Into the Whirlwind (21 page)

The sound of running feet ended the conversation.

“Dirk!” The little boy ran straight toward him, slid to a halt at his feet, and craned his neck to look up, up, up at Dirk's face. “Did you wide over on your modo-cicle?”

Dirk smiled. “Not tonight. I drove over in my car.”

“What kinda car?”

“Oh, no,” Meg said beneath her breath, knowing Charlie would go bonkers over the Viper.

Dirk grinned and flashed her a look. “It's parked out front. You can see it from the window.”

Charlie took off running for the living room. For several long seconds he stood staring in total silence. Then his running feet pounded back into the kitchen. “What kinda car is that? Does it go fast? Can I have a wide in it?”

Dirk reached down and lifted the little boy up on his shoulders. “Maybe after supper. We'll have to ask your mom.”

The sports car wasn't exactly kid friendly, but maybe just this once. Charlie would be thrilled.

Dirk set the boy on a stool beside him, and for the next twenty minutes, Charlie pummeled him with a jillion questions about his
Wiper
. When Dirk mentioned he also had a high-powered ski boat, the questions started all over again.

“Will you take me in it?” Charlie asked.

“It's too cold right now, bud. The boat's in storage. Maybe when it warms up we can all go out.” His eyes found Meg's. There was something there. A mixture of fear and hope.

Meg understood that look completely.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Meg stood at the sink, washing the last of the supper dishes, while Dirk stood next to her drying. They had just returned from a trip to the ice-cream parlor: a peppermint cone for her, peanut butter chocolate chip for Dirk and Charlie.

Meg had buckled her son into the front seat of the Viper on her lap. She was breaking the rules, just this once, giving Charlie a chance to ride in Dirk's amazing car.

Dino's Ice Cream was only a few blocks away. They could make the short trip by weaving through neighborhood streets so there wasn't much danger.

And Charlie had been enthralled.

He was upstairs now, tucked into bed and hopefully sleeping.

Meg rinsed the salad bowl and handed it to Dirk. “You remember that boutique I mentioned?”

He wiped the bowl dry and set it on the counter. “You said you were trying to decide what kind of store you wanted to open.”

“That's right. And I think I've figured it out.”

“Yeah?”

“I want a place that sells specialized high-end women's sport clothes. Snow skiing outfits, motorcycle leathers, tennis clothes, stuff like that. The pants I was wearing on our ride were Vika—that's a brand I'm interested in carrying. They're expensive but worth it.”

His lips edged up. “Whatever you paid, trust me, honey, they were worth every dime.”

Thinking of the hunger in his eyes when he had seen her in the tight leather outfit, Meg felt a surge of heat she forced herself to ignore. “First I need to find a location, then Val's going to help me pick out merchandise.”

“You both know clothes. She should be a big help.”

“That's what I think, too.” Meg picked up a sponge and started wiping off the counter. She felt the brush of Dirk's lips on the back of her neck and a little shiver went through her. He turned her into his arms.

“The kitchen looks fine.” Dipping his head, he kissed her, softly at first, teasing the corners of her mouth, then coaxing her to open for him. He took the kiss deeper, hotter, drawing her in until she was pressing herself full length against him and all she could think of was getting him into bed.

“Let's go upstairs,” Dirk said softly, nibbling the side of her neck.

He caught her hand, kissed the palm, and started tugging her out of the kitchen, paused to kiss her one last time as he guided her toward the stairs.

By the time they reached the bedroom, she was breathing too fast, Dirk had her sweater stripped off, and his T-shirt was gone.

They tore off the rest of each other's clothes and tumbled onto the bed. She was on fire for him as he pressed her down in the mattress and kissed her breasts, started nipping and kissing his way down her naked body. He wasn't in a hurry, just taking his time, making her burn.

A soft moan escaped. She ran her hands over his powerful back and shoulders, testing the hard planes and valleys, the way the muscles flexed and moved. She was more than ready, moving restlessly beneath him, when a sharp scream tore through the house.

Meg's whole body jerked. Dirk was off the bed in a heartbeat, grabbing his pants as he ran across the room. Meg heard the sound of running feet, the door flew open, and Charlie rushed into the bedroom.

“The bad man is here! The bad man is here! He's trying to get me!”

“Stay here!” Pants in hand, Dirk ran into the hall and raced naked toward Charlie's bedroom.

Meg snatched the little boy up on the bed and into her arms, her pulse racing wildly.

“It's okay, it's okay,” she soothed, though she was as terrified as Charlie. “Don't be afraid, sweetheart. Dirk is going to take care of us.”

Trembling, wishing there was something she could do to help but afraid she would just get in the way, Meg grabbed her robe off the chair in the corner, shrugged it on, then sat down on the edge of the mattress with Charlie in her lap.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Dirk padded back into the bedroom a few minutes later, bare-chested but wearing his jeans, his worried gaze going to her son.

“Did you get the bad man?” Charlie asked.

“Everything's okay, bud. You don't have to be afraid.” Dirk pulled the chair over and sat down across from them. “It was only a dream, Charlie. The windows were locked. No one can get into your room. It was a bad dream, but you're okay now.”

Charlie started crying, turning his head into Meg's shoulder. He was shaking all over, his face streaked with tears.

“It's okay, sweetheart.” Meg smoothed a hand over his bright red hair. “You're safe here with Mama and Dirk.”

“I'm scared.” He looked up at her and she could see the lingering fear in his eyes. “Can I sleep in here wiff you and Dirk?”

She glanced at Dirk. He wasn't used to little kids. He didn't expect his night of hot sex to be ruined by a little boy's nightmare.

His eyes found hers. “I'll head on home. I'll call you in the morning.”

Charlie started breathing too fast. “No! I want Dirk to stay! He's a policeman. He can keep the bad men away!”

“I'm not a real policeman, bud—and you don't need a policeman. There's no one here who can hurt you.”

Charlie whimpered. “Please don't go.”

Meg kissed the top of his head, spoke to Dirk. “I've got an appointment with the psychologist tomorrow. I should have known something so traumatic wasn't just going to go away.”

Dirk reached over and caught Charlie's shoulders. “I'll tell you what, sport. You and your mama can sleep in here. I'll stay down the hall in the guest room. That way I'll be real close by if you need me, okay?”

Charlie looked at him with big blue teary eyes. “'Kay.”

Meg met Dirk's gaze over Charlie's head. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I'm sorry about ... you know ... tonight.”

He just grinned. “There'll be another time, baby.” He started walking, paused at the door. “'Night, bud.”

“'Night, Dirk.”

Dirk walked out the door.

Meg felt something squeezing inside her chest and realized it was her heart.

* * *

It was late. Jonathan stirred beneath the covers, his mind climbing up from sleep. Slowly opening his eyes, he blinked himself awake, turned his head to look at the red numbers on the digital clock next to the bed. Three a.m. Jonathan concentrated, straining to hear what had awakened him. A noise, something out of the ordinary, not just the usual night sounds in the house.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he caught movement, a shadow stepping away from the wall. He jerked upright, his hand shooting out for the phone on his bedside table, a scream lodged in his throat.

A wide palm covered his mouth, pressed him down in the mattress. “Not a word or you're dead.” A second figure stood next to the bed, his gun pointed at Jonathan's head. Square jaw, buzz-cut hair, big, beefy arms. Thick lips and a flat nose. He was built like a weight lifter but looked more like a boxer.

Sweat broke out on Jonathan's forehead, though the room was cool. He managed to nod, and the man released him but kept the gun aimed straight at him.

The man he'd spotted first walked over to join them. Taller, solidly built, a craggy-faced man with weathered, smoker's features.

“Get up,” the man said, his voice low and rough. The smell of stale tobacco clung to his clothes.

Jonathan carefully slid from beneath the covers, his silk pajamas slipping easily along the sheets. “What do you want?”

“We're here to deliver a message,” the boxer said.

Jonathan stood up a little straighter, determined to brazen it out. “What are you talking about? What message?” He thought about screaming, but there was no one else in the house. He had help, but the housekeeper only worked three days a week and the neighbors were too far away.

“The message is from Moore,” said the craggy-faced man, who seemed to be in charge. “Thomas Moore. He says you'll understand once it's delivered.”

Thomas Moore—Thomas Calvin.
A dark chill swept through him. The message was from Otto Gertsman.

He started to say something—he wasn't sure what—when the boxer slapped a strip of duct tape over his mouth, whirled him around, and slammed him face-first into the wall.

His arms were dragged behind him and bound with another strip of tape, then the two men dragged him over and shoved him down in a chair.

Nausea rolled through him. Gertsman wanted his six million dollars. By now it could be more. For an instant he thought he might throw up and drown in his own vomit.

“Mr. Moore says you have something that belongs to someone else,” said the craggy-faced man. Jonathan battled the nausea down as the boxer knelt and bound his ankles. “He says you need to see that this particular something gets delivered.”

Good God!
Gertsman still wanted Meg.

The boxer spoke up. “You understand the message so far?”

He managed a nod.

“Unfortunately there's more to the message,” said the craggy-faced man. “Call it insurance that the message is completely understood.”

The boxer pulled something from his pocket and knelt in front of the chair. The man grabbed his bare foot, and before Jonathan realized what was happening, the cold, sharp jaws of a pair of nippers bit into his little toe. Behind the tape, Jonathan shrieked in pain as the toe snapped off.

The boxer held the bloody piece of flesh up for him to see, then dropped it into his lap. Jonathan started to whimper.

When the man reached for his other foot, Jonathan screamed, tried to kick and twist away, but his struggles were useless. The little toe snapped off, the man rose and tossed the second pale lump into his lap.

“Tape them up real good and you should be able to walk just fine,” the craggy-faced man said. “You have work to do so we wouldn't want to disable you completely.”

“We'll cut off more than your toes if we have to come back,” the boxer warned. “Then we'll kill you.”

Tears rolled down Jonathan's cheeks. He wondered how much blood was dripping onto the thick white carpet. He wondered if he'd be able to walk again without limping.

He wondered how he'd be able to explain the injury without involving Gertsman or admitting his own part in the kidnapping attempt on his son. Without confessing to the three million dollars he had embezzled from the bank and lost in the stock market.

Money he had replaced with a loan from Otto Gertsman. Money he still owed.

“One last thing.” The smoker's raspy voice roused him enough to realize the men were still there. “Moore says he'll be back to help you solve the problem. When he gets here, he expects your full cooperation. Is the message understood?”

Jonathan managed a single faint bob of his head.

“Cut him loose,” the smoker said.

When the boxer flipped open a four-inch pocketknife, Jonathan felt a shot of terror. The man merely sliced through the duct tape around his wrists, carefully refolded the blade, and slid the knife back into his pants. The two men walked to the door, pulled it open, and disappeared into the hall.

Jonathan just sat there, pain ripping through him, blood soaking into the hem of his silk pajamas where they pooled on the floor at his feet. When he heard the sound of an engine starting somewhere down the block, he tore the duct tape off his mouth with shaking hands, then unwrapped his bound ankles.

Pushing himself up from the chair, he hobbled into the bathroom, rummaged around under the sink until he found gauze pads, alcohol, and adhesive tape, then sat down on the toilet and began to bandage his throbbing toes.

He had a doctor friend who owed him a favor. Doctors had to keep their mouths shut; patient confidentiality and all that. He'd have to think of a credible story, but he could manage that.

He'd have to take tomorrow off, take care of his feet, and find a pair of shoes that would fit over the bandages.

And, God forgive him, he'd have to think of a way to get Meg on a plane to South America.