One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2) Page 11

  “So?”

  “So, I appreciate what you’re doing. Part of this is my fault, really, because I keep letting you help me. But you’re off the hook now.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you can stop looking out for me,” she said. “I’ve decided to hire a professional bodyguard. I called Marco Juarez this evening and asked him to put me in touch with someone up here who can protect me until I figure out what to do about this mess.”

  “Celie—”

  She held up a hand. “It’s my problem. Not yours. You don’t need to worry anymore. You can get back to your job and your social life and everything you were doing before you found out I was in Austin.”

  He stood up. “Is that what you want?” His voice was tight, like he was talking through clenched teeth.

  “Yes.”

  He looked down at her for a moment before walking to the doorway. He paused with his back to her. “When do you plan to hire this person?”

  She sighed. “Tomorrow. First thing in the morning.”

  “Fine. I’ll take you to wherever it is.”

  “It’s okay. Dax can drive me.” She hoped.

  John shook his head. “Great. Terrific.”

  “McAllister—”

  “I’ll be on your couch.” He yanked the door shut behind him.

  Kate found him camped out with his laptop at the Starbucks closest to City Hall. John was battling a cigarette craving and concluding that a double venti espresso was a piss-poor substitute.

  She sat down on the arm of his chair. “You haven’t been at the office in days. If it weren’t for your byline, I’d have thought you walked off the job.”

  John had spent the better part of the week at City Hall chasing down stories. Or at The Ale House. Now that Celie had her bodyguard, he limited himself to driving by her building once a night like the pathetic loser that he was. All he’d learned from his reconnaissance missions was that Celie probably had insomnia. He’d caught the bluish flicker of her television in the living room window well after midnight.

  And with Celie unable to sleep, John’s nights were shot to hell, too. He was running on caffeine and raw frustration. And now he had Kate Kepler in his face looking primed for battle.

  John downed his last sip of coffee. “What’s up, Kate?”

  She was dressed conservatively today in a tailored black pantsuit. Definitely not her usual.

  “I’ve got a meeting with Wozniak this afternoon,” she said, referring to the news editor. “I’m going to try and convince him to assign me the Saledo story, including the Strickland homicide follow-ups and anything else that arises.”

  He noted her rigid posture, the stubborn set of her jaw. Her chin tilted up slightly, like she was daring him to challenge her.

  “You sure you want to do that?” he asked. “The drug beat could be hazardous to your health.”

  Her nostrils flared. “What, you think I should stick to school-board meetings and human interest crap? You don’t think a woman can handle crime stories?”

  John had a hard time thinking of Kate as a woman. Yes, she had a nice, lithe little body under those unisex clothes she always wore. But she was fresh out of college and totally green.

  “So what do you need from me?” John asked, although he was pretty certain he already knew.

  “I need you to back off,” she said firmly. “Wozniak’s dying to let you take over because you’re more experienced and you won all those awards when you lived down in the valley. I need you to step aside so he’ll give me a chance.”

  She suddenly reminded him of Feenie Juarez. God save him from feisty young feminists who wanted to prove themselves.

  “Fine,” he said. “Have at it.” In reality, it didn’t matter what he said. If the Strickland homicide turned into a series about the Saledo cartel, Kate would be off the story in no time. Yes, it was probably sexism, but Wozniak typically assigned the hardcore news stuff to the men on staff.

  But hey, if Kate wanted to think John was doing her a favor, who was he to set her straight?

  She looked shocked, then suspicious. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. The story’s yours. I don’t want anything to do with Manny Saledo or Robert Strickland or the whole freaking crew. I’m sticking to City Hall.”

  She regarded him skeptically for a few moments. “You’re seeing that woman, aren’t you? You’ve got a conflict of interest.”

  He did, but not like she thought. His conflict involved his interest and Celie’s complete lack thereof.

  He checked his watch. He needed to get going so he could catch the mayor on his way to a late lunch. John had spent half an hour yesterday sweet-talking the man’s admin into giving him a peek at today’s schedule. The actual schedule, not the one his office normally released to the media. And if he didn’t hustle now, he’d miss his shot at an exclusive quote.

  He stood up and stretched. “Gotta run, Kate. Anything else you need?”

  She stared up at him, not at all intimidated by his towering over her. He admired her spunk. Too bad she was a decade too young for him. Despite what Celie thought, John no longer dated girls just out of college.

  She tipped her head to the side. “Are you okay? You don’t seem like your usual self.”

  “Oh, yeah? And what would that be?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Energetic. Charming. Cocky as hell.”

  “That’s my usual self?” How would she know? He’d met her only a few months ago.

  “I just expected you to put up a fight. You know, everyone says you’re persistent. The King of Cling.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, well. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I’m not disappointed. Just surprised.”

  Maybe that was his problem. The King of Cling had given up too soon. He was exceptionally good at waiting people out, but when it came to Celie, he’d gotten frustrated and thrown in the towel.

  He picked up his computer bag and took a long, hard look at Kate. The girl was perceptive. And gutsy. She’d make a good reporter if she could keep herself out of trouble.

  “Be careful, Kate. And if you ever cross paths with Saledo’s people, be very careful.”

  “I will,” she said much too quickly.

  “I mean it, Kate. Watch out. Those guys don’t fuck around.”

  T-Bone escorted Celie down the hallway and unlocked her door. In keeping with the routine they’d established, he entered the apartment first, conducted a search of all the rooms, and then nodded when it was clear.

  “Thanks, Tom.” Celie had made a point of learning her bodyguard’s real name. She couldn’t bring herself to actually address someone as “T-Bone.” It sounded like something from professional wrestling. But he’d come highly recommended by Marco, so Celie wasn’t about to complain.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then? Ten o’clock?”

  “Yup,” T-Bone answered in his usual monosyllable.

  In the morning he’d pick her up for class in his gray Ford Expedition with tinted windows. The SUV was just right for blending in around town. Unlike T-Bone himself, who had a bleach blond crew cut and looked like an ad for Gold’s Gym. His biceps were as big as Celie’s thighs and just a tad firmer.

  “Have a nice evening, then,” Celie said.

  She locked up behind him. Now she was home. Again. For the third afternoon in a row.

  After seeing Celie’s face Tuesday, Chantal had given her the week off. Apparently the pistol-whipped look wasn’t what Chantal wanted her staffers projecting to the Bluebonnet House clientele.

  So for the past week, Celie had spent her mornings on campus with T-Bone and her afternoons and evenings at her apartment, diligently getting ahead on her assignments. She’d also organized her closets, given herself daily pedicures, and logged a zillion miles on the stationary bike downstairs.

  She was ready to scream.

  Celie dropped into an armchair and checked her watch. It was
just after five. She’d spent the afternoon in the library researching a term paper and still hadn’t managed to use up the day. She kicked off her sandals and resigned herself to another wasted hour of channel surfing.

  The phone rang. It was probably her mother, and Celie wasn’t up for a conversation right now. She let her answering machine pick it up and listened as her cheerful voice filled the apartment, telling someone to please leave a message.

  “Hey, bitch.”

  She bolted out of her chair.

  “I know you’re home, so listen up.” It was Goatee Man. Celie’s blood chilled as his voice surrounded her. “We haven’t found shit, so we’re coming to you. Two hundred grand, cash.”

  Her breath shallowed as his voice droned on. “You have a week. Bring it to me under the Lake Austin Bridge, south side. Next Thursday night at eleven. And come alone. If I see a cop or a boyfriend, you’re dead. And then we go visit your parents in Mayfield.”

  Click.

  She glanced at the windows. The blinds were closed, but they were watching her house. She backed deeper into the living room and sank onto the couch.

  Thursday night. Two hundred thousand. It was impossible.

  They knew about her family.

  Sort of. Her mom lived in Mayfield, but she’d been a widow for years, ever since Celie’s dad had had a heart attack at fifty-five.

  Could they be bluffing?

  A buzzer sounded, and Celie jumped to her feet. Were they here ? She went to the intercom, but hesitated. After a moment, she pressed the button and waited.

  Nothing.

  “Ms. Wells?” Terrance’s familiar voice finally crackled over the speaker. “Ms. Wells, you there? I’ve got a John McAllister down here. Ms. Wells, can you hear?”

  John McAllister. Or someone claiming to be John McAllister.

  She cleared her throat. “Uh, I can hear you. Could you put him on, please?”

  A brief pause and then, “Celie, it’s me. Can I come up?”

  She’d never been so glad to hear a man’s voice.

  McAllister looked almost comical squeezed into her rental car with his knees folded up near his chest. But the grim set of his mouth told Celie he wasn’t feeling amused.

  He was angry. Livid. He’d hardly said two words since she’d played back the message for him.

  “You really think this is safe?” Celie asked, stopping at a light.

  McAllister looked at the side mirror. “They want you to deliver them two hundred grand next Thursday. This is probably the safest you’ve been all week.”

  It sounded logical. And Lord knew she was desperate for a break from her apartment. But it felt strange going out without T-Bone around.

  “I’ve got a gun in my purse,” she blurted out.

  McAllister’s head snapped around. “You’re shitting me.”

  She gave him a look that said, no, she wasn’t shitting him, and she also didn’t like his language.

  “Sorry. Jesus. I just never thought…Do you even know how to use it?”

  Not at all. She’d bought the .38 revolver last summer at Wal-Mart, but for the past ten months it had lived in a shoebox, untouched. “I’m pretty rusty.”

  He eyed her purse on the floor at her feet. “Is it loaded?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What the fuck is it, exactly?”

  “Please stop cursing.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Are there bullets inside it or not?”

  “They’re zipped into the side pocket of my purse.”

  He shook his head and looked out the window. “You’re taking a left here.”

  Celie turned onto another curvy two-lane road. They passed private drive after private drive—all tucked discretely behind huge live oak trees—until they neared the base of the hill.

  “West Hills Marina?”

  “I keep my boat here.” He gave her a look that dared her to object. “I’ve had a hell of a week, and so have you. We need to get out on the lake.”

  She slid through the wrought-iron gate and parked between two Suburbans. She gazed past a row of cypresses and weeping willows and caught a peek of glistening water. “I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” she said.

  “No problem. I’ve got an extra on board.”

  She shot him a withering look.

  “It’s my sister’s,” he said. “She and her kids were up here a few weekends ago, and I took them tubing. She’s about your size. You’ll be fine.”

  Yeah, great. She wanted him to look at her and think of his sister. She’d stick with her jeans and sleeveless button down. At least her shirt was white, which shouldn’t be too hot.

  McAllister levered himself out of the Aveo, then scooped her purse off the floor and shouldered it. He looked funny standing there in his Levi’s and cowboy boots, with a woman’s handbag dangling at his side, but he clearly didn’t trust her with it.

  Celie grabbed her sunglasses from the cup holder and got out. “So, this is a picnic?”

  He reached into the backseat and gathered up his purchases from the convenience store where they’d stopped a few minutes before. “I bought sandwiches and chips. And I hope you like beer.”

  “Water?” she asked hopefully.

  He paused. “Shit. Shoot. No water. But I might have some stored on the boat.”

  He led her across the gravel lot, through a gate, and across a patch of grass to the water’s edge. The entire marina was shaded by a canopy of trees. A weathered wooden dock stretched the length of the waterfront, with twenty or so boat slips jutting out from it. Most of the boats were tucked neatly under canvas covers.

  She trailed him down the dock, and he glanced at her over his shoulder. “How’s work going?”

  “Chantal gave me the week off.”

  “Good for her. You could use it.”

  McAllister stopped in front of one of the boats and placed his bags on the dock. He untied the canvas cover, revealing a sporty red ski boat. A babe magnet, of course. What else would he have? He’d probably taken dozens of bikini-clad women out on this thing. She imagined their coy little giggles as he slathered them with suntan oil.

  We are so not compatible, she thought, picking up her purse.

  “What’s wrong?” He was standing on the bow now, holding a coil of rope.

  “Nothing. It’s just smaller than I expected.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, but she’s fast.”

  Of course she was.

  Celie stepped aboard and looked for a place to stash her purse. She tried the glossy teak cabinets. The first one was packed with life jackets, and the second held an expensive-looking stereo. She opened the third and found a fully stocked bar.

  “Is there anywhere I can put this?”

  He finished untying a line. “Sure, here.” He hopped down from the bow and opened the cabinet closest to the captain’s seat. “Stow it in there.”

  She crouched down to shove it inside.

  “Wait.” He took the purse from her, unzipped it, and pulled out the sleek silver .38. With a few deft movements, he flipped the gun over in his hand, checked the cylinder—which was empty—and returned it to her purse. “Here,” he said, handing her the bag.

  “I was just thinking. Maybe we should—”

  “I’ve got it covered.”

  “You’re armed ? Where?”

  He tugged up the leg of his jeans, and she saw the bulge in his scuffed brown cowboy boot.

  “Great,” she said. “And here I was wondering why you weren’t wearing swim trunks.”

  “I wasn’t planning on coming out here today.” He raised an eyebrow. “But I’ve never been big on swimsuits, so if you want to take a dip later—”

  “I’ll pass.” Definitely. Skinny-dipping was for skinny people.

  She settled into the passenger seat and waited as McAllister did some things to the engine. His movements were smooth and efficient, like he’d done this countless times. The process seemed to relax him, and he no longer had that look on his face li
ke he was ready to deck someone.

  After flipping some switches near the steering wheel, he turned the key, and the engine hummed to life. He expertly maneuvered the boat backward out of the slip and pointed it toward the sun.

  “Hold on,” he said, and punched the throttle forward. The bow popped up, and soon they were skimming along on the water at a rapid pace. Celie’s hair whipped into her eyes, and she dug a rubber band out of her pocket to secure it back.

  “How long have you had a boat on Lake Austin?” she yelled over the noise.

  “Since I got here.”

  Many of the lakes in central Texas had been created by damming the lower Colorado River. Both Town Lake and Lake Austin were long and narrow, like rivers. Towering trees and squatty houses flew by as McAllister overtook ski boats and wave runners. He was going fast and seemed to like it. His face looked serene as he stood at the helm.

  The late afternoon sun warmed Celie’s shoulders, and she tipped her head up toward the sky. It must be nice to have hobbies. Ever since she’d moved here, her life had been consumed with classes and the Bluebonnet House and endless doctor appointments. She’d had an appointment on Christmas Day, for heaven’s sake. And even now that the treatments had ceased, she was still busy with work and school, still spent most of her Saturdays at the library on campus. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done anything to unwind, particularly outdoors.

  She looked at McAllister. Ten minutes zooming through the water and he looked like himself again—relaxed, strong, supremely confident. She suddenly felt this overwhelming fondness for him. Where had that come from? She’d been lusting after him since Feenie’s wedding, but now she was starting to like him, too. It was a dangerous combination.

  He glanced at her and smiled. “What?”

  “You look good.”

  His expression turned quizzical.

  “I mean it,” she said. “You’re a natural out here, and you obviously love it.”

  His smile faded, and she wondered what she’d said. Probably something that reminded them why they were here. The real reason. Celie knew they were heading west, toward the bridge over Lake Austin.

  She dragged her attention away from McAllister, and, sure enough, the giant brown arches came into view. They weren’t here to picnic, but to scope out the drop site. The bridge loomed larger and larger until they were nearly under it. McAllister slowed abruptly and shifted into idle. When the engine quieted, she could hear the rush of traffic on Highway 360 above them. The boat drifted into the bridge’s cool shadow.