Worth the Trip (33 page)

He scrubbed a hand back through his hair, thinking
Fuck it, I’m in love with her
. And yeah, that pissed him off the most. He wasn’t giving up his job, and a man in his position had no business getting involved with anyone that way. Love was a weakness, he’d always believed. But he didn’t feel weak. Running away was weak.

He pulled up to the curb in front of Norah’s house just as dawn was breaking. He angled out of the black Mustang GT, made his way to her front door, and knocked. No answer. He decided to pick the lock, but when he put his hand on the knob it turned, so he stepped inside and punched the code into the keypad.

“So you’re back.”

Trip spun around and there was Lucius, sitting in the parlor sipping coffee laced, Trip suspected, with the whiskey sitting in the decanter at his elbow.

“Where’s Norah?”

“Gone,” Lucius said. “She took off with the key to the loot.”

Trip shook his head a little, then replayed that last comment. Even when he repeated it, he still didn’t believe it. “She’s gone?”

“Aye. Gone. She conned the secret to the loot out of me and absconded with it. I’d be proud of her if I didn’t feel like such a bloody fool.”

Trip sat down on the horsehair sofa, still trying to wrap his mind around it. “Did she go to the police?”

“Jesus, are you trying to kill me? Isn’t it bad enough that she played me, her own father? Now you’re wanting me to think she’s gone to the cops, too?”

“Well, where the hell do you think she’s gone?”

“Some country that has no extradition agreement with the United States.”

“What time did she leave?”

“Middle of the night’s as close as I can approximate it.”

“And the treasure is . . .”

Lucius sat up, looked over at him for the first time. “There’s no way she’s gotten the loot yet,” he said, not looking all that cheered by the news.

Trip had been so sure he’d misread Norah, that she’d had a good reason for making him leave. Now he found himself having to make a decision between trusting her and working with her father to track her down.

But either way it all circled back to the loot. “So tell me where it is and we’ll go get it,” he said to Lucius, “hopefully before Norah does.”

“That’s the problem, boyo, she’s got the list.”

“List?”

“Aye, list. And the passwords.”

Passwords, that didn’t sound good
. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you memorized the passwords.”

“I knew them fifteen years ago, but now?” He shook his head.

“In that case,” Trip said, getting to his feet, “you’ll only slow me down.”

 

TRIP’S PHONE RANG WHEN HE WAS SITTING IN AN
Internet café, south of Chicago. He’d gone south because, he’d reasoned, going north didn’t make any sense, and Norah was a sensible woman. An infuriating woman, but sensible, and north meant she’d be hampered by Lake Michigan and Lake Superior. Unless she was headed for Canada. Or west. There wasn’t a whole lot west, and small towns meant she’d stand out, so he’d ruled out west. Canada, however, had real possibilities. Her passport would be recorded when she crossed the border, but once she was out of the country his resources would be severely limited.

Of course, that only mattered if she had the loot. He was betting she didn’t—not yet anyway—and he was betting that wherever Lucius stashed it was south of Chicago. His goal, he thought as he picked up his still-ringing phone, was to find Norah.

“Hello?”

“Trip?”

He froze, even the breath backing up in his lungs, and when he didn’t respond she said, “It’s Norah.”

“I know,” he said. Not that her name had been the first thing that popped into his mind. In all fairness nothing had popped into his mind; he’d had to get through the instant rush of emotion first. But the emotion had been anger, and the thoughts that had come along with it hadn’t been pretty.

“I’d like to explain—”

“Explain what?”

“I was just at your house, you weren’t there.”

“I had to leave—”

“After you stole fifty million dollars from your father.”

“I didn’t—”

“Con the con artist? Sure you did. You conned me, you conned your long-lost brother. You played us all, sweetheart.”

“If you would let me finish a sentence—”

“I’ll be happy to, but not over the phone.”

“Fine, I’ll meet you.”

“Right,” Trip sneered, “I’m going to fall for that.”

“Then you pick the time and place,” she said, sounding exasperated.

“I plan to. When and where you least expect it.”

Norah digested that for a second. “You’re going to track me down, put out one of those . . .”

“APBs,” Trip supplied. “And no. No APB. This is between you and me. Darlin’.”

Norah winced at that. Not the word, the tone. Trip was beyond anger, at least the kind with heat. This anger was cold and hard and unforgiving. That alone would have been enough to make her run like hell, but facing Trip wasn’t her only concern. The FBI would never have left her father alone as long as he had the loot. She could get her father out of trouble despite himself, at least where the Gold Coast Robbery was concerned, if she could only handle this the way she’d planned. That hinged on her going in to the FBI willingly, not in handcuffs. Handcuffs seriously compromised her bargaining position.

“Trip, if you’d just listen to me—”

“I will, when we’re in the same room and I can see your face.”

“Seeing my face didn’t make a difference yesterday.” And reminding him of that didn’t help matters.

“I’m coming for you, professor,” Trip said.

“Bring it on.”

Trip smiled. It was not a nice smile, which he knew because the kid at the next table took one look at his face, scooped up his laptop, and ran out the door without shutting it down.

“You’re on,” he said to Norah, “and just to be fair, you should stop using your credit card.”

“I already have. I withdrew enough cash for—Good one. You knew I was smart enough to stay off the grid, and you were hoping to make me reveal something.”

Trip clenched his jaw, hard, just for a second. “I hope you have enough, because your credit cards and bank accounts are frozen. And as for staying off the grid, let’s not forget you’re a bestselling author.”

There was a split second of silence, one of those pauses Norah made when she was absorbing the conversation and choosing her words carefully.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said.

“Don’t be. It was all about the job.”

“For you,” she said. “This was never a job to me.”

 

NORAH WENT FROM HOTEL TO HOTEL, SOMETIMES
twice in one day, thankful at least that Trip wasn’t involving the local police. Still, every time she saw a policeman she practically had a heart attack. Even security guards sent her into palpitations. It was a wonder she hadn’t been arrested just for looking guilty—not that she looked as guilty as she felt.

She’d turned out to be a better grifter than she’d ever expected, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that. Part of her, a small part, was proud, but then there was the part of her that had always feared she had too much of her father in her—the part that had suppressed any spark of originality or adventure and guided her into that medium life that had seemed so safe. Looking back now it just seemed . . . gray. Not that her current situation was all sunshine and roses.

Three days after their dismal phone conversation, she found herself in Atlanta, exhausted out of her mind, pulling into the first hotel she found.

“May I help you?” the young woman at the front desk asked, her mouth dropping open before Norah could ask for a room. “Oh my gosh, it’s you.”

“No, it’s not,” Norah said, closing her eyes and shaking her head over how lame a reaction
that
was. “I’m sorry, Janey,” she said, reading the girl’s name tag, “I’m really tired. I’d appreciate it if you could give me a room, and . . . keep it to yourself that I’m here?”

“Of course,” Janey said, “but could you maybe help me? My boyfriend, Jack, he’s been acting really weird lately.”

Norah sighed heavily. “Explain
weird
.”

“Well, a couple times I walked into the room when he was on the phone, and he cut off the conversation really fast.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I checked his phone log, and my best friend’s phone number was in the outgoing call log.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he’s keeping secrets from me. Like I saw him looking in my jewelry box, but he wouldn’t tell me why.”

“You live together, I take it.”

“Yes, for about a year now, and we dated for almost two years before that.”

“So, you’re pretty serious about one another. How’s the sex?”

An elderly couple standing a little way down the counter sent Norah a look. She couldn’t have cared less. She’d say or do just about anything to get to a bed.

“The sex is amazing,” Janey whispered.

“Okay, so I take it you’re not in a rut any other way. He’s still affectionate, still tells you he loves you?”

Janey nodded.

“Has he ever given you reason to doubt him?”

“Not until lately,” Janey said miserably.

“My guess is he’s going to propose,” Norah said.

“Propose? Seriously?”

“He’s talking to your friend because he wants her to help him pick out a ring, and he’s probably trying to come up with a unique way to pop the question. That would be why he cuts off phone conversations.”

“So I don’t overhear his plans. Awwww, what a sweetie.”

“Room,” Norah said, almost blind with exhaustion. “Secret.”

“Sure thing, Doctor MacArthur,” Janey chirped, all happy and bursting with love.

“Doctor MacArthur?” the elderly woman said. “Norah MacArthur, the author? Where?”

Norah took the room key and counted out the cash for a night’s stay, stuffing the woefully small roll of cash she had left in her purse. Even if she was careful, she wasn’t sure she could make it two days on what she had left. But she was sure she couldn’t stay in that hotel. Hell, the entire city was out of the question now.

She took the elevator up one floor, then hit the stairs and snuck through the lobby so Janey and company didn’t see her leaving. She was almost in tears when she slid behind the wheel of her Escape. It was only a matter of time before someone posted online that she’d been spotted in Atlanta, and not long after that Trip would be hot on her trail. When he got there she’d be gone, and he’d have wasted all that time. Now all she had to do was keep from falling asleep at the wheel. Then again, death sounded so restful.

Two days later she dragged her butt through the door of the latest no-tell motel, this one in a questionable part of Washington, D.C. She went inside, flipped the lights on and shut the door, and dropped her purse and overnight bag on the bed, setting the takeout she’d gotten at the greasy spoon next door on the table.

She was glad to be inside, but she couldn’t settle. She was moderately well rested, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Trip was breathing down her neck, which was ridiculous since she’d moved around so much. It was just guilt dogging her heels, she decided, guilt for hurting Trip, guilt for betraying her father. And worry.

For the first time in her life she was flying without a net. No job, no money; well, she had some savings, enough to get her through the next few months. Now she just needed to figure out what she should do with the rest of her life. Turned out teaching wasn’t her thing. She liked counseling, though, liked the feeling she was helping people . . . She sighed, dropping onto the lumpy mattress. Truth was, she didn’t feel like doing anything at the moment. It was hard to think around the heartache. But after tomorrow she’d be able to move on from that. She looked at the clock next to the bed. Almost midnight. Just twelve more hours—

Someone knocked on her door.

Norah froze, just her eyes shifting in that direction. She didn’t even cross the room and look through the peephole, afraid of who she’d see on the other side. Considering the neighborhood she ought to be afraid for her life. What she was worried about was her heart.

“Open up, professor, I know you’re in there.”

Trip.
She closed her eyes, not breathing for a second while she made the mental adjustment from possibility to reality. Reality brought her back around to possibility, as in possibilities for escape, which, she quickly discovered, were nonexistent.

Her room, like all the other rooms, opened directly to the outside along a cement walkway. The bathroom, when she got up to check, had no window at all. In hindsight, not her best choice.

“You have nowhere to go,” Trip yelled through the door, “and the longer you keep me waiting, the unhappier I’m going to get.”

She took a few precious seconds to get hold of herself, to start breathing again, before she opened the door. “
Unhappier
is not a word,” she said.

“Words are not my weapon, they’re yours. And it got my point across.” He pushed past her and took a good, long look around. “Not exactly the kind of place you expected to be living with fifty million dollars at your disposal.”

Norah shut the door and turned around, staying where she was. “It’s not at my disposal.”

“Not yet,” Trip said.

“Not ever.”

“Don’t play with me.”

“I’m not—” The rest was cut off by a gasp as he crossed the room, took her by the upper arms, and lifted her to her toes.

Trip saw the shock on her face, chased away by fear, and then determination. It pissed him off. He added it to the list, what she’d done a week ago, having to chase her halfway across the country. Losing control of the mission.

Hope.
The thing that pissed him off most of all.

There was no rhyme or reason to where Norah went each day. She’d never ditched the Escape—aptly named since there were a million of them on the road, and even with the dents and the undisguised license plate, she’d managed to keep just out of his reach. Of course he hadn’t put out an APB on her or her vehicle, and not because he wanted to take her on head-to-head. She was no match for him. He’d kept it between them because he had hope. Hope that she hadn’t absconded with the loot.