Run To Me. Lauren Nichols
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and retraced his steps to the door. “I’ll see about that bed,” he said brusquely, exiting and closing the screen door behind him.
“Th-thank you again for your trouble,” Erin called.
“It’s no trouble. As I said,” he repeated, his growling baritone trailing, “she needs her own bed.”
Erin sank back against a polished pine wall. Their search for a safe haven was over. In a month or two they might have to look again, but they were all right for now. She stared through the screen at Mac’s broad shoulders and tapering back as he cut through the weeds bordering the pond on his way back to Amos’s…took in his trim hips and long muscular legs.
And suddenly she wondered if she’d traded one kind of danger for another.
Charles Fallon sat behind the antique desk in his opulent high-rise office, the glow of the setting sun coloring the Chicago skyline behind him. He adjusted the pocket silk in his Armani suit, smoothed his fine mustache and goatee, then steepled his fingers before him and called, “Come in” in answer to the soft rap at his door.
A good-looking young man with longish, sun-streaked blond hair and a pleasant smile entered and walked to Charles’s desk, his running shoes silent on the deep-orchid carpeting. He wore jeans and a white polo shirt with a sports logo on the breast pocket, and while he was not muscular, he appeared fit. He did not offer to shake Charles’s hand, and they did not exchange pleasantries.
They were alone on the floor. Everyone who worked for him here at Fallon Financial Consultants had gone for the day.
With an economy of motion, Charles took a folder from his desk and handed it to John Smith. It contained photographs and every scrap of information Charles could recall or gather that might lead Smith to her. Her pathetic little hobbies and interests, her education, the foods she liked. Still on Charles’s desk were her high school yearbook and a list of friends and associates she’d made at the elementary school where she’d once taught kindergarten. There was even a list of her e-mail contacts.
Several minutes elapsed while Smith studied the folder, the only sound in the room the hollow bubbling of the aquarium built into the cherry-paneled north wall. Presently Smith glanced up from the private detective’s report. “She was last seen near Boothbay Harbor driving a 1999 white Ford Windstar?”
“Read on. The vehicle is current, but my private investigator frightened her into running again. He was able to pick up her trail but lost her again in Boston. He said she obviously knew she was being followed, the way she changed lanes and used the on and off ramps.” So unlike his mousy little wife, who’d rarely driven in city traffic.
The square-cut diamond on his right hand caught the setting sun’s rays as Charles flicked a hand at the folder. “It’s all in there.”
Charles stared at the boy-man as he continued to peruse the file. He was thirty years old, and his name was not Smith. But Charles didn’t want or need to know what it was. He only had to know that Smith was short on scruples, long on patience, and used whatever means he deemed appropriate—legal or not—to accomplish his assignments. Which would make him far more effective than the fool who’d lost her.
Smith paged back to the photos. “Your ex-wife’s very beautiful. Little girl looks just like her.”
Charles nodded stiffly, hiding his rage as their faces coalesced in his mind. Beautiful, duplicitous Erin, with her serious cobalt eyes and raven hair, courtesy of the black Irish father who’d never given a damn about her. And Christiana. What an insult that none of his features had been repeated in his daughter’s face. He was the strong one. His genes should have been dominant. She should have had auburn hair and green eyes.
He thought of the divorce in which Erin had aired their private differences—differences every man and wife had—and the absurd judgment that had awarded her full custody because the judge considered him abusive, unfit.
Her lies had made him a pariah with friends and associates. If she’d remained silent, he could’ve forgiven her her fanciful request for a divorce. Not granted it, but in time, forgiven it. Now…now she would pay.
“You know what I want,” Charles said coldly, standing and bringing the meeting to a close. He placed the yearbook and lists inside a messenger’s pouch, then indicated with a nod that Smith should add the folder he held, as well. When he’d complied, Charles handed him an envelope containing thirty thousand dollars.
“Half now, half when the job is done.”
“Plus expenses.”
“Of course.” Charles held Smith’s gaze. “Don’t do it in front of my daughter. When you’ve finished, call me.”
“I’ll be in touch,” the young man replied, smiling cordially and accepting the pouch.
Charles smiled back. “Danka.”
Erin wiped the tomato sauce from Christie’s mouth and hands, then lifted her down from the booster seat. She handed her her Raggedy Ann doll and a cookie. Ten feet away, in the spare room, the rattle and clank of metal framework told her that Mac would soon be finished assembling the twin bed he’d found in Amos’s attic. And she was grateful. She wanted him gone so her popping nerve endings would give her some peace.
Mustering a smile, she led Christie around the butcher block island in the middle of the spacious kitchen to a bright, multiwindowed corner where a few toys and books lay on her open Barbie sleeping bag. “Can you read your dolly a story for a few minutes until Mommy rinses the dishes? We mustn’t bother Mr. Corbett while he’s working.” She also didn’t want her getting hurt.
Ignoring Erin’s protests, Mac had decided that Christie not only needed her own bed, but her own room—even though it meant transferring a dozen sealed boxes to his computer room. Even though Erin reminded him they wouldn’t be here very long.
“Can Waggedy Ann have a cookie?”
Erin smiled. “No, Waggedy Ann is too messy. When I’m through we’ll do something fun, okay?”
“Okay, Mommy.”
Another thud came from the spare room. Drawing a shaky breath, Erin carried their lunch dishes—their very late lunch dishes—to the sink, amazed that she’d managed to gag down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with Mac here. Christie’d had no problem at all with the small, microwavable container of macaroni and meat sauce from their bag of staple groceries.
She was running water in the sink and rinsing the milk film from Christie’s plastic cup when a deep male voice directly behind her said, “That should do it.” The cup flew from her hands, popping and rattling hollowly against gleaming stainless steel.
Hating her over-the-top reaction to him, she shut off the water and turned to face him. “Thank you. Again.”
“You’re welcome. Again.” He grinned down at Christie, who was chattering something unintelligible and grinding her cookie into Raggedy Ann’s painted mouth, then spoke to Erin again.
“I left a set of twin sheets and a couple of blankets from Granddad’s house on the bed. They’re clean, and the mattress was stored in a spare room, so it’s not musty smelling.”
His hat was gone now, and his dark-brown hair was mussed and…sexy looking. “Thanks,” she said, jerking her mind back where it belonged.
Mac waved off her gratitude, then strode to the refrigerator to check the crisper and meat drawers. In a moment he closed it again. “The only perishables in there are apples, and they look okay. Feel free to use them, and whatever you need from the cupboards.”
“That’s very kind,” Erin murmured, “but we pay our own way.” Wiping her hands on a paper towel, she looked for a wastebasket. Blood rushed to her face when he took it from her and deposited it in a stainless steel receptacle built into a lower cabinet.
“Your grandfather said he’d like me to start work tomorrow. Is that your understanding, too?”