Sting (19 page)

“Where was Josh? Was he all right? What did he say?”

“Well, he didn't give himself up. Last he was seen, he was on foot. This morning they brought in track dogs to try and pick up a trail.”

“Dogs?” she asked in horror.

“He's a fugitive, Ms. Bennett. Thumbed his nose at me. Told me we should give up looking for him. Swore we'd never catch him and that he'd never surrender. But he's still trying to cut deals. This one? If I would guarantee your safe return, he would give me Panella's last known whereabouts.”

“He's known all this time and has been keeping—”

“That surprises you?”

“If he knew, why's he held back?”

“Because he's a felon. He hasn't been convicted of his alleged crimes yet, but you and I both know that he's a damn crook. He's an even better liar and manipulator.”

She didn't defend or argue those charges, so Joe continued. “All along I've figured Josh was holding a few aces, so that if and when he got in a tight squeeze—which your abduction was—he'd have something to play. He pulled one out of his sleeve last night.”

“What did you play? You couldn't guarantee my safe return.”

“No, I couldn't. Honestly? At that point in time, I thought you were probably dead already and your body sunk in a swamp somewhere. I told Josh that. The only guarantee I could give him was to do my best to find you, dead or alive, and I promised to keep at it until you were either rescued or your remains recovered. He hemmed and hawed. Waffled. You know how he is. Eventually, he took the deal.”

“He told you where Panella is?”

“He claims not to know that, but he told me where Panella was headed when he took off. Costa Rica.”

Joe watched her for a reaction, and when she didn't register so much as a blink, he went on. “It was to be only his first jumping-off spot on his way to South America, according to Josh, who said he knows this because his last official duty while in Panella's employ was to wire some walking-around money to a bank down there.”

“At least you'll know where to start looking for him.”

“We've already started. What we've turned up so far?” He rubbed his brow as though it pained him to tell her what he must. “The only time on record that Billy Panella was in Costa Rica was about a month before we busted open his scam. He spent a long weekend at a swank resort outside of San Jose.” He lowered his hand and looked at her directly. “With you.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Eventually she closed them.

Joe gave her a ten count to see if she would deny it, qualify it, something. When she didn't, he got out, opened the backseat door, and reached in to take her arm. “Till we get to the bottom of this, you're registered here under the name of Ms. Jones, and your roommate is a federal marshal named Gwen.”

L
ate Sunday afternoon, the Terrebonne Parish SO determined that all the evidence had been collected from the now-famous bar. The crime scene tape was removed and the establishment was permitted to reopen.

Word spread quickly, and soon the parking lot couldn't accommodate the customers who drove for miles to see where Friday night's drama had taken place.

The bartender recruited customers who could be trusted with the cash register to help him fill orders while he retold his story that contained the juicy details media sources had omitted from their reports.

But the evening really belonged to star witness Royce Sherman. The pool table where he'd been playing with his buddies when he decided to approach Jordan Bennett became center ring.

“Little did I know that my move on her would sic the feds on my ass. Not to mention”—he slung an arm across his live-in's shoulders in a gesture so broad that he sloshed his third Jack and Coke on her new tank top—“getting me in dutch with my old lady here.”

His old lady wasn't amused, but his audience was spellbound as he gave them a spectacularly appended version of his conversation with Jordie. He relished his newfound celebrity. No one would ever call him a loser or ne'er-do-well again. His name had appeared more than once in the
Times-Picayune
. Even his mean ol' daddy had been impressed when an interview with him was aired as the lead story on the ten o'clock news Saturday night.

As the evening wore on, the crowd became thicker. No one noticed the man who came in with a group to which he didn't belong, then separated himself from it and sought out the darkest corner of the bar in which to lurk.

It was the farthest point from the jukebox. He didn't go near the gregarious bartender, never ordered a drink, just watched Royce and listened to his tale, which grew a little taller with each retelling, and Royce's role got larger.

“I didn't know nothin' about the fraud case. I had to Google Billy Panella to find out his connection to this gal.” Here, his eyes bugged. “Whoa! Dude. Her brother's gotta be the dimmest bulb in the box to double-cross this Panella character. That TV reporter asked me did I think Panella sent Bolden and that other guy to exact his revenge on Josh Bennett. Hell yeah, I told him. But I threw a wrench in it by talking to her. If his sister's still alive, Bennett's got me to thank.”

“You can say that again, Royce,” muttered the man backed into the corner.

Royce's old lady finally had enough of his braggadocio. She suggested that it was time for them to go. When Royce said he wasn't ready yet, she
insisted
that they go. Royce ignored her. She then shouted an ultimatum: Either he leave with her right then or not bother coming home at all.

Royce saluted her a
so long
. This time, he slung his arm across the shoulders of a starry-eyed young woman who'd been more appreciative of and attentive to his story.

Royce's live-in stalked out, accompanied by two female friends who lent full support to her grand exit. The man in the corner overheard them urging her to change her door locks and telling her that she would be better off never to see that asshole again.

Another hour passed. Royce Sherman became drunker, and the young woman more in thrall of him. In a particularly amorous move, she reached up and used his stringy goatee to pull his face down to hers. They kissed while the crowed hooted and hollered encouragement.

The spectacle almost caused the man in the corner to miss the incoming call on his cell phone. While glad that the phone, which had been dormant all day, was finally vibrating inside his pants pocket, he was equally annoyed that the call was so late in coming. He sidestepped his way along the wall till he reached the door, then gratefully pushed through.

He took the phone from his pocket and, as he threaded his way across the parking lot toward his car, glanced down at the phone's LED. Unknown Caller. But it could be only one person: Shaw Kinnard. And he would be calling for only one reason: He'd killed Jordie and wanted to be compensated.

He was about to answer when he paused to reconsider. In any transaction, whoever held out the longest gained the upper hand. Up till now Kinnard had had it. This time, let him grow anxious.

He only had to wait for three minutes before the phone vibrated again. Leering with self-satisfaction, he took the electrolarynx from his pocket and pressed it against his voice box. “You had better be calling to tell me she's dead.”

“'Fraid not, Billy.”

It wasn't the hired gun's voice.

“This is Special Agent Joe Wiley, FBI, New Orleans office.”

“Fuck!”
The expletive was out before he could control his reaction. While he was at it, he filled the feeb's ear with a few more.

Seemingly unimpressed with the profane litany, the agent talked over him in a conversational tone. “The media hasn't broken the story yet, so you're getting an exclusive. Shaw Kinnard has been arrested. Jordie Bennett is alive and well and in our protective custody. So your reprisal scheme is kaput. And it only gets better, Mr. Panella.

“Josh Bennett is still at large,
but
he's been in touch with me personally, and—you probably won't find this surprising—once again he's ratting you out. You know that he's a chicken liver at heart. He'll sell you—”

Seeing red, he didn't wait to hear the rest of whatever the federal agent had to say, but immediately disconnected, then flipped the phone over and removed the battery. He walked toward the bayou until he got close enough to make a good overhand pitch that plopped both the phone and the battery into the water.

Every blood vessel expanding with fury, he returned to his car where he could sit and mull over the call and its dire implications. He couldn't dismiss or underestimate them. The news of Jordie's rescue might not have been broadcast yet, but the fed had sounded too smug not to be believed.

This was definitely a kick in the teeth. Clearly, retaining Mickey Bolden and his onetime partner had been a mistake. But that was water under the bridge. He must think forward, not backward.

He stewed and reviewed and ultimately determined that there was an upside. Shaw Kinnard was a write-off. The authorities had him for a capital crime. The nature of the beast was to lie, so nothing he said would be believed. And, anyway, he was a Johnny-come-lately on the scene. He didn't know anything of substance about the Panella-Bennett partnership.

The downside was that Jordie did. And Jordie was alive and well and in the FBI's protective custody.

She still had to die, but he wasn't going to rely on anyone else to do it. Enough with the hired help. He couldn't trust either their competency or their loyalty. Besides, taking on the chore himself was an exciting prospect. Death throes had a way of shattering cool reserve like hers. It stirred his blood to think of instilling mortal fear in the condescending bitch and then watching the life fade from her big blue eyes. He would enjoy that very much.

Naturally there was some risk to coming out from hiding, but the reward outweighed it. From now on, whenever he wanted something done properly and in a timely fashion, he would do it himself.

Starting now.

Beside him Jordie lay naked and soft.

Well, soft except for the tips of her breasts that tightened as she rubbed them against his chest. He took one between his fingers and worried it gently. She made a purring sound. He pressed his tongue into her mouth to catch that sweet vibration.

Someone almost ruined their kiss by bumping into the bed, and Shaw wanted to snarl at the offender for the interruption, because Jordie's kiss was delicious. She wasn't a passive kisser, either, but an active and ardent participant. Her mouth compressed around his tongue, and he knew then how amazing it would feel once she took his penis. When they got to that. For now, however—

“How's he doing?”

“Oh, hello, Doctor. I thought you'd left for the night.”

“I was about to, but decided to check on him once more before I go.”

“He's been stirring, but hasn't woken up. His vitals are good.”

“Temperature?”

“Normal.”

Somewhere far in the back of his mind, Shaw acknowledged that kissing Jordie was a bad idea, but now that he was doing it, not for the life of him could he stop. Although, classifying this as a mere kiss was like comparing a candle flame to a wildfire. This kiss was the stuff of wet dreams. He had unrestricted access to her. Mouth, the sexiest. Breasts, so easily aroused. The more of herself she allowed him, the more he wanted.

If word of his obsession got around, he'd become a laughingstock. His reputation was that of a hard-ass, a badass. Ruthless. Merciless. An unfeeling and unshakable son of a bitch. No one would expect bad Shaw Kinnard to go soft over a woman.

Oh, Jesus.
Was
he soft? No. He was hard. Wasn't he?

He wasn't sure. Things down there didn't feel quite right. There was a persistent, throbbing heaviness in the lower part of his body, which was somewhat reassuring. But it didn't feel like a normal erection. Strangely, he was reluctant to explore the source of that odd pressure. All he actually wanted to explore was Jordie, every enticing curve and hollow of her.

“I'm sorry, sir, you can't come in here.”

“I'm Deputy Sheriff Clint Morrow.”

“And I'm the surgeon who just repaired this guy's gut. He's still in recovery ICU. You have to leave.”

“He's my prisoner.”

“He's my patient.”

Indifferent to their squabble, Shaw ignored them. He wanted to touch Jordie where it counted, and, judging by the way she was shifting against him, with restlessness and urgency, she was wanting him to.

He slid his hand down her smooth belly and cupped her sex.
Yes, Shaw, yes.

Music to his ears. Because after what he'd put her through, she should hate him. She should be afraid of him, but she wasn't. She was arching against him with what could only be desire and whispering naughty encouragement against his lips.

“Kinnard? Kinnard? Can you hear me?”

“Deputy Morrow! What are you doing back in here?”

“Just checking to see if he's come around.”

“He hasn't. And I heard the doctor ordering you out.”

“Can Kinnard hear me?”

“He's unconscious.”

“He could be faking it.”

“He's still under anesthesia. In any case, you must wait until after the doctor has checked him in the morning, and only then will he determine if the patient is up to being interrogated. It's not like he's going anywhere. Are these restraints really necessary?”

Somebody tugged on Shaw's hand. It didn't move. Not that one. The other one was stroking Jordie in that softest of soft places on a woman's body. She was pressing herself up into his palm with want and invitation. He extended his middle finger down into the cleft, collected her moisture on the pad of his finger, and tantalized that most sensitive spot. Dipping his head, he did the same to her nipple with his tongue.

Teasing strokes in perfect concert. Pleasuring by painting small circles.

She clutched handfuls of his hair, chanted his name in gasps and sighs, implored him not to stop.

“The restraints stay on. Both hands. Be sure the rest of the nursing staff understands that. Don't be taken in. He's dangerous. Two nights ago, he shot a man in the back of the head.”

“Well, he's not going to shoot anybody tonight. Please, Deputy. I'm the one who'll get into trouble if I allow you to stay in here. Please leave. He won't be fully conscious for hours yet.”

They left. Thank Christ. Now he could enjoy this erotic dream in peace.

Jordie's breath had turned uneven. In shockingly explicit language, she begged him to put his fingers inside her. He was all too happy to oblige.

Holy hell. He'd thought her mouth was wet and hot and snug.

She clenched, drawing his fingers deeper. He eased them back, and when she whimpered in protest, he pushed them into her again. Higher. She clenched tighter.

And then in the miraculous way of dreams, he was suddenly on top of her, and it wasn't his fingers but his cock embedded in her. She was squeezing it each time he thrust into her. God, it felt good.

Never one for prolonged foreplay—or kissing, for that matter—he'd always just as soon skip the preliminaries and get on to the main event. Not this time. Not with Jordie. He was in no hurry. He liked this unrushed fucking.

Best of all, he wasn't going anywhere. He could keep at this for a long time. Till morning. Hours yet.

Jordie came awake as suddenly as though someone had shoved her out of sleep.

She expected to find herself reclined on a cloth-upholstered backseat, her hands and feet bound. It took several seconds for her to remember that she was in a hotel room. Creature comforts included fresh bedsheets and a pillow stuffed with the softest down. The temperature wasn't sweltering; instead, she was chilled by air-conditioning.

However, while she was no longer a hostage in a nasty garage, she wasn't in this hotel suite by choice.

According to the clock on the bedside table, it was four thirty a.m. Throwing off the covers, she left the bed and went into the bathroom. After using the toilet, she closed the lid and sat on it, elbows on her knees, head in her hands.

Was Shaw all right? Would he recover? Was he even alive?

Not knowing his current condition or prognosis was sheer torture.

Gwen Saunders, the U.S. marshal with whom she was sharing the suite, had received calls at various times throughout the long afternoon and evening, but she had never divulged the nature of those calls to Jordie.

When Jordie had pretended to nap, she had intentionally left the bedroom door ajar, hoping to pick up enough tidbits of the one-sided conversations to piece together some solid answers to all the questions plaguing her.