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Nine Lives
Sharon Sala


Cat Dupree’s best friend has been murdered – and no one is going after the killer. It’s up to the tough bounty hunter to get justice for her friend, whatever it takes. Bondsman Wilson MacKay knows the gorgeous blonde is playing a dangerous game and he plans to protect her. Life has taught Cat that she can only rely on herself.But as she pursues the ruthless killer across the Mexican border and into the desert, Wilson is only one step behind. In the dusty heat of the badlands, a quest for revenge is about to become a terrifying stand off. And not everyone’s coming out alive…





New York Times bestselling author Saron Sala has written more than sixty-five books that regularly hit all the bestseller lists. Her emotionally charged stories are about ordinary people whose experiences are often larger than life.

She was born and raised in rural Oklahoma and still calls the state her home. Being with her family is her ultimate joy, although her life has changed drastically from when she made her first sale to the way it is now. Sharon claims it is her greatest satisfaction to create her stories, then share them with people who love to read.




Also by Sharon Sala


THE CHOSEN

MIMOSA GROVE

THE PERFECT LIE

WHITE MOUNTAIN

STORM WARNING

THE RETURN

BLOODLINES

THE SURVIVORS



SHARON SALA




NINE LIVES





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


For Bobby

You taught me how to enjoy life to the fullest.

Now I’m having to learn how to live it

without you.


One

It was December in Dallas, Texas.

Cat Dupree hated winter and all that came with it. The weather made for miserable stakeouts, although stakeouts were a part of a bounty hunter’s life. The time of year only added to the chip she carried on her shoulder and reminded her of all she’d lost.

When she was six, she and her mother had been shopping for groceries when they’d been hit by a drunk driver. It had killed her mother instantly and put Cat in the hospital for days. When she was finally dismissed, her mother’s funeral was over, and she and her father were on their own.

Over the years, she learned to adjust, and she and her father grew closer. Then, just before her thirteenth birthday, and only days before she and her father were planning to leave on vacation, a man with a tattooed face broke into their house, stabbed her father and cut her throat, leaving her unable to scream as she watched him die.

After that, the Texas Social Services system finished the raising of Catherine Dupree, during which time she’d acquired the nickname Cat.

Being a bounty hunter had been a job she’d thought about during those long years. What better way to find her father’s killer than to work in his world? At eighteen, she’d aged out of the system, then, two months later, gone to work for a bail-bondsman named Art Ball.

Art had been taken with the dark-haired, leggy teenager, and hired her to file and deliver papers to the courthouse, even though he hadn’t needed the extra help. But, he would say later, it was the smartest thing he’d ever done. By the time she turned twenty-one, she had a black belt in Karate, was licensed to carry a firearm and had gone through several kinds of schooling to learn private investigation techniques, as well as the ins and outs of bringing home bail jumpers.

Also during that time, she began accumulating mug shots of perps with tattoos on their faces in hopes of finding her father’s killer. She’d been looking for him ever since, and often thought it strange that a man with such markings was so difficult to find. Logically, one would have assumed that a man with the equivalent of a road map on his face should stand out in any crowd.

Every time she left to go after someone who’d jumped bail, Art would tell her to be careful. He would add to that by reminding her that she didn’t have nine lives left like the cats who hung out in the alley behind the bail bond office, because she’d already used up two.

The ensuing years and her cold-blooded determination had given her a hard-nosed and enviable reputation. The fact that she was tall and, in many men’s eyes, very beautiful didn’t matter to her. She’d grown up fast, with a whiskey-rough voice and a bad attitude. She had a fine set of boobs, which she didn’t consider an asset. They were, however, nicely distracting to the men she went after. Most of the time they were looking elsewhere when she threw the first punch.

Such, she was certain, was going to be the case today for bail jumper Nelson Brownlee. Following up on a tip, Cat had located Brownlee at an old apartment building in Fort Worth. Now all she had to do was take him down and bring him in.

Nelson Brownlee was a four-time loser with a penchant for armed robbery. He’d promised himself the last time he’d been released that he was going to move back to Michigan, but Nelson had never been good at keeping promises, even to himself. All the way to the Quick Stop, he’d been thinking something didn’t feel right. Still, he’d ignored his instincts, robbed the store and then gotten himself caught on his way out the door by an off-duty cop. He figured it had served him right and never dreamed he would be able to bond out. But he had. He’d taken it as a sign from God to change his ways.

However, he and God had never been on very good speaking terms, and instead of making an appearance in court on his due date, he’d jumped bail. For the past week he’d been in hiding without money, hanging out at an old girlfriend’s apartment in Fort Worth.

He’d been here six days, and was sick and tired of the scent of boiled cabbage and bratwurst. Even the free sex from the old girlfriend was losing appeal. So when the knock sounded on the door, he ignored his better judgment and went to answer it.

Cat’s fingertips were numb from the cold, but persistence had paid off. Frostbite was a minor hazard of the job compared to the satisfaction of having a healthy bank account. Her badge was in plain sight, so there would be no mistaking her purpose when she confronted her perp. She checked for the set of handcuffs she tucked under the waistband in the back of her jeans, felt to make sure her handgun was in the holster beneath her coat, then ran her fingers along the taser in her coat pocket as she started up the stairs. Brownlee’s woman had an apartment on the sixth floor, and in a building this old, an elevator did not come with the deal.

Cat’s nose wrinkled as she moved from floor to floor. The compilation of scents coming from beneath the doors was staggering. She could smell everything from a backed-up toilet to boiled cabbage—a disgusting combination. It didn’t, however, deter her from her goal, which was bringing Art’s bail jumper back.

She wasn’t even breathing hard when she reached the sixth floor. Her steps were sure as she strode down the hall, pausing only briefly before doubling her fist and pounding on the door of apartment 609. She re-checked the location of her gun and taser, then braced herself.

Nelson Brownlee opened the door.

“Well hell,” he muttered, and tried to slam it shut.

The door caught on Cat’s boot as she shoved her foot in the doorway, then swung inward as she pushed her way in.

“Now, Nelson,” Cat drawled, as she grabbed him by the collar and slammed him belly first up against the wall. “That’s no way to say hello. It’s cold outside. The least you could do was offer me a hot cup of coffee.”

“Like hell!” Nelson yelled, and bowed himself backward, then spun and took a swing at her.

She took a quick step sideways, dodging his fist. As she did, she came off one foot and kicked upward, landing a neat but lethal blow to his chin. He went down like a felled ox. She quickly handcuffed him, then grabbed him under the arms and was about to drag him out the door when she heard someone scream.

She dropped Nelson’s arms and ran out of the apartment. Smoke was filling the stairwell from above, drifting downward in thick deadly fingers.

“Oh, Lord,” she muttered, and glanced back inside the apartment. Brownlee was still out.

She couldn’t leave without him, but he weighed a good hundred pounds more than she did. This wasn’t good. She glanced down the hall again, grabbed her cell phone and quickly dialed 911. After giving the dispatcher the address of the building, she ran back to Brownlee. Already the smoke was so thick on the sixth floor that it was becoming difficult to breathe. Cat raced into the kitchen, grabbed a dish towel from the cabinet, doused it with water, then tied it around her face. The scent clinging to the towel was not enhanced by getting it wet, and sucking it up her nostrils came close to making her gag. Still, it was better to gag than burn.

Smoke was filling the apartment as Cat ran back to the living room and pulled Nelson into the hall. His head bumped hard as she dragged him over the threshold, but it couldn’t be helped. Better a headache than dying.

“Come on, Brownlee, wake up!” Cat cried, but Brownlee wasn’t talking.

Cursing beneath her breath, she got him as far as the landing, then bent over, and with what she would later consider a burst of adrenaline spurred by an overwhelming fear, pulled him up and over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry and started down the stairs, staggering slightly under the weight.

Cat hadn’t counted on the difficulty of balancing dead weight on a decline. Every time she took a step down, Brownlee’s head bumped against her back, keeping her slightly off balance. But the heat behind them and the smoke swirling around their heads was all the reminder she needed to keep moving. They’d cleared the fifth floor and were just past the fourth floor landing when Cat sensed someone on the stairs in front of her. Her instincts proved right as she stepped down onto the heel of a boot.

Staggering to keep from losing her load, she grabbed the railing with one hand and the back pocket of Brownlee’s jeans with the other.

“Move faster or get over! I’m coming through!” she yelled.

Wilson McKay was, what the waitress at his favorite diner called, “a looker.” He was four inches over six feet, with a linebacker’s build. His hair style wasn’t a style at all, but a buzz-cut that was always in the process of growing out. He wore one small gold hoop in his ear, and denim or leather with equal distinction. His nose had been broken twice, and there was a small scar beneath his right eye. Every scar, bump and line on his face was a testament to the hard knocks of his life.

He had turned forty yesterday, and a bunch of his friends had thrown a big party for him down at the bar across the street from his bail bond office. The beer had been flowing freely. They’d even sprung for a day-old cake from the deli section of one of the big grocery stores across town. Their gift to Wilson had been Wanelle, the prettiest hooker on their side of the city, which was a title Wanelle held proudly, even if her claim to fame came from a real long stretch of the truth.

Still, Wanelle had all her own teeth and clear skin, and she was almost pretty when she laughed. Wilson knew her slightly. He’d seen her around Ft. Worth from time to time, but buying a woman had never been his style. He’d felt trapped when Wanelle had been presented to him, especially since his buddies had tied a big red bow around her neck. Turning her down would have been a serious social faux pas to his friends and to Wanelle. So, rather than hurt everyone’s feelings, Wilson had graciously accepted, and they’d spent the night in her fifth floor apartment, only to be awakened by the scent of smoke.

Wilson was just coming out of the bathroom when he saw tiny gray fingers of smoke coming from under the front door and curling upward.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, and ran to the door. He put a hand on the wood to check for heat, and when it still felt cool, took a chance and opened it.

Smoke was pouring down the stairwell from above. The moment he saw it, he slammed the door shut and spun away, grabbing his shirt from the back of a chair as he ran toward the bedroom.

“Wanelle! Wanelle! Wake up, honey. The building is on fire! We’ve got to get out of here.”

Wanelle rolled over. Her hair was smashed to her head on one side, and her makeup was smeared beneath her eyes. She looked a bit like raccoon road kill.

“Wha’sa matter? What did you say?”

He grabbed the clothes she’d taken off last night and threw them on the bed.

“Get dressed. Fast! The building is on fire.”

“Oh Jesus! Oh Lord!” she screamed, and began to cry.

“Save the prayers for later,” Wilson said, as he pulled her out of bed. “Here. Put these on.”

She looked at the panties and bra as if she’d never seen them before.

“Uh… I need to pee before—”

“Make it fast,” Wilson said.

Wanelle ran for the bathroom. He gave her less than thirty seconds before he was knocking on the door.

“Come on. You’ve got to come now.”

Wanelle opened the door, wild-eyed and muttering beneath her breath. Wilson began dressing her as if she were a child, then handed her the boots she’d been wearing and grabbed her coat.

“Now, honey! We’ve got to go now!” he said, as she thrust her arms into her coat.

She was right behind him when he opened the door. The smoke that had been in the hall began filling her apartment. As soon as she saw it, she started to scream. If Wilson hadn’t grabbed her arm, she would have bolted back into the apartment and closed the door.

“No you don’t,” he said.

She fought back, stronger than he would have believed her capable of being. The smoke was getting thicker, which meant their time-line to safety was getting shorter.

“Sorry, honey, but you leave me no choice.”

Without hesitation, he doubled up his fist and popped her on the chin. She went out like a light. He caught her before she fell and threw her over his shoulder, then ran out into the hall. Seconds later, he was descending the stairs with the dead weight of her body swinging behind his back, the smoke continuing to thicken, seriously dimming his view.

Wilson pulled the collar of his turtle-neck sweater up over his nose like a mask, while every now and then, Wanelle would moan. Wilson knew she was inhaling too much smoke, but there was nothing he could do.

They were just past the fourth floor landing when someone stepped on the heel of his boot. Before he could react, he heard a woman yelling at him. From the panic in her voice, he had no doubt that she meant what she said. He turned abruptly, saw little more than her shadow through the smoke, then hefted Wanelle to a more secure position.

“Right in front of you and going down!” he yelled, and started taking the stairs two at a time.

Even though the muscles in Cat’s neck and shoulders were trembling from Nelson Brownlee’s weight, she never gave in or slowed. A few steps more and she began hearing footsteps coming down the stairs behind her. Fearing someone would run into her and send both her and Brownlee tumbling, she yelled out a warning.

“Traffic on the stairs! Traffic on the stairs!”

The footsteps faltered, then kept on coming, but with less speed. They all passed the third floor landing, then the second, and when they finally hit the first floor and ran out into the street, firemen were running past them into the building.

Wanelle was beginning to come to as Wilson handed her off to some EMTs. He mentioned smoke inhalation and that he’d knocked her out when she’d started to panic.

The medics nodded their understanding as they transferred her to a stretcher and carried her toward a waiting ambulance.

Wilson’s legs were shaking as he watched them take Wanelle away, knowing she would be all right. Then curiosity made him look for the woman who’d been behind him on the stairs.

At first he thought she was already lost in the gathering crowd, and then he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired woman carrying a man over her shoulder. He’d had no idea she’d been carrying someone. Added to that was the fact that she had not handed the man she was carrying over to the medics scattered around. For whatever reason, she was headed toward an SUV parked on the opposite side of the street. What surprised him most was that the man she was carrying appeared to be twice her weight.

“Damn, a real superwoman,” he muttered, then decided to follow her.

He started across the street at a jog, dodging hoses and firemen, coughing a couple of times as fresh air slowly cycled through his smoke-filled lungs. She had already reached her vehicle and was in the process of stuffing the man in the back seat when he arrived.

“Hey, lady, do you—?”

Cat’s hand flew beneath her coat, shoving it back as she reached for her handgun.

“Back off,” she said.

Wilson stopped, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of her weapon, as well as some kind of badge fastened to her belt. He held up his hands in a gesture of submission.

“Easy…”

“I’m never easy,” she snapped.

Wilson stifled a smile. He would have bet money on that.

It was all he could do not to stare, but she was truly a sight. There were sooty streaks on her cheeks, her eyes were red-rimmed; and from the number of times she was blinking, they were probably burning. But her legs were long, her hips almost boy-slim, and she looked ready to fight. Black hair hung way below her shoulders, and there was a small drop of blood on the curve of her lower lip. If it wasn’t for the muscles she quite obviously had, and the impressive size of her breasts, he would have called her skinny.

“Was it you who called out to me on the stairs?” he asked.

“I yelled at somebody,” she said. “Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

He grinned. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said, then reached out and wiped away the blood drop with the pad of his thumb.

Cat swatted at his hand. “I’m fine,” she snapped, then swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, as if to wipe away his touch.

Wilson stifled a second smile. Pure hellcat. He eyed the handcuffs on Brownlee’s wrists, then pointed.

“What happened…lost the key in the middle of your game?”

Cat’s eyes narrowed angrily. He was accusing her of sex games with the piece of shit in the back seat of her car. She kept telling herself to ignore him all the while she was opening her mouth.

“He’s a bail jumper,” she said. “I’m taking him in. You want to make something of it?”

Wilson eyed her closer. The only female skip tracer he knew of in Texas was Cat Dupree, but he’d never met her.

“Okay, okay, lady. Don’t get all hot and bothered. It looks like we’re in the same business.” He pulled out a badge and ID.

“My name is Wilson McKay.”

“Of McKay’s Bail Bonds,” Cat said, well aware of her boss’s competition. “Good for you,” she said, then heard noise in the back seat of her car and realized Brownlee was beginning to come to.

Nelson opened his eyes, felt the cold steel around his wrists and kicked. The car door hit Cat on the backside before she could turn and sent her flying forward, right into Wilson McKay’s arms.

It was an automatic reaction that made Wilson grab her to keep her from falling, but he turned her loose on purpose when she came up swinging and lit into the man in the back seat of her car.

“You sorry bastard! I should have let you fry,” she growled, then tasered Brownlee as he was trying to get out.

He screamed with pain as he fell backward in the back seat.

“No more! No more!” he begged.

Cat was still glaring as she yanked him upright and shoved his legs inside the car. She fastened his seat belt and then slammed the door shut so hard that it rattled the glass. Before she got inside the SUV, she pulled a baton from beneath her seat and whacked it on the top of the seat about six inches from where Nelson was sitting.

“Do you see this, Brownlee?”

“Yes, oh God, yes, I see it, I see it. Just don’t hit me no more.”

“Then stay where you’re put,” she snapped. “I’m not the one who robbed a Quick Stop, and I’m not the one who jumped bail, so being mad at me isn’t going to solve your damn problem. You screwed up and walked out on a man who did you a favor. He bonded you out, and this is how you repay him?”

Brownlee shuddered as he rode the wave of electric shock continuing to ripple through his body.

“I know. I know. I didn’t mean to hurt you none. I just woke up disoriented and all. I’d never—”

“Shut up, Nelson. You’re lying, and we both know it. You already tried to cold-cock me. Now sit back and relax. We’re going for a ride.”

Cat got into her car, locked the door and buckled up without giving Wilson McKay a second look.

But Wilson was looking. He knew his suspicions had been right. He’d just met the infamous Cat Dupree. This was the first time he’d seen her up close and personal, and he was surprised by how truly beautiful she was. He was, however, more than a little bit put out that she hadn’t even given him a second look.

It took him a few moments to realize that the fine spray of water from the fire hoses was drifting down on him, and that it was freezing to the outer surface of his leather coat.

“Well, damn,” he muttered, and started to walk away when he saw something glittering in a growing puddle.

He bent down and picked it up, then realized it was a small silver charm in the shape of a cat. He glanced back up at Cat Dupree’s disappearing vehicle and grinned as he dropped the charm in his pocket. Now he had an excuse to see her again.

He shivered, watching the firemen as they continued to spray water into the building and thinking how close they’d all come to dying. Finally he stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed down the street to where he’d parked his car the night before. As much as he wanted to go home, take a hot shower and crawl into bed, good manners meant he should go to the hospital and make sure Wanelle was okay.

Cat’s lungs were still burning when she turned Brownlee over to the authorities.

The ride from Fort Worth to Dallas had given him plenty of time to consider what had just happened. Granted, Cat Dupree had tracked him down to take him in. That had been inevitable. But she’d also saved his life. How was he supposed to stay pissed when she’d gone and done something like that? He went back to lockup without comment, unwilling to look Cat in the face.

Cat couldn’t have cared less what life-changing behaviors Brownlee might be considering. He’d been nothing but a job to her, and now it was over. She just wanted a bath and about twelve straight hours of sleep.

The traffic from police headquarters to her apartment was worse than usual, thanks to the freezing rain that had started to fall. By the time she unlocked the door, her hands were shaking and her stomach was doing somersaults, reminding her that she had yet to eat a decent meal today.

She tossed her car keys in a bowl on the hall table and started to hang her coat up in the closet, then wrinkled her nose when she realized it smelled of smoke. She tossed it on the floor near the door as a reminder to take it to the cleaners when she next went out, then began undressing on her way to the bath. She stopped in the kitchen to get a bottle of water and noticed that the message light was blinking on her answering machine. She took a big drink of water and put off the task of checking the messages in favor of a hot shower.

She was standing in front of the mirror over the sink when she realized something was missing. The tiny links on the silver chain around her neck were familiar enough, but the small cat charm that had been on it was gone.

“Oh no,” Cat said, and then quickly traced the length of the chain, praying that the charm had somehow shifted to the back of her neck. It was the only thing she had left from her life before Social Services, and now it was gone. She thought back over the past few hours. The stakeout, the fire, the altercation with Nelson Brownlee. Even if she could retrace her steps, a good portion of them had gone up in smoke. She had to accept that the charm was gone.

A hard, burning knot filled the back of her throat as she swiftly turned away from the mirror. The pain was so sharp she couldn’t bring herself to look at the wound it surely left on her face.

She turned on the shower and then stepped beneath the spray, not waiting for the water to heat. The cold water was like a slap in the face. Shivering slightly, she reached down for the soap and lathered her washcloth.

Soap burned her eyes as she began to scrub at her face, then washed herself all over. When the soot and smoke were gone from her skin, she shampooed and rinsed her hair until it felt clean, as well. Then she turned her face up to the water and closed her eyes.

Most of the time, her world sucked. Today was no exception.


Two

It was almost dark by the time Wilson left the hospital, satisfied that Wanelle was going to be all right. The fire at the apartment building had left Wanelle homeless, but her cousin, Shirley, had come to collect her. Shirley had a good heart and an extra bed, which left her better off than most. Wilson had given Wanelle a couple of hundred dollars to go toward replacing her lost clothing, which was all the cash he had on him.

“You’re a doll,” she said, as she pocketed the cash. “Any time you want a freebie, just give me a call.”

Wilson stifled a grin as he gave her a hug.

“You are, without doubt, the most memorable birthday present I’ve ever had.” He brushed a finger along the side of her jaw, where a noticeable bruise was forming. “Sorry about having to whack you like that.”

“No biggie,” she said. “It was my fault for freaking out.”

“You had a reason to freak,” he said. “So…take care of yourself, okay?”

She smirked and rolled her eyes at Shirley.

“He’s the best, I tell you. The best.”

“See you around,” Wilson said, and watched as they drove away.

Then he got into his car. For a few moments he just sat, thinking back over the events of the day. He’d been watching the evening news in the lobby of the E. R. while waiting for Wanelle to be released and had seen footage on television. It was daunting to learn that seven people had died in the fire they had escaped. Were it not for the grace of God, they could have been included in that statistic. Even now, as a cough bubbled up from deep in his chest, he was reminded of how close they’d come and wondered how Cat Dupree had fared.

Lights from a passing ambulance swept across his line of vision and broke his musing. His belly growled from hunger as a cold gust of wind rocked the truck. He shivered slightly and quickly started the engine. As soon the motor warmed up, he put the truck in gear and drove to work.

He put in several hours at his office, then sent his receptionist home when the weather began to worsen. He set the phones in the office so that they would ring at his apartment, then locked up and went home.

Due to the freezing rain, traffic was heavier than normal. There appeared to be some kind of pile-up on the freeway he normally drove, so he took the closest exit and wound through a small business district before driving into a residential area.

He couldn’t help but notice the colorful Christmas lights decorating the outsides of the homes. He tried to imagine what it would be like to drive up one of the driveways and be met at the front door by a loving family. There would be kids—maybe three, two boys and a girl—and a wife who, after fifteen years of marriage, still rocked his world.

In the middle of the fantasy, a car sped out of a side street and cut in front of him without caution. If it hadn’t been for Wilson’s quick reflexes, he would have broadsided the other vehicle.

“Dumb ass,” Wilson muttered, as he watched the man drive away. He had everything Wilson wanted and didn’t have the good sense to take care of it by even looking where he was going.

A muscle ticked at the edge of Wilson’s mouth as he shifted mental gears. Obviously he didn’t want that kind of life bad enough, either, or he would have done something in the last ten years toward making it happen. His parents would be ecstatic if he ever committed himself to a woman. Of all their children, he was the only hold-out. His brothers and sisters had married years ago, making him an uncle many times over.

A short while later, he drove into the parking lot of his apartment complex. His steps were dragging as he entered the building. When he got inside his apartment, he dropped his smokey clothes in the floor of the utility room, turned up the thermostat and headed for the shower. As soon as he was clean, he dressed in an old pair of sweat pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then moved to the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten all day, except for a Coke and a package of cheese crackers he’d gotten from vending machines in the hospital, and he was hungry for real food.

The contents of his refrigerator were slim, but there was enough to make a decent-sized cheese omelet—one of his favorite quick meals. He finished it off in front of the TV, watching an old Chuck Norris movie and washing it down with the last of the Coke.

Remembering the pile of dirty clothes he’d left in the utility room, he went to put them in the washer. As he was going through the pockets, he found the cat charm again. Fingering it lightly, he set it on a shelf, poured in the soap and started the machine.

The phone rang as he was going to the bedroom. He could tell by the ring that it was a call being forwarded from the office. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been called back to some jail to bond someone out, and he frowned as he answered.

“McKay Bail Bonds.”

“Um…hey, Wilson, old buddy. It’s me, Shooter.”

Wilson’s frown deepened. “Well, old buddy, you better not be in jail again,’ cause if you are, then you’ve just wasted your free call.”

Shooter Green shifted to whining.

“Aw…now, Wilson…it ain’t like you think. They’ve got me on a bad rap and—”

“I’m serious,” Wilson said. “You and I aren’t doing any more business. The last two times I bonded you out, you let me down. The first, you were a no-show. If your public defender hadn’t sweet-talked the judge on your behalf and gotten you a second appearance date, you would have cost me my money. Then, the second time I bond you out of jail, I have to go after your ass…remember?”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts, Shooter. Sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

Shooter was still begging as Wilson hung up the phone.

Cat slept fitfully through the night, reliving the trip down the stairs with Brownlee over her shoulder so many times that her legs were actually aching when she woke up. She rolled over on her side and opened one eye just enough to see that it was after ten in the morning. With a sigh, she sat up in bed and ran her fingers through her hair. The urge to lie back down and sleep away the day was strong, but there were a couple of things she’d been planning to do, and one of them was taking her best friend, Marsha, out to lunch.

There weren’t many people that Cat Dupree called friend, but Marsha Benton was one of them. She and Marsha had been fostered to the same family just before their seventeenth birthdays and had become fast friends. Their bond had lasted, even after they’d been processed out of the system.

Cat and Marsha often laughed at how different their lives had become once they’d been on their own. For the past eight years, Marsha had been a private secretary for Mark Presley, CEO of a company with worldwide distribution rights for farm implements, while Cat chased down bad guys with a taser and a gun.

Marsha was a little over five feet tall.

Cat was almost six feet in height.

Marsha was a curvy redhead who loved to eat.

Cat often forgot to eat, which accounted for her lanky build.

But they spoke the same language, laughed at the same jokes, and were the only family each other had.

Cat stretched languidly and then reached for the phone, punching in the number for Marsha’s office from memory. She was already smiling to herself as she waited for Marsha to answer.

“Presley Implements.”

“Hey, Mimi, it’s me, Cat. Are we still on for lunch today?”

There was a moment of silence, something Cat hadn’t expected.

“Hey, girlfriend…are you there?”

Cat heard what sounded like a stifled sob; then Marsha answered.

“Yes, I’m here, and lunch sounds great. Where do you want me to meet you?”

“Um…how about Billy Bob’s?”

“Good,” Marsha said. “One o’clock?”

“Yeah,” Cat said, and then added, “Are you okay?”

“Absolutely,” Marsha said. “See you later. I’ve got to go.”

“Okay,” Cat said, and disconnected, but she was still frowning as she got out of bed.

She knew Marsha well enough to know that something was wrong. She’d heard it in her friend’s voice. Then she shrugged off her concern, knowing that once they got together, Marsha would talk. She never could keep secrets.

Cat got some clean underwear and headed for the bathroom. Even though she’d washed her hair last night before going to bed, she imagined it still smelled of smoke.

A short while later she was blow drying her hair and trying not to think about the missing cat charm. The loss was something she wasn’t going to get over any time soon, but dwelling on it wasn’t going to bring it back. Sick at heart, she hoped seeing Marsha would help. Maybe a reminder of what they’d overcome in their young lives would put the loss of a simple charm into perspective.

As she was going through her closet for something to wear, she abandoned what would have been a normal choice. Marsha would be dressed to the nines, so the least Cat could do was leave her gun at home and wear something besides leather. A cold blast of wind rattled the bedroom windows, which reminded her that whatever she chose, it needed to be warm.

A short while later she was dressed, unaware of how her choices had softened her appearance. Instead of denim and leather, she wore a soft white cable-knit sweater and a pair of brown wool slacks. Her brown alligator shoes looked great, although they were a pair she’d owned for several years. Today she chose them for comfort, rather than style. She pulled her hair away from the sides of her face and fastened it at the nape of her neck with a tortoise shell clip.

She glanced down at her fingernails and frowned. The nails were short and unpolished, with one broken to the quick thanks to Nelson Brownlee, but they were clean. In her line of work, polished fingernails were the last thing she was concerned with.

After swiping her lips with a pale, glossy lipstick, she flipped off the light as she exited the dressing area, grabbed her coat and headed out the door.

Considering the number of holiday shoppers out on the streets, the drive to Billy Bob’s went smoothly. When Cat pulled into the parking lot, she quickly spotted Marsha’s silver Lexus with her personalized license plate, ALLMINE. It never failed to make Cat smile.

As she got out, she caught a whiff of the faint scent of burning hickory, a tempting hint of meat grilling inside. She was already pulling off her coat as she entered the restaurant and threw it over her arm as she scanned the room for her friend. When she saw Marsha stand up and wave, she began weaving her way between the tables.

“Hey, you,” Cat said.

Marsha kissed Cat and gave her a brief hug as Cat draped her coat over an empty chair.

The tension in Marsha’s body was unusual. Warning bells went off as Cat returned Marsha’s embrace.

“Sit, sit,” Marsha said, and waved toward a free chair. “I’ve already ordered some chips and queso. They’ll be here shortly, and that margarita is yours.”

“Yum,” Cat said as she sat, then took a quick sip of her drink.

Marsha’s smile was genuine. Impulsively, she reached out for Cat’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

“You look great, as always. So what’s new with you?”

Wilson McKay’s face immediately came to mind, but Cat ignored it. They hadn’t even had what would amount to a real conversation, so there was nothing to report.

“Nothing,” Cat said, then leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Spit it out, Mimi, and don’t lie. I’ll know if you do.”

Marsha blinked, then looked away as tears immediately pooled. The sound of her old nickname from her best friend’s lips was a painful reminder of a happier time.

“You are too smart for your own good,” she mumbled.

Cat felt sad. Seeing Marsha in such distress broke her heart.

“And you’re too gentle-hearted for yours. Who hurt you? Tell me and I’ll make him sorry.”

Marsha tried to smile through the tears. “Why would you assume it’s a man?”

Cat rolled her eyes. “Because they’re always trouble. Am I right?”

Marsha sighed, then nodded.

“Who is he?” Cat asked.

“It doesn’t matter. Besides, you can’t keep fighting my battles.”

Cat frowned. “I can and I will. Come on, Mimi… I don’t like to see you this way.”

Marsha shrugged. “It’s my own fault. I knew better, but I did it anyway.”

Cat knew there was more. Suddenly it dawned.

“He’s married, isn’t he?”

Marsha hesitated, then dropped her head without answering.

It was answer enough for Cat, although Marsha stayed silent.

Cat stared at her for a few moments, waiting for details. When they weren’t forthcoming, she began to think back over the past few weeks to the times when Marsha couldn’t meet her for dinner because she had to work late. As she did, suspicion grew.

“Is it your boss?”

Marsha didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. Cat could see the truth in her eyes.

“It is, isn’t it? It’s that damned snake Mark Presley.”

Marsha covered her face with her hands.

Cat stifled another curse and lowered her voice even more.

“Mimi… I’m sorry. Talk to me, honey.”

Marsha dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, trying not to smear her makeup as she considered what to say, even though she knew she could never keep secrets from Cat.

“Oh, Cat, just let it—”

“No. I’m not letting it go. Talk. Now.”

Marsha leaned back, took a sip of her iced tea, then shoved it aside. “He fed me a big line that I fell for. There’s nothing else I can say.”

“Did the line have anything to do with, ‘I’m getting a divorce and I love you madly’?”

Marsha’s expression crumpled.

“Pretty much.”

Cat slumped. She couldn’t believe Marsha had fallen for that. Then it occurred to her that there was a reason why Marsha would even give that line consideration.

“Oh, Mimi…you were already in love with him, weren’t you?”

Marsha’s chin trembled. “Yes.”

“The pig. So he got in your pants. How’s he treating you now?”

“Like I’ve stolen the company secrets and he’s looking for a reason to fire me.”

Cat’s eyes narrowed angrily. “He can’t do that.”

“Well, yes, he can,” Marsha countered. “He owns the company, so he can do whatever he pleases.”

Cat’s instincts to protect were on point.

“Let me talk to him,” she said. “I’ll make sure he sees the light.”

Marsha’s eyes widened in panic. “No. No. No way are you getting in the middle of this. He didn’t hold a knife to my throat. I slept with him, and it’s too late to change what—”

Suddenly Marsha stopped talking, and the look on her face was no longer just sad. She looked scared.

Cat’s frown deepened. “There’s more to this mess than you’ve told me, isn’t there?”

Marsha nodded nervously, as she chewed on her bottom lip.

Cat grabbed Marsha’s wrist, her fingers curling into the flesh.

“Mimi…it’s me. We don’t lie to each other. Ever. Remember?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Cat reeled backwards as if she’d been slapped.

“Oh man. Does he know?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. He’s pissed, right?”

“He wants me to get rid of it.”

“What did you tell him?” Cat asked.

Marsha rolled her eyes. “What do you think? You know how we grew up. I told him no.”

“And that made him mad?”

Marsha tried to smile, but it didn’t quite work.

“That’s an understatement. He thinks I’m trying to work some kind of scam. I tried to assure him that I didn’t want anything from him except my job, which I already had, but he doesn’t believe me. And…he’s been making threats.”

Now Cat was really on alert. “What kind of threats?”

“The kind that leave you six feet under,” Marsha said, then pressed her fingers against her lips, as if she couldn’t believe those words had come out of her mouth.

“That does it,” Cat said, and would have gotten up, but Marsha stopped her.

“You can’t get involved in this,” Marsha said. “You don’t know what he’s like. Please. As a favor to me. Stay out of it.”

Cat’s face was flushed with anger as she tried to make Marsha see sense.

“But, Mimi, you—”

Marsha’s expression darkened. Even though there were still tears in her eyes, her chin jutted stubbornly.

“I’m telling you…stay out of it!”

Cat straightened, staring at her friend in disbelief.

Marsha persisted, unwilling to quit until Cat had given her promise.

“I’m waiting,” Marsha said.

Finally Cat could do nothing but agree.

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “But I’m telling you, if he so much as puts a bruise on your body, he’s mine.”

Marsha hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Deal.”

“Deal,” Cat echoed, then grabbed her margarita and downed it like medicine. “Crap,” she muttered, as she sat the empty glass back on the table.

Marsha laughed through her pain, and for a moment Cat laughed with her.

But later, as their food came and they ate, talking about everything except the problem at hand, Cat felt a sense of impending doom. She didn’t know what was going to happen, but none of it could be good.

The next morning dawned cold, gray and wet, adding a wind chill factor to the miserable day. Cat hadn’t slept well, and what sleep she’d had, had been filled with nightmares about Marsha. She winced as her bare feet hit the cold floor, and stepped into slippers as she went about her morning routine. As she moved through the hall, she turned up the thermostat. She strode into the kitchen and turned on the coffee maker, waiting impatiently for the first cup of coffee to brew.

She downed the caffeine, hoping it would settle her rumbling stomach, and checked her machine for messages. There were none. In a way, she was glad. Her bank account was healthy enough to get her through a dry spell. Christmas was only a couple of weeks away, and she had yet to go shopping for gifts. That was what she needed to do, and it wouldn’t take long. A good bottle of whiskey for Art and a gift for Mimi. After that, she might drop by the gym. It had been more than a week since she’d had time to work out, and after the conversation she’d had with Mimi about Mark Presley, she felt the need to set something on fire. It might as well be her muscles.

Wilson was on his way to the gym when he began to hear sirens. He pulled over to the side of the street just in time to let a trio of police cars go racing past. The thought that someone was in trouble crossed his mind, followed by selfish gratitude that it wasn’t him.

As traffic resumed, he drove to the next stoplight, then turned right. He had a membership at Body Builders, Inc., but his visits were sporadic. Most of the time he was either on a job or home trying to catch up on lost sleep. When he’d awakened to the cold, overcast day, a hard workout had seemed like a good way to pass some time.

Then, less than four blocks away from his destination, he ran into a roadblock and recognized the three police cars that had passed him earlier. Besides those, there were close to a dozen more. Spying a cop he knew, he rolled down the window.

“Hey, Daughtry, what’s up?”

The officer turned, recognized him and moved closer. “Bank robbery with hostages involved,” he said.

“Which bank?” Wilson asked.

“First Federal Credit Union,” Daughtry said.

Wilson frowned. That was right across from his gym, which meant his workout wasn’t happening—at least not there.

“Good luck, buddy, and watch your back,” Wilson said, and waved goodbye as he turned right at the blocked off intersection. There were a couple of other gyms in the area that didn’t require memberships to work out. He would try one of them.

A short while later he was at Bab’s Abs, stripped down to his gym clothes and on a stationary bike, working up a good sweat, when Cat Dupree walked in. She was wearing a pair of bright red sweat pants and some well-worn tennis shoes. When she shed her coat and began twisting her hair up into a ponytail, her breasts tightened the fabric of her old gray T-shirt.

Wilson was a man who believed that lives were dictated by fate, and he was giving his good luck a mental thank-you when she strode past him without looking.

He started to speak, but the jut of her chin seemed more like a warning than a welcome, so he remained silent as she walked by. She moved to a Stair Master and began to warm up before stepping on board. Within seconds, she was in motion.

It took Wilson a few seconds to realize he was staring, so he shook off his moment of lust and resumed his workout. He pedaled for another fifteen minutes without looking up, telling himself that if it was meant to be, she would see him and speak. If it wasn’t, then he would keep to himself. He didn’t understand what he was doing, playing mental games with himself about her, but there was a part of him that believed no matter what he asked, she would say no. And, being a man who didn’t like to be thwarted in any way, he was thinking that the best way not to be turned down was not to ask in the first place.

When he finished his bike time and looked up, he saw that she’d moved on to free weights and was impressed by the amount she was lifting. This time he watched with guilt, admiring her form and strength.

About the time he’d decided to call it a morning, he realized she was in trouble. She was lifting without a spotter and had pushed herself about two lifts too far. On her last lift, she’d barely gotten the bar up and locked her elbows, but it was obvious that she didn’t have enough strength to lower the weights safely to the rests. He knew that when she let go, she was going to drop the bar right across her chest.

Six long strides from one side of the gym to the other and he had the bar in hand and was easing it onto the rests. Once it was safely in place, he looked down. She was still flat on her back on the weight bench, looking up at him.

Cat knew she’d pushed herself too far, too fast, but she’d taken her worry and anger at Mark Presley out on the weights. By the time she realized she was in trouble, she was too focused on not killing herself to shout for help. Then, when the weights were miraculously taken from her hands, she groaned with relief. When she looked up to see who’d come to her aid, she was looking at him upside down. It wasn’t until she sat up and turned around that she realized who’d come to her rescue.

“You,” Cat muttered.

Wilson’s face was expressionless. “You’re welcome,” he said briefly, and then turned his back on her and walked away.

For whatever reason, Wilson had to face the fact that he did not ring her bells. It was something of a disappointment to accept that, since she was the first woman since he’d turned sixteen who was obviously not interested in him.

The moment he walked away, Cat realized how rude she’d been. She dismounted the weight bench and hurried after him, catching him midway across the floor.

“Hey! Wait! I didn’t mean to take my mood out on you. Thank you for saving my butt back there.”

Wilson felt a surge of pleasure. So she wasn’t as cold and standoffish as she appeared.

“Yeah…sure, and you’re welcome.”

Cat eyed his cropped haircut as well as the tiny gold hoop in his ear and told herself he wasn’t all that. But she was lying.

“Thanks again.”

“Next time, take it easy on the weights.”

“Definitely.”

Then Wilson remembered the charm.

“Say…you didn’t happen to lose something the day of the fire, did you?”

Cat’s heart skipped a beat.

“Yes, actually I did.”

“Like what?” Wilson asked.

“A charm. It was a small silver cat. The only thing I had left of my childhood before…” She hesitated, then shrugged. “It was sentimental. Please tell me you found it.”

“I found it.”

Cat’s eyes rounded in disbelief.

“Oh my God…you’re serious, aren’t you?”

Wilson was surprised by her sudden burst of emotion. It was, after all, just a charm. A small grin tilted the left corner of his mouth.

“Yes, ma’am, serious as a heart attack.”

Cat threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him hard and fast.

Before he could react, she’d pulled away and high-fived him so vigorously that the palm of his hand actually burned.

“I can’t believe it,” Cat kept saying. “I was so certain it was gone forever. Thank you! You don’t know what it means to me.”

“I’m beginning to get an idea,” He said, rubbing his burning hand on the backside of his gym shorts.

She glanced at her watch, then back at him.

“Where do you live? I’ll come get it. Or, if you’d rather, you can drop it off at my place. Here… I’ll give you my address.”

She tore a piece of paper from a little notebook in her gym bag and quickly wrote out her address.

“That’s my phone number, too,” she said.

Wilson stifled a grin. It wouldn’t do to let her know that he was as excited about the number and address as she was about the charm. He was still holding her address when Cat’s cell phone rang.

She reached into her gym bag, saw the caller ID, recognized Marsha’s number and frowned.

“Look. I’m sorry, but I need to take this. Call me. We’ll set up a time to meet later.”

“Absolutely,” Wilson said, but Cat was already walking away.

“That was weird,” he muttered. She’d been ecstatic to know he had the charm, then had turned all businesslike and cold.

Still, he had her number and he had the charm. It was only a matter of time before they got together. He packed up his things and left the gym, much happier than when he’d gone in.

Cat, on the other hand, had just had her joy reduced to a large knot in the middle of her belly.

“Mimi, what’s wrong?”

Marsha was sobbing. It was all Cat could do to make out what she was trying to say.

“He fired you? Is that what you said? The sorry bastard actually fired you?”

“Yes,” Marsha said, and then drew a deep, shaky breath. “I was escorted from the building as if I’d try to steal company secrets.”

“Are you okay to drive home? Do you want me to—”

“I’m fine,” Marsha said. “My feelings are just hurt. Even though I knew he was angry, I never really thought he was capable of something like this.”

“I’m coming over,” Cat said. “I’ll be there by—”

“No, no, I’m not even home,” Marsha said. “I have a doctor’s appointment in an hour. I’ll come over later.”

“What time?” Cat asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll call you, okay?”

“If you’re sure,” Cat said. She didn’t like it, but Marsha was a grown woman. She had to give her some room to grieve.

“I’m sure,” Marsha said. “Talk to you later.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Cat said.


Three

Cat went home, showered quickly and dressed, then began an anxious vigil, waiting for Mimi to call. If she’d had the good sense to ask who her doctor was, she would have met her there, but she hadn’t asked, and Marsha wasn’t answering her cell phone.

Noon came and went, and just when she was getting really worried, her telephone rang. She picked it up on the first ring.

“Mimi?”

“No, it’s me,” Wilson said.

Cat’s heart dropped. “I’m sorry. I’m waiting for a call from a friend who’s in trouble. Can I call you back?”

Wilson didn’t know whether he was getting the runaround or she was telling the truth, then decided it didn’t matter. He would find out soon enough, one way or the other.

“No problem. I’m working at home today, but I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.” He rattled off his phone number. “Good luck to your friend,” he said lightly, and hung up.

Cat was a little surprised by the abruptness, then decided she’d given him no choice.

“Rats,” she muttered, and hung up. “Come on, Mimi, call me. Call me. You know I don’t like to wait.”

But the call didn’t come. Cat tried her friend’s cell phone again, but all she got was voice mail. Finally she left messages on both Mimi’s cell and her home phone, then settled in for the day. She ordered Chinese from a restaurant around the block, picked at the sesame chicken when it came, tore her spring roll apart without eating it, then tossed the lot down the garbage disposal and called it quits.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed her coat and keys, and headed out the door. Mimi had to be home by now and was probably ignoring her calls. She knew Cat would be ready to take Mark Presley apart, and she probably didn’t want to deal with it. She had a habit of ignoring what she couldn’t face, and they both knew it.

Cat fed the fuel of her anger all the way to Mimi’s townhouse, but when she got there, the silver Lexus was nowhere to be seen. Cat circled the entire complex twice, looking for that car and its telltale license tag, but to no avail. Then she decided Mimi could have had car trouble; maybe the car was in the shop and she’d taken a cab home.

She parked and got out. When she got to Mimi’s door, she rang the bell. Still no answer. She knocked several times, then called out her name. When that got no response, she picked the lock. It wasn’t exactly legal, but these were extenuating circumstances.

After a quick check of the rooms, she confirmed what she’d already suspected. Mimi wasn’t here. Still, the fact that she wasn’t home yet didn’t really worry her. She could be doing any number of things, from shopping to having her nails done, to being detained at the doctor’s office for some reason. Cat was still irked with herself for not asking who she’d chosen as her obstetrician, but she resisted the urge to dig through Marsha’s personal papers in hopes of finding the doctor’s name and address. All she could do was go home and wait for the call, and when it came, read Mimi the riot act for causing her so much worry.

Mark Presley was a self-made man. He’d grown up in a rural community in southwest Texas, the only child of a blue collar family. His father had been a mechanic, his mother a beautician. He’d had a normal childhood up until his senior year of high school.

The end of phase one of his life began on home-coming day at the local high school. Besides a parade and a pep rally before the big game that night, the chamber of commerce had sponsored a city-wide barbecue. Mark, being the starting quarterback for the local football team, was one of the honorees who would be riding the school float in the parade. Two hours before the parade, his daddy had dropped dead at work from a heart attack.

Mark missed the parade. He missed the big homecoming game. He missed graduation. He missed the athletic scholarship he’d been counting on. And the day he realized all his dreams were as out of reach as his father, he made a promise to himself that he would never miss out on anything again.

When his girlfriend realized his status wasn’t as shiny as it had been, she slowly drifted away. After that, it was anger and disappointment that fueled his drive to succeed.

He’d gone to work at the local auto parts store, sweeping up and making deliveries. By the age of twenty-one, he was head of the parts department. By twenty-five, he’d married the daughter of his boss, who also owned a large farm implement company. When his father-in-law passed away six years later, Mark was named president of the company. He’d taken it from a profitable business to one with world-wide recognition.

He cheated on his wife on a regular basis, as did most of the men in his social circle. Power was a big turn-on for pretty girls wanting a free ride, but he made sure his wife never wanted for a thing, including his attention. That was his safety net, because he had vowed he was never getting caught.

He’d known Marsha, his personal assistant, had a thing for him. He’d known it for years, but he’d never made a practice of playing where he worked. Then, about four months ago, in a moment of weakness, he’d broken his own rule and, for a while, thought it would all work out. Marsha was a beautiful woman and smart as they came. It had been a refreshing change to be with someone who was his mental equal, only she’d gotten all crazy, talking about love and babies. He’d tried to give her money for an abortion. She threw it in his face and made an appointment with an obstetrician instead.

He’d had her followed. He knew she was seeing an OBGYN on a regular basis. It was at that point that he’d known he would have to take a different tack with her. He couldn’t have her showing up nine months later with a kid bearing his DNA. In spite of the aggravation, he wasn’t all that concerned. It was just another hitch in his world that needed to be smoothed out.

Presley was in the middle of a transatlantic conference call when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and silently cursed. As soon as he could, he ended his call and called Marsha.

The fact that Mark hadn’t answered had been upsetting for Marsha, but not unexpected. She was leaving the parking lot of the doctor’s building when her cell phone rang. When she realized it was Mark, she was elated. He’d been so cold when he’d fired her, but now he was calling her back. Surely this was a good sign. She parked in the first empty space she could find and reached for her phone.

“Mark! I knew you would call.”

Mark was so angry he was shaking, but he wasn’t going to alert her that all was not right in his world.

“What did you want?” he asked.

“To talk to you…but not to make any demands. Please, you have to believe me.”

“I’m not leaving my wife.”

“I don’t want you to. I’ve accepted what I meant to you, but I was hoping you’d take our child into consideration. You know my background. You know how hard it is for a child to grow up without parents.”

“The kid will have you.”

“Every child deserves both parents,” Marsha said. “Won’t you at least meet with me to talk? Just to talk? I’m not making demands. I just want you to think of the child.”

“I’ll meet with you,” Mark said. “But no promises.”

Marsha’s joy surged. “Oh, Mark…darling…thank you, thank you. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

“Penny and I are leaving in a couple of days for Christmas vacation. If you want to talk, it will have to be today.”

It was all Marsha could do not to giggle. He was going to see it her way after all.

“That’s fine. Just name the time and place,” she said.

Mark smiled to himself. She was playing into his hands, just as he’d planned.

“I’m on my way to the airport, so my time is short.”

“Are you going to the company airport?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there within the hour.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Mark said. He’d already given the airport employees their Christmas bonuses, and they’d scattered to the four winds. He would have the place to himself.

He walked out of his office, told his secretary he wouldn’t be back until morning and left. It was nothing he hadn’t done a thousand times before. Within thirty minutes he was at his private airport.

He put on an old pair of coveralls he got out of an employee locker, took a baseball cap from a hook inside the office and gave the company helicopter a flight check, then sat down to wait for Marsha.

He didn’t have to wait long.

When he saw her car turn off the main road and onto the property, a knot formed in his belly. Then he reminded himself that he could do this—he had to. She’d given him no choice.

When she pulled up beside his car and parked, he swallowed once, then stood up and put on the work gloves that had been in the pocket of the coveralls.

Through a dusty window, he saw her get out and pause beside the car door. It was cold but sunny, and he noticed how pretty she looked. How odd that he would notice that today, when he was about to end her life. Marsha was stunning, but she was also a death sentence for him. If one of them had to go, it wasn’t going to be him.

Marsha’s heart was thumping erratically as she got out of the car, but she was filled with hope as she wrapped her red coat more tightly around herself to cut the cold. She’d been out to the company hangar plenty of times over the last few years, so even though the place appeared deserted except for his car, she felt no hesitation in going inside.

Once inside, she paused, allowing time for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. When she saw the office door open and a man in coveralls step out, she assumed it was one of the employees.

“Hi, it’s me, Marsha. I’m meeting Mr. Presley. Is he in the office?”

The man just raised his arm and waved as he continued toward her.

It took a few moments for Marsha to realize that the man in the coveralls was Mark.

“Mark?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

She thought no more of the odd clothing as she started to talk.

“Thank you for meeting me like this,” she said.

“Don’t mention it,” Mark said, and pulled a large wrench out of the carpenter’s loop on the side of the coveralls. Without hesitation, he drew his arm back and hit her.

It was so unexpected and so fast that Marsha never realized what was happening until it was too late.

She went down like a rock.

Mark saw the deep indentation in the side of her head, as well as the blood beginning to seep from the wound. He grabbed a greasy rag from his pocket and clamped it on top of the blood as he picked her up in his arms. Without looking at her face, he carried her to the open door of the helicopter. There was a large sheet of blue plastic on the floor behind the pilot’s seat. He laid her on it and then rolled her up.

He drove her car inside the hangar to hide it, then got in the chopper, checked to make sure that he’d loaded what he would need for later and revved up the engine. There was no flight plan to where he was going, but it didn’t matter. He knew the way by heart.

Marsha floated in and out of consciousness several times, and each time she came to, she found it difficult to breathe and impossible to move. She tried to call out, but her lips wouldn’t open. There was something wet and sticky on her face and an indescribable pain in her head. She could hear a loud roar, and she could feel a sense of motion.

Fear was swallowing her so fast that she couldn’t keep herself focused. She knew she was hurt. She knew Mark had done it. She also knew that he meant to kill her.

Anger swept through her, knowing he was going to get away with it. She’d been so damned vague about her personal business with Cat. If only she’d called her and told her where she was going. At least Cat would have had a starting place from which to find her body.

At last Marsha’s focus began to waver. She knew she was going to pass out again—this time, maybe for good—and she couldn’t let Mark Presley get away with her murder.

But what could she do? Surely there was something….

Suddenly she remembered her cell phone. It was in her coat pocket. If only she could reach it.

Her fingers felt numb as she tried to move her arms. Whatever Mark had rolled her up in was so tight she could barely breathe, let alone move. Still, she had to try.

Slowly she managed to ease onto one side just enough to give herself room to maneuver. As she did, her arm slid downward, almost of its own accord. She tried not to panic and focused on the baby she was carrying, knowing that the child deserved justice, even if she did not. It was her own foolishness that had gotten her into this mess. It broke her heart to know that her baby’s life was going to be over before it had a chance to begin.

Again and again, she tried to find the opening of her coat pocket, but with no success. Just as she was on the point of giving up, her fingers slid into the void. The contours of the phone were so familiar. She slid her fingernail between the flip-top and bottom, then pushed upward, revealing the tiny buttons beneath.

Her hands were shaking horribly as she tried to picture the numbers on the keys. Finally she punched in the numbers to Cat’s home phone, knowing that, as long as the line was open, the answering machine would record everything.

She tried to count off the time it would take for the call to go through, then for the phone to ring a certain number of times before the answering machine would come on, then the time it would take for Cat’s message to play before it would pick up her call.

She was still counting when she passed out.

Time was a word without meaning, but when she next came to, the sound of the roar had changed, as had the sense of motion. It was then she knew they’d been flying and now they were descending.

When the motion stopped, she tried to call out, but intent never got past thought. She felt herself being dragged for what seemed like forever, and then, abruptly, everything was still.

Before she could think, she was being unrolled. Her arms and legs were like rubber as her body was ejected into a blistering cold. The drastic change in temperature was a metaphoric slap in the face, the push she needed to open her eyes. She did, only to see someone leaning over her. In a last desperate attempt, she reached up.

“Help me,” she whispered.

Mark Presley had flown all the way from the airport to an oil lease he owned in East Texas without a thought in his head beyond what he still had to do. When he dragged Marsha’s body from the chopper and then started pulling it through the woods, he made himself think of what he was going to buy Penny for Christmas instead of what he had yet to do.

He’d never killed anyone before or even imagined being in a predicament where it might be necessary. But there was no way he could have gone through with what Marsha had asked. He was too afraid of what Penny would do, should he be found out.

By the time he got to the edge of the gully, his legs were shaking from the effort of dragging the body. He started to just toss her over, then stopped. The bright blue plastic sheeting in which she was wrapped would be too visible, especially from the air.

Determined to do this right, he began to unroll her. She flopped out face down onto the cold, wet ground. When he gave the sheeting a last hard yank to get it out from under her, it rolled her over onto her back.

When she suddenly opened her eyes and looked at him, reached for him, he was so shocked she was still alive that he staggered and fell backward.

“God damn, why aren’t you dead?”

For a few seconds they were on their backs and lying side by side. Her hair and face were soaked with blood, and yet he saw his own reflection in her eyes, saw her lips move. When he realized she was asking for help, he panicked.

With a spurt of adrenaline born of nothing but fear, he picked her up and threw her over the rim into the tree-lined gully below. The pop and crack of the breaking limbs echoed loudly as they gave from the weight and momentum of her falling body. He was sick to his stomach and shaking in every muscle as he waited for the sound to cease.

Finally it was over. He leaned forward and finally saw a tiny blotch of red through the trees.

“Damn. Her coat. I should have taken it off,” he muttered, but it was too late.

Suddenly, the enormity of what he’d done swept through him. Desperate to be gone, he turned, grabbed the blue plastic sheet and ran through the trees, back to where he’d set down. The still spinning rotors were stirring up a tornado of dust and leaves as he reached the chopper. Frantic now to get away, he ripped off his coveralls, as well as the baseball cap he’d been wearing, wrapped the clothes and the wrench, which was now a murder weapon, in the plastic sheeting, and tied them up along with a couple of nearby rocks he would need for ballast.

When he took off, he went straight up, then headed for a nearby abandoned rock quarry holding more than forty feet of dark, murky water. He circled it once, then dropped the entire package into the middle of the quarry, circling overhead as he watched it sink. Once it was gone, he took off like a bat out of hell, bound for Dallas. He’d only gone about a half mile when he saw a small plane and recognized it as one belonging to a pipeline company in the area. They often flew the path of the buried pipelines searching for leaks, and that was obviously what they were doing today. Too late to take another course, he could do nothing but fly on, knowing full well they’d seen him.

He’d intended to fly straight back to Dallas, but now that he’d been spotted, the only thing he could do was what he did every time he came out to his leases. He turned the chopper toward Tyler, a small town not too far away, then landed on a heli-pad often used by oil and gas companies, and started walking.

There was a barbeque joint a couple of blocks away that he visited each time he was in the area. If this was going to be his alibi, then he didn’t dare alter his habits. Eventually someone would discover that Marsha Benton was missing, but it wasn’t going to be on his head.

By the time he got to the restaurant, his step was lighter. This was going to work out perfectly. He had been seen flying over his own oil leases, which he did on a regular basis. And he was eating at his favorite restaurant, as he did with every visit. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one to blame.

The owner greeted him jovially as he walked in the door, then led him straight to his favorite table. Mark ordered a slab of baby back ribs, a side order of fries and coleslaw, and cleaned his plate. He left a big tip on his credit card as he paid, then walked out. A short while later he was on his way home. The night was overcast, and the weather was already beginning to change for the worse as he landed the chopper back at the company hangar. He was home, but still not done.

He put on another pair of gloves, got into Marsha’s car and headed for what he called the projects. Within the hour, he was circling an old housing complex. When he found a likely spot, he called a cab, asking to be picked up at The Bump and Grind, a busy, well-known nightclub with a reputation for drugs and whores, which was a few blocks over.

He parked the car on a corner beneath a broken street light, and left the keys in the ignition and the car unlocked. He got out without looking back and jogged to the club. Once there, and without making eye contact with the crowd around the front door, he waited for the cab to arrive.

Luck was with him.

Within five minutes he was being driven away. As they left the bad streets of Dallas behind him, he began to relax. He knew that Marsha’s car would be gone before morning, most likely stripped or on its way to Mexico. Even if it showed up somewhere down the road, they would never be able to link it to him.

He rode the cab to within a half mile of the company airport, paid the driver off, then walked the rest of the way back. When he finally reached the hangar and crawled into his own car, it was close to four in the morning. His hands were shaking as he reached for his seat belt.

It was ten minutes to five when he entered the house. He reset the security alarm before it sounded, then removed his shoes and hurried upstairs, sidestepping the family cat, who, as always, was roaming the rooms in the dark. When he finally made it into the bedroom, he was relieved to find Penny sound asleep.

As badly as he wanted to crawl into bed beside her, he needed to maintain his alibi. When he saw how she’d curled up in a ball, he put an extra blanket over the bottom half of the bed, then hung up his clothes. Then, conscious of the continued need for an alibi, he wadded up his pajamas and messed up the sheets and his pillow as if he’d been in them all night, before hurrying into the bathroom.

His face was drawn, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot as he looked at himself in the mirror. He stared at himself until he started to smile, and then he did a little jump-hop and turned the water on in the shower.

He’d done it! His troubles were over, and no one was the wiser.

By the time he came out of the shower, Penny was sitting up in bed and combing her hair out of her face.

“Darling…what on earth are you doing?” she asked.

Mark bent down and kissed her as he tossed his wet towel toward the bathroom.

“Got to get to the office early,” he said. “I have some overseas phone calls to make.”

Penny made a face.

“What time did you come home? I never even knew when you came to bed.”

“Lord, honey, I’m not sure. It was late.” Then he leaned down and kissed her again, this time lingering on her pouty lips. “You looked so cute. You know how you get when you’re cold, all rolled up in that little ball? I put extra covers on your feet and you relaxed.”

Penny blew kisses at him. “Poor baby, working so hard, and it’s almost Christmas.”

“I know,” he said. “But we’ll be leaving for Tahoe in a day or so, with plenty of time to enjoy ourselves there.”

She got up and went to the bathroom. Mark was dressed and ready to head downstairs by the time she came out. She made a face because she’d missed a morning quickie, then crawled back into bed and closed her eyes.

Mark was riding an adrenalin high as he arrived at his office. He felt no guilt for what he’d done. Marsha Benton had been a threat to everything he’d accomplished. The only downside was that he was going to have to find another personal assistant.

A few hours passed before he got tired of answering his own calls. He was reaching for the phone book to call the employment agency when the door to his office opened. Frowning, he looked up. It was Penny.

“Darling, where on earth is Marsha?”

Mark quickly shifted gears mentally as he strode across the room to greet her, then ignored her question by taking her in his arms.

“Penny, darling, I didn’t know you were coming into the city. Please tell me you have time to let me take you to an early dinner.”

Penny Presley giggled and fluffed her freshly done hair as she threw her arms around her husband’s neck.

“Oh, darling, you can take me anywhere you want.”

Mark made a low growling sound in the back of his throat and nuzzled the spot behind her ear. She moaned as she rubbed herself against his groin.

Mark’s reaction was just as she’d expected. She smiled slowly as she looked up at him.

“You want me, don’t you, honey? I can tell you do. Even after all these years, I still turn you on, don’t I?”

“Lord, yes,” Mark said, and cupped her hips, pulling her closer. “Feel me, honey? You’re the best there is, and you’re mine.”

He grinned at her, locked the door to his office, and for a short while the business of hiring and firing—and killing—was put aside as he gave Penny Presley everything she wanted.


Four

Cat had been home for three hours before her patience wore thin. Despite the cold and rain, she’d driven back over to Mimi’s townhouse again and had staked out the building, intent on confronting her the moment she arrived. But when sunset came and then went, and the street lights came on, she got a knot in her belly. She left message after message on Mimi’s cell phone but never got an answer. All night, she sat outside the building, growing more fearful by the hour. When sunrise was only a heartbeat away, she picked the lock on Mimi’s apartment one more time. This time, she was going to go through the place like she owned it.

Two hours passed as she went through everything there was to see. She found note pads where Mimi had been doodling Mark Presley’s name. There were notes to herself to pick up her dry cleaning, a grocery list that had yet to be filled and a note to call the doctor. Still Cat could find nothing identifying which obstetrician Mimi might have chosen out of the hundreds in the city. All her suitcases were in the extra bedroom where she always kept them, and the closets were full. She should have been there, but she wasn’t. Sick with a growing panic, Cat went back to her car and drove away.

Wilson had been wondering why he hadn’t heard from Cat Dupree. She’d seemed so excited that he’d found her charm; then, when he’d called her, she’d all but brushed him off. He’d gone about his business, telling himself that if it was meant to be, they would run into each other again.

He’d been in court for part of the day, testifying at a trial, and had gone from there to the police station to drop off some papers. It was one of the few times he hadn’t been thinking of her, and then she walked into the building.

He saw her pause and speak to a uniformed officer who was going out the door. The officer spoke to her briefly, then pointed up. At that point she walked toward an elevator. Curious, Wilson watched her get in; then, against his better judgment, he followed, taking the stairs in a run.

He caught a glimpse of her backside as he exited the stairwell. She was going toward Homicide. He frowned and continued to follow.

He had a couple of good friends in the department and was ready to use them for an excuse when he walked in. Almost immediately, he saw the back of her head. He grinned to himself. Luck was holding. She was sitting at his buddy Joe Flannery’s desk.

Cat was worried sick, but even more, she was certain this visit was going to be a bust. It had occurred to her that she should report first to Missing Persons, but she knew they wouldn’t take her seriously until a certain length of time had passed. Too scared to wait and with no evidence to back up her fears, she was going to go out on a limb. She would happily take some hard knocks from the cops if they would just listen and believe.

She’d been directed to the desk at which she was now sitting with the information that a Detective Flannery would be right with her. The longer she sat, the more certain she was that this had been a mistake. She should have gathered more evidence before coming here.

She had started to get up and walk out when she heard someone say her name.

“Cat? Is that you?”

She looked over her shoulder. Wilson McKay was walking toward her.

“It is you,” he said, smiling as he reached her chair. “If I’d known I was going to see you here, I would have brought your charm.”

“I was…uh, I came to—”

Before she could stammer out an answer, the detective arrived.

Joe Flannery grinned when he saw Wilson, then slapped him on the back and shook his hand.

“Hey, you. You’ve been dodging me for weeks. What’s wrong? Scared I’ll beat you at handball again?”

“You didn’t beat me the first time,” Wilson drawled. “I got a phone call and had to leave, remember?”

Flannery laughed and cuffed Wilson again, and, believing that Cat was with Wilson, included her in the moment.

“You’re taking a big chance hanging out with such a lowlife,” he teased.

Cat didn’t smile back.

“I’m not with him,” she said. “I think something’s happened to a friend of mine. I think she’s dead.”

Both Flannery and Wilson shifted mental gears so suddenly that the effort was visible on their faces.

“I’m sorry. I misunderstood,” Flannery said, and quickly sat down.

Wilson frowned. Suddenly all of the brush-offs she’d been giving him began to make sense. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled up another chair and sat down beside Cat. When she gave him a questioning look, he put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.

“Moral support,” he said.

Cat was past caring who listened to her story. The more people who believed her, the better it would be. Still, she clenched her hands into fists to keep them from trembling as she turned her attention to the detective.

Flannery glanced at Wilson. “You know her?”

Wilson nodded.

Flannery looked at the woman. She wasn’t objecting, so he let it slide.

“Ma’am, would you please tell me your name?”

“Catherine Dupree.”

Flannery noticed the odd, husky quality to her voice as he flipped open a page in his notebook and jotted down her name. It wasn’t until he’d written Dupree that he frowned and looked up.

“Don’t I know you?”

She held her gaze firm. “I don’t know you.”

“What’s your occupation?” he asked.

“I work for Art Ball.”

Flannery shifted in his chair as he looked at the woman with new interest. As he did, he noticed a thick, ugly scar extending halfway around her neck and then quickly looked away, ashamed to be caught staring.

“The bounty hunter…you’re his bounty hunter, aren’t you?”

“My occupation isn’t the issue here,” she said.

He made a note by her name, just the same.

“You’re claiming a friend of yours is dead…is that right?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me what happened?”

“She’s gone.”

“Have you reported her to Missing Persons?”

Cat sighed. This wasn’t going to go well. “No.”

“Why not?” Flannery asked.

“Because I don’t believe she’s missing. I believe she’s dead.”

“Why do you think that?”

A muscle jerked in Cat’s jaw, but her voice remained calm. “Because she told me she’d been threatened.”

“By whom?”

“Her boss.”

At that point Wilson interrupted. “How long has she been missing?” he asked.

Flannery frowned. “I’m asking the questions here,” he said.

“Sorry,” Wilson said, but he still waited for Cat’s answer. He watched her face, expecting a mirror of her emotions, but she gave nothing away.

“I last talked to her yesterday morning. She had been crying,” Cat said.

“Why?” Flannery asked.

“Because she’d just been fired.”

“By the same boss who threatened her?” Flannery asked.

“Yes.”

“And this boss’s name is…?”

“Mark Presley.”

Flannery’s pen ran off the end of his notebook onto his desk, making a slight scratching sound as it dug through years of old varnish.

“Mark Presley of the Presley Corporation?” he asked.

“Yes. She’s been his personal assistant for years.”

“Did she say why she’d been fired?”

“They were having an affair. She got pregnant. He wanted her to have an abortion. She wouldn’t. He fired her.”

A muscle jerked in Flannery’s jaw as he laid his pen down beside the notebook and then raised his head. He didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

“What makes you think she isn’t complying with his request? Maybe she’s at some clinic now and just not up to answering your calls.”

Cat answered his sarcasm with anger.

“They broke up because she wouldn’t have an abortion. I had lunch with her just the other day. She was scared.”

“Of Presley?”

“Yes. She said he’d threatened her.”

He picked the pen up again. “Did she say how?”

“What she said was that he’d made threats to her, and she used the words, ‘six feet under.’ Then, yesterday, after she told me that he’d fired her, I wanted to get together with her, but she said she was going to go to a doctor’s appointment first and then she’d come over to my place. I didn’t think to ask which doctor, but she did tell me that as soon as she got out, she would give me a call. I waited all day. She didn’t call.”

“Maybe she’s just not in the mood to talk to—”

“She’s not home. I staked out her apartment last night. I searched it this morning. She never showed. Something has happened to her.”

“What’s the make and model of her car?”

“She drives a silver Lexus. New this year. The license is one of those vanity tags. Hers says ALLMINE.”

Wilson frowned as he listened to Cat’s story. None of this sounded good, but he wasn’t a cop.

Flannery rubbed at a mole behind his right ear. It was something he did when he was frustrated.

“Look, Miss Dupree, I understand your concern. But this isn’t a case for Homicide. In fact, it’s not yet a case for Missing Persons. Your friend is an adult. She has the right to come and go without notifying anyone. She could be anywhere. Maybe she rethought her decision not to have the abortion and has gone somewhere to recuperate.”

Cat’s anger was evident by the fact that her fists tightened until her knuckles went white. It was Flannery’s good fortune that she still had her hands in her lap.

“We grew up in the system. We knew what it was like to be unwanted kids. The last thing she would ever do is reject a child of her own. Don’t argue with me about that, because you don’t know a fucking thing about our lives.”

“I don’t appreciate your language,” Flannery said.

“And I don’t appreciate your piss-poor attitude,” Cat fired back.

Flannery knew he wasn’t handling this well and wished Wilson was somewhere else. Fortunately Wilson interrupted by putting a hand on Cat’s shoulder.

“Anger isn’t going to find your friend,” he said.

Cat stood abruptly.

“Doesn’t look like the police are going to make an effort, either. I knew I was wasting my time when I came here, but I didn’t do this for myself. I’m doing it for Marsha. I don’t think she’s missing. I think she’s dead. Presley threatened her, and I think he made good on the threat.”

“Look, Cat…murder is a big accusation,” Wilson said.

Her eyes were flashing, but her voice was clipped and steady.

“I know you two don’t know me, and you also don’t know Mimi. But trust me when I tell you…she would never kill her own child, and she would not leave town without telling me. Never.”

Wilson heard more than anger in Cat’s voice. She was scared—as scared as a person could be and not be screaming.

“Cat…”

She turned on him, directing her fury with one succinct word. “What?”

“Maybe when you turn in a missing person’s report tomorrow and—”

“Tomorrow?” She threw her arms over her head and then slapped her hands hard against her thighs. “Tomorrow. And what about tonight? She didn’t sleep in her bed last night. She won’t be sleeping in it tonight. She’s pregnant. Her life was threatened. She’s missing.” She pointed angrily at Wilson. “You report her missing tomorrow.” Then she jabbed a finger in Flannery’s chest. “Or maybe you do it. Oh, wait. I know! Let’s just wait until there’s no hope in hell of finding her before she rots, and then we can identify her from dental records and the broken arm from when she was seven. How’s that?”

Then she turned angrily, grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, and strode out of the office with her head up and her jaw clenched. She hit the door with the flat of her hand and slammed it shut behind her so hard that a coffee mug someone had left on a nearby file cabinet vibrated off the edge and shattered when it hit the floor.

Wilson looked at Joe. “I think that went well.”

Joe grimaced. “What do you think?”

“I think she’s pissed.”

“What do you think she’s going to do?”

Wilson shrugged. “Hard to say, but I would bet money that whatever happens next, you’ll have to hear it from someone besides her.”

‘What do you mean?”

“She won’t come back and ask for help a second time,” Wilson said. “You saw her face. She doesn’t trust the system, and from the little she just said about her background, you can’t blame her.”

There was a message from Art on Cat’s cell phone. She called him back on her way to her car.

The message was the same old thing. He had bonded out a woman who’d been picked up for writing hot checks, but she’d been a no-show in court earlier that day.

He needed her brought in.

Cat needed something to do to keep herself from going crazy.

She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. Art answered on the third ring, and, as always, coughed into the phone as he answered. Cat immediately lit into him.

“Damn it, Art, you need to quit smoking. One day that cough is going to be the last thing to come out of your mouth.”

Art coughed again, took a quick drag of his cigar, then put it out in an ashtray already overflowing with ashes and butts.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what you always say,” he said.

“So fax me the particulars on Charity Ann Kingman.”

“You sound all pissy and fierce. I want her back in one piece,” Art growled.

Fear she wouldn’t admit to was making her sick to her stomach. Here she was, going about her business as if nothing was different in her world, when in truth, she knew it was crumbling about her ears. She just couldn’t make anyone believe.

“That’s because I am all pissy and fierce,” she muttered. “I won’t break your bail jumper. In fact, I won’t even bend her. Now fax the info. I need to be busy.”

“You needin’ money, hon?”

Cat looked down at her shoes, trying hard not to scream. Art thought of himself as her father. Most of the time she appreciated his concern, but not today.

“No. I just need something to do.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “And don’t give me no runaround. We’ve known each other too long for that.”

Cat swallowed past the knot in her throat.

“Mimi is missing. I think something bad has happened to her.”

“Oh hell, honey. I’m sure sorry to hear that. You go to the cops with it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s good. That’s good. Still, I’ll bet she shows soon, and you’ll see that you was all worried for nothin’.”

Cat shoved a hand through her hair as she unlocked the door to her SUV and got in. The cops were as useless to her as a third tit, and Art’s “it’ll be all right” attitude was no better.

“Yeah, sure,” she mumbled.

“So, I’ll be faxin’ that info to you now. Call me if you run into trouble.”

“Okay,” Cat said, and hung up, then headed home.

She was moving fast when she got back to her apartment. She hurried to her office, grabbing the fax that had already come through. She picked up a couple of other pages that had obviously been faxed earlier and walked to the window for a better look.

As always, they were of men with tattoos. She had a network of people all over the United States who, on a regular basis, faxed her mug shots with rap sheets. She was determined to find the man who’d killed her father. So far, she had yet to get a hit, but she wasn’t going to give up.

She tossed the two sheets into a box on the floor that was already overflowing with similar papers, made a file from the papers Art had faxed her regarding Charity Kingman and walked out of the room. She hurried to her bedroom, packed the bag she normally took on a stakeout and left without thinking to check the answering machine in the kitchen. It was a quarter to eleven in the morning. Even though her world felt as if it was coming to an end, the day wasn’t even half over.

* * *

Charity Kingman considered herself streetwise and sharp, although she was facing a second stay in lockup for bad paper, which even she knew didn’t really back up her opinion of herself. However, she knew she was looking good. Her skirt was short; her legs were long. She had rock-hard abs, and what nature had shorted her on, she hid with what she called “personality.”

She knew Art Ball would be mad about yesterday, but she’d never intended to show up for court. She didn’t have any defense. She’d written the hot checks, and she’d gotten caught. But what else was a girl to do when she needed to look good and was a little short on cash? Besides, she had a plan. All it was going to take was a quick make-over at a cushy day spa and she would be set to go.

Cat read the particulars on Charity Kingman while eating most of a breakfast burrito in her car. She passed a lot of time and had a lot of meals in there, and was finishing her coffee as she finished the file Art had sent her. As the last swallow went down, she reached for her cell phone. Her first call was to the nail salon Charity normally frequented, the second was to her landlord. When she found out that Charity was behind on her rent, Cat knew she wouldn’t be hiding out in her apartment. The call she made to the salon where Charity had her nails done was revealing as well. Charity had a standing appointment, but she’d called in and canceled yesterday. After a couple of follow-up questions, though, her nail tech had let it slip that Charity was planning a trip.

The timing added up. Charity Kingman needed to make herself scarce. All Cat could hope for was to catch her before she ran.

But where had she gone?

She went back to the file again and began to study it. Charity was from the Midwest, a little town outside of Cleveland. Since coming to Dallas six years earlier, she had never held a job for more than six months. She’d been arrested for soliciting, for bad checks, and for busting the windshield of a boyfriend who’d dumped her for another woman. She wasn’t what Art called a “bad ass,” but she was constantly in trouble and dumb enough to keep getting caught. The way Cat looked at it, finding Charity had to happen within the next twenty-four hours or it was probably going to be too late to find her easily. She didn’t strike Cat as the kind of woman who would go running home, so she mentally crossed off Ohio as a place she would go.

Halfway through the file, she ran across a notation regarding a former roommate named Danni Chester, and an old address on the south side of the city. It was the only thing in the file that could be construed as a permanent link to another person. It was almost a year old, but it was a place to start.

She checked her cell phone for messages, but there were none. As she was gathering up her trash, it occurred to her that she hadn’t checked the answering machine at her apartment. She got out of her car, dumped her trash, and was just about to call home to check it when her cell phone rang. When she saw who was calling, she decided not to answer it, but then changed her mind.

“Hello.”

Wilson winced. The clipped tone of her voice didn’t bode well for this becoming any kind of a pleasant conversation.

“Cat, it’s me, Wilson.”

“What do you want?”

He winced again.

“I thought maybe I could come by with your charm.”

“I’m not home. I’m working. Call me later.”

She hung up in his ear.

He disconnected. Then, disgusted with her and also with himself for still trying to connect with what appeared to be a certified bitch, he threw his cell phone on the bed and kicked a throw pillow that had fallen on the floor.

Wilson’s call distracted Cat enough that when she hung up, she forgot she’d been going to call home. Instead, she got back in her vehicle, slammed the door and drove out of the parking lot in a huff, leaving rubber behind as she went.

* * *

Charity considered her new look a sure cure for the warrant that was bound to be out for her arrest. Her long blond hair was now short and red. She’d had her eyebrows dyed to match, and was wearing five earrings on each ear, the fake kind that looked pierced but really weren’t. She’d traded her designer clothes for an off-the-rack mini-skirt and little-bit-of-nothing top covered by a white fake fur coat that barely cupped the bottom of her backside. She’d found a pair of high-topped black boots in a thrift store that went over her knees, and for a last bit of flash, wrapped a thin red scarf around her neck.

Finally she was ready to split. All she needed to do was pick up her stuff from Danni’s apartment and get to the bus station. After that, her troubles would be over.

Cat hadn’t been outside Danni Chester’s apartment building for more than fifteen minutes when she saw a cab pull up to the curb. She tensed, leaning forward as she watched the door open, but when she saw the female getting out, she leaned back. Wrong woman. She noted that the cab didn’t leave, then went back to watching for Charity.

A few minutes passed, and then the same redheaded woman came back out, this time carrying a small suitcase. Another woman walked out with her, her arm over the redhead’s shoulder. When they hugged, Cat’s focus moved from the redhead to the other woman.

She grabbed the file on the seat beside her and thumbed through the pages until she found a mug shot of Danni Chester, who’d been arrested more than once for prostitution. After a couple of glances, she recognized the woman standing by the cab as Danni Chester, which told Cat she needed to check out the redhead, if for no other reason than to exclude her from the hunt.

She checked the mug shot of Charity one more time, then tossed the file onto the seat beside her and got out of her car. She patted the outside of her coat, making sure her gun and handcuffs were still in the waistband of her pants, and then started across the street.

The closer she got, the faster she went. By the time the redhead was opening the door to get into the cab, Cat was at the back rear fender.

“Hey, Charity…love your new do,” she called out.

Charity Kingman was smiling as she turned. It wasn’t until she saw that Cat was a stranger that she realized she’d just given herself away. Then she saw Cat’s badge and the handcuffs in her hand.

“Well, shit,” she muttered.

Danni Chester started to shove Charity into the cab when Cat pointed at her.

“What? You in a big hurry to go to lock up with her?”

Charity sighed. Danni was a friend. She didn’t want to get her in trouble, too.

“Don’t, Danni. You don’t want to fight Cat Dupree.”

“Never heard of her,” Danni said, giving Cat a rude lookover.

“She’s Art Ball’s bounty hunter. Everyone knows her,” Charity said.

“Never heard of you, either,” Cat said and pointed at Danni. “Get out of my way.”

Danni blinked rapidly and took a couple of steps backward. On closer inspection, the Dupree woman looked a little too scary to mess with.

Charity spat out the gum she’d been chewing as Cat calmly handcuffed her.

“Hey, honey, button up my coat for me, will ya? I’m freezing here.”

Cat eyed the long stretch of bare legs between the hem of the mini-skirt and the top of the black boots, then the size of the breasts pushing at the low-cut sweater, and snorted lightly.

“Cold boobs are the least of your worries,” she stated, and then took Charity by the arm.

“Wait!” she cried. “My bag. Danni, get my bag out of the cab!”

Danni took the bag and sent the cab driver on his way.

“Please,” she asked, as she held the bag out to Cat. “Can’t she even have her things?”

Cat kept on walking, pushing Charity along in front of her.

“The state of Texas is about to provide all she’s going to need for the next year or so.”

“Danni, keep my things for me,” Charity asked.

“Let me know where you’re going!” Danni called after her.

Cat opened the back door to her SUV and gave Charity a little push as she got her inside. Then she leaned in and buckled the seat belt.

“Thanks so much,” Charity snapped.

Cat eyed her without answering.

Charity opened her mouth to say something else, then Cat leaned in.

“I didn’t put you in this position, you put yourself in it. So don’t give me any crap. I’m not in the mood.”

Charity’s nostrils flared in anger, but she stayed quiet. She didn’t have to like the bitch, even if she was right.




Five


By the time Cat got to the precinct to turn Charity in, she felt feverish. She started getting shaky and weak down in booking. A drunk had thrown up in a waste basket by the door, and two homeless men were trying to report the theft of their shopping cart from outside the alley near a Chinese restaurant. Along with the heat being pumped through the overhead vents, the mingled odors were appalling. She could feel her stomach starting to roll.

The desk sergeant was asking her something about Charity Kingman. She could see his mouth moving, but his words were all running together. When she looked away, the wall behind the desk started to melt. That was when she knew something was wrong.

“I don’t feel so good,” Cat muttered, and slipped her arms into the sleeves of her coat. “If you have any more questions, call Art’s Bail Bonds. She’s one of his.”

She walked away without looking back, telling herself that she would feel better once she got some fresh air. But it didn’t work. The cold blast of air just made her shiver.

She started across the parking lot toward her car, thinking that if she just got inside, she would be okay. But the more she walked, the farther it appeared to be. There was a part of her that knew she shouldn’t drive, but she wanted to go home—needed to go home. There might be word about Mimi. There had to be word. You couldn’t just “lose” a friend like you lost a wallet. She had to be somewhere.

Wilson’s day had been just as productive as Cat’s. He had turned in a bail jumper over an hour ago and was walking through the parking lot to his truck when Joe Flannery hailed him.

“Hey, Wilson. Heard anything more from your girlfriend?”

Wilson frowned. “She’s not my girlfriend, and you know it. At the moment, she’s as pissed off at me as she is at you.”

“She didn’t turn in a missing person’s report,” Joe said.

“Are you waiting for me to say, ‘I told you so’? Fine, I told you so,” Wilson said.

“Yeah, I figure her friend showed up and she’s too embarrassed to let us know.”

Wilson thought about it a minute, then shook his head.

“That doesn’t sound like something she would do. She appears pretty forthright to me.”

Joe grinned.

“She’s pretty, all right.”

But Wilson couldn’t play easy about what he felt for her. He didn’t even know why he kept thinking about her, other than he had that damned charm. Maybe when he got rid of it he would be rid of her, too.

“She’s tough as hell,” Joe said. “’Course, she had to be, to survive what she did.”

“What do you mean?” Wilson asked.

“You saw that scar on her neck?”

Wilson nodded.

“The man who killed her dad, some tattooed guy, also cut her throat. She was just a kid, but his death put her in the system. Eventually she aged out. Word is, she’s in this business because she’s always looking for the killer.”

Wilson felt a little sick to his stomach, imagining what a trauma like that would do to a child.

“Jesus…they never caught him?” he asked

“No.”

“What about her mother?”

“She and Cat were in a car wreck when Cat was six. The mother died. Cat didn’t.”

It was suddenly becoming clearer to Wilson why Cat Dupree kept an impenetrable wall between her and the world. It was too damned painful when she didn’t.

“So…you going home for Christmas?” Joe asked.

“Probably,” Wilson said. “I always do.”

“Tell your folks I said hello.”

“Yeah, sure,” Wilson said, and then Joe’s cell phone rang, and they parted company.

Wilson was on his way to his truck when he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired woman staggering through the parking lot. Almost immediately, he recognized Cat, and when he saw her stumble, he began to run.

Cat was going to fall, and she knew it. She could see the dark wet surface of the parking lot coming at her and tried to brace herself, but her reactions were too slow.

Then, just as suddenly as she was falling, the motion stopped. There were hands on her arms, then around her torso. She could hear a voice that sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t focus enough to see who it was.

Wilson was nervous. Cat was almost unconscious. That alone was unsettling. When he turned her in his arms, he realized she was hot—far too hot for the winter chill in the air.

“Miss Dupree… Cat! It’s Wilson McKay.”

Cat moaned and tried to hold on to him, but her fingers seemed disconnected from the rest of her body, and she couldn’t make them grip.

“I need to go home,” she muttered.

“You’re sick. You need to see a doctor,” he said, and started to pick her up.

She took a swing at him.

“No doctor.”

As sick as she was, the message came loud and clear. He braced her to keep her from falling, then picked her up in his arms.

“Don’t feel good,” she mumbled, and kept pushing him away.

At that moment a police cruiser drove into the parking lot. The headlights swept over them where they stood. Wilson caught a brief glance of her pale face and the scar at her throat, thought about what Joe had told him and weakened.

“Damn it, Catherine…quit fighting me and I will take you home.”

Her lips twisted as her hands went to her throat.

“Daddy calls me Catherine.”

The admission was telling in its simplicity. God only knew what her nightmares were like. As much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to feel sorry for her.

Her head fell forward. He could smell the lemon scent of the shampoo she used. It was no fuss, just like her, but from the feel of her in his arms, she was too damned thin.

“Home… I want to go home.”

He stood her up against her SUV, then took her car keys out of her hand, opened the door and slid her into the passenger seat, carefully buckling her in. He could always take a cab back to the precinct to pick up his car. This way, her vehicle would be at her home when she was well enough to drive.

“Hey, McKay, need some help?” someone yelled.

He turned around. The man who’d called out was a detective going off duty.

“I got it,” he yelled back, then shut the door and ran around to the driver’s side.

“What’s wrong with her?” the detective asked, as he stopped on his way to his own car.

“Not sure, but she’s got a heck of a fever. She’s too sick to drive.”

“Want me to follow you and bring you back for your car?”

Wilson thought about it, then shook his head.

“No, but thanks. I might need to take her to an E.R., and if I do, I’ll use her car.”

“Yeah, okay. See you around,” he said, and walked on.

Wilson jumped into the car and started it up, quickly turning on the heater and then re-checking her seatbelt. Once he was satisfied that she was as safe as he could make her, he drove out of the parking lot with a mental map of the route to her apartment in his head.

Twenty minutes later and with only one missed turn, he pulled into the parking lot of her housing complex, found the building her apartment was in and parked.

Before he got out, he checked her key ring, making sure that her front door key was on it. He saw one that looked right, then slipped the keys into his coat pocket and opened the door. The cold air cut straight to the bone. He buttoned the top button of his coat as he circled the SUV.

Cat roused up as he lifted her from the seat. A few feet from the apartment building, she knew she was going to be sick.

“Throw up,” she muttered.

She didn’t have to say it twice. He set her down on her feet and then braced her just as the nausea struck. By the time she was through, she was even weaker than before.

“Sorry.”

Wilson was staggering, trying not to let her fall.

“It’s okay. Just be still. I’m trying to help you.”

Even though she was sick out of her mind, Cat wasn’t the kind to give up or give in. Her legs wouldn’t work, but she kept trying to walk and ended up stepping all over Wilson’s feet.

A couple who happened to be Cat’s neighbors were coming into the building as Wilson was struggling with her and the door. When they saw she was ill, they quickly offered to help. The man held the door for Wilson as the woman ran ahead to get an elevator. They rode up to the sixth floor together, chattering rapidly about their concern for their neighbor while admitting that they hardly knew her.

The man took the key from Wilson’s pocket and opened Cat’s door. Wilson walked in with Cat braced against him, still weaving and moaning. The man leaned in, shook his head at Cat’s condition, then laid the key on the hall table and left.

Wilson sighed with relief. They were home. Now all he had to do was get her into bed. He picked her up, eyed the layout of the rooms, then headed for the hallway to the left. The first door he came to was closed, but the second one on the right was ajar. He toed it open, grunting with satisfaction when he saw a bed.

Cat began to rouse as he laid her down, and when she recognized her surroundings, began unzipping her pants, clearly forgetting she wasn’t alone.

Wilson didn’t know whether to help her or get the hell out of the room before she got naked, but the decision was taken out of his hands when she tried to get up, staggered and almost fell.

“Here,” he said, and guided her back to the bed. “Sit down and let me help.”

She didn’t bother to argue when her boots came off, and when he pulled her sweater off over her head, she lifted her arms like a baby.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “Am I going to die?”

He started to smile, but she’d already faced that question twice in her life and survived, so he supposed, from her standpoint, it was a fair question.

“You’re not going to die. You’re just sick, but I don’t think it’s food poisoning, because you have a hell of a fever.”

He opened the closet and took a flannel nightgown off a hook as Cat motioned toward the bathroom.

“Pills in the medicine cabinet.”

“I’ll get them in a minute,” he said, and then pulled the nightgown over her head, letting it fall loosely down to her waist. “Can you get the rest of your clothes off by yourself?”

Cat looked down, confused by the nightgown bunched around her lap.

“What clothes?”

“Never mind,” he said gently. “I’ll help.”

He slid his hands beneath the gown, undid the clasp on her bra and then pulled it off without touching her. As soon as he had it off, he held out the sleeves of the gown.

“Slide your arms inside,” he said.

She did as he asked, then fell backwards onto the bed with a groan. Her voice was so weak Wilson barely heard her whisper.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord…make this go away.”

Wilson felt sorry for her. Being this helpless was probably twice as difficult to accept for a woman as strong and independent as Cat Dupree.

“Scoot up a little,” he said, and then maneuvered Cat’s head onto her pillow. As soon as he had the covers down and her settled in the middle of the bed, he pulled the hem of the nightgown down, then reached up beneath it and pulled off her jeans and panties.

“Hey,” Cat murmured, and took another helpless swing at him when she felt the panties coming off.

“It’s all right. You’re still decent,” Wilson said as he dodged the blow and quickly pulled the covers over her.

She exhaled on a shaky sigh as he tucked her in.

She was trembling and feverish. It worried him that he hadn’t taken her to the hospital. What if she was desperately ill and he was only making it worse?

He didn’t know what to do next, then remembered the pills she’d mentioned. He ran into the bathroom, got a bottle of pain and fever relief tablets and a glass of water, then hurried back. Once she’d downed the pills, he got a wet washcloth, folded it lengthwise and laid it across her forehead.

Cat sighed. “Feels good.”

He breathed a little easier as she closed her eyes, and while he was watching, she fell asleep.

Wilson sat at her bedside until he was confident that her breathing had evened out. When she finally broke into a faint sweat, he knew the fever had broken and the pills were working.

He thought about calling a cab and going home, but he was afraid that when the pills wore off, her fever would come back and she would be in worse shape than before. Sometime after midnight, he decided he wasn’t going anywhere until he was sure she could cope and began to make himself at home.

He kicked off his shoes in the living room and hung his coat on a tree in the hall. After a quick look into her bedroom to assure himself she was all right, he went to the kitchen and began digging through the refrigerator for something to eat.

To his surprise, there was plenty of food, mostly leftovers, but still intact. Nothing looked moldy or on the verge of turning green, which wasn’t always the case in his own kitchen. He shuffled through the drawers and cabinets until he found what he needed, then dished up some food onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. While he was waiting, he gathered her mail and newspapers, which had accumulated under the slot in the door, and brought them to the kitchen. He tossed everything on the counter, ignoring the fact that several envelopes fell across her answering machine. He did, however, notice the red blinking light, which reminded him to check his own messages. Later, as he was eating, he decided to check his calls.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and listened to the messages, none of which were pressing. When he finished eating, he rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then went back to check on her.

She had twisted and turned from the fever, until one side of her nightgown was rolled up above her waist and the covers were off. He couldn’t help but notice the length of her legs and the slender curve of her hip. And, while he wasn’t going to mess with her gown and take the chance of waking her up, he could pull the covers back over her.

It wasn’t until he bent down to grab the blankets that he saw the small tattoo on her hip.

His eyes widened. He looked at her profile. Even asleep, she appeared daunting. But this little tattoo was proof that there might be a softer side to Catherine Dupree.

The tattoo was a butterfly—and it was pink.

Who would ever have believed that Cat Dupree would be the kind of woman to have a girly thing like that?

Barbed wire? Yes.

A skull and crossbones? Sure.

A snake with fangs exposed? Plausible.

But a tattoo of a small pink butterfly on her butt? Priceless.

Still grinning, he straightened the covers and left her alone. Another facet of this woman had been revealed. It was definitely something to consider, which set him to wondering what else she might be concealing.

As she slept, he prowled. It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, but no one had ever called him a gentleman. He was curious about her and, despite his better judgment, a little intrigued. It wasn’t until he got to her office and saw the boxes stacked against one wall, saw that they were filled with the same things that adorned the walls and the top of her desk, that he got a slow chill.

Every page was of a different man—all criminals with rap sheets—all with varying numbers of tattoos. It was then that he remembered what Flannery had told him—that she and her father had been killed by a tattooed man. The case had long since gone cold, but she, obviously, had not given up the hunt.

Wind was whipping the branches of the lilac bushagainst Catherine’s window. The sound was familiar,and it barely registered as she turned over and pulled thecovers a little closer beneath her chin.

In seventeen days school would be out for Christmas vacation, and she could hardly wait. Daddy had promised to take her to New Mexico to go skiing. It would be their first trip to a skiing resort, but hopefully not their last.

Suddenly the sound of breaking glass filtered through her dreams of hot chocolate, roaring fires at the ski lodge and flying down the slopes so fast that she would outrun the sound of her own laughter.

She opened her eyes, then rolled over and sat up just as a loud thud sounded in the hallway.

“What the—”

It was her daddy’s voice, but it was cut short by the thud. She jumped out of bed and bolted toward the door. What if Daddy had fallen and hurt himself? They couldn’t go skiing if Daddy was hurt.

When she ran out into the hallway, she saw her father crumpled on the floor.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she screamed, and was running toward him when someone came out of the bathroom and grabbed her around the waist.

She started to scream as she fought, kicking and swinging her arms in an effort to get free. Then she heard a rough, ugly voice cursing in her ear and someone telling her to shut up. She answered by kicking backward and knew that she’d hurt the assailant when he suddenly shrieked with pain.

“Bitch!” he screamed.

Catherine saw the glitter of lamplight on metal; then she saw the hand and arm swinging toward her, like an extension of the knife that was going to end her life.

At that moment her father got up from the floor, staggering toward them and cursing the man who held her, begging him to turn her loose.

Suddenly she was falling.

At first she felt no pain, but within seconds of hitting the floor, the coppery scent of blood was in her nose and her throat was on fire. She grabbed at her neck, thinking she’d been burned, only to find her hands covered in blood.

She looked up just as the assailant grabbed her father and began stabbing him repeatedly in the chest.

She tried to scream, but when she inhaled, she choked.

Her father fell lifelessly to the floor as the assailantjumped over him and ran to the front door. Catherine watched him disappear into the night as she waited to die.

Over and over, she struggled to breathe, then finally, blessedly, everything went dark.

Cat sat straight up in bed, choking and coughing and grabbing her throat, certain that her hands would come away covered in blood. Instead, all she felt was the hard ridge of scar, followed by the certainty that, although she was in her bedroom, she was not alone.

She rolled toward the bedside table, pulling a handgun from the drawer as she turned on the lamp.

Wilson had been dozing in a small, overstuffed chair, but the sudden brightness, coupled with the fact that he was now staring down the barrel of a gun, was better than any alarm clock he’d ever owned.

“Don’t shoot,” he said quickly. “It’s me, Wilson McKay.”

Cat was breathing hard and shaking as she leaned back against the headboard and let the gun fall in her lap.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?”

He frowned as he eyed the gun lying in her lap.

“Put that thing away,” he muttered, waiting for her to do as he’d asked. When the gun was back in the drawer, he answered. “You nearly passed out in the parking lot of the police department. Good Samaritan that I am, I brought you home, then held you in the parking lot while you threw up on my shoes.”

“Oh Lord,” Cat muttered, but Wilson seemed bothered that she’d pulled a gun on him and wouldn’t stop talking. If he only knew how badly her head was pounding, he would shut the hell up. Trouble was, she couldn’t focus enough to tell him.

“Your neighbors in 6E helped me get you inside the apartment. I put you to bed and gave you some pills—which have obviously broken your fever, because you’re back to your normal bitchy self.”

Cat fell back against the pillows, staring at him in disbelief.

Wilson’s tirade ended as quickly as it had begun. He took a deep breath then stood, walked to the bed and felt her forehead. It was damp, but cooler. The fever was gone.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. “Water? Something for pain?”

She shook her head no, then groaned when the motion made her feel as if the bed was spinning.

“Are you going to be sick to your stomach again?”

“No.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Water?” Her voice sounded weak.

“Not a problem,” he said and took the glass from the table and filled it with cool, fresh water, then carried it back to her bed.

He steadied her as she sipped it, then watched her give in to weakness as she fell back onto the pillow with a thump.

“I feel like shit. What happened?”

Wilson eyed the dark circles beneath her eyes and then laid the back of his hand against her forehead just to make sure the fever had abated.

“I’d guess you picked up some kind of flu bug.”

Cat closed her eyes.

“Not a bug. Nothing that small could possibly be causing this much agony.”

Wilson grinned. Her sense of humor was unexpected. He watched her hand go to her throat, then trace the scar on her neck. His grin died as he remembered how abruptly she’d awakened.

“Did you have a bad dream?” he asked.

He heard her snort. At least it sounded like a snort, but he’d never heard a woman really snort before. It was somewhat surprising, as was most everything else about Catherine Dupree.

“Are there any other kinds?” she asked.

He frowned.

She scrubbed her hands across her face in an effort to wipe away the memory. When she lowered her hands, he realized she was staring straight at him.

“Sorry about the gun. Sometimes my dreams get mixed up with reality.”

“Remind me never to sleep with you,” he said, and when her mouth dropped open, he realized what he’d said. “Well…that’s not exactly what I meant. I just meant that I need to be the one sleeping on this side of the bed, so that when you go for the gun, you have to crawl over me to do it.”

Cat’s cheeks burned.

“Not in this lifetime,” she muttered.

He grinned again, then winked.

“I think you’re well enough to be left on your own now.” He stood up, then dug in his pants pocket and pulled out the little silver charm. “Hold out your hand,”

Cat did so, palm upward. When she saw the glint of silver as he dropped the charm into her hand, her vision blurred.




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