I'll Find You Page 8

  She nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Say it!”

  “Yes, Messiah. I understand,” Teresa said woodenly, the words ashes in her mouth.

  He eyed her with suspicion but Teresa pretended not to notice.

  “Make it happen tonight.”

  On leaden feet, Teresa went to the closet she shared with Jerrilyn, passing by Naomi, who gave her a sympathetic look that Teresa knew to be a fake. None of them cared a whit about any of the others.

  She took a shower, dried her hair, and applied a thick coating of foundation, then overplayed her eyeliner, lashes, and lipstick. She added a liberal coating of blush as well. She knew enough about Robert Lumpkin from what Daniella had described over the last several years to suspect he wanted pizzazz over elegance. “His eyes are all over my tits every time I hand him the rent,” she’d said, “and he always waits to close the door when I’m leaving. I looked back once. His eyes were glued to my ass. He’s round and losing his hair, which he’s got in a comb-over. He’s pathetic and he knows it.”

  Subtlety would not be the way to go to catch his attention.

  When Teresa was ready, she sat down at the table where they took all their meals. It could be a long wait, depending on when Lumpkin decided to leave his mother’s house. Maybe it wouldn’t even happen today, but in any case she had to be ready at a moment’s notice.

  As she sat there, she felt a slow, heavy beat begin inside her chest. It was a familiar friend. Oh, she could posture all she wanted, she could feel the throb of anticipation. Adrenaline junkie. That’s what she was, and though she never, ever wanted to hurt an innocent, the thought of taking care of an asshole like Robert Lumpkin got her juices flowing.

  Raising her eyes, she saw that Andre was watching her across the table, his arms crossed over his chest. As if he knew what she was feeling, he smiled with approval.

  I’m leaving you, she thought. For good this time. It’s not the same anymore.

  You’re not the same.

  But she smiled back in understanding, letting him believe she was back in the fold. And just because she resented having to do his bidding one last time didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy it. She would just do it her way.

  Callie stepped off the ferry into long afternoon shadows. Her apartment wasn’t near the pier so she gazed around for a taxi, lifting her arm and shading her eyes against the sun. West Laughlin was going to have a cow when he realized she was gone.

  “He’s going to think you’re Teresa again,” she said aloud, dropping her arm.

  Though she was desperate to find Tucker, she had to hold herself back, think it through. It was best if she stayed away from him with West Laughlin circling around, unless she got there right now, before West had time to get back to Fort-de-France.

  But maybe he already has.

  She hesitated in indecision. A cab ride would be quicker than the ferry, which trundled along on its own schedule. It would be better if she didn’t go anywhere near her apartment. The chance of running into West or Tucker was too great. Maybe she could walk around for a while, go to a different hotel somewhere nearby.

  She thought longingly of her cell phone, tossed into the back of one of her drawers. But who would she call anyway? William? He wouldn’t be interested in anything but getting her back to LA to deal with the ever-clamoring Cantrells. Jonathan had made out a will and left everything to Sean, but it had bounced back to Callie when Sean had died at the same time. There hadn’t been any peace from Derek or Diane ever since, but too damn bad. She hadn’t much cared at the time; she didn’t care much now.

  She realized how much she’d been cut off from people she knew. Friends whom she’d let drift away when she’d followed blindly after Bryan to Los Angeles. People she’d met from work whom she’d lost contact with after she married Jonathan. She was alone to fight her own battles . . . and possibly Tucker’s.

  Should she go to his house? She wanted to confront Aimee, but she could unknowingly lead West Laughlin right to Tucker.

  She was walking through the crowded pier, getting jostled by elbows. She felt a particularly hard shove and suddenly her bag wasn’t on her arm. She grabbed at it instinctively, catching a handle, and realized a young man was holding onto the other side and trying to yank it from her grasp. “Hey!” she yelled, shocked, jerking back with all her might. “Stop! Thief!”

  The boy let go and ran as people turned and stared. Shaken, Callie clutched the bag close to her chest. She’d always known to be careful in the crowds. She’d heard tales of wharf rats stealing purses, cell phones, and passports. It was a hazard in most crowded tourist areas.

  She was lucky she still had her carryall, ID, credit cards, and the bracelet. Quickly, frantically, she searched through the carryall, her hands clasping over the hard-edged gems. Thank you, God. Her pounding heart threatened to overtake her. Feeling weak, she walked to a bench on the edge of the pier. Maybe the bracelet was safer on her arm. It had a hidden clasp that had to be undone to release it. It seemed counterintuitive, but her carryall was like a beacon to would-be thieves. Carefully, watching the people strolling by, she slipped the bracelet back on her arm, clasped it, and then kept touching it to make sure it was there, clutching the carryall to her chest. She needed to go home. Needed to pull herself together. No more walking aimlessly around.

  She needed a ride home and for that she had to get to the main street and access to a taxi. At this time of day, rush hour, it was difficult to walk to her apartment. Weaving her way through the sauntering crowd, she held tight to her carryall, her arm imprisoning it close to her body. There was no reason to feel so paranoid about Tucker, she reminded herself. He was safe, well, and very possibly loitering impatiently around her apartment. She’d promised him a treat from the bakery and he was unlikely to forget even though the pastry was crushed and left on the pavement.

  It took a while to work her way from the pier and pedestrians, reach the street, and lift an arm for a taxi. It was a hopeless gesture. The traffic whizzing down the four-lane street wouldn’t slow down for anything short of a ten-car pile-up. Callie gritted her teeth and waited for the traffic light to change. She wasn’t near a crosswalk, but if she could make her way to the median in the center, then hurry across the other lanes, she could get to the taxi stand.

  The light changed from green to yellow, then to red. She gripped her carryall tighter, waiting for the traffic to slow. It seemed to take an eternity. Finally she dared to step off the curb, only to be blasted by a dozen horns, the driver nearest shaking his fist outside the window and yelling at her in rapid-fire French.

  Ignoring him, Callie darted between the cars, reached the median, glanced toward the traffic light, and saw it change to green again.

  “Hey! You!”

  The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She whipped around, certain it was West.

  But no, another driver was jabbing his finger in the direction of the light, his face a dark scowl. Not heeding his warning, she quickly zigzagged her way through the other cars before they got into gear.

  She cut across the park on the edge of the outdoor tourist market to the small, in-cut road used as a taxi station. The station was empty.

  Forced to wait or walk up the hill alone, Callie wrapped her arms around herself and tried not to pace. A chill had settled between her shoulder blades though the temperature was still warm. She shot a glance back toward the ferry dock and got a jolt when she saw a man looking up at her through binoculars.

  West. No. Just a tourist.

  “Bonsoir, Madame.”

  She nearly jumped from her skin at the friendly greeting. A tall, silver-haired gentleman in a suit stood beside her, and she smiled faintly as she realized he, too, was waiting for a taxi.

  “Bonsoir,” she answered.

  “You’re American,” he said in a French accent, and Callie only nodded. The last thing she wanted was to get embroiled in a conversation with a st
ranger.

  All she could think about was Tucker.

  “You are alone,” he said with obvious concern, and for once Callie grew impatient with the gallantry of the French.

  “Not really alone. Just on my way home. I’ve been . . . shopping.”

  He glanced at her plastic bag, and Callie remembered what she looked like: torn, dirty, and scraped. Though she’d brushed the dust off her arms and legs, the grime on her white dress was distinguishable even beneath the shadows of the tall buildings.

  And her hair. It would be a miracle if she ever got the tangles out. With sinking realization she wondered if he could see the bruise developing on her jaw.

  She opened her mouth to come up with some explanation just as a taxi slipped into the narrow roadway.

  “Please.” The gentleman gestured her forward, opening the taxi door for her.

  Callie gave him a slight nod and slid into the seat of the taxi. “I live up the hill,” she said to the driver, bending forward so he could hear her over the noise. She pointed in the direction she meant.

  The driver nodded his understanding. The silver-haired gentleman lifted a hand and said, “Au revoir, jolie femme.”

  Callie smiled. “Merci, au revoir,” she said out the window, then the taxi was speeding away from the curb and the city of Fort-de-France.

  Good-bye, pretty woman. She doubted she looked all that pretty right now.

  Safe inside the vehicle, she felt close to exhaustion. Away from West Laughlin’s powerful influence she realized what a bully he’d been, forcing himself on her like that. She was glad to be away from him. Hoped to hell he couldn’t find her again.

  “Go back to LA,” Callie muttered aloud.

  “Eh?” The taxi driver cocked his head.

  “Nothing. Turn right . . . there.”

  The taxi swung into the narrow cobblestone street that fronted her building. Callie paid the fare with a surreptitious glance in both directions. No one there, thank God.

  Quickly, she crossed the street and let herself inside. No small boy greeted her as she mounted the stairs, and though she knew she should be relieved that Tucker wasn’t waiting outside her apartment, her heart was curiously heavy as she unlocked her apartment door and closed it gently behind her.

  The silence of the pastel-green rooms enveloped her. A silence she’d grown familiar with. She headed straight for the shower, stripping off her clothes and turning on the spray as hot as she could get it, which wasn’t saying a lot. She stood under the showering water until it was too cold to stand any longer.

  Drying off, she wrapped her hair in the towel, then walked to the mirror above the chipped, white bureau. Naked, she could see every bruise and cut. Had that just happened this morning? It already felt like a lifetime ago.

  Opening the bureau drawer she dug through her shorts and tops to find the cell phone and checked to see if it was charged. Barely, but enough for what she needed. She placed a call and when it was picked up, said, “Hello, Angie. It’s Callie Cantrell. Is William in?”

  Chapter Six

  West waited in the shadows of Callie’s street. He’d seen the taxi turn the corner and drop her off but he’d stayed hidden in the alcove of the front door of one of the buildings. He couldn’t see which exact building she’d entered, but he knew it was one of three. As the cab left he moved from his hiding spot, his shoes scuffing on the uneven cobblestones. It was dark and quiet along the street, the sultry evening air heavy with the smell of frying fish and the omnipresent tang of brine lifting off the bay.

  He barely noticed. He was in a sullen rage that was almost entirely self-directed. Almost because a portion of his anger was meant for Callie Cantrell. A muscle jerked beside his jaw. Whoever the hell she was, she had something to hide, and she’d played him but good. It wasn’t often he found himself in this position. He was a pretty damn effective investigator and the fact he’d begun to believe her, against all signs to the contrary, stung mightily.

  But hell . . . he had to let that go.

  A light from a third-floor window switched on, spilling a trail of illumination over a wrought-iron balcony and into the street. West’s eyes were irresistibly drawn. He inhaled a sharp breath when he saw a female silhouette inside before the tiny gap in the curtains was twitched shut.

  Callie . . .

  He pressed himself back into the alcove. She hadn’t seen him and he wasn’t about to give himself away now, not yet. Not until he’d had some time to think.

  He was aware that at that moment his interest in her was dangerous. Somehow she’d gotten under his skin in a way he would not have believed possible. A hot awareness licked through him that he recognized as the early stages of desire and he wondered about his own sanity. He had a new understanding as to why his brother had been so enamored of Teresa. Callie might not be Teresa, but she looked just like her. And maybe she knew Teresa, maybe had even posed as her once or twice? There was some reason they were practically twins and both connected to Martinique.

  Whatever the case, the woman on the third floor was involved up to her eyebrows, at least at some level; he could feel it.

  Callie ran the brush through her wet hair, shooting a glance at the cell phone she’d carelessly tossed on the bed. William had been on another line, and though Angie had assured her he was very eager to talk to her and would she please, please, please stay on the line, Callie told her to have him call her back. She’d put on another sundress, this one a pale pink that didn’t clash with her hair.

  Setting down the brush, she walked into the living room, lost in thought. Her eye fell on the tiny gap in the balcony curtains and she stepped forward and switched them closed at the same moment her cell phone started ringing. She hurried back and picked it up on the fourth ring.

  “William,” she greeted him, but that’s all she got out before he ran her over.

  “You said you wanted the estate all wrapped up, but there are papers you need to sign to finalize the transfer to Diane and Derek.”

  “I thought I signed everything.”

  “We need to straighten this out,” he said, sounding on his own path. “Your belongings are still in the house.”

  “I know.” She could imagine Diane and Derek having conniption fits about not being able to take possession of the house. “I’ve just got a few things to wrap up, and I’ll be back.”

  “Have you spoken to Dr. Rasmussen?”

  Callie tried to hide her impatience. Bringing up her psychiatrist was a calculated move on his part. “I am better, William.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “I’ll see her when I get back, but being here’s been the best thing for me. William, listen,” she said before he could hit her with anything else. “Can you find out some information for me about a family named Laughlin who live somewhere around the LA area, I think? Victoria Laughlin is the matriarch. She had a grandson named Stephen who’s deceased, and another named West who was with the LAPD up until recently.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I just do. I promise I’ll be back soon, but if you could find out anything. Google the names, maybe. I don’t have Internet service.”

  There was a hesitation and she could picture him smoothing the sides of his silver hair. “Sure, I can do that. Is there something I can tell Derek and Diane?”

  “Tell them I’ll be there soon,” she stated flatly.

  “Did you know Jonathan took out a mortgage on the house?” he suddenly put in.

  “Yes. He took care of all the finances, but yes. He told me about the mortgage.”

  “You know he wasn’t really in a position to mortgage the house,” William said. “Legally, the house was in his name, but it should have been in the family trust.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “Find the paperwork, when you get back. That’s what you can do. There was a . . . well, I don’t want to call it a mistake, because we really don’t know what Conrad had in mind, but J
onathan shouldn’t have been able to take out that mortgage.”

  “All right, I will.” She just wanted to get off the phone now.

  “I wasn’t the attorney when Jonathan’s father was alive, but Derek and Diane always had the understanding that the family home was theirs along with Jonathan, and if any of them were deceased, it would not go to their spouses or heirs.”

  “I know.” Callie resisted the temptation to snap back at him. “I’ll take care of it all.”

  “So, you aren’t aware of what Jonathan did with the money he borrowed?”

  “You would know better than I.” William’s firm, along with the Cantrells’ CPA, had filed their tax return and all the requisite forms.

  “Maybe he made an investment of some kind?”

  “If he did I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Possibly there’s a separate bank account?”

  “If I knew anything, I’d tell you. Jonathan didn’t share. You know that.”

  “I do. But I’d like to avert a lawsuit between Derek and Diane and you.”

  “They’re threatening to sue?” She was taken aback. She’d done everything they’d asked of her and more, and she hadn’t left until the last t was crossed, the last i dotted, or so she’d thought. They think I took the money, she realized and felt her cheeks warm with anger.

  “We’re just looking for the paper trail.”

  “Maybe he spent the money,” she tossed out. “He liked nice things.”

  “When you get back, maybe you could check his papers again.”

  “Sure.” As if she hadn’t checked and checked and checked. But this conversation would keep going in circles if she let it, and she wasn’t interested in continuing. “See what you can find on the Laughlins. Thanks. Bye.”

  She clicked off, irked, then made herself think about leaving Martinique and going back to LA. Her chest tightened. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Tucker, and how could she go now anyway, when West Laughlin constituted a threat to him?

  She paced to the balcony, then back across the room. Was West out there somewhere, even now, waiting for her to show him the way to Tucker’s?