Playing With Fire (3 page)

My eyes rounded as two burly, scowling guys sprinted out of the brownstone, apparently giving chase to the harried, wreck-causing man—who was now racing inside Utopia as if his life depended on it.

The bell chimed and I shoved myself to my feet, spilling my latte further. I set the cup on the table and stared over at the man. Skin pale, features tense, breath emerging raggedly, he scanned the café wildly. His gaze bypassed me, then quickly snapped back. Across the distance, our eyes locked.

“Are you okay?” I called, projecting my voice over the inane chatter around us.

“Please, help me,” he choked out. He sprinted toward me, shoving people out of the way and babbling, “They weren’t supposed to know. They weren’t supposed to chase me.”

Some gasped. Some snarled, “Watch it.”

When the man reached me, he gripped my forearms. Sweat trickled from his brow; fear filled his dilated eyes. “You have to help me,” he said between shallow pants. “They’re going to kill me.”

Kill? My mouth went dry; my blood mutated into ice, yet hot prickles slithered along my spine. “Stay here,” I said. “No, hide. No, stay. Oh, hell. Do whatever while I call 911.” His clasp tightened on me, but I tugged free and shouted to the people around me, “Does anyone have a cell phone?” I’d given mine up as an extravagance I could no longer afford. “Anyone?” I leapt around the tables, but everyone purposefully avoided my gaze. “I won’t use up your minutes, I swear. This is an emergency.”

“I demand to speak with the manager,” someone said, wanting, I’m sure, to complain about what had just happened and demand free service.

I rushed into Ron’s office and grabbed the phone. The 911 dispatcher answered after only two rings, and I explained what had happened. “A man was chased into this café,” I rushed out. “He says someone’s trying to kill him.” As I spoke, a woman screamed in the background. A male groaned.

“Help is on the way,” the dispatcher promised.

Heart hammering, I disregarded her plea to remain on the line, and tossed the receiver aside. I pounded back into the main area and skidded to a stop. I’d only been gone a moment, but the café looked like a natural disaster had struck. Tables were overturned. Chairs were strewn in every direction. Coffee slithered along the floor, a black river, with paper cups and napkins floating in it like dead bodies.

Shaking and scared, the café’s patrons and employees huddled in a single corner. Only Ron seemed unafraid. His arms were wrapped around Jenni, and he was copping a feel.

The man in the lab coat had vanished. Was he hiding?

The two guys I’d observed chasing him were now in the process of calming everyone down. A third male, whom I hadn’t seen exit the brownstone, stood at the doorway, preventing anyone from entering or leaving. He was young, probably in his mid-thirties, tall and muscled, with blond hair and a face any male model would have envied. Perfect, chiseled and droolworthy. He watched the proceedings as if mentally cataloging every detail.

“Everyone take a seat,” he finally said, his voice firm, no-nonsense. “Get comfortable. We’re going to be here awhile.”

“What’s going on?” I demanded, since no one else had spoken up. “Who are you?” Maybe I shouldn’t have drawn attention to myself, but there was no way in hell I’d just blithely obey, perhaps walking to my own death.

“CIA.” He frowned and flashed some sort of badge. “Now sit.”

CIA?
My jaw performed a dance of drop and close, drop and close. I’d seen agents on TV, of course, but never in real life. Still, everything inside me screamed not to trust him. I mean, Lab Coat’s voice kept drifting through my head.
They’re going to kill me. They’re going to kill me!

But…what if Lab Coat was an evil man who needed killing? Or what if Pretty Boy was lying and Lab Coat was really the good guy? What if I confused myself to the point of having an aneurism with all these internal questions?

Think, Jamison, think.
Sit down. No, run. Sit. Yes, that’s what I’d do. No, no. I should run. As I continually changed my mind, my right foot moved back and forth while the left remained in place. Step, retreat. Step, retreat. Damn it! If I made the wrong decision, there was a very good chance tomorrow’s headlines would read:
Local Idiot Found Dead.
“Victim’s friend laments, ‘If Belle had taken a day off like I asked, she’d still be alive.’”

My eyes slitted. “What happened to that guy? The one in the lab coat?”

Pretty Boy crossed his arms over his chest and pinned me with a dark, almost hypnotic stare. “That’s none of your concern. Now,” he said, speaking to the entire room, “I have questions, and you’re going to answer me.”

Those eyes…they were intense, commanding, a little scary. “I just called the cops,” I gulped out. “If you hurt us, you’ll be thrown in prison and become Big Daddy’s bitch.”

His gaze flicked to one of Lab Coat’s pursuers, now our guard. He was a beast of a man, with a thick, black beard (were those peas between the hairs?) and more muscles than Arnold in his prime. “Take care of it.”

Take care of what? Beast radioed…the cops? He spoke too quietly for me to hear what he was saying. Meanwhile, the other guard ushered everyone into chairs. Everyone except me, that is. Maybe I looked menacing and they didn’t want to mess with me. Hey, it was a possibility.

But I didn’t understand why they were content to remain in here instead of chasing Lab Coat. Or had they caught him and ushered him away while I was on the phone? Why question us, then, if they already had him?

“That man is a dangerous criminal,” Pretty Boy told me. He must have realized that I wouldn’t cooperate otherwise.

“It’s in your best interest to help us.”

Dangerous criminal
—the magic words of my capitulation. “All right, fine,” I said grudgingly, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt. He had a badge, after all. “But if anyone pulls a weapon on me, I’m going PMS on their ass.”

“So noted,” he said with a dry edge, completely unimpressed.

Thankfully, the table I’d occupied earlier remained upright. My latte sat on the surface, unharmed. I plopped down and lifted the cup to my lips, sipping. Warm and sweet—sweeter than it had been earlier, as if the chocolate had thickened. Mmm. I continued sipping, taking comfort from it.

Pretty Boy questioned us one at a time, writing names and answers in a notebook. How very detective he was. He asked everyone the same three questions: 1) What is your name and address? 2) Did you see the man in the lab coat? 3) Did he say anything to you or give you anything?

Pretty Boy spoke with me the longest and had more than the standard three questions for me. What had made me want to help Lab Coat—“the doctor,” Pretty Boy called him, careful not to use his real name. Did we secretly plan to meet later? Had I ever met with the doctor before this?

I didn’t bother lying. Actually, I wasn’t sure I
could
lie to this man. Every time he turned those intense brown eyes on me, I felt compelled to share my deepest, darkest secrets. Not in a girls’ sleepover kind of way, but an I’ll-die-if-I-don’t kind of way. Very weird.

And you know what? I didn’t get any answers to
my
questions. What was his name? Why were they chasing Lab Coat? What made the man so dangerous? Was Pretty Boy going to eat the chocolate éclair he’d pilfered from the fridge? I was starved.

Finally, Pretty Boy and his men left, followed quickly by the customers. I’d expected him to threaten us if we told the press or cops—or anyone, really—what had happened, but he didn’t. I’d expected the police to arrive (as promised), but they never did. I guess they really had been taken care of, which probably meant Pretty Boy was the CIA agent he’d claimed to be and Lab Coat actually was a criminal. I hoped I didn’t get in trouble for having tried to aid him.

Left alone at last, I helped Ron, Jenni and the rest of Utopia’s employees clean up the mess. Strangely enough, we worked in silence, not discussing the events. Maybe we were too scared. Maybe we were too confused. Maybe both. As I cleaned, I looked for Lab Coat but found no trace of him.

What a shit-infested day this had turned out to be. The only silver lining was when Ron decided to close the café for the rest of the day, giving me the opportunity I needed to escape to my interview—albeit late.

Maybe, if I was lucky, I’d be hit by a car and could sue for millions.

B
Y THE TIME
I
REACHED
the Ambassador Suites—without being hit by a car, damn it—I’d successfully forced the day’s events to the back of my mind, to be considered and dissected later. Why not worry about it now, you ask? Because my head was about to explode into tiny Belle fragments, that’s why. A sharp ache pounded in my temples and beads of sweat dotted my skin. My stomach pricked and burned as if I’d swallowed a thousand acid-coated needles.

Hunger pains, maybe? No, surely not. I’d skipped lunch, true, but I’d skipped meals before and never reacted this way.

I stumbled into the hotel’s bathroom, the black-and-white-tiled floor spinning and making me dizzy. My eyes were normally hazel, a green-brown mix, but right now, in the mirror, they appeared a glassy emerald. Too bright. Dilated.

My hands shook as I splashed cold water on my face. But the liquid didn’t trickle down; my skin seemed to open up and absorb every drop. It happened so quickly I would have missed it if I blinked. My pores screamed in protest, burning, burning.

A moan slipped from my lips. What the hell was wrong with me? Had I picked up a vicious, fast-acting virus after leaving Utopia?

God, I hurt everywhere, the pain growing stronger with every passing second. My joints were swelling, and I was having trouble drawing in a decent breath. Straightening as best I could, I stared again at my reflection. Bruises had formed under my eyes and bright red spots of color painted my cheeks. My lips were pulled tight.

I looked liked a drug addict. In desperate need of a fix.

I could just imagine how a potential employer would respond to that: throw me out on my ass and post my picture all over the building with a notice that I was to be arrested if I set one foot inside the place ever again. Great. Freaking great.

A sudden cramp doubled me over, and I cried out. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Gradually, the pain subsided. I straightened again, my ears ringing loudly as blood pounded through them.

“Holy hell.”
Just get the interview over with so you can go home and rest.

Somehow, and God only knew how, I pulled myself together enough to walk into the interviewer’s office with my head held high and my shoulders squared. An older man with thick silver hair and a stiff brown suit sat behind the room’s only desk. He grinned when he spotted me, his eye crinkling at the corners. Kindness radiated from him.

“You must be Belle.”

“Yes.” I forced my lips into an answering smile. I wouldn’t be able to keep up the facade for long. I realized that when the interviewer—what the hell was his name?—shook hands with me. The feel of his palm against my too-sensitized flesh nearly dropped me to the ground, huddling in a fetal ball and crying for the mommy I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years. The contact, though brief, cut through me like a barrage of slashing knives.

“You’re a little late,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch, “but I think there’s just enough time to get to know each other.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I had an unavoidable delay, but I promise you now, I’ll never be late again.” Hurriedly I unfolded my résumé from my pocket and handed it to him, careful not to touch him.

Ding, ding.
Let the interview begin.

O
KAY
,
SO
I
TOTALLY BLEW
the interview.

My ears had rung too loudly, and I hadn’t been able to hear him. My joints had ached too fiercely, and I hadn’t been able to sit still. My mind had neared explosion, and I hadn’t been able to think of intelligent answers.

Disheartened and racked by intense, debilitating pain, I entered my apartment, tossed my keys onto the old brown shag carpet, locked the door and lumbered to my bedroom, stripping as I walked/crawled/begged God for sweet death. As I fell into the soft coolness of the bed, the entire horrific nightmare replayed in my mind.

Y
EAH
,
LIKE
Mr. Donald MacRonald was ever going to call me.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch.” Groaning, I clutched a pillow to my stomach. I’d never been this sick. Not even the time Bobby Lowenstein planted a big wet one on me in the ninth grade and I woke up the next morning with lymph nodes the size of baseballs. Mono had sucked ass.

This sucked bigger ass.

Maybe I’d call Sherridan and make her come over and take care of me. As it was, I didn’t have the strength to go into the kitchen and get myself a glass of water and eight hundred Tylenol.

I whimpered as another wave of pain assaulted me. My blood heated to boiling, burning like lava in my veins before chilling to ice. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought something was alive inside me, clawing its way through my every cell. Slicing me apart and rearranging my organs.

Forget Sherridan. I needed a doctor.

I reached for the phone, but my arm dropped onto the bed, too heavy to hold up. A strange but welcome lethargy suddenly flowed through me, lulling me into darkness, away from the pain. My eyelids closed and a black web wove inside my mind. Morning. I’d feel better in the morning.