Chapter 17
Seventeen
DECKED OUT in a pair of dark skinny jeans, a black silk blouse, a black leather jacket, black Louboutins she’d grabbed at the store next to Anthropologie, and a small black sequined crossbody bag, Bristol hung at the outer edge of Dalton’s house, her back against the brick wall—scratchy and coarse despite her jacket.
Why wouldn’t her heart stop racing? She swiped her palms against her jeans to wick away the cold sweat.
Why did she feel like a schoolgirl headed out on her first date?
This was Dalton. He was already hers, and they were already “they.” Energy bounced inside her veins. She was being foolish. Of course he was going to be happy to see her. It’d been months apart, and being together . . . She smiled.
Now, walk up to that door and kiss the man.
No. Not the front door. She’d head to his side door, sneak inside, and really surprise him.
Moving around the right side of his house, she stepped through the garden he’d let her plant.
Overgrown flowers crunched beneath her feet, but it was either that or the icy patch of walkway.
Working her way across the garden, she made it to the side porch.
Taking a steadying breath, she attempted to calm her giddiness over being back with Dalton again.
She peeked through the kitchen curtain. Voices carried, but Dalton and whomever he was conversing with were out of her line of sight.
She turned the knob. Locked. She bent, retrieving the key from under the garden gnome—the first in a row of ten he’d bought her. He wasn’t a fan of them, but she adored them. He was so thoughtful like that. It made Aubry’s allegations against him laughable.
Slipping the key into the lock, she turned the knob ever so quietly and stepped inside, easing the door shut behind her.
Soft jazz pumped over the living room speakers, and the kitchen, always fresh-smelling—like it’d just been cleaned but without harsh chemicals—welcomed her.
An orchid blooming beautifully in its marble pot sat in the center of the island.
Aww. Her favorite flower. So maybe he hadn’t totally forgotten about her.
She shook her head. What was wrong with her?
She exuded confidence, so why was she acting like a nervous Nellie?
Or was it Nancy? Whatever the saying was, it was accurate.
She blamed Aubry—the man uneased her, and his allegations infuriated her.
She took a step toward the voices coming from another room, but they paused as soon as she moved forward. Darn heels. She slipped the things off, dangling them from the fingers of her left hand.
Reaching the edge of the kitchen tile floor, she poked her head around the corner.
Dalton’s office door was cracked, a slit of light spilling out.
Always working—building his restaurant business from the ground up.
She’d never thought she’d say this, but she was proud of his work ethic.
She had been proud of her ability to con, to work every angle, but it most certainly wasn’t the same thing, and it took meeting Dalton to realize that.
Thankfully, he saw the good in her, if there really was good.
But he assured her there was, and she’d been trying to soak that up ever since.
She tiptoed down the marble-floored hall toward the office.
“What do you want me to do?” a familiar male voice asked.
Hmm. Company. She’d half thought Dalton had simply been on speakerphone.
Maybe this wasn’t the best time for a surprise after all. Perhaps it was best to surprise him upstairs. But just to see him again really quick, she pressed her eye up to the slit and peered inside his office.
Miquel. Five-foot-eight, dark hair, and equally dark eyes.
And Dalton. She smiled. Was she seriously going to swoon? She shook herself out of the love bubble. Okay, she was still in it, but she didn’t have to be so sappy.
Dalton sat behind his desk, arms raised behind his head, hands interlocked.
“The girls are getting too bold,” another man said over speakerphone. A man’s voice she couldn’t quite place. Perhaps Tony? The assistant manager under Miquel at Dalton’s restaurants.
“Ask Miquel,” the man continued.
Miquel nodded, taking a seat on the corner of Dalton’s desk. “Tony’s right. We nearly had an escape last night.”
Escape? She frowned. What were they talking about? She instinctively inched forward, though she had a feeling this was one of those business meetings she wasn’t supposed to be privy to. Dalton was nothing if not private. But what on earth were they referring to?
“I assume you took care of it?” Dalton said, reclining further in his chair.
“I got her back, drugged her up,” Tony said.
What? Her muscles tensed. They couldn’t be saying what it sounded like. Her stomach sloshed. Please don’t let Agent Marshall be right. There must be some misunderstanding.
Dalton rocked forward with a grunt and rested his arms on the desk, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Always so dapper in his collared dress shirts and linen pants. “You got her back?” His voice rose, his jaw setting. “You got her back. That’s it?”
“Well, yes, sir,” Tony mumbled. “And I subdued her.”
“Subdue her further,” he barked.
“Sir?” Tony’s voice warbled.
“Kill the wench.” A cold edge clung to Dalton’s voice.
Had he just said . . . ? No. No. No. Her chest caved in, the breath sucked from her lungs.
“Kill her?” Tony asked.
“Don’t make the boss repeat himself,” Miquel said, standing and crossing his arms. “You know what to do. Now do it.”
“Tony . . .” Dalton cracked his knuckles. “You see, we need to make an example of her before the other girls get any ideas. Kill her and do it creatively. Now, where are we with the latest shipment?”
Her head spinning, Bristol turned, flattening her back against the wall, hoping for stabilization.
She must be hearing things. Agent Marshall put ideas in her head, and now she was hearing them that way. Maybe it meant something else.
Something else? Get it together, girl. You aren’t stupid. Your super great boyfriend just ordered a woman killed. Bile rose up her throat as words flitted in and out of her hearing.
“What’s the street value?” Dalton asked.
“Half a million,” Miquel said.
“Cut junk into it, and we’ll sell double that.”
“Yes, sir.” Miquel’s voice quavered this time.
“Is there a problem?” The cold edge remained in Dalton’s voice. A tone she’d never heard before.
“No, sir.” Miquel cleared his throat. “It’s just . . . people can die from that.”
“And it’s our problem because . . . ?”
Miquel cleared his throat again. “Because they might come looking for us.”
“They can look all they want. I’ve got this shop locked up tight. They’ll never pin anything on me.”
“And us, sir?” Tony asked, still on the line.
“Or any of my enterprise,” he added.
She stiffened. She’d completely lost her skill of summing people up. Dalton had gotten by her defenses. Made her believe he was a good guy. Agent Marshall was right. She’d been conned by a horrific man.
“All right, this meeting is done. I want the girl dead by midnight, you understand?”
Tony and Miquel both answered in the affirmative.
Ending the call, Dalton pushed back from the desk.
Shoot. She had to move, but would her trembling legs carry her fast enough?
What would he do if he found her there? Could she play it off as just walking in all happy to see him and celebrating her early release from prison?
She could pull it off if necessary, but she feared she’d vomit all over him at this rate.
Wobbling down the hall, she rounded the kitchen just as footfalls sounded, moving toward her.
Please. Please. Please.
She darted for the side door, and, yanking it open, she leapt outside. She spun around, grabbed hold of the door, and eased it closed just as Dalton and Miquel came into view.
Moving, her foot caught in the overgrown vines, and she tripped forward, tearing her jeans on the right leg and scraping her knee. Man, it stung.
Get up. You’ve got to move.
The side door opened. “I always leave this door locked,” Dalton said.
She lunged behind a towering cactus bush and crouched down.
Please don’t let him find me. How on earth would she explain this one?
Even if she somehow could, there was no way she could play the happy girlfriend tonight.
She physically couldn’t be near him, let alone allow him to touch her.
Her stomach rocked. She fought to keep her cookies in.
“Anyone there?” Miquel called from inside the kitchen, the door still open. Dalton surveyed the yard from the porch. “I’m going to take a better look.”
Her chest constricted, cutting her airflow to wheezy intakes of shallow breath. Stop making noise. Stop breathing if it means you’ll survive this one.
Dalton descended the steps, his loafers visible through the ivy vines crawling about the garden, their tendrils encircling the rest of the plants.
Please. No. Her heart thudded in her chest so loud she feared he’d hear. She made herself as small as possible behind the thick cactus.
Another step closer.
The evening moon glinted off the SIG in his hand.
She swallowed. Agent Marshall was right. She squeezed her eyes shut as her head spun. She opened her eyes only to see moving black spots.
“Anything?” Miquel asked from the stoop.
How could Miquel run drugs and women? He oversaw Dalton’s half dozen restaurants in the state. No one was who they purported themselves to be.
“Nobody,” Dalton finally said. “I’m just chasing shadows, but I’d’ve sworn that door was locked.”
“Perhaps Carlita left it open by mistake,” Miquel offered. “It’s by the trash cans she must use.”
“Excellent point.” Dalton clapped Miquel on the back. “This is how you earn your money.” He chuckled, and Miquel with him, but the latter’s laugh was forced.
The two hovered on the porch, then went inside, and she hoped the light spilling out didn’t illuminate her hiding spot.
She watched the ground. It hit two inches away. Relief filled her, two inches had saved her.
The door finally shut behind them, and the lock clicked in place.
She gulped in air, not realizing how long she’d been holding her breath. But she still had to get off the property without being seen.
She tracked along the rear wall—the brick scraping through her thin silk blouse.
The front door opened, and the men stepped out.
Come on! She ducked down, holding still behind a riding mower the landscaper must have left out.
The porch lights kicked on, spilling across the expansive driveway.
No way to get out of the gate without being seen.
Her legs still trembling, she recalculated, and, crouching low, backtracked to the rear of the garden while they were preoccupied, deep in discussion.
Reaching the iron-gated back fence, she chucked her heels over, then checked to be sure the men hadn’t moved.
Hadn’t seen her. Placing her foot on the bottom rung, she grabbed the vertical bars and wove her way up—her arms wavering as they held all her weight.
Conversation wafted on the air. She had to move faster, or there was no explaining this. She pulled higher, heat burning her upper arms. She wasn’t going to make it. The fence was too tall.
She hopped down, assessing her options.
Miquel’s high-tire truck bumped down the drive, rap blaring. Really?
She held, waiting for Dalton’s car to follow, but nothing. She took a deep inhale.
Calm yourself. You can do this. Think. How would Mom get out of this?
She studied her surroundings. A tree stood to her left, its branches thick and wide.
Gotcha.
Moving in a low crawl, she made it to the tree and climbed up with ease.
On the rare occasions they’d lived somewhere other than a motel, she’d loved climbing trees, and today that love came in handy.
Balancing on the third branch up, she lay on her belly and inched her way forward toward the end hanging over the fence.
She dropped down with an oomph, but at least she remained standing.
Stickers pierced her feet, and she fought back a whimper. Where were her shoes? She studied the ground, fearful to look for too long in the dark, then she stepped on the spiky heel of one. Bundling them up in her arms, she darted away as fast as her still-trembling legs could carry her.
Moving through the neighbors’ yards, she made her way back to Aubry’s undercover car—a non-descript blue sedan parked along the curb in a long row of parked cars.
Reaching the sedan, she opened the passenger door, then leaned her head over the grass and tossed her cookies.
Aubry hopped out, coming to her side as she heaved.
“You okay?” He rubbed her back. “Did he harm you?”
She shook her head, remaining hunched over to make sure she was done.
Then she straightened, taking in a huge breath of the winter’s chilled air.
“What happened?”
Aubry flashed in and out of her black-spotted line of sight.
“We better get you in the car.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, guiding her by her left forearm. “Easy does it. You’re safe now.”
Really? He thought she was safe now. Was he insane?
Reaching the passenger door, he eased her into the seat, then he darted around the hood, climbing into the driver’s seat.
“I can’t believe it.” It was an illusion. Of course, it was. Her life was one big illusion. Nothing with Dalton had been real. She shook her head. How could she be with a man she didn’t know—at all? He’d played her, and she hadn’t had a clue.
“You witnessed something, I take it?” Aubry said as he pulled out.
Of course. No concern for her as a person and what she’d just gone through. But what had she expected? This was the FBI, after all.
Aubry flipped the headlights on as they made the turn away from Dalton’s house. “Let’s get you someplace safe where you can relax and feel better.”
She’d ask where, but it didn’t even matter. She just needed to be away from here—and Dalton.