Undercover Babies Page 10

  If he was right, the tail would find them on the highway the next morning, might even know where they were right at that moment. Mac had all night to plot a trap.

  Why keep Grace up all night worrying?

  “I’ll eat if you’ll eat,” he said, and so they sat side by side on the edge of the huge bed, him cutting the steak, her dutifully eating an occasional bite, her eyes averted. He was too wiped out to drink alcohol and remain vigilant, so he took minuscule sips while she polished off most of the bourbon and all of the potato. With luck, the drink would relax her.

  It seemed to work. After dinner, desperate for something to do that would fill in the time until bed and supersede the need for intimate conversation, he asked her to dig the cards out of the purse his aunt had given her. She agreed reluctantly and then shuffled them with a fluid motion that mesmerized him.

  “Do you know how to play poker?” he asked her. “I have a pocketful of loose change.”

  She dealt their hands on the bedspread as he split the coins between them. “Seven card stud, deuces wild, ante up,” she said.

  He stared at her for a moment. This was a side of her he hadn’t seen. An hour later, one dollar and fifty-eight cents poorer, he was glad when she begged off. “Time for me to take a shower,” she said, gazing at the carpet.

  He rolled the dinner tray out into the hall and locked the door again, knowing he was going to spend another night on guard duty.

  He flipped on the TV so Grace wouldn’t ask him to play cards again after her shower. It was a little embarrassing to get creamed at poker by a sweet-faced young woman who wouldn’t meet your eye.

  And he didn’t want to talk to her again, either.

  GRACE STOOD under the shower for a long time, letting the hot water pound her head and shoulders.

  She’d spent the last hour acting like she didn’t have a care in the world, trying so hard to make things normal her head pounded with the effort.

  She’d been ready to make love to Travis MacBeth. If he hadn’t had second thoughts, they’d be lovers now.

  She pushed her fingertips against her forehead. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the complications of a physical relationship between herself and Mac. Big one: she might be married. There might not be an answer waiting for them in Miami. They might have to return up north. She might have to relent and go to the police. She might be a felon. Perhaps her amnesia was a direct result of a guilty conscience. What if she’d murdered her husband? What if she was on the run from the law?

  But why the memory loss, why the drugged state, why the needle marks in her arm? Why?

  Best-case scenario—she regained her memory during the night.

  Then what?

  An end to this nightmare.

  What would happen to Mac?

  She’d become yet another woman who used him and left him.

  The sexual tension throbbing between them didn’t matter, nor did the fact that it was perfectly clear he shared her longing for intimacy. None of that mattered.

  She wouldn’t use him.

  She wanted to run.

  She stared at the doorknob and pictured turning it, walking out into the room, telling Mac she wanted a soda or a magazine from one of those little shops she’d seen signs advertising as they crossed the lobby. She tried to picture him agreeing to let her walk out of the room alone.

  He wouldn’t do it. He’d either go for her or insist on coming along.

  So, if he went down there alone, what would stop her from leaving while he was gone?

  Why don’t you just fire him? an inner voice posed.

  Because Mac wasn’t the kind of man you could just fire. But the other reason was because she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him forever.

  Not until she had to, anyway.

  All she wanted to do was get away for a while.

  He would simply have to accept the fact that she wanted to be alone. She’d tell him straight. He’d be angry, but that was his problem.

  Towel dried, she slipped on gray pants and a long, ivory top. She had to admit that Mac’s ex-wife had nice taste. And yet the more complicated Grace’s feelings for Mac grew, the more she hated wearing clothes that had once belonged to another woman.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and marched resolutely into the room.

  All that resolution, all for nothing. He was asleep atop the bedspread, hands crossed over his chest, head kind of tilted as though he’d nodded off without meaning to. The only illumination in the room came from the TV. She approached quietly and looked at him for a moment in the flickering light.

  Such a handsome, rugged, masculine man. So big and powerful and oddly innocent looking in his sleep. She stared at his lips and then at his hands, and her head felt light. She thought of him coming home to an empty house with a note on the table and his wife gone forever. She thought of the things Mac’s aunt had told her, the way Mac was drummed out of the police force, the accident in the army.

  She stared at him. He was a man used to going it alone, to coping with things in his own way. To calling the shots. In some ways, she thought, he was as solitary as she was.

  She turned away and pulled a blanket from the closet shelf, draping it over his recumbent body, and then tried adjusting the pillow beneath his head so he wouldn’t wake up with a stiff neck.

  Why hadn’t he asked for a room with two queen beds instead of this one king that had been offered? Or had he? She couldn’t recall what he’d said to the woman who checked them in downstairs, only that as far as this motel was concerned, she was Jane Weston, wife of James Weston, the man now asleep on the bed.

  That’s why he hadn’t made a point of asking for two beds, she realized. A married couple would want one bed and that’s what they were supposed to be.

  Mac was thorough.

  Her reason for running was sound asleep, but that fact didn’t change the antsy, got-to-move feeling still coursing through her veins.

  She gently dislodged her hand and resettled his head on the pillow, relieved when he didn’t stir.

  Crossing to the chair in the corner she’d commandeered as her headquarters, she retrieved the little purse Aunt Beatrice had given her. Slipping it over her shoulder, she took the card-key and quietly let herself out of the room, careful to test the knob to make sure the door locked behind her.

  She realized at once that she should have left him a note but was reluctant to chance going back into the room to do so now.

  As she walked down the hall with increasingly sure-footed steps, she realized that for the first time since awakening in the alley, she felt…strong.

  It felt good.

  MAC WOKE UP instantly, pushing aside a blanket he didn’t recall pulling over himself as he rose to his feet. He cursed the fatigue that had lulled him to sleep. One look around the room told him what he needed to know—Grace was gone.

  How long? He switched on a lamp and checked his watch. It was ten o’clock. When had they eaten? Six-thirty? Seven? How long had she been gone? Two, three hours? Where would she spend that kind of time?

  He checked the table she’d commandeered. The little purse was gone, though the slightly worn-looking deck of cards was not. He checked the top of the dresser—his car keys were as he’d left them. He pocketed them out of habit, even though he’d used the time Grace was in the shower, before he fell asleep, to call a car rental place that promised an early-bird delivery right to the underground parking lot. The plan was to leave here as the Westons in a sleek new rental car, the Coopers’ wreck gathering dust in the bowels of the inn. Of course, this meant he’d have to replace the Coopers’ car or come get it later. That dilemma could wait.

  He shrugged on a jacket to cover the gun tucked in his waistband holster and pocketed his cell phone, all the while cursing his decision not to tell Grace he suspected they’d been followed. By trying to protect her feelings, he’d jeopardized her safety. A stupid mistake—it just went to show the dangers of getting emotionall
y involved with a client. He should have explained instead of leaving her in a fool’s paradise where she felt safe enough to leave the room, to venture out where he couldn’t protect her.

  His first instinct was to go to the lobby, which he did. A few people milled around, but no Grace. No suspicious-looking single males, either, which was something of a relief, though the guy leaning against the elevator button had shifty eyes. Or was drunk. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

  Mac rubbed his own eyes and took a deep breath as the button pusher stepped aboard the elevator and sagged against a new set of buttons.

  Calm down, he told himself sternly and tried to think like Grace.

  Clothes. She hated wearing Jessica’s old clothes. He saw signs promoting a boutique downstairs and took the steps two at a time.

  A placard in the door of the boutique indicated it had closed precisely at 9 p.m. Ditto the beauty and sundry shops. More signs announced more possibilities, so he kept walking. Door after door opened off the corridor, some with names mimicking Georgia towns. Atlanta, Columbus, Athens, Pine Mountain, Tifton. Conference rooms, he supposed, closed and locked for the night.

  At the end of the hall, he made a turn. The corridor widened at this point, forming another lobby much like the one upstairs, only smaller. A coffee shop occupied the left side, one of those wide-open-to-the-public places. At the very end of the corridor he saw a door with street access to encourage local patrons. He hadn’t realized until that moment that the inn was built on a slope, with the lobby above actually on the second floor. No wonder it had underground parking. What else had he missed in his semidazed state?

  He searched the few late-evening diners, but there was no sign of Grace. Part of the right side of the small downstairs lobby sported an elaborate coffee stand shaped like a peanut lying on its side. A sandwich board proclaimed Goober’s Espresso. It, too, was closed up tight for the night.

  A dark door with a neon cocktail glass above it assured drinks. Another sandwich board set up in front promised live entertainment. On this Wednesday night, it sounded like an Elvis impersonator was having a go at it. The place was booming but poorly lit and Mac entered slowly.

  As his eyes adjusted, he listened to an aging Elvis sing along with a karaoke machine in a warbly voice that sounded more than a little like the late-night crooning of a lovesick cat. When Mac could finally make out the details, he saw that the man’s voice wasn’t the only shaky thing about him. His dance steps—if those arthritic shufflings could be called dance steps—were painful to watch. A dingy white body suit, tattered scarf and slick black wig were crowning touches.

  Had Elvis lived, this is what he’d look like. Haggard. Wrinkled. Approaching senior discount years. No wonder the lights were low.

  Elvis held a handful of plastic leis. As he sang “Blue Hawaii” off-key, he crooned to individual women in the audience, all of whom looked more mortified by his attention than flattered. But one woman sitting alone at a small table in front, an open wine bottle by her elbow, already wore two leis. Elvis was drifting her way again, dangling a third like a prize. No wonder he focused on her; the woman he appealed to was the only one in the room who seemed willing to meet his gaze.

  Grace.

  Chapter Seven

  Grace.

  Dressed differently, shopping bags piled at her feet, but Grace.

  For a moment, Mac was so blown away by the transformation in her that he couldn’t focus on anything or anyone else. Gone was the country club, buttoned-down look, the worried, frightened, preoccupied expression. In its place was sexy chic. A shimmering copper-colored dress wrapped her body with a suppleness that mimicked her flesh. Smoky drops twinkled on her earlobes and on her wrist. She’d bought herself black heels, which made her legs look long and lean, even when sitting.

  However, as dazzling as the clothes were, it was what he could see of her face that truly stopped Mac in his tracks. Lips curved, eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing in the dim light. She looked vibrant and carefree, like any beautiful young woman out for the night, happy to be singled out for attention even by an aging wannabe Elvis wearing a ratty costume.

  She was having fun.

  Elvis was down on one knee, crooning to her. Mac didn’t like the way this guy’s act drew attention to Grace, but he couldn’t think of anything to do that wouldn’t make it worse, so he propped his behind on a bar stool. He ordered a beer when the barkeep came his way.

  “Interesting Elvis,” he remarked as he slid a ten onto the counter.

  “Yeah, well, sometimes you have to take what you can get. Harry couldn’t come in tonight.”

  “What do you mean Harry couldn’t come in?” Mac said, his attention now focused on the bartender instead of Grace. “You mean the employment agency sent you a replacement?”

  “What employment agency? Harry works alone. He called in sick at the last minute. This clown was sitting at my bar, heard me take the call, and offered to be Elvis. Told me he’d done it before. He was about Harry’s size and all Harry’s stuff was already here and I thought, why not? He’s a little old, but so what? It had to be better than another open-mike night, right? Wrong!”

  Mac’s gaze returned to Grace, but this time another figure caught his attention, too. A lone man dressed in dark colors sat in a dim corner. He was tall and bony, angular, but his size wasn’t what drew Mac’s attention, it was the way his gaze stayed riveted on Grace, who was in the process of receiving her third lei. The man’s right hand rested in his jacket pocket, and the predatory expression that dominated his sharp features as he gazed at Grace sent a chill of premonition down Mac’s spine.

  Elvis managed to get back on both feet. He leaned close to Grace. It looked as though he whispered something to her. She stood abruptly, stumbling over her shopping bags, pushing on Elvis, who tripped back and collided with the microphone stand. Grace’s table went over next, the half-full bottle of red wine spraying an arc as it flew across the stage, the full glass shattering and spilling its bloodred contents on the hardwood floor. Women screamed, men yelled.

  Mac jumped to his feet. A large woman planted herself in front of him, blocking his vision. He pushed her aside in time to see Grace leave the lounge, walking stiffly in front of the man Mac had noticed just moments before, her body rigid. She wasn’t carrying her shopping bags. Elvis called out at her to come back as the bartender hustled into the fray in an attempt to straighten things out.

  Mac only noticed these last few things out of his peripheral vision as his attention was now focused on getting past the large woman who had once again assumed her former position. As he sidled past her, he kept an eye on Grace and her companion. He expected them to turn left, toward the corridor that led back upstairs to the main lobby and the guest rooms.

  But they didn’t. Turning right, the man opened the glass door and ushered Grace outside. He stayed so close to her that there was no way to separate them without risking Grace. Mac had seen similar scenarios often enough to put two and two together. Grace wasn’t being given a choice where to go or with whom.

  She was being forced outside. And he’d bet the farm her abductor pressed a gun against her ribs.

  Mac pulled his five-shot revolver from its holster as he slid out the door after them, sticking close to the side of the building, avoiding the light that poured from the restaurant windows. The lightweight .38 carried a big bullet and an even bigger kick. He knew his firing options were limited. He searched the sidewalk ahead until he saw two people walking toward the rear of the complex.

  Plans hatched and fizzled in Mac’s brain as he kept to the shadows, trailing them. He thought about his grandiose plans to trap the guy and make him tell them what he knew. But how did you trap someone who’d already snapped up the bait?

  There was no time to call for help, no time to do anything but follow and wait for an opportunity to get Grace away from her abductor.

  It appeared as though Grace was being directed to the employee parking lot out back. If the abdu
ctor had parked back there, he would no doubt force Grace into his car. Mac couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen.

  They’d pulled far enough ahead that Mac chanced breaking into a run, crouching low. He circled the line of cars, then dropped to his stomach and peered beneath half a dozen parked vehicles. The pavement was wet, the light was terrible. He heard the clacking sound of Grace’s heels before he actually saw two pairs of feet materialize a few cars down.

  A car door opened. The man’s voice was low and insistent, Grace’s higher pitched but just as determined. She seemed to be arguing with the man about getting in the car.

  Good for you. Make a little noise, cover my approach…

  He slowly began edging his way closer, determined that Grace not enter that car. Statistics proved her best chance for survival was to resist being driven away. And her chances got even better when you factored in her wild card: him.

  Peeking over the giant fin of a very old Cadillac, he saw something that gave him hope. The abductor pointed a knife at Grace. Not a gun, a knife. An ugly knife, to be sure, one with a long blade that must be scaring the daylights out of Grace. He glanced at her face, and felt both alarm and pride. She looked absolutely terrified, but she also looked angry.

  Mac took aim at the man’s forehead, but before he could squeeze off a shot, another noise sounded in the parking lot behind him. The abductor apparently heard it, too. Ducking his head behind Grace’s head, his left arm snaked around her waist and yanked her against his body while his right hand held the knife against her throat, the blade gleaming in the distant overhead lights.

  Mac kept his eyes on his target. He could hear footsteps approaching, but he dared not turn. If the approaching figure was an accomplice of the abductor’s, Mac figured he might relax his hold on Grace and move his head into clear range. As soon as that happened, Mac planned on shooting him.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  As gunfire came from behind Mac, Grace’s assailant released her. She disappeared down between the cars, out of view. Mac couldn’t tell if she’d been shot or not. Meanwhile, the knifeman yelled. More bullets flew. The knifeman took off at a run in the opposite direction. Pounding footsteps behind Mac suggested the gunman was in hot pursuit.