Out the front door into the heat, Callie inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. Tucker wouldn't be at her apartment for another hour or two, if he showed at all, so she had some time to ditch West.

He followed you from your apartment. He may know exactly where Tucker lives.

"So, are we going to your place or mine?" he asked conversationally.

"I wish I could help you, I really do, but . . ." She spread her hands.

"Take me to the friend who gave you the bracelet."

"I don't think she's around."

"Why don't you find out," he suggested in a tone that suggested he was at the end of his patience.

"Y'know, I don't have to put up with you. I thought about it last night, and I don't owe you anything."

"It's not a coincidence you look like Teresa," he said. "Something's going on. You know more than you're saying. We can just keep lobbing this back and forth between us, or you can cut through the bulls.h.i.t and tell me the bald truth."

"There's no bulls.h.i.t."

"It's all bulls.h.i.t," he disagreed.

"I'm a victim in this," she reminded him in a low voice. "I didn't ask for you or any of your theories. I should just call the gendarmerie."

"You want the police? Call 'em." His tone suggested bring it on.

Callie had really been just delaying while she came up with a game plan, but she didn't have one and she wanted to know more about him anyway. "We'll go to my place."

"Finally."

"Don't push me, Mr. Laughlin . . . West. Don't push me."

Looking as perturbed with her as she was with him, he walked out to the curb and raised an arm to hail a cab.

Chapter Nine.

Plans are in motion, speeding toward a bang-up finale, my friends. Years of patience are going to pay off. It's finally my turn. There's money to be made, and wrongs to be avenged. Oh, sure, it's complicated. And dangerous. But that's what life's all about, right? Otherwise we just go through the motions, step by step, on our way to the graveyard. Well, that's not how it's going to be for me. I'm going to grab what I need, and if that starts with Teresa-f.u.c.king-Laughlin, all the better.

Daniella's legs quivered beneath the table where she sat, hands folded tightly on the tabletop, her expression full of fear. Andre's eyes glittered with fury, disappointment, and cold excitement, a sure sign that there would be h.e.l.l to pay later. She had to look away, couldn't meet his gaze. She'd never been good at hiding her emotions like Teresa, or Jerrilyn, or Naomi, though she was a better strategist than Clarice, who didn't seem to know jack s.h.i.t about anything. What the f.u.c.k was she doing, telling Andre that there was only one G.o.d? Of course there was, but saying something like that to The Messiah was like throwing gas on a fire. Didn't she know that?

Daniella loved being with Andre, but she didn't kid herself that he was an easy man. Some of his rules were just plain crazy, meant for his own pleasure and no one else's, but then she'd had a lot worse and at least he took care of them all.

Unfortunately, she'd really screwed the pooch this time, one of her stepmother's favorite expressions just as she was about to backhand Daniella. Last night, while she'd followed Teresa, keeping an eye on her to make sure she did what she was told, per Andre's orders, she'd let Teresa get away. She'd been parked near the bar and had settled herself behind a Dodge Hemi truck with a view to Robert Lumpkin's car. From there, she had seen Teresa weave out with the man, had watched as she'd shoved him into the front seat of a beat-up, piece of s.h.i.t Ford Focus. Then Teresa had ripped some money from Lumpkin's wallet, and had walked quickly away and around the building to the opposite street where the Xterra was parked. Daniella had made the mistake of checking on Lumpkin first, wondering what Teresa's overall plan was because she was pretty sure Teresa was supposed to dispose of him somewhere else. He wasn't dead, which she knew was probably what Andre had really wanted, and she was surprised Teresa had defied him. She had heard the Xterra fire up, just as she was opening the driver's door for a peek. Lumpkin's leg had popped out and she had hurriedly shoved it back in. He had been slumped over the seat, his body awkwardly bent over the console and into the pa.s.senger bucket seat. Teresa had definitely knocked him out, but that was as far as it had gone, apparently.

It had been Daniella's bad luck that a man and his date had walked outside the bar and caught a glimpse of Lumpkin after she had gotten his leg back inside and was just shutting the door. "He okay?" the guy had asked.

Panicked inside, Daniella had said, "Yeah, I don't know. He kinda pulled the door shut and just fell over. I knocked on the window and when he didn't respond I opened the door and he kinda flapped a hand at me."

"Maybe we should call 911," the date said. She was a small woman, shivering in the brisk night air.

"Y'think?" he asked, clearly not interested in getting that involved.

Daniella meanwhile had been worried about her fingerprints. She'd yanked open the door without thinking. She didn't have a record, but she was Lumpkin's tenant of record. s.h.i.t. What had she been thinking? And where the f.u.c.k had Teresa gone?

They had all stood there a moment, and then the man said, "If he waved at you, then he must be okay."

"Maybe he's just sleeping it off," the date suggested. "At least he's not driving."

"I think he was kinda p.i.s.sed I opened the door," Daniella said.

"G.o.d, it's cold. You think it was the Arctic, not LA." The date had shivered and the man put his arm over her shoulders.

"Okay, well . . . whatever," he said, then turned the woman with his arm and they had walked away, their momentary interest fading off.

Once out of view, Daniella wiped down the door handle, then immediately ran to the Chevy. She drove around the block to where the Xterra had been parked, but it was no surprise to find an empty s.p.a.ce at the curb. Teresa had been long gone.

In a painful quandary, Daniella had nervously squeezed her hands and cracked her knuckles, then she'd put the car in gear and headed toward the airport. While Teresa had been inside Ray's with Lumpkin, Daniella had unlocked the Xterra with one of their extra keys and rifled through the bags tossed into the backseat. Andre didn't trust Teresa, who had been a real closed-off b.i.t.c.h since the Cantrell business, which was just weird because Teresa didn't even like Jonathan Cantrell. She never liked anybody, except maybe that Laughlin guy-she'd married him, for G.o.d's sake-but even he hadn't affected her as much as Cantrell. Well, of course, the kid had died in that accident, and that hadn't been part of the plan. Still, Teresa had never shown she cared much about anything but Teresa, so Daniella had a.s.sumed she'd get over it.

Of course, Jerrilyn had changed after being Mittenberger's mistress for so many months. She had become quieter, more watchful, and almost sort of fake-friendly. Andre had noticed it, too, though he pretended not to. Daniella just hoped Jerrilyn maybe really cared about the guy. One less handmaiden to fight off. Meanwhile, Naomi was still her bossy old self and Clarice was just a blank between the ears. If Teresa was really gone, and Jerrilyn was falling for some other guy, then definitely things would be better.

As those thoughts had filled her head, her hand had encountered a small folder in the bottom of the second bag. She'd pulled it out and recognized an airline packet just as she heard Teresa's voice. Daniella stuffed the folder at the bottom of the bag and backed out of the Xterra, banging her head on the doorway in the process. Head pounding, she'd raced away, hiding behind the huge, black truck.

When Teresa, after a few moments with Lumpkin at his car, had racewalked to her car, Daniella had been torn. She was supposed to follow her, but always before Teresa had driven the victim's car away, letting him wake up miles from the scene of the crime, if he woke up at all. Teresa would then walk to a nearby bar, call a cab, and have them drop her at the original location. She never knew she was being followed, and she always acted in the same way.

But this was new with Lumpkin, so that's why Daniella had looked.

She'd arrived at LAX forty minutes later, knowing Teresa only had about ten minutes on her, tops. It was one h.e.l.luva big airport, but she'd seen Delta written on the folder and a time, just after midnight. Maybe the flight wasn't for tonight, but why else would her bags be in the SUV? She'd already broken protocol and Andre would not be forgiving.

So, she'd gone to the Delta counter and been shocked to see Teresa right there, big as life, at the ticket counter. Taking a huge risk, Daniella had circled around the other pa.s.sengers waiting in line who gave her dirty looks like she was cutting, then had walked behind Teresa just as the woman handing Teresa back her ticket was saying, "Check with the gate agent when you get to Miami. It's tight, but doable, I think."

Now Daniella was faced with a glowering Andre whose left eye was ticking. A bad sign. Maybe he was having one of his headaches, or maybe he was just that enraged.

He said, "What am I going to do with you if you can't do one job?"

"She was supposed to move him to somewhere else. I don't know why she didn't."

"She was supposed to take care of the problem."

"She didn't move him."

"She was supposed to take care of the problem," he stressed.

Daniella nodded. Maybe that's why Teresa had balked; she didn't want to kill him. Daniella, herself, hadn't been asked to commit this ultimate act of allegiance. She was pretty sure she wouldn't be able to, and maybe Andre had guessed that, or maybe her time just hadn't come yet. If it meant pushing herself to the front of the pack, maybe she could . . . maybe . . . G.o.d, she hoped so.

"We are all going to have to find Teresa now," Andre said, his eyes dark and flat as they gazed hard at her.

Behind her, she felt someone come into the room and glanced back to find Naomi, her eyes bright. She was almost as fervent as Andre sometimes.

"When you find her, what's-"

"We find her," he corrected patiently.

"Going to happen to her?"

"You know, when we do bad things, we must be punished."

"I don't do bad things," she blurted out.

"You failed The Messiah," Naomi said. Daniella's quivering turned to an out-and-out shaking. Naomi shifted behind her and said, her breath stirring the hair at Daniella's crown, "Jerrilyn is on a weekend trip with Mittenberger."

"Get her back here," Andre said. He hated being thwarted in any way.

Naomi didn't question him, just turned on her heel and went to do as she was bidden. How Jerrilyn would explain to her mark that his mistress had had a change of plans was Jerrilyn's problem. Daniella had enough of her own.

"What if I can't find where she went?" Daniella asked, cringing inside at her scared tone.

"You will find her," he said.

Daniella nodded, lowering her gaze. She could tell him right now. She should tell him right now. But she needed to at least pretend that she hadn't been lying. She would take the Chevy and drive around for a while, then she would find a way to explain how she'd learned Teresa had driven to LAX and that she was on her way to Miami and beyond.

West had accepted a gla.s.s of lemonade and they were both standing on her balcony, looking over the street below. Time was pa.s.sing and she needed to get him out of her apartment soon, but he was clearly in no hurry to leave. He would probably be happy to wait all afternoon and evening and into the next day.

"So, your grandmother married a cattle rancher and moved out west," she said, continuing the conversation that had sprung up from her search at the Internet cafe.

"Who's this friend, Aimee?" he asked.

Callie just shook her head. There was no way out of this. The bracelet was too big of a giveaway.

Her phone suddenly started ringing from inside her purse, which was sitting on a table inside. West's gaze slid to her purse and then back to her eyes. "No phone, huh," he said.

"Excuse me." She hurried inside and ripped her cell out of her purse. "h.e.l.lo," she answered, expecting it to be William and it was.

"You want information on the Laughlins . . . ?" he asked carefully.

"Thanks, I already took care of that." She saw West casually walk back inside.

"May I ask why?"

"Don't worry about it. I really can't talk now. I'll call you back later."

"I'm a.s.suming you mean the Laughlins of Laughlin Ranch."

"I believe so. Gotta go. Thanks."

She clicked off and turned to face him.

"So, you lied about the phone, too," he said.

"You know, I don't know what's going on here, either," she said. "I don't know how I got involved with your family problems, but I did, apparently. Now I just want it all to go away. I've only got a few more days in Martinique, and I would kind of like to spend them relaxing and preparing to go back home. No offense . . . West . . . but you need to leave me alone."

"Tell me about the bracelet, who gave it to you, and I don't just mean their name. I want to know who they are, and why they would give it to you. Believe me, I know it's a Laughlin heirloom, or, actually, if you want to get technical, a Brantley heirloom as Victoria was a Brantley before she married my grandfather. Call the gendarmerie if you have to, but I'm not leaving till I get those answers."

Through the door Callie heard a clatter of footsteps on the outdoor stairs. She whipped around. Oh, G.o.d, no! It's too early!

West's head turned, too, following her. Then there was the sound of a small fist pounding on her door.

"Calleee! Calleee!" came through in a m.u.f.fled cry.

Like an automaton, Callie walked to the door, twisted open the handle. Tucker flew inside and hurled himself at her, throwing his arms around her.

West stared at the boy clamped to Callie's thigh and then lifted his eyes to meet hers. She was surprisingly calm, matching his gaze with a challenge in her own blue eyes, although there was trepidation as well.

Outrage burned through him as he set his unfinished gla.s.s of lemonade on a gla.s.s-topped side table. d.a.m.n it all. This had to be Stephen's boy.

So, maybe the woman in front of him was Teresa after all. From what he'd discerned, Teresa would easily a.s.sume someone else's ident.i.ty, if it suited her purpose. The backstory about Callie Cantrell could be all true, but it didn't mean she was Callie.

The boy was looking at him, having recognized there was someone else in the room. "You must be Tucker," West said.

He looked like Stephen . . . same dark hair and blue eyes, a Laughlin brand as much as any mark seared into cattle hides.

"Tucker, this is Mr. Laughlin," she introduced.

"Allo." Then Tucker screwed his neck around to look up at her. "You are amies?"

"We just met yesterday," she said. Her voice was wooden. West could tell she'd shut down but he sensed that she was ready to claw his eyes out if he so much as spoke to Tucker in a way she deemed incorrect.

But to h.e.l.l with her. He wanted answers. "So, is she your mother?" he asked.

The boy turned to him fully and sized him up and down as Callie seemed carved in stone. "We are amies," he said scornfully, as if West were really dense.

"Friends," she said.

"Friends," the boy repeated, as if memorizing the word.

"But not your mother," West reiterated.

Tucker looked confused and "Callie" said, "He lives with his mother."

Tucker shook his head emphatically. "She not mon Maman."

She gave the boy a look and said, "Tucker, you've always called Aimee Maman."