Chapter Eight.

Callie awoke with the sensation of a mild hangover. Grimacing, she turned her face into the pillow. Memory jolted a swift heartbeat later and she sat up fast, her eyes flying open. Tucker. The Bakoua Beach Hotel. West Laughlin.

She threw back the covers and, shivering a little, hurried to the loud, clinking air conditioner sticking out of her bedroom window. Switching off the machine, she almost instantly felt sticky, subtropical heat pervade the room. The bathroom was hot and Callie turned the shower to cool and washed her hair thoroughly. She had been too tired the evening before to do more than rinse the dirt off her body and apply some antibiotic ointment to the sc.r.a.pe on her leg.

Stepping from the shower, she wrapped the towel around her head and grabbed a second to wind around her torso. She walked back into her bedroom and looked at the clock. Six thirty A.M. Early, but still a highly likely time for Tucker to be out and about. The free rein Aimee gave the boy worried her, but apart from a comment she'd made to the woman suggesting maybe Tucker shouldn't be allowed to roam so far afield, given his age, a comment that hadn't been received well, Callie had been unable to offer any other advice.

She pulled on a blue tank top and pair of khaki capris, then brushed her hair and waited for it to dry. She kept checking the clock, anxious about Tucker, and then realized belatedly that it was Friday and Tucker, who attended pre-K three days a week, should be in school. She wondered if he'd come looking for her yesterday. Undoubtedly, unless Aimee kept him at home or he was with his friend Michel on Michel's father's fishing boat.

She drew a deep breath. Okay, so, Tucker was taken care of for today. But what about West Laughlin? He knew approximately where she lived and he wouldn't be too thrilled about the way she'd run out on him yesterday. Was he waiting outside somewhere? Or maybe he was off chasing some other lead in his search for Teresa. Anyway around it, though, he surely would come back.

And what if for some reason Tucker showed? She wouldn't put it past Aimee to keep him home from school if she so chose to. She had only met the woman once, but she had not been impressed by her parenting skills. And Callie had promised Tucker pastries. Just because she didn't have them anymore didn't mean the boy had forgotten. The thought of him suddenly appearing, and possibly leading West straight to him, made her pace the room. She would leave, go down to the open market again, wander around. If Tucker showed up when she wasn't home he would leave. Surely West wouldn't interrogate any child who happened to be in her neighborhood?

She hesitated. What should she do?

What she wanted to do was have a face-to-face with Aimee. She had a lot of questions. She'd always had a lot of questions where Tucker was concerned, but now she had even more.

What if West is out there and follows you?

Callie gritted her teeth, mad at herself for being so indecisive. Before her marriage she'd made decisions for herself all the time, good, bad, or indifferent, and hadn't second-guessed her every thought, even when she was still with Bryan, and G.o.d knew he'd been no good for her. But being with Jonathan had subverted her own personality, first because she'd tried to be a perfect girlfriend and wife, then because of Sean. She'd kept up her fake life, buried her true self, because she'd known that if she challenged Jonathan, he would have used Sean as leverage against her. She'd known it then. She knew it now.

But there was no need to be so compliant any longer. She needed to protect Tucker. Even if he was Teresa Laughlin's son, she wasn't ready to turn him over to West.

Tying back her hair with a rubber band, she then crushed her ponytail into the top of a straw hat, smashing the hat onto her head and effectively obscuring the color of her hair. If West saw her up close he would know it was her, but from a distance, maybe not.

She grabbed up her cell phone from the bureau drawer and headed out. As she was locking her door behind her, she recalled the small binoculars snapped onto West's belt. Well, he might be able to tell who she was, even with her meager disguise, but she would do her d.a.m.nedest to take note of anyone watching her.

She walked back down the hill, toting her plastic carryall. In the narrow streets she saw no one who looked like West Laughlin, but maybe he was there somewhere. At the open market, she was glad her sungla.s.ses were dark enough to keep anyone from following her eye movements as she checked her peripheral vision, searching for West or any man with a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Nothing.

She bought the same pastries she'd purchased the day before, tucking them into her bag. She strolled around for an hour. By the time she thought it might be all right to embark on her quest, it was after eleven and the sun was reaching its zenith, beating down on her.

She walked away. First in the complete opposite direction as Tucker's house, then through a coffee shop with a front and back door, turning around and walking to the end of the block, then zigzagging back to Tucker's neighborhood. Her steps lagged as she drew closer, her attention heightened. She thought of the African meerkats always on alert and smiled to herself. If everything turned out okay she would buy Tucker a stuffed meerkat if there was such a thing. Probably on the Internet somewhere.

As she approached the neighborhood where his apartment was, she stopped. Now she had the problem of facing Aimee. Tucker's "mother" wasn't exactly warm and fuzzy. She'd made it clear she didn't appreciate any interference by Callie, and though Tucker seemed oblivious to the tension between them the one and only time they'd met, it was there big-time.

A mangy-looking mutt gave a halfhearted wag of his tail as she pa.s.sed by an open doorway and three solemn-eyed children came outside to stare. Callie smiled but they didn't respond. Feeling like the outsider she was, Callie turned the corner to Tucker's street.

A breeze swept up from the bay, soothing her perspiring forehead and dissipating some of the shimmering heat. Beside the steps to Tucker's apartment building stood a huge, gnarled, and broken jade tree. Callie could smell damp earth and an odor she realized later was coming from an overloaded garbage bin farther down the alley.

She stopped at the bottom step, clutching the sack of pastries with tight fingers. Though it wasn't that far from her apartment as the crow flies, there was a world of difference in the relative value of the properties. She'd been highly aware that there was an invisible line somewhere between them, and she'd sensed that Aimee recognized the difference and resented her for it.

Callie climbed the stairs, opened the outer door, and walked down the narrow hallway that led to the back apartments. Aged wallpaper was peeling away from the corners, and the overhead light gave off only the weakest illumination. Dirt had collected on the gla.s.s shade and Callie wondered when, if ever, the landlord had last cleaned the outer areas of the building.

She knocked on Tucker's door, wishing her heartbeat would a.s.sume a normal rate again. There was no reason to work herself into such a state. Tucker had lived without her for over five years, for Pete's sake, and soon she might be just a memory to him. It wasn't as if his whole life was at stake, or that she could do anything about it even if it were.

The door cracked an inch, a chain lock showing through the opening. Aimee Thomas peered out.

"Allo? Ah, Miss Cantrell," she said, recognizing Callie, making no effort to open the door farther.

"h.e.l.lo, Ms. Thomas," Callie answered. "Is Tucker at school? I bought him some pastries from the bakery and I wanted to give them to him."

She tried hard not to appear as if she were trying to peek beyond the dark-haired woman barring the doorway, but she couldn't help a glance over Aimee's head. From the limited vision provided by the cracked doorway Callie could only tell there was no one in the living room.

"Yes, he is at school." Aimee was slim, attractive, and seemed too expensive, for lack of a better term, for her surroundings. Her hair was short and severe and her eyes were large, liquid dark pools filled with suspicion. Callie had a.s.sumed she was French, though she'd thought she'd heard some words in English from behind the front door before Aimee had answered it. As soon as Aimee saw Callie, however, she'd cut her cell phone conversation short and switched entirely to French.

"Could I leave the pastries?" Callie asked. "I told him I would bring them to him."

Reluctantly Aimee took the chain off the door and stood back, allowing Callie entrance. Callie stepped inside before she could change her mind. This grudging hospitality was more than she'd expected, after talking with West and learning of even deeper mysteries surrounding Tucker than she'd already thought. Aimee hadn't been friendly the previous time they'd met, but she'd built her up to something more in her mind since yesterday.

Pulling the white bakery sack from her plastic carryall, Callie held it out to Aimee, who was still standing by the door as if regretting allowing Callie inside.

"Tucker likes you," Aimee stated flatly.

"We're friends."

Callie and Aimee stared at each other, equally uncomfortable. Maybe Aimee's cavalier att.i.tude to child rearing had to do with the fact that she wasn't Tucker's mother. Maybe she didn't really care about Tucker the same way a mother would.

The moment spun out and a tiny line formed between Aimee's brows. Callie's palms felt sweaty and her heart pounded as she wrestled with herself. She'd walked through the door intending to ask some questions of the woman, but she could feel herself chickening out. But that was what the old Callie would do. The one under Jonathan's thumb. She didn't want to be that Callie anymore, so she asked quickly, before she could change her mind, "Do you know someone named Teresa Laughlin?"

She had to hand it to the woman. Apart from a widening of her eyes and the faintest intake of breath, she managed to keep her composure. But Callie could tell she'd scored a direct hit.

Barely missing a beat, Aimee said, "Non," suddenly very French.

"Never heard the name?"

"Non."

"Huh. Maybe I made a mistake."

"I theenk you did."

"I was told I look like this Teresa Laughlin whose son's name is Tucker. It seemed kind of random, but coincidental. . . ." Her pulse was rocketing now. She'd managed the first few lines of her mental script but now her throat was tightening, her own sense of right and wrong playing havoc with her role-playing. She could feel heat climbing up her neck.

Aimee's mouth worked. She seemed to want to ask a question but couldn't find the words. Finally, she let fly a string of rapid French, finishing with, "What do you want with Tucker? You are too friendly weeth heem."

"He gave me a bracelet with lavender stones. I tried to give it back to him but he insisted I keep it."

Her head snapped around in shock. "What? That's my bracelet! He can't give it to you." Her face turned dark red. "I've been going crazy." No French accent now, Callie saw. Aimee seemed to recognize that fact because she forcefully calmed herself down. "Tucker must have taken it, but it ees mine."

"I'll make sure you get it back," Callie said, which she had no intention of doing until she knew more. West hadn't tried to wrest the bracelet away from her, but she believed it was a Laughlin heirloom and even though it had been in Aimee's possession, that didn't necessarily make it hers.

"When?" Aimee demanded.

"I'll come back later with it. After Tucker gets home?"

"He'll be back around three," she said, her expression dark. Callie sensed she was holding her anger in with difficulty and decided to beat a hasty retreat.

At the door, Aimee said in perfect English, "I don't know what you're after, but Tucker is not for sale."

"Of course not. I-"

"I will see you at three," she said in that same flat voice, closing the door behind her with a slam.

"Holy s.h.i.t," Callie whispered to herself. She started to walk away, then retraced her steps and pressed her ear to the door. She heard a string of swear words in English and then footsteps pounding her way. Quickly, she racewalked to the front door of the building and let herself outside. Her heart was pounding so hard she could practically see it.

Minutes pa.s.sed, but Aimee did not appear. Maybe she'd just been pacing inside the apartment. There was a back way out and Callie wondered if she'd left that way. Callie thought about retracing her steps and examining the area, then changed her mind.

One thing was clear: Aimee knew the name Teresa Laughlin. It followed that Teresa was Tucker's mother and the woman West was seeking. Aimee was likely a temporary caretaker. Maybe through some kind of foster care on the island? But Tucker hadn't come with the bracelet, so it was more likely she knew Teresa.

"Curiouser and curiouser."

Looking around herself, Callie saw no evidence of a man spying on her. No West Laughlin, as far as she could see. She headed back toward her apartment, taking a circuitous route just in case there were unseen eyes as she drew near. She slowed her steps and changed her mind before entering. There was something she wanted to do.

She was on the street in front of her apartment building and she started walking faster again. She hadn't looked at her building, so if anyone was watching, maybe they wouldn't notice that her steps had slowed. By anyone, she meant West, as she didn't think there was any other player in this drama, other than possibly Teresa, who might be a thousand miles away or more.

She waited for a cab and when one finally stopped for her, she asked if he knew where the nearest Internet cafe might be. He nodded and drove her down the hill and about ten blocks away from the bay.

The place didn't have a name as far as Callie could see, and it was right next to a sandwich shop, so Callie got herself an egg salad sandwich and ate half of it, tossing the rest away. Then she checked in at the desk of the Internet cafe and was a.s.signed to a cubicle with a PC in the second row. Her back was to the door and windows, and she glanced furtively behind herself as she sat down.

It would be so much simpler if William called with information on the Laughlins, she thought as she brought up Google. Maybe there was nothing to find, but there generally was something if you were dealing with a family with as much money and prestige as it sounded like the Laughlins possessed.

She hit on them right away. Victoria Laughlin was the matriarch in charge of Laughlin Ranch, Inc., a renowned cattle ranch in the San Joaquin Valley of California. Nearest large city was Bakersfield, but the town of Castilla was closest to the ranch, right off I-5. Though a working ranch, it was also the site of a Western-style restaurant, Laughlin BBQ, which served up beef and lots of it. There was also a gift shop attached to Laughlin BBQ called The Bull Stops Here where one could purchase barbecue equipment, ap.r.o.ns and the like, and red meat enthusiasts could order T-bones, rib eyes, and roasts off the Internet or become a club member for a constant supply.

Callie's eye swept over the business information quickly. Then she clicked away from it, searching for more information about the family itself. She finally found a link to the family's history and learned the tragic story of the Laughlin men. Fifty-some years earlier, Benjamin Laughlin, Victoria's deceased husband, took the cattle ranch from its modest beginnings to the ma.s.s-producing mega-beef business it was today. Their son, Craig, took over after Benjamin died from a heart attack at sixty-four, but unfortunately Craig only lived another ten years before his own death in a single-car accident. Craig's son, Stephen, was next in line, and he, too, died unexpectedly while on a hunting trip with friends. The article didn't specify but it sounded like Stephen had been accidentally shot, and that tragedy had occurred about three years earlier.

Callie logged this information as truth, since it jibed with what West had told her. Stephen Laughlin left behind a wife, Teresa, and a son, Stephen Tucker. Victoria Laughlin was the current head of the family and CEO of the company, but she was eighty-three years old and rarely seen these days. The current face of Laughlin Ranch, Inc. was Teddy Stutz, the overseer/manager of Laughlin BBQ, The Bull Stops Here, and all Laughlin concerns.

There was a picture of a red-cheeked, middle-aged man smiling widely at the camera, wearing an ap.r.o.n with a comical snorting bull sliding to a stop in front of a huge sign for Laughlin Ranch.

What struck Callie was how at odds West's description of his starchy grandmother was with the whole Laughlin Ranch publicity. Ted Stutz, whom everyone just called Cal, which the article said was because the ranch was located in California-if it had been in Texas, he would have been known as Tex-seemed the epitome of the outdoorsy cowboy type.

Callie checked some more links, looking for additional information, and came upon Victoria's background. Ben Laughlin had seen her on a trip East with college friends and apparently was smitten as he wooed her to the West Coast against her family's wishes.

"She came to regret that decision," a familiar male voice said behind her head and Callie jumped.

"You scared me," she said, turning around to meet West Laughlin's eyes. He was in khakis and a navy T-shirt that showed off his tan, muscled arms.

His gaze drifted to her chin and he said softly, "That's one h.e.l.luva bruise."

"Yeah?" Her throat felt tight but luckily her voice was normal. Wondering if Aimee had seen the bruise earlier, she said, "I had an encounter with a thug yesterday."

"Thug," he repeated. "Hmmm. Sorry about that."

"Il ne pas de quois."

"I thought you were just going to the bathroom."

He sounded too, too casual. "I was. But I changed my mind."

"You took the ferry back." It was more a statement than a question.

"Yep. You followed me?"

"Tried to," he admitted. He was sober, not the hint of a smile, and she found herself thinking he looked dangerous . . . and somehow more attractive.

"You found me here," she said.

"Okay, I followed you from your apartment." He lifted his hands in a "you got me" stance.

"You were at my apartment?" Her heart clutched. How had she not seen him?

Did he see me go to Tucker's this morning?

"I knocked, but you weren't there. Then I saw you coming down the street. I waited, but you cruised on by. Where were you coming from?"

Did he really not know? Or was he just toying with her?

"I should have told you I was leaving."

"That would have been helpful. But then you didn't want me to know where you lived."

"Well, I don't know you, Mr. Laughlin," she pointed out, closing down the computer. She'd already paid for her time so she was free to leave, except he was standing in her way as she got to her feet.

"Oh, I think we got past the Mr. Laughlin phase a while ago. I coulda filled you in on that." He gestured to the now blank screen.

There was no way she could pretend she hadn't been checking up on him, and well, she didn't see any reason she should. "Did you call William Lister?"

"No."

"No? Why? Still have phone problems?"

He ignored that. "You done here?"

"Guess so." It felt too close, standing next to him, but he was blocking her way to the exit so unless she wanted to circle all the way around, she had to wait for him to move.

Seeing her discomfiture, he took a step back and swept a hand toward the door. She had to brush against him to pa.s.s by and her upper arm touched the taut muscles of his stomach. It felt electric and she realized she was too aware of him as a male by far.

The look he sent her made her also realize that he knew what she was feeling. She didn't like it one bit.

Except she did. Sort of.