The Heart Has Reasons (48 page)

The
cruel things he’d said to her that last night at the motel played through his
head on an endless loop.  And as if the bitter self-recrimination wasn’t
enough, he kept flashing back to that evening when the agents had put them
together in the interrogation room, and she’d hissed at him, “You
bastard.  I wish I’d shot you.”  In retrospect, he concurred that she
should have done exactly that, but it didn’t lessen the pain any.

“Yo,
O’Malley!  Check it out.  Yo’ woman’s on TV again!”

Ah,
Jesus.  He lowered the book and raised his gaze to the television
suspended high on the wall.  Cheyenne’s face filled the screen.

“God
damn
!”
one of his fellow inmates exclaimed, twisting in his seat to gaze back at
Chase.  “That really yo’ woman?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck
me.”

Apparently
unconcerned that he might spend the rest of his life in prison, Cheyenne was
making the most of the situation, clearly relishing the attention his
misfortune had brought her.  “This whole thing is just so crazy,” she was
saying in that nasal Brooklyn accent of hers.  “He’d never do anything
like that.  I mean, why would he kidnap that woman when he’s got
me
?”

If,
despite all his warnings, she slipped and said his name, he’d put his fist
through a fucking wall.

The
first time she’d come to the jail to visit him, local news crews had already
been here, awaiting her arrival.  Since she’d been dressed to the nines,
with her makeup clearly professionally done, he’d assumed she’d placed an
anonymous call to inform them of her impending visit.  Naturally, she’d
graciously granted them all interviews.

She’d
asked him if he’d committed the crime for which he was being held and, of
course, he’d had no choice but to deny it.  She’d seemed to accept his
answer, but he wasn’t sure if he should attribute this to her however misguided
faith in him, or to the fact that she was too self-centered to care one way or
the other.

Now,
here she was on the
national
news, inappropriately garbed in a designer
dress that probably cost more than most people made in a year.  Leaving no
aspect of her skinny frame to the imagination, the neckline plunged nearly to
her pubic bone and revealed an inordinate amount of surgically enhanced
breasts.

Larissa
would never wear such a risqué outfit in
public.

Besides
the obvious, what the fuck had he ever seen in Cheyenne?  Well, actually,
he knew the answer to that.  Ever since Michelle had hurt him so deeply,
he’d been careful to pursue only women he knew he’d never fall in love
with.  The solitary life had seemed to suit him and so his strategy had
served him well.  At least until he’d met Larissa.

While
Cheyenne was still speaking, he tilted his chair back on two legs against the
wall and attempted to return his attention to the book.  The sound of the
television gradually receded as he replayed his mental tape of their last night
together.  Jesus, he’d never felt anything to equal what he’d experienced
as he’d made love to her.  And “made love” was the only way it could be
described, even though, afterwards, she’d claimed she’d faked everything.

Looking
back on the situation, he knew she probably had.  But … he’d felt the
rhythmic tightening of her body around his cock when she’d cried out in
apparent orgasm.  Of course, she could have deliberately tightened her
muscles in order to fool him.  Could anyone fake passion that well? 
Well, yes, they could.  After all, self-preservation was a powerful
motivator.

Had
the attraction really been completely one-sided?

His
reminiscings were so vivid that, when her voice with its sultry southern accent
obtruded into his consciousness, he at first thought he was imagining it. 
Then he realized it was originating across the dayroom.

Sweet
Jesus, Larissa was on television.

Eyes
glued to the screen, he crossed the room in a daze.  He couldn’t see her
eyes due to the sunglasses she wore but — oh, Jesus — she was even more
beautiful than he remembered.  And sexy as hell, with succulent red lips
in the same shade of red as the dress that skimmed her curves.

Off
to his side, someone asked, “That the woman you kidnapped?”

“I
didn’t kidnap anyone,” he absently responded.

“Damn,
she’s fine, too.”

“Shut
up,” he barked.  “I’m trying to hear what she’s saying.”

The
reporter was asking, “Are you acquainted with the man the FBI has in custody?”

Chase
wondered what had happened to make her suddenly decide to speak to the press
but, as she began lambasting the FBI’s handling of the case, he realized it
probably had something to do with Agent Jarvis.  

When
the reporter suggested she was lying to protect her kidnapper, Larissa’s eyes
narrowed and her chin rose defiantly, a gesture with which he was achingly
familiar.  When she denied the allegation, pointing out that her kidnapper
had delivered her to a man who intended to torture her to death, he
involuntarily winced.

The
reporter began asking increasingly leading questions, which Larissa responded
to without actually answering.  However, when the reporter suggested the
possibility of a
romantic
relationship with her abductor, she angrily
ended the interview.

A
moment later, the scene switched abruptly to another location, and Jarvis’ dark
face filled the screen.  A different reporter asked him why the Bureau was
keeping the unnamed suspect in jail, when several of his friends had alibied
him and the victim herself was adamant that they had the wrong man in custody.

“We
have three witnesses that put Ms. Santos tied up and gagged in the back of the
suspect’s vehicle, and all three picked the suspect out of a line-up.” 
Since Jarvis did not refer to him by name, the FBI apparently knew that without
Larissa’s testimony, their case against him was weak.

When
the news moved on into sports, his fellow inmates occupied themselves by
arguing over which of the two women was the hottest.  More or less equally
divided, half were going for flashy, tall, blond, and huge-breasted, while the
other half argued vociferously for classy, curvy, brunette, and sultry-voiced.

There
was absolutely no doubt in Chase’s mind as to which one he preferred.

* * * * *

From the front of the salon, Brendon
called, “Larissa, hurry!  You’re on next!”

Stylists
and customers jostled one another as they hurried toward the front counter.
 When Larissa calmly continued cutting Ms. LaRue’s hair, the middle-aged
woman caught her eyes in the mirror.  “Don’t you want to see yourself on
TV?”

“Not
especially.”

“Well
I do, honey.”  Heaving her bulk from the chair, she took Larissa firmly by
the arm and steered her across the salon.

Brendon
pulled her to the front of the crowd jockeying for position before a portable
television and whispered, “The phone’s ringing off the hook with people
clamoring for appointments.  Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“At
least
something
good has come of all this publicity.”  Larissa
stiffened when Cheyenne’s face unexpectedly filled the small screen.  Why
was
she
on the news?  She wasn’t involved in any of this.

“He’d
never do anything like that,” Cheyenne was saying.  “I mean, why would he
kidnap some woman when he’s got
me
?”

Beside
Larissa, Damon muttered, “What a conceited bee-otch,” to a murmur of agreement.

Brendon
gave her a quick glance, then slipped an arm around her shoulders. 
“You’re much prettier than her.”

She
gave him a tired smile.  “It’s not even about that.”

He
gave her a squeeze.  “I know.  But she looks like a whore in that
dress she’s almost wearing.”

Cheyenne
was
dressed inappropriately, but every single straight man watching,
including Chase, was sure to be drooling.

“And,”
Brendon added, “she sounds just like Fran Dresher.”

“But
with a face and breasts like that, what man’s going to notice?”

When
Larissa finally came on the screen, Damon elbowed her in the side.  “Damn,
girlfriend, you are
très
telegenic.”

Although
the camera actually was somewhat flattering, it also added back on the ten
pounds she’d recently lost.  She knew she was too thin but, compared to
Cheyenne, she looked downright pudgy.  Oh, god, life sucked.

* * * * *

When Larissa pulled up in front of her
house that evening, a black SUV was idling at the curb.  Jarvis slid from
the driver’s seat and, dispensing with the usual pleasantries, opened the
vehicle’s rear door and barked, “Get in.”  The temptation to advise him to
go screw himself was nearly overwhelming but, if she refused to comply, he
might arrest her.  Not meeting his eyes, she slid into the back seat, and
he slammed the door behind her.

As
they headed across town, neither Jarvis nor Harris had anything to say, and she
obstinately refused to ask where they were going.  If they thought she was
going to apologize for talking to the reporter, they were sadly mistaken, and
she was
not
taking any freaking lie detector test.

Then
another possibility wormed its way into her consciousness.  What if they
were
arresting her?  Jarvis had threatened to charge her with obstruction of
justice.  The insidious fear that they were taking her to jail began to
grow inside her like a tumor.  Before long, her heart was triphammering as
it became glaringly apparent that the jail was exactly where they were heading.

How
much would the bail be for a charge like obstruction of justice?  What if
she couldn’t cover the percentage that a bail bondsman would charge? 
Would she cave in and identify Chase, in order to free herself?  She
wanted to believe the answer was no, but there was no way she could sit in jail
for the next who-knew-how-many months.  She’d lose everything, including
her house.  As they approached the jail, she struggled to fight back
tears.

Damn
you
,
Jarvis.

And
damn you too, Chase, for getting me into this mess.

Was
she the moron the agents clearly believed her to be?  Despite her
self-denial, was she really suffering from Stockholm syndrome?  Chase
had
drugged and kidnapped her.  Should she break her promise to him and just
go ahead and tell the truth?

The
SUV rolled past the jail and stopped at a red light at the next
intersection.  The light changed and Jarvis headed straight through the
intersection.  At the next intersection, he again continued on straight,
and when they were a half dozen blocks past the jail, she glanced up to find
his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching her.

Bastard.

As
they headed into North Charleston, the worst of her fear faded, although a
sense of uneasiness remained as a small tense knot in the pit of her stomach.

Jarvis
eventually pulled into the parking lot of an indoor shooting range. 
Larissa had actually spent many hours at this very range, first with the little
Smith & Wesson, then with the Browning, familiarizing herself with both
weapons and improving her accuracy.

She
met Jarvis’ eyes in the rearview mirror.  “Why are we here?”

“I
found myself in the mood to do a little target practice and decided to bring
you along.”

As
he signed them in at the front desk, Larissa hung back.  She didn’t like
him paying her range fee any more than she liked that he’d bought her numerous
meals, even though it was probably the Bureau’s money he was spending and not
his own.  But since she’d missed nearly two weeks of work, she could ill
afford to pay for herself and, in any case, he’d brought her here against her
will.

She
sullenly followed the two men through the heavy doors that led back to the
firing range.  Jarvis motioned her into a shooting booth and stepped in
behind her, while Doctor Harris hovered just outside.  He clipped a paper
target to the carrier and hit the toggle switch to send it about twenty-five
feet down range.  He then unzipped a leather gun case, removed a large
semi-automatic, and placed both it and a box of ammunition on the shelf before
her.  “Ladies first.”

She
frowned at him, then looked down at the weapon before her.  A Colt .45,
the same model Chase had carried.  Recalling Jarvis’ suggestion that her
kidnapper had killed Sparrow, she realized he wanted to see if she could handle
the weapon.  To see if she even knew how to fire it.

Well,
he was going to be disappointed yet again.  She put on the protective
glasses and earmuffs, while Jarvis and Harris did the same.  With an
economy of motion, she pressed the magazine release button, dropping the
magazine from the weapon.  She loaded seven rounds into it, slapped the
magazine back into place, and racked the slide.

Stepping
her left leg back, she turned sideways to the target in a one-handed shooter’s
stance, took careful aim, and fired all seven rounds, the bone-jarring recoil
jolting up her arm.  When the magazine was empty, she laid the weapon on
the shelf, removed her earmuffs, and turned to Jarvis, eyebrows raised in
silent challenge.