Midnight in Ruby Bayou (21 page)

Archer didn't need to be told. The
mafiya
was the most active smuggler of the former Soviet Union's nuclear technology. The various
mafiyas
would sell nukes to any paranoid world saver with the money to buy them.

Ivanovitch might be a piece of shit, but he was Uncle Sam's. If April lost him, she would have to start from scratch with another
mafiya
lowlife. Better to keep the devil you know than go hunting in hell for another.

“E-mail me a photo of this Ivanovitch,” Archer said.

“Why?”

“Because you want me to help you.”

“You'll have it in half an hour.”

“I'll talk to Faith,” Archer said.

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

Archer's smile was hard as a knife. “Yes. You do.” As he hung up and switched to a secure cellular phone, he said to Kyle, “Whatever it is will have to wait. I have to talk to Walker first.”

“He's on the phone with Jake right now.”

Archer shot out of his office and looked at his brother-in-law Jake. “I need Walker.”

Jake handed over the cellular. A wise man didn't argue with Archer when his eyes looked like cold-rolled steel.

“Walker?” Archer said.

“Right here, boss.”

“You have any Russians following you?”

“Not that I've seen.”

“Keep your eyes peeled. I'll e-mail you a photo as soon as I get it. April Joy had her hands on the guy who robbed Faith's shop, but she let him go because she wants sources in Russia more than she wants a burglar with an accent. At least that's what she hinted. She probably has other irons in the fire as well.”

“Ivanovitch?”

“Yeah. He's Russian
mafiya
.”

“Which one? They've got hundreds. It's a national sport, like baseball or soccer.”

“Ask him which team he plays for the next time you see him,” Archer retorted. “Just be damn sure you see him before he sees you. It's possible he's the knife artist who did the drunk. I just saw the final autopsy report. He's very, very good with a blade.”

“My, how those mob boys love their sharp toys. We ran into one who fancied Faith's purse.”

“What?”

“Don't worry, boss. She's fine. But this guy is sloppier than your friend out there. Nobody's been able to prove it, but I suspect he was behind that very messy murder the night we got here.”

“Wait. Start over, at the beginning,” Archer said curtly.

Archer didn't like it any better the second time.

The Hilton Head condominium was large, airy, and very expensive, but shouts still echoed in it, drowning out the soothing lap of the Atlantic's ankle-high surf. Perhaps it was all the marble and glass that enhanced the echoes. Perhaps it was simply that even in his declining years, Sal Angel had the voice of a rutting gorilla.

“What kind of a grandson are you?” Sal demanded in disgust. He stabbed his grandson's chest with a sharp index finger. “A crip and a woman. A simple grab and you fuck it up. Twice!”

“Hey, last night wasn't my fault! Shit, there was blood all over the place! You expect me to—”

“I don't expect nothing, and that's good, cuz that's what you are, nothing! You have the guts to whine to me about a little blood and how your leg hurts because some babe stepped on you. I thought you were a man. Looks like I'll have to wait for the next generation to find a successor—” his finger stabbed again, harder “—but first you gotta stay home with your wife long enough to fuck her. Anything you forgot to tell me?”

Staring at the top of his grandfather's shiny pink head, Buddy Angel bit back a smart remark. His sweet wife was a sack of ice in bed, but he was stuck with her because her grandfather was one of Sal's cronies from the old days, when they ate spaghetti and fought gang wars together. Buddy knew better than to cross the old farts. They still ran the East Coast rackets.

There were days Buddy wished he had become an accountant. But paying taxes just didn't leave enough at the end of the month to live on. It was easier to prey on the chumps than to be one of them. So he put up with his father and grandfather yelling and thumping on him. Sooner or later they would die and he would be king of the Angels. Then he would kick ass instead of kiss it.

“I told you,” Buddy said through his teeth. “The guy with her looked like a pussy, but he didn't fight like one.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Whine some more, like I haven't heard enough already. Shit, do I have to show you how it's done? I'm seventy-seven, for the love of Jesus! Young people.
Huh.
Can't even beat off without help.”

Buddy doubted his grandfather could beat off under any circumstances, but he kept that little nugget to himself. His head was still spinning from the clout he had received as a grandfatherly greeting.

“Go home to your sweet wife,” Sal said. “Go on. I'm sick of looking at you and thinking that the best part of you ran down your mother's leg.
Huh
.”

“Leave my mother out of this! She's a saint!”

Sal itched to point out that a saint wouldn't have spread her legs for a dog like Sal's youngest son. But the old man kept his mouth shut; the only good thing about Buddy was his respect for his mother.

“Go home,” Sal said gruffly. He gave his grandson a half slap on the cheek that passed for affection. “I'll call you later. And don't forget to collect from that asshole on the docks. No more sob stories. He don't pay, break a knee. People start thinking I'm going soft and there won't be no more money coming in, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sal waited until Buddy's footsteps faded. When he was sure he was alone, he picked up the phone and punched in a number.

“It's me,” Sal said when the call was answered. “You didn't say anything about a cripple with a cane.”

“What about 'im?” The man at the other end slurred his words. He was drunk already and it wasn't even dinnertime.

Sal grimaced at the whiskey-roughened sound of his partner's voice. He should have known better than to trust a drinker. On the other hand, he didn't know any teetotalers. “He damn near crippled my grandson, that's what.”

“But he got the rubies, right?”

“Wrong.”

“What? I can't pay you unless—”

“Shut up,” Sal cut in ruthlessly. “This is how it's gonna be. You're gonna get that woman to your place and lift the necklace yourself.”

“I can't do—”

“I said shut the fuck up! You like breathing, you'll do it the way I tell you. Get those rubies or you'll be attending your own funeral. A week, no more. Unnerstand?”

His partner understood. “Yes.”

“All right,” Sal said. “I'll send you a package. Just follow the instructions and the cops won't know it's an inside job.”

“What's in the package?”

“You'll know when you open it. Don't fuck up. I been too nice lately. People think I'm going soft. I ain't.”

Sal broke the connection.

His partner hung up and put his head in his hands. After a few long, shaky minutes he poured another drink and wondered what else could go wrong.

“H
urry up, Faith. Archer isn't feeling real patient right now. Do you want me to bring the phone to you?”

“Keep your shirt on. I'm just drying off.” Faith muttered a few more words as she let the still hot water out of the tub. She had really wanted to soak out the aches of the first day of the expo and wash off the feeling of that man's hands on her.

“Faith?”

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” she said loudly. “I could have called Archer back, you know. I'm running late for dinner as it is. I could call from the restaurant.”

“You could talk here much easier.”

Walker preferred the security of a scrambled line to a restaurant phone, but he saw no point in worrying Faith by bringing up murders and federal agents and such. So he waited almost patiently until she emerged from the bathroom and he could hand over the phone.

Grimacing at him, listening to Archer, Faith sat down on the inn's overstuffed couch and adjusted the big white terry-cloth robe the hotel had provided. Light from the lamp on the end table washed over her like liquid gold. Her wet hair stuck up in spikes.

She glanced at her watch. Less than thirty minutes before she was supposed to meet Mel at what had been advertised as a “trendy new Italian restaurant.” She had to get dressed and dry her hair. Instead, she was talking on the cellular with Archer.

Listening, to be precise.

Across the room, Walker watched with eyes so blue they were almost black. He knew he should be thinking about Russians, not about the gentle swell of her breasts between the loose lapels of the robe, and certainly not about the long, bare legs that showed beneath the garment's hem.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Shadows and light and softness shifting, inviting.

He was thinking, all right. What he was thinking was that there wasn't a damn thing he could do tonight about Buddy Angel, the well-dressed mugger, or Ivan Ivanovitch, the customer who had come back after dark and helped himself to the inventory of Timeless Dreams. As for nuzzling the shadow between Faith's breasts, Walker knew he should stop thinking about it, and about what her skin would feel like, whether her nipples would rise eagerly to his tongue, and if she would be soft and hot and finally wet between her thighs, wanting him the way he couldn't stop wanting her.

The next time Archer needed a bodyguard for Faith, he could get some happily married man. Or a woman.

Or a marble statue.

“Wait,” Faith said to Archer. “Back up. I'm not going anywhere. Send a bodyguard to hover over me if you feel you have to, but I'm staying in Savannah until the show is over and the necklace is delivered to the Montegeaus. And don't forget the wedding. I haven't. I promised Mel I'd be there.”

“Tell her there's an emergency and—”

“No, it's my turn to talk and yours to listen. I've lined up three new outlets already and I've taken high-end orders from four clients. Everyone who sees the necklace at the wedding is a potential client. I'm not blowing that just because April Joy got a wild hair and called you.”

“April Joy doesn't have a wild hair on her,” Archer said dryly. “She's a first-class agent with a world-class mind. She's asking us a favor. We would be smart to grant it.”

“She wants me back in Seattle?” Faith asked. “Is that what she said?”

Her oldest brother sighed. “No. She wants you not to press charges against Ivanovitch, whose true name is indeed something else.”

“The bastard robbed me, Archer! I'm supposed to smile and let it go?”

“You'll be repaid for any losses.”

“Well, yippee.” Fingers combed through hair, making it stand up at new angles. “Oh, hell. Sure. Why not? Let him go. Make April smile.”

“Thanks. I owe you, because now she'll owe me.”

“Oh, please.” Faith rolled her eyes. “Get real.”

“Do you want me to send another—a bodyguard?” Archer corrected quickly. He wondered if his little sister had finally discovered that Walker was more than a soft drawl and a shy smile. Since Tony, Faith had been very skittish around men. Yet from the way she looked at her nieces and nephew, it was clear she wanted a family of her own. As far as Archer was concerned, that meant she had to get used to being around men who weren't related to her by blood. Walker was a good place to start.

Archer liked Walker. His sister could do a lot worse than that smart country boy—as Hannah, Honor, and Lianne had all pointed out.

“No bodyguard,” Faith said. “Please. It's hard enough to find suites with one sofa bed. Two would be impossible.”

“You sure? I worry about you.”

“Archer, in case you haven't noticed, I'm a woman fully grown.”

Amen,
thought Walker as he listened and watched. Then he closed his eyes. It was that or start running his tongue down the shadow between her breasts.

“Why did April want this Russian to walk on the grand theft charges?” Faith asked.

Walker's eyes snapped open. That was a question whose answer he wanted to hear.

“She didn't precisely say,” Archer said.

“But you want me to do the favor anyway.”

“Yes. Please.”

Faith's frown turned into a smile. “ ‘Please,' huh? Watch it, older brother. Summer was the first one to turn you into mush. Then Hannah. You're becoming a closet pussycat.”

Archer gave a crack of laughter. “I'll remind Hannah of that the next time she gets mad. Let me talk to Walker again.”

“Only if you promise not to tell him anything you didn't tell me.”

“You really want to know about the assay reports on—”

“Forget I asked,” she cut in. “My hair dryer is calling me.” She held the phone out to Walker. “He wants you again.”