"I haven't lost him," she argued aloud.

Yes, you have. He's Teresa's or Aimee's or West's or Victoria's. He's a lot of people's, but he's not yours.

She sank onto the end of the bed and fought back the desire to race back to Aimee's. When Tucker had taken her into his bedroom, she'd wanted to grab him and fiercely hug him close. She had forced herself not to. Tucker wouldn't allow it anyway as, like a lot of children, any physical contact had to be on his terms. She could want to squeeze him with love, but he would squirm and twist and howl for her to let him go.

And she'd had one ear to the door anyway, listening to the rise and fall of Aimee and West's voices, eaten up with curiosity. But Tucker caught her attention. "Where is it?" he had asked.

He'd been babbling away about his room and his meager a.s.sortment of toys, when he'd suddenly stopped and looked at her. "What?" Callie had asked, dragging her attention back. He had pointed to her arm. "Oh, the bracelet? It's in my carryall."

"Maman want it," he had said soberly.

"Did you take it without asking?"

"It mine," he had insisted again, but he didn't sound quite as sure as he'd been before.

"Aimee said it's hers."

He had shaken his head emphatically.

"Was it your real mother's?" she had asked cautiously.

He had kept shaking his head. "It mine!!"

"Okay. Okay. Where did you get it? Aimee's room?" She'd known she was pressing him and probably shouldn't, but if he gave her any information at all . . .

"A box with the key," he had admitted, giving her a guilty look before sliding his gaze away.

"You found it in a locked box that you opened with a key?"

He'd nodded once, still not looking at her.

"Was there anything else in the box?" she had asked casually.

"Une libre avec . . . Tucker," he had admitted. "Some . . ." He had seemed to be searching for a word, then fell on it with relief: "stuff."

A book with Tucker and some stuff?

A pa.s.sport? Callie had wondered. "What stuff?"

"Moneee . . . papier . . ."

"Paper?" she had repeated in English. Then, "Papers?"

"Knock knock," he had suddenly said loudly.

Callie hadn't wanted to be put off track, but when she asked him about the papers again, he had said again, louder, "KNOCK KNOCK."

"Who's there?" she had asked dutifully.

"Lena."

"Lena who?"

"Lena on my shoulder."

"Who told you a knock-knock joke?" In English, no less. "Aimee?"

"Knock, knock."

"Tucker . . ."

"KNOCK, KNOCK."

"Who's there?"

The second time through had been exactly like the first, and Callie couldn't get any more out of Tucker. The way he had laughed at his own joke, whether he understood it or not, had made her smile and the feeling of maternal need was so strong it shook her a bit.

She had almost been glad when Tucker ran back into the other room, causing West and Aimee to back off from each other, two fighters returning to their corners.

She hadn't told West about her conversation with Tucker. She'd meant to, but then she'd been too aware of him and had become overwhelmed and now . . .

Now she was just sick with worry that it was all going to go sideways. They'd confronted Aimee and though that had seemed like a good idea, and maybe it was, it could very well mean that Callie would never be able to see Tucker again. There was no guaranteeing that West would prevail in his quest to "save" the boy. What if Teresa came and scooped him up? What if Aimee managed to sneak away with him?

What if those moments with Tucker telling a knock-knock joke were the last ones she spent with him?

"Stop it," she told herself. This kind of circular fretting was soul-destroying and only escalated her fear. In the morning West would be back after watching Aimee's apartment and maybe something would have changed for the better. If Tucker went fishing with Jean-Paul and Michel, at least things would be the same, and maybe that was okay.

The thought of waiting for answers till morning made her stomach clench.

She had a sudden memory of the last cla.s.s she'd helped teach before she quit working. It was third grade, and the bell had just rung for recess. She had to stand by the door, blocking the kids' escape, until they all sat back in their seats. "You need to all wait a moment and then line up," she'd told them, knowing they would hurtle themselves in an unruly bunch through the door if she let them.

One little boy had moaned aloud, "I can't wait! I can't."

Now she knew the same feeling.

West placed the bracelet inside his hotel safe, set the pa.s.s code, and closed the door. He went down to the bar and ordered a sandwich and fries, barely tasting one bite. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be with Callie, but she'd basically tossed him out and closed the door behind her.

He unclipped his binoculars from the waistband of his chinos, tossed them on the bed, then yanked his cell phone from his pocket. Dorcas could only help him so much, but there was someone who might get the political ball rolling, in case it came to that.

Bracing himself, he listened to the ringing of the phone, marveling how clear her voice was when she finally answered. "h.e.l.lo?" Victoria greeted him suspiciously.

"It's West. I may have a line on Tucker."

"You found Teresa?" she asked eagerly.

"Not yet. But I'm pretty sure Tucker's being taken care of by one of Teresa's friends. . . ." He'd been going to say "a.s.sociates" but he didn't want to send Victoria into orbit before he was able to direct her. Had to be careful with the terminology.

"Who is this friend?"

"Her name's Aimee Thomas. . . ." West went on to say that he'd met the boy and though he was a couple of years older from the picture Victoria had given him, it appeared he was Stephen's son.

"She just left him in Martinique with some stranger?" Victoria declared in disbelief.

"I believe Aimee may be a temporary guardian."

"Where is Teresa?"

"Still working on that."

"I want Tucker back here, safe and sound."

"That's the goal," West agreed easily. "But it may take some doing."

"She took him to a foreign country to make it hard for us to find him. I'll call Gary and we'll get something done."

"Gary is your lawyer?" West guessed.

"Yes. Gary Merritt. His firm has a local office just for the Laughlins," she offered up proudly. "You're sure this boy is Tucker? Have you talked to him?"

"I haven't asked him about his mother, if that's what you mean."

"But he's well. Being taken good care of?"

"Yes." West had to mentally cross his fingers. Tucker's freedom to do as he pleased could be dangerous to his health, but so far he looked like he was thriving. "I need to ask you a question. Stephen met Teresa in Los Angeles. Do you know where?"

Victoria sniffed. "Some nightclub."

"Do you remember the name of it?"

"Didn't you just say the boy's in Martinique?"

"But Teresa isn't," West repeated with forced patience. "I need to find her, or Tucker stays with Aimee. When I get back to LA, I want to backtrack on Teresa."

"I don't know the name," she said in disgust after a moment of thought.

"Maybe one of Stephen's friends will remember." Edmund Mikkels, he thought with a grimace. He needed to get to the bottom of that hunting trip, and not just for Victoria. Now he needed to know for himself, too.

"Maybe you can bargain with this woman, Aimee," Victoria suggested.

"I wouldn't count on it." His voice was dry.

"There are ways," she insisted.

"Unless there's been some kind of legal doc.u.ment drawn up that says otherwise, Teresa is Tucker's legal guardian, correct? That's what you said."

"Yes, of course," she snapped.

"Well, I can't just kidnap Tucker."

"He's a true Laughlin," Victoria said. "Part of our family. If Teresa's abandoned him, we have every right to make sure he's safe with us."

"I'm pretty sure you know that's not true."

"Stop telling me what you can't do, and start telling me what you can."

West had to count to three to keep his temper under control. "I can alert the authorities that I believe he's been abandoned and get that process started. It would force Aimee to prove she's legally responsible for him."

"What are you waiting for?" she demanded.

"She may have the proof," he said. "We don't know where Teresa is. We don't know what kind of deal she made with Aimee, if any." He thought about telling her about the bracelet, then immediately rejected that idea. In his mind, Victoria was on a need-to-know basis only. "If the authorities get involved, who knows what that means. He's not on U.S. soil. There could be a legal wrangle that lasts for years."

"You've given up," she accused.

"Not by a long shot. But call your lawyer. Talk to him about it. See what he says about Tucker's situation and what our options are if Teresa never shows up. I'm not giving up on my brother's son," he added firmly.

There was a long pause, and then she said stiffly, "Thank you."

It was the most real feeling he'd ever gotten from her and after he ended the call, he sat on the end of his bed and tried to remember all the reasons he didn't like his grandmother. There was a long list, but for the life of him, at this moment, he couldn't recall one.

Chapter Fourteen.

Teresa sat at the bar of the Royale Caribe, conscious of the man seated with a brunette at a table just in her peripheral vision. She'd caught his eye and he'd held it for several seconds. It was just too bad that she only had this one night. A little more time, and she might be able to get something going, but time was what she didn't have.

It was midnight on a Friday night and the bar was full of late nighters still enjoying the pool and drifting in for a drink, the women in bikini tops and sarongs draped over their hips. The men were casual as well, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops or deck shoes, Tommy Bahama shirts, everybody enjoying tropical drinks, the mood festive.

Teresa wasn't in the right frame of mind. Her thoughts kept touching on Tucker, then Andre, then the ticking of the clock. She had to leave tomorrow. She'd made that clear to Aimee, who had suddenly become obstinate and d.a.m.n near hostile, telling her she couldn't just take Tucker away.

Oh, couldn't she? Where the h.e.l.l was this coming from? Tucker was her son and Aimee knew good and well that Teresa was on her way. She'd told her about her ticket, she'd called her from LAX and on her stopover in Miami. It wasn't her fault Aimee was so bad about picking up. She'd left messages, and she'd explained about the handmaidens and Andre's current descent into madness.

"Calls himself The Messiah," Teresa had reminded Aimee. She'd told her this before but the woman could be so d.a.m.n dense sometimes. It was like she heard one word out of three.

But Aimee was focused on Tucker, not Andre. "You can't take him."

"I sure as h.e.l.l can. What's your problem?" Teresa had just held herself back from screaming at her.

"There is a man here asking about Tucker."

A cold finger had traced a line down Teresa's back. "How? What do you mean?"

"He was asking about you. He wants Tucker. If you take him away, he'll find you. He says he's a Laughlin."