as if he were fighting back something he wanted to say.

“Tell me about West Laughlin,” she said.

“You really don’t know who I am?”

“I thought we’d established that I’m not Teresa.”

“Like I told you, I’m the black sheep of the family.”

“That’s all I get? How come you’re unemployed, Mr. Laughlin?”

“Mr. Laughlin,” he repeated ironically. “Okay . . . Ms. Cantrell . . . I got myself fired from the LAPD. They call it furloughed, but I pissed off my captain and he’s trying really hard to keep me from getting rehired.”

“What did you do?”

“Broke off a relationship with his daughter.”

“Oh, really. That doesn’t sound like something that would hold up.”

West grinned for the first time, and Callie looked away, concentrating hard on the horizon instead of that devastating smile. She didn’t like this man, she reminded herself. All she wanted was information from him that might explain something about Tucker.

“It wouldn’t,” he admitted. “But I didn’t really give a damn at the time. My grandmother, Victoria, has believed for years that Teresa had something to do with Stephen’s death. I always thought it was just that she wanted her grandson back. Tucker. Kinda had my own issues and ignored her, which is how she’d treated me most of my life. But then, some things happened and I wanted to make sure Tucker was okay too.”

“Why are you looking for Teresa in Martinique?”

“The e-mail trail on Victoria’s computer. Teresa tried to wipe it off, but it was still there. I got the right people to find a way in and see what was written. There wasn’t much.”

“You know the right people.”

“I know tech people,” he said. “The e-mail went to an Internet café in Fort-de-France. I’ve already been there but no one remembers anything and it was a while ago.”

He was watching her closely as he gave her this information, as if expecting her to jump up and scream, “You got me!” She shook her head and said, “Still not me.”

“You were on the pier this morning, wearing the bracelet.” His gaze drifted upward. “You didn’t even change the color of your hair.”

“You’ve never actually met this Teresa,” she said.

“No, but I’ve got a picture.”

“You do?” she asked in a tone that suggested he’d been holding out on her.

He pulled out his cell phone, touched the screen for the photo app, and scrolled until he came to a picture. He then held the phone up so she could see. Callie shaded her eyes from the bright sun and examined the image on the screen. It was a picture of a man and a woman standing beside each other in front of a rambling, two-story house with a wide, covered porch that looked straight out of the Old West.

“Victoria said that it was taken shortly after the wedding,” he explained. “I scanned it and put it on my phone after she asked me to find you and the boy.” At her studied silence, he added, “It’s the best I could do.”

Callie was only half-listening. The young woman in the picture was definitely not her, though she did bear a striking resemblance. It was the hair that was the same, distinctive, and their body type. Facially, it was difficult to tell as the woman was looking into the sun, squinting against the glare. Callie estimated her age in the midtwenties and as Callie herself was over thirty, she asked, “How old is this photograph?”

“It was taken about five years ago.”

“Well, it’s not me. I see the resemblance, but it’s not me.” It didn’t look anything like Aimee, either. “Who’s the guy? Your brother?” She turned her attention to the man in the picture standing next to Teresa, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist. He was dark, like West, with a serious face, but otherwise there was little resemblance.

“Half brother,” he said again.

“And Victoria’s your grandmother?” Callie asked.

“The Laughlin matriarch,” he agreed.

“And she put you on this quest?”

West held out his hand for the phone. “That’s right.”

“Maybe you should call her and let me talk to her,” Callie suggested. “She knew Teresa. She should know I’m not her, right?”

“Maybe if she met you in the flesh. She’s in her eighties, and my phone’s not working internationally,” he said. “Tried to set it up before I left, but apparently there’s some hiccup.”

“So, where are these tech people when you need them,” she murmured dryly as she handed his phone back to him.

“Yeah, well . . .” He gazed around the restaurant as if seeing it for the first time. “I’m halfway convinced you’re not Teresa.”

“Only halfway? Really?”

“Tell me who really gave you the bracelet. Lead me down that path the right way. Convince me I’m wrong, and I’ll apologize and go away.”

Far across the bay a flock of gulls swooped down, crying plaintively. Callie watched a ferry chug toward the Pointe du Bout terminal and silently wondered what she could say that would still keep Tucker safe. A part of her believed him halfway as well.

She reached for her iced tea, thinking hard. She recalled the first few times she’d met Tucker. The way he’d meditatively rubbed Callie’s red-gold hair between his fingers and wrapped his arms around her like he never wanted to let go, a behavior she’d unabashedly encouraged. If she accepted what he was saying, then it seemed probably that Aimee was not Tucker’s mother, that this mysterious Teresa was, and that Callie wasn’t the only one using someone as an emotional surrogate. Tucker was using her for the same purpose.

Teresa feigned sleep beneath the weight of Andre’s arm—Lord knew she was tired enough to crash for a week—but her mind was racing. It kept traveling in circles around the events of the night before—her date and the meager amount of money he’d given her, and then her hours of driving, thinking, and planning—to the bank account with its four zeroes, an account Andre didn’t know about, an account where she deposited the bounty of her nights of stealing. She’d become adept at pretending, lying, and thieving; she’d pulled a lot more jobs than he knew and had pocketed the money herself. She’d even managed some burglary and the adrenaline high was just as good as the cash she walked away with. She had close to twenty thousand dollars stuffed into a secret account, and though she suspected Andre sensed something was up, she’d been so good, so constant, that he hadn’t been able to figure out her intent completely.

And that intent was to leave. Soon . . . now. To run back to Tucker and take him far away. She had a U.S. passport and one for him as well. All she had to do was find the right opportunity, steal away from her “home” with Andre and the handmaidens, and beeline for her little boy. It had been years since she’d seen him, and it practically killed her to think of the many terrible things she’d done since to keep him safe and off Andre’s radar.

If Andre knew about him, he would kill Tucker.

Her heart started pounding from the direction of her thoughts, and she studiously and firmly shut her mind down. She’d learned to compartmentalize with greater and greater efficiency over the years and could almost make herself believe she lived a different life. If called upon, she could give one helluva performance, Oscar-winning, really, because it was less about acting and more about believing.

But how had she so foolishly believed in Andre? At one time he’d filled her thoughts, her heart, all her needs. If he’d been lost to her then, she might have killed herself like some tragic Juliet. She knew this to be true. She just couldn’t believe it any longer.
Couldn’t
feel it.

Tucker had done that to her. Her love for him was bigger than anything else. Had changed her. And it was such a fluke, the pregnancy. Not part of the plan, not part of her aim, her job. As soon as he was born there was a shift inside her. Afterward, even though she’d kept doing Andre’s bidding, playing her part, she’d kept the fact that she’d borne a child a secret from him. Even after Stephen’s death—especially after Stephen’s death—she’d had to come up with a plan for the future, one that didn’t include Andre. She’d done the only thing she could think of: she’d entrusted her son to the care of someone she believed in.

But she was going back for him soon. Tonight, maybe.

Cracking open an eye, she slid a look toward Andre. Her heart clutched and she gave a little gasp to see he was wide awake as well and staring at her speculatively. Lifting the arm he’d held possessively around her, he ran his index finger down her arm, sending an arctic chill through her that it took her considerable skill as a con artist to hide.

“You’re going to have to start being more honest with me, Teresa,” he said with that faint smile that spelled trouble for her in the future.

“About what?”
When in doubt, pretend ignorance.

“About last night, for starters.”

“I went to the Boathouse to meet him and he came in, but he brought his wife with him.”

“And then what?” he asked silkily.

“I followed them back to their Laguna house.” She mentally crossed her fingers against the lie. The Laguna Beach house was several hours’ south and she hadn’t been anywhere near it, but she was counting on its distance to keep one of Andre’s spies—Naomi, probably, or maybe that psychotic bitch, Jerrilyn—from tracking her. “I might . . . be able to break in sometime . . . ?” she suggested.

“Do you want to?” he asked, climbing atop her.

An automatic protest fought its way up her throat. There was a time when she’d panted for his lovemaking. Back in the day when they were a team. Andre was a good lover when he wanted to be, and in the beginning he’d been just about perfect. But everything had changed since then. His style had definitely altered and now there was more impatience and dominance than any desire to please her. Maybe, with the other handmaidens so available, he just didn’t try as hard. Or maybe the frustration that had always fed him was growing too huge and he couldn’t be bothered with anything but his own, immediate pleasure.

He reached up and pulled the chain that held his ankh from around his neck, then slid the cross along her cheek and to her mouth. Then he pressed down harder until the ankh’s metal sides dug painfully into her bottom lip. Hard. A rise of panic made her insides quiver. She breathed in air through her nose and met his gaze deliberately. She had to act like her old self or he would know how much she’d changed.

“You have to stop lying,” he said.

Carefully, slowly, he pulled the ankh away and replaced it on the nightstand. She automatically sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. She could feel fury licking its way inside her; a hot wind that could consume her if she let it.

“Where were you?”

“I told you.”

He shook his head slowly. He’d taken his hair out of its band and it hung around his face. “You shouldn’t make me discipline you,” he said, sounding like a weary parent.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her plan to leave became more cemented.

His hands slid down her body and he fit himself in the cradle of her thighs. They looked at each other and Teresa kept her face carefully expressionless.

Tonight,
she thought.
I’m leaving tonight.

Time was passing and Callie had managed to avoid his question about the bracelet, sticking with her story that a friend had given it to her. But he was right in that being the sticking point. If it was indeed the Laughlin heirloom, then it must have come through Teresa and logically that made her Tucker’s mother.

But where was she? And who was Aimee?

She knew West was biding his time, waiting for her to cough up the truth. Did she want to? Not yet . . . not until she knew what it would mean for her to give up Tucker.

“Well, I think it has to all be a strange coincidence,” Callie said. “If there’s a connection, I don’t know what it is.”

“You came here on your honeymoon.”

“Well . . . yes.”

“That’s why you chose Martinique now. Why you came back here.”

“That’s right.” She didn’t like the careful way he was approaching some train of thought that was clearly behind his questions.

“The accident, where your husband and son were killed . . .”

Callie took a careful breath. “You want to know about it?”

“I just want to know how you ended up here with the Laughlin bracelet.”

“I only have your word it’s a family heirloom,” she pointed out.

“True enough.”

Callie shook her head. She needed to end this conversation and get back to her apartment, find Tucker, and most of all, keep him safe. She said with as little emotion as she could, “They said another car struck us and sent our car over the cliff. Sean and Jonathan died at the scene. I was taken to a hospital.”

“They said?”

“The police. Whoever investigated the crash.”

“Do you know who that is?”

“You mean the policeman? No. I was in a hospital, and then I was . . .”
Grief-stricken . . . sick with guilt and failure and pure misery.
She had to bite down hard on her lip to keep from going into that abyss again, the one that was always waiting for her. She waited till the tide receded a bit, then managed to say in a nearly normal voice, “Nothing was the same. They were gone and I didn’t care how it happened. All that mattered was they were no longer with me.”

Callie squeezed her hands tightly together, damn near cutting off the blood flow. It was an effort to get herself to loosen her grip.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding like he meant it.

No,
she thought.
Don’t be nice to me. Don’t act like you care.
She could manage if people weren’t nice to her, but if they were she lost all of her defenses. And she couldn’t afford to break down completely like she had when the realization had crashed down on her. She’d been a blithering idiot. Completely undone. And she’d ended up hiding from reality for a while.

“I was just wondering who checked out the crash.”

“I don’t know. LAPD . . . you probably have a better idea than I do.”

“Your husband chose Martinique for your honeymoon?” he asked.

“We chose it together.”

But had they? Callie remembered the brochures Jonathan had brought from the travel agency, and the way they’d bent their heads over the Internet together, planning for their future. Callie had been too happy to pay much attention to honeymoon plans. There was a wedding to plan, and even though they’d kept it small—both of them had definitely wanted that—it had required the requisite organization, list making, phone calling and e-mailing. She hadn’t questioned Jonathan’s choice of Martinique, but now she wondered.

The reason she’d come back here was more because Sean had been conceived on their honeymoon, not because the trip itself had been such a fabulous time. She recalled distinctly how Jonathan would wander away from her and she would find him in the hotel bar, passing the time with the bartender and waitstaff. Yes, he made love to her and they had dinners together, but she’d sun-bathed alone a lot of the time, and she’d felt the first twinges of worry that she didn’t know her new husband at all.

Jonathan Cantrell had swept her off her feet, and she’d been flattered and overwhelmed by his good looks and wealth. She’d wanted so much to believe that he truly wanted her that she’d shut down her radar and fallen in love with him hard and fast. Or at least that’s what she’d told herself after Bryan left her.

Looking for love in all the wrong places.

Sean was the only reason she hadn’t left Jonathan in the years after the marriage. Jonathan didn’t love her, maybe hadn’t ever, and she kinda thought she’d made herself believe she was in love with him. In truth, neither of them had known each other very well.

“Jonathan and I honeymooned here.” She swept an arm to encompass the grounds.

“At the Bakoua Beach?”

“Yep.”

She wondered what time it was. Early afternoon, maybe two? It was time she got away from him. “Your turn,” she said. “You were let go for breaking up with your captain’s daughter.”

“Not the official reason,” he reminded.

“What was the official reason?”

“Captain Paulsen said I was too aggressive during an investigation.”

Her eyes moved to the small smear of dried blood on her leg. “Imagine that.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered what it was, it was just to punish me. But then Victoria laid down a convincing case and I didn’t give a damn about anything but finding Teresa and Tucker.”

“You said something new came to light.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, he said, “Teresa barely stuck around long enough to make Stephen’s funeral before she took Tucker away. Victoria always blamed her, but it was all conjecture. Everyone thought my grandmother was old and just making it all up, though she’s always been sharp as a tack. It took a lot for her to finally ask me to help her, since we’ve never been on close terms. That’s how much she wants Tucker.”

“She thinks Teresa’s to blame?”

“She thinks Teresa had a hand in the accident that killed Stephen.”

“And you do too?” No wonder he’d been so harsh in the beginning.

“She’s got some things to answer for. She didn’t waste a lot of tears over Stephen, and she took off with his son almost from the moment he was gone. She’s been missing ever since, probably by design.”

“You must have something more . . . ?”

“Suspicions. I just want to find her. Even if she’s not to blame, she’s completely self-serving, and I want to make sure Stephen’s son is okay. That’s what Victoria says she wants too, though I think she’d like Teresa to be declared an unfit mother.”

“What happened to Stephen?”

“A hunting accident. He was out with a friend. Something happened and Stephen got in the way when the friend’s rifle discharged. Shot him in the chest. Devastated the friend.”

“But . . .”

“I know. How is Teresa responsible. Victoria says she was having an affair with the friend. His name’s Edmund Mikkels.”

“And she got him to
kill
your brother?”

“Half brother. Not necessarily, but I believe she had an affair with Edmund. That’s just how she operates.”

“No wonder you wanted to kill me,” Callie murmured. “Well, I’m not her. I don’t have anything to do with any of this.”

His gaze, which had been centered on her face, slowly moved to the bracelet at her wrist. “Where can I find this Aimee?” he asked.

Callie struggled with herself. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to trust in him implicitly, but she wasn’t exactly batting a thousand when it came to her judgment of men. “All right, I lied. I picked the bracelet up at a pawnshop.”

The words were out before she even thought them through.
Careful,
she warned herself, wishing she could take them back.

“What pawnshop?”

“I—hmmm. It was in Barbados. I flew there first, for a couple of days, and the bracelet was on display in the window.”

“Barbados?”

“Yes.”

Lies, lies, and more lies.
After giving him a straightforward and credible story about her past now she was lying. And she was such a terrible liar! But she wasn’t about to bring up Tucker yet. She believed him, to a point. Believed that, like herself, he’d doled her partial truths, and until she knew the whole story, she wasn’t going to say anything that she didn’t need to.

“Stephen gave Teresa that bracelet or she took it,” he insisted in a low voice.

“Maybe she pawned it,” Callie said.

“I don’t think so.”

Callie felt as if a cold hand had traced a line down her back. She’d made a whopping mistake. He knew she was lying.