The Temptation of Sean MacNeill (18 page)

Doubt clutched at her. Sean could drive it in his truck. But she was in her mama's aging Buick, and every yard down this particular road took her farther into danger.

"I can't drive down there."

"So, park."

She pulled up as close to the turnoff as she dared. Maybe someone would see her parked car and stop?

Not likely. Out here, abandoned cars were lawn decoration, as common as satellite dishes.

The heat shimmered on the empty road. There was a gleam at the top of the hill behind her, but no cars passed. No rescue came.

"Get out of the car," Carmine ordered in her ear. "Take the money with you."

Her chest squeezed. She did not want to leave the car. She didn't want to leave the radio.

What if it wasn't working?

"I don't want to get out," she said directly to her sun visor. "There's nothing here. It's a construction site."

"All you got to do is drop off the money, Mrs. Fuller, and it's all over. Get out of the car."

Do whatever he tells you
, Gowan had said. Slowly, she got out of the car.

"Now what?"

"You got the money?"

She reached inside for the brown grocery bag, picking it up from the bottom. Gowan had told her they might be able to lift prints from the top. She readjusted the phone at her ear. "I have the money."

"Down the road, there's some big concrete pipes. Leave the bag inside one of them."

Yes. The transmitter in the bag would lead Lee Gowan to whomever picked up the money. She wouldn't have to face Frank Bilotti at all. Rachel closed her eyes a moment against the flood of relief. She wanted the man arrested. She wanted the threats against her children's lives, her mother's home, stopped. But she was shamefully glad she didn't have to encounter him in this deserted place.

"Should I bring the phone?" she asked Carmine.

"Yeah. I want you to stay on the line."

With the cell phone in one hand and the grocery bag clutched in her other arm, Rachel began to pick her way along the rutted ground. The broken clay had hardened in the heat, making walking difficult. The thin line of trees gave way to orange netting and stakes tied with strips of pink and blue plastic. Bulldozers had shaped and gouged the earth into huge hills and street beds. The sun beat down. A dog barked in the distance.

You'll look like you're on your own. You'll feel like you're on your own, but you won't be.

She'd feel a whole lot better with Sean beside her. Safer, under the protection of his ready strength and quick possessiveness, his dangerous looks and big, scarred hands.

Don't go there, she told herself firmly. She could handle this without him—and without his getting hurt. She would handle this, leave the money and go home, and then everyone she loved would be safe.

The broken roadbed wandered up a rise to a stand of forlorn trees, skinny pines and hickories shaped like toilet brushes, wrapped in orange plastic fence. Beside the trees. two bulldozers and a crane stood watch over a stockpile of concrete drainpipes, each big enough for a child to stand in.

Sweat broke out on Rachel's upper lip. This was it. She could drop the bag now and run.

She left the half road and made her way to the culverts. Clay crunched and pebbles rolled beneath her feet. It was quiet here. So quiet, and too hot. A warm breeze blew grit over her shoes and plastered a lunch wrapper against a pipe.

She put the hand that held the phone on the upper lip of the opening, for balance. Crouching, she took two steps inside. The concrete interior was dark and dank and still. A brackish puddle stained the bottom. She misjudged it in the shadows and stepped right in, wetting her shoes. Ugh. Setting the bag down high on one side—did the FBI reuse
conterfeit
?—she backed out.

Behind her, a deep voice rasped. "Looks like special-delivery time."

Her heart hurtled into her throat. She turned, blinking against the sun.

Frank Bilotti leaned against the flat yellow side of the crane, picking his teeth with his thumbnail and watching her.

"Yeah." His gaze crawled over her simple white blouse, her legs below the hem of her plain khaki shorts. "I'd say real special."

Her stomach pushed up to join her heart. She was going to he sick.

No, she wasn't.

Rachel moistened her lips. "Frank's here," she said into the phone.

"Frankie?" Carmine's voice rose in surprise. "What the hell is that dumb bastard doing there?"

Frank took two swift strides over the ground. Rachel flinched from his reaching hand, but he only grabbed the phone.

"It's okay, Uncle Carmine. I got it."

He listened a moment, his brow lowering, his lip twisting in anger. "I told you, I'm taking care of things now," he said, and pressed the little button that cut off Rachel's last connection with the world.

The fear was back and rising. "Your uncle didn't expect you to be here."

Frank
Bilotti
smiled
.
Not a nice smile. She shuddered. "I bet you didn't either, huh, teacher lady? It's not like country living is my style. I hate it down here. Cows. I hate cows and dirt. I don't like getting dirty."

Rachel raised her chin a notch. "Too bad, given your line of work."

He scowled. "The way I figure it, you owe me something for my trouble."

Oh, God, he didn't mean… No, she reassured herself. The Bilottis were businessmen.

"The money is in there. I put it in the pipe."

"I saw you. Get it out."

She was a hundred yards from her car. She could run, but he might catch her. Or he might be armed. She turned and ducked and, conscious of his watching eyes, retrieved the heavy brown paper sack from the culvert.

She held it out to him. "Here."

He jerked his head toward the bulldozers. "Over there. Put it in my car."

His car must be parked out of sight. Uneasiness curdled her stomach. "I think I should go now."

He reached behind him, and a gun appeared in his hand, blunt and dull, with a black hole like a blind eye staring at her. "And I think you should do what I say."

She thought so, too. He didn't even have to shoot to rob her of breath. Of courage. Her hope leaked out the bottom of her wet shoes. Bilotti could take the money and run, and the transmitter would continue to signal the location of the money pack. But if he shot and dumped her, it could be tomorrow before anyone discovered her body.

Oh, Chris. Lindsey. I'm so sorry, babies.

Where the hell was Gowan?

But it wasn't the federal agent Rachel yearned for. It was Sean MacNeill. She mocked her heart's hope, her stubborn, foolish faith. She'd told him and told him to leave her alone. What could he do against a gun, anyway?

Get shot, she answered her own question. There was nothing he could do but make things worse.

And in the end, there was nothing she could do but go where the gun pointed.

"On the front seat. That's right." Frank smirked. "Now you get in back."

Fear froze her legs. Anger stiffened her spine. "Why?"

"You want to strip out here?"

"No. That wasn't the deal. I never agreed to—" rape, she thought sickly "—to go with you."

"The only place you're going is the back seat. Move it."

Dear Lord. Her mind almost shut down from terror.
The only place you're going
… Was he going to shoot her, then, when he was done with her?

"Why don't you just take the money and go?"

His free hand stroked his belt. "I figure you owe me a more personal payment first. I'm gonna teach you some respect."

She battled for breath, struggled for arguments that might save her. "We—you don't have time. What if I'm being followed?"

"Carmine figured you might be. That's why he switched the drop. Nobody's following you. Unless…" His pumpkin head shifted on his blocky shoulders. "You wearing a wire, teacher lady?"

Was that movement, on the other side of the bulldozer?

"No," she said loudly.

Bilotti took a step closer. His gun traced the line of her buttons. "
Lemme
see."

Her gaze darted behind him and back, desperate for rescue, desperate to hold his attention. "I told you, no."

"And I told you to do what I say. Now, are you going to take off that pretty blouse or am I?"

If he touched her, she would vomit. Had she imagined that flicker of movement, conjured it from dust and heat and fear?

No. There! The toe of a boot, a man's brown work boot. A glimpse of dark hair…

Sean.

Joy
geysered
through her. And then fear struck to her bones.

What could he do against a gun? Get shot.

She had to distract Bilotti. As slowly as she dared, she began to unbutton her shirt, not bothering to hide her trembling. Maybe her shaking hands would excuse her delay.

Burning with rage and shame, she let the blouse hang open. She didn't dare look in the direction of the bulldozer again. "See? No wire."

Bilotti licked his lips. "I see, all right. Nice. Get in the car."

She was strong. She could fight him.

And get shot? Or risk Sean getting shot?

No. She couldn't gamble his safety on her clumsy self-defense. She would not force her children to bury their mother. Her job was to survive. Whatever it took.

With his free hand, Bilotti opened the rear door of the car. "Hurry it up." He grinned. "I got a special delivery for you, too."

Tears burned in her eyes. Damn it. Damn him. She climbed into the back seat. Bilotti came in after her.

"Real nice," he said, and grabbed her breast.

She forced herself not to resist, forced herself not to cry out in protest.

He lowered her onto the seat and crawled between her thighs; paused, to stick the gun in the back of his waistband.

"Now," she croaked.

He smirked. "In a hurry, aren't you?" The window behind him darkened as something—someone—leaned against it. The door pressed in, pinning his legs as they hung out of the car. Bilotti yelled.

Rachel scrambled backward, kicking. With a hand on her chest, he shoved her down. The other reached behind him for his gun.

She looked past his head at the window. White shirt, dark hair…

"No!" she screamed as Bilotti twisted and fired over his shoulder.

Flash. Bang. The gunshot, echoing in the close interior of the car, nearly deafened her. Sean disappeared from the opening as pebbles of glass showered inward. Rachel turned her face away.

Was he safe? Shot? She struggled to see.

Bilotti levered himself up with an elbow on her stomach. She grunted and bucked against his weight.

He jerked his gun hand around. "Bitch." The muzzle wavered, seeking her.

Sobbing, she curled into the door, kicking out at him. Her foot struck his arm. The gun fired. Pain exploded in her ears, but it was only sound. The bullet ripped through the roof, leaving black powder burns on the gray lining.

The door pinning Bilotti's legs jerked open. Sean's big hands, his strong arms, heaved Bilotti off her and dragged him from the car. She heard the thump and bowl as his chin hit the jamb of the door, saw the gun wave over his head.

She reached for the door handle that dug into her back, felt the catch release and tumbled from the car. She staggered and ran behind the trunk to the other side.

She saw work boots and jeans and blood. Lots of blood. Sean's blood? Her heart stopped. He sprawled on top of Bilotti, the two men scrabbling for position like a pair of high school wrestlers. Only Bilotti's gun arm was pinned above his head, and the back of Sean's white shirt was dark with blood.

He was hit. He was hurt. A new, raw terror froze her heart, her lungs, her legs.

Time crawled.

Gowan should be here.

He wasn't coming.

Bilotti heaved, and more blood seeped into Sean's shirt.

She sobbed. "Oh, God. Oh, God. What can I do?"

"Stomp on his hand," Sean directed tersely. "Get the gun."

She ran around their feet and scuffled along the inside of the door, her eyes fixed on Sean's left shoulder, on the ominous spread of blood. His right arm stretched over Bilotti's, clamping his forearm. Bilotti's knuckles were white with his efforts to free the gun.

The gun.

The gun he'd used to shoot Sean.

She raised her right foot and stomped on the back of his hand.

The gun fired under the car. She screamed. Bilotti grunted as Sean brought his knee up into his back.

"Harder," Sean ordered hoarsely.

Was he paler now? She took a sharp breath and ground her heel into the gunman's hand.

He yowled. His fingers splayed. She kicked the gun away, under the car.