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She took the phone.

For ten minutes she listened while Noah watched, his face deepening with concern. April was mad, bossy, worried, mad again, and . . . she’d be here tomorrow. But not Cornie—thank God, not Cornie.

When she clicked off, Phylly, knowing she couldn’t trust her legs, did not rise from her chair. She knew, from looking at Noah, her face must have paled to an ashen white even her makeup couldn’t hide. Could April be right? Was it her Castor had come after?

“Phylly, what’s wrong?”

Looking away, still gripping the phone, she started, “It’s not about me, it’s—” she stopped, knowing that what she had to tell him would show her for what she was: A fool, a thief, and a blackmailer. But knowing, too, that either she told him or April would. Still, it was as if her mouth was fused shut.

Noah, who’d been standing over her, took her hands and urged her up from the chair. He led her to the gray leather sofa facing the dark fireplace. Chance, who’d been playing dead-dog in front of the fireplace since they’d started dinner, lifted his head at their arrival, but when no attention came his way, he went back to dog sprawl.

When Phylly was settled on one end of the sofa, Noah took the other, and said one word: “Go.”

Where to start
. . . “I came here because there was a . . . man after me. I thought—”

He waited.

She took a breath. “I took something—a long time ago. A journal. I thought that’s what he was after, because I didn’t think . . . I didn’t think the other thing mattered. Not anymore. Not after all this time.”

“What other thing?”

“The girl I took—and kept.”

“You kidnapped a child.” Surprisingly, his voice was calm.

She swallowed. “Not exactly. It was more of a . . . rescue thing, a kidnapping from the kidnappers.” She was botching it, like she knew she would. “That was her on the phone.”

His eyes widened briefly.

“It was over twenty years ago.” She massaged her tense neck.

“Before me.”

“Before you.” She rubbed her hand on the arm of the sofa. “I, uh, usually kept her separate. You know . . .” While her words trailed off, he drew in a deep breath.

“From whatever man you were seeing.”

She nodded. “She was just a kid. I thought it was best.”

“Depending on how many men there were, I’d say that was a wise idea.” He turned his head away for a moment and rubbed his chin. When he turned back he gave no hint of what he was feeling. What he was thinking. “But that’s not the whole story, is it?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then start at the beginning and don’t stop until you get to the end.”

She got to her feet, walked to the window, and looked out on what looked to be an angry wind. It was dark now and the rain was hitting Noah’s glass house in intermittent shots as if it were a lover throwing pebbles.

Putting her hands flat to the glass, she rested her forehead against its hard, cool surface.

Yes, Phylly, start talking and keep talking—until he hates you. Until he sees you for what you are: A selfish, vain woman who’s lived most of her life as if it were a party and she was the A-list guest; a woman who’s known too many men, and was too dumb to say yes to the one man she’d ever come close to loving. A woman who’d kept his smart, beautiful daughter a secret from him for fifteen years. Her breath stopped. That part she’d save for later—or not at all.

She took her hands, chilled now, from the window and faced him, rubbing her upper arms. “When I was in my early twenties I was a lap dancer at a club in Seattle. I met a man named Victor Allan.” She took a breath. “He was rich. I was young, vain, and unbelievably stupid . . .”

For an hour Noah listened, his face impassive. Whatever affect her miserable story had on him, she had no idea. Occasionally he asked a question, with a who, what, or when lead-in, but he never commented beyond that. By the time she’d finished dredging up Victor Allan, the ugliness called Henry Castor, and her friend Rusty’s death, she was spent, a rag doll—minus the stuffing. Nothing she said made her look good—or feel better. She sat down, taking the seat she’d left when she started her sorry-assed saga. Noah got up, went to get them both a glass of wine, and joined her on the sofa.

“That was tough,” he said.

Gratefully, she sipped the wine. “Yes, it was—and if you want me to go, I’ll get my things.”

He looked genuinely perplexed. “Why would I want you to go?”

She shook her head, weary now. “Oh, I don’t know, Noah. Maybe because I’m a fucked-up woman who stole a kid, property that wasn’t mine—”

“The blackmailer’s journal.”

She nodded, added, “And to cap it off, I did a little blackmailing myself. Could I have been more stupid?”

“On that issue, probably not. Big mistake.” He sat with his arm along the back of the sofa, his other hand balancing the wineglass on his thigh.

“I was broke—no, scratch that. I really didn’t have an excuse.”

“No, you didn’t. Like you said. Stupid.”

“Rub it in, the salt on the wound thing feels terrific.”

“What’s in the journal?”

Oh, God—she closed her eyes—the question she was dreading, coming straight from the man who she’d hoped would be the last person in the world to ask it. To top it off, she was blushing, her face as hot as the noon desert.

He tilted his head, frowned. “Phylly?”

“I don’t know what’s in the damn journal.”

Now he looked confused. “I don’t get it.”

“For one thing, I didn’t have to know what was in it. It was open on Victor’s desk the night I took April, so I grabbed it. Added insurance, I figured.” She hesitated. “To, uh, get money out of Victor. Him just knowing I had the damn thing was enough. All I did was threaten him, tell him if he didn’t pay”—she looked away briefly, ashamed—“I’d slip the journal to the cops. And I only did it twice, maybe three times max—way back—when things were tough for April and me.”

“You must have been curious?”

She shrugged, heat shooting up her neck like it was fired from a blowtorch. “Not so much.”

Noah eyed her skeptically and waited.

Shit.
She took a breath and looked him straight in the eye, tried to get past all the letters he had behind his name, past all the books he’d written, the speeches he’d given, and said, “I can’t read. All right?”

“Jesus.”

“Not that good man’s fault. My parents took me out of school in second grade.”

Noah grimaced but said nothing.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time, I guess. They passed me around to aunts, uncles, and miscellaneous cousins for odd jobs—that they collected payment for. If there was such a thing as a truant officer in Bayton, Tennessee, he never came a-calling. And if he did, chances were I was slopping hogs at Aunt Lou’s or beating rugs at cousin Ollie’s.”

“You’re kidding.” He was shocked and let it show.

She forced a grin. “I never did beat any rugs. I’m not sure any of my relatives even had them. It’s one of those metaphor things. I did the hogs, though. I kind of liked them. Maybe because they had better table manners than most other members of my family.”

He ignored her lame attempt at humor, his own expression dark, angry. “You’re telling me your parents put you out for hire—when you were eight.”

“I was tall for my age. No surprise there. One of those big strapping gals.” She got up, walked to the fireplace, gazed into its unlit black hole. “And you know, at the time

I didn’t mind so much. The bit of school I had was a disaster anyway. Like I said, I liked the pigs, and I got more creds bringing home enough to buy whiskey, chips and dip, than, as Mama said, reading some silly book.”

She looked at Noah, but had to turn away. The man looked positively traumatized.

She went on, determined to get it over with. “I split for Knoxville when I was fourteen, took off for the west coast not long after that. Never did go back.” She decided to skip the sagging middle of her story. He didn’t need to hear the section of her bio covering her street time, the clubs, the men . . . Her stomach tightened painfully. And he didn’t need to hear about her giving up the son she’d had when she was in her teens because she’d married goddamn Ivan the Terrible whose idea of Saturday night fun was giving her twin black eyes before tossing her on the floor and pulling her pants off. Something she’d put up with for four years—maybe even thought she deserved. But when he’d turned on Joey, their three-year-old son, she was out of there. Her breath snagged.
And Joey was out of my life. Forever.

Noah rose from the sofa and walked to where he could stand in front of her near the mantel. He turned her face to meet his, looked into her eyes, and used his thumbs to stroke her cheeks, just under her eyes, where despite her best efforts, a few tears had spilled. “I’m not going to ask you about the years after Knoxville. We’ll get to that later.”

Later? There was going to be a later?
Phylly wasn’t so sure about that. She took a deep breath. “There’s one other thing you should know.” Her words made her think about Cornie, and her stomach started to ache as if it were punched. Well, maybe two things, she added to herself. But for now she could find the words for only one: “April’s coming, and she’s bringing someone with her. Someone she says can help. They’ll be here tomorrow morning. She says she has a lot to tell me, but over the phone wasn’t the place to do it.”

“Considering the situation, she’s probably right.” He led her back to the sofa, and they sat together. He held her cold hands in his warm ones, massaged her knuckles. “I’m glad she’s coming. And I’m glad she’s bringing someone who can help. That makes four of us. All that brainpower, we’ll figure something out.”

Phylly didn’t feel the same. Because if April found her— thanks to Noah’s brilliant daughter rooting around in Phylly’s things—chances were, so had Castor. The name hit her chest like an ice floe. Jesus, the man had already killed Rusty; she couldn’t bear the thought of him hurting Noah. Or April if she was here. Her heart raced. She held Noah’s hands in hers and squeezed them hard.

She had to leave.

Tonight—right after she made love to Noah.

Chapter 23

Quinlan arrived at the Las Vegas Executive Airport at 8:17 P.M. Ten minutes later he was striding to where he’d told Mercy to meet him outside the terminal. He’d instructed his pilot to expect him and a guest for an early flight to Vancouver in the morning, and to arrange a charter for them from there to Tofino. Even if it were possible for his Lear to land at the miniscule airport, it would attract too much attention. Now the only item on his agenda was finalizing his disposal plans for April Worth. Mercy would assist in that—if she impressed him in person as much as she had in their arm’s-length dealings.

Q spotted the black Mercedes and walked toward it, shifting the one soft leather bag he’d brought with him from one hand to the other.

Mercy was on the driver’s side, leaning against the automobile, with her back to the terminal exit. If she were impatiently awaiting his arrival, she didn’t let on. She was on her cell phone and didn’t notice him until he’d almost reached the car.

“Mister Braid,” she said, clicking off her cell without saying goodbye, her tone cool, her words unhurried. The gaze she settled on him was oddly assessing, as though she were measuring him against preconceived judgments. Her eyes were a strange shade of blue, close to turquoise. Colored contacts, he was sure. Perhaps a crude effort at disguise. What she hadn’t tried to disguise was her near perfect body. She wore shape-hugging denim—a fabric he loathed. But at least it was high quality denim, well cut, and effective in accenting her physical potential.

He didn’t offer his hand nor did she. “Interesting to put a face to the voice I’ve heard so often on the telephone,” he said, anxious to get time-wasting pleasantries over with.

“Yes.” She barely smiled, before walking to the back of the large sedan and opening the trunk. She didn’t offer to take his bag, merely stood there waiting for him to come around and stow it. Odd that the deference so obvious on the telephone was so noticeably missing in person.

Yes, I’ll have her. Later. After everything’s in place. It will ease my tension.

While placing his bag in the trunk, he asked, “I assume you’ve made hotel reservations?”

She closed the trunk. “Yes. At Wynn. As you instructed, a midrange suite, not to attract attention.”

“Good.”

“And for only one night. I take it we’ll be leaving in the morning?”

“As early as possible.” Q walked to the car’s passenger door and got in.

When they were underway, he asked, “Have you located Joe and April Worth?”

Making a turn, she said, “They left Las Vegas today.” Having completed her turn, she cast him a quick glance. “For Seattle.”

“Seattle.” He repeated the city’s name, his blood slowing in his veins. The city he grew up in. Victor Allan’s city. The city where Q made his fortune on the weak backs of the stupid, the greedy, and the addicted—where he’d killed those who others paid to have dead. And the city he’d left as far back in his past as space and time would allow. “Why Seattle?” he asked not letting his reaction to that city’s name show.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. But it’s irrelevant. Because what I do know is that they’re headed for Tofino. Black was clear on that—and at the time he relayed that information, he was in no position to lie about it.” She lifted one shoulder, dropped it. “By the way, you’ll be interested to know there are two daughters. April, the oldest, is maybe thirty. The other is fifteen or sixteen. She left Las Vegas with them.”

This news somewhat disturbed Q. He did not like the idea of more collateral damage—too dangerous. The son was enough. But, of course, he’d do what he had to do. “And the son? What have you found out about him?”

“Nothing. No one in Las Vegas knows anything about him.”

Q frowned. He’d like to have been better briefed on this late-entry adversary. Still, when he considered the woman beside him, the hard line of her jaw, her keen intelligence and muscular physicality—her and her sister’s sterling although violent reputations, he remained unworried.