Charmed and Dangerous (13 page)

“Did you not pay attention,” Bobbie Faye had asked him afterwards, “to the fact that her dad is a
butcher
? And no one has seen her ex, what’shisname . . . Joe Thibodeaux, since Carmen caught him dithering that blonde bimbo over at the hair salon?”

He hadn’t, in fact, paid attention at all. He had not really thought he needed to. He thought everyone knew he wasn’t a forever type of guy.

He was more than worried, though, about what to do now. Eddie and The Mountain looked bored waiting for Bobbie Faye to resurface on TV or call. Eddie had already skimmed through every decorating magazine piled up on the fancy tables in the office. (He kept raving about something called “toile” and something else called “jabots” and Roy prayed to God these weren’t some kind of stealth Ninja decorating weapons.) The Mountain had finished his morning nap and was cracking his knuckles, a horrifying noise which echoed in the room with all the subtlety of breaking bones.

Vincent leaned forward, balancing his pointed chin on steepled fingers. “Tell me more about Bobbie Faye, Roy. I am intrigued.”

Roy stiffened in the chair. “Why do you want me to tell you about Bobbie Faye?” he asked Vincent.

“Entertainment, my boy. Unless you want Eddie to get bored.”

Eddie picked up his knife, pricking the edge of the blade to test its sharpness.

“Oh, no, definitely wouldn’t want Eddie to get bored.”

“Good. So. Tell me about Bobbie Faye.”

Roy thought about all the Bobbie Faye-isms, rejecting the first three stories that popped to mind from when they were kids because they all ended with Bobbie Faye beating the crap out of him for doing something incredibly stupid. The last thing Roy needed was to give Vincent any whiff of suspicion that Bobbie Faye might not be loyal or care what happened to him.

“There was this time,” he said, finally remembering a decent story, “when I was in eighth grade and Bobbie Faye was in the tenth. One day after I’d hit on one of the halfback’s girlfriends, the guy and his brother jumped me in the parking lot after school with a broken Coke bottle to my throat. The next thing I know, Bobbie Faye was standing there in front of the biggest one—he had to have weighed a good hundred-fifty pounds more than Bobbie Faye—and the only thing she had in her hand to use as a weapon was a pencil. A freakin’ pencil! But you’d never know it to see her in action. . . .”

The sound of helicopter blades drumming the air increased. The noise still seemed distant from Bobbie Faye and Trevor’s position, though at least one was sweeping toward them in ever wider circles.

“Idiots! It sounds like there’s a zillion helicopters up there,” Bobbie Faye said. “You’d think we were Bonnie and Clyde. Why the hell do they think they need so many? They’re going to run into each other and then they’re going to say it’s all my fault.”

“There are only three, right now,” Trevor said, still walking quickly ahead, avoiding clearings or paths which may have opened up the canopy above them. “There’s a Bell JetRanger, used by most media outlets. The Bell 47 up there is from
your local state police, and it sounds like there’s a Huey. Probably FBI.”

“Man, you’re just oozing the warm fuzzies. Does Hallmark know about you?”

“You’re welcome.”

“You got all of that . . . from the sound?”

“Sure.”

Bobbie Faye stopped, her suspicions confirmed. No normal guy knew that sort of stuff. She knew guys who could tell you exactly what kind of rifle may have been shot just from the sound miles away. She knew guys who could listen to the sound of a truck out on the interstate and tell someone the type of custom muffler it had, down to the year it was made. She’d even dated one guy who could freakishly distinguish the specific factory where a Harley-Davidson motorcycle was built just from the sound of its engine.

Which meant . . . he was a lot more than the good ol’ boy he had seemed at first.

“Who the hell
are
you?”

Trevor glanced over his shoulder, saw she’d stopped, and walked back to her.

“Technically, I’m your hostage.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and his touch gently skimmed along her jaw until he tapped her chin, a light, playful gesture that didn’t quite match the heat in his eyes. How on earth did this man
do
that? They were standing in the middle of a swamp, ten paces from a dead snake and probably a helluva lot closer to live ones than she wanted to think about, and he had her thinking of soft beds or long stretches of empty beach or lazy hammocks under the stars, all featuring the words “naked” and “hot damn!” She was an idiot (okay, some would say that was stating the obvious), and she had to wrest back control. Now.

She didn’t smile. She no longer trusted the crinkle at the corner of those damned eyes. His expression grew serious.

“I’m the guy trying to help you. I just happen to know a little about helicopters.”

“How?”

“
How
isn’t important.”

“I think it is.”

“What difference does it make?”

“My brother’s life is at stake. I don’t know what would make a difference. I should know these things. I’m running around out here, trusting you to get me to a boat, and it just hit me how much I don’t
know
you. I’m putting his life—oh, geez. What if the guy holding him thinks I’m not coming? I haven’t called in! I don’t have the—the thing! Shit!”

She wanted to run, but she didn’t know where they were headed, exactly, and she spun, panic welling from her chest, and she spun again, frantic, desperate for an answer. He caught her by the arm.

“If this guy’s as smart as he seems, then he’s watching the TV. The media helicopter, remember? He’ll know you’re alive, and still out here. He’ll know you’re after it. Whatever the hell it is.”

“You’re right. Right. Yes. Good.”

What if he wasn’t?

She was having trouble breathing.

Trevor moved on through the rough, boggy terrain. The minutes ticked away, daggers slicing at her heart.

They’d been silent for a little while when he finally asked, “You said this thing wasn’t valuable?”

“Right.”

“It’s got to have some worth. Somehow. Is there anyone you could call to research it?”

“Why?”

“Leverage, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe knowing what it was worth could help you somehow.”

“There’s no one to call,” she said. “It was just an old heirloom kind of thing, a piece of junk, really. My great-great-great-grandfather made it.”

“A piece of junk?”

She shrugged.

Obviously, the tiara meant something. The
what
was beyond her comprehension. She’d held it a thousand times at least, feeling every bump and ridge, scratch and indentation.
That there was some hidden meaning or value to it clashed so completely with her perception of it as nothing more than a sentimental keepsake, it made her dizzy. The design was basic. Simple as to be almost childlike. There was nothing of any worth inherent in the material used—just plain old iron from a blacksmith’s forge. Maybe the blacksmith was famous? Well, then the fame was fairly well hidden, given that the world wasn’t exactly putting up blacksmiths’ photos on trading cards. She had to get to that tiara. . . .

And then just hand it over? What would make the kidnapper keep Roy alive? Was Trevor right? Could knowing the value give her leverage to save Roy’s life? At least the media’s attention was very likely buying her that time.

A realization slammed into her: the TV coverage which was, she hoped, keeping Roy’s chances afloat, had probably destroyed her shot at remaining Stacey’s guardian. She had no money for an attorney and she wondered what kind of jail time she could do if she just took Stacey somewhere safe until Lori Ann was deemed fit enough to parent again. Of course, with Lori Ann, that might not happen. Bobbie Faye didn’t know what she would do, because no way was that child going to strangers.

She was caught up enough in the fear that she didn’t see a root and tripped, scraping her arm against the bark of the tree; she would have fallen completely, but Trevor caught her just in time. He opened his mouth, probably to say something smartass judging by his expression, then his expression changed, less harsh, and he simply helped her stand and continue. She didn’t realize until about forty paces later that she had tears on her cheeks.

They reached a large clearing and circumvented it instead of crossing straight through. She stopped when she heard dogs baying.

“Sonofabitch,” she said, her heart sinking. “Goddamnit, Cam.” If she’d had any doubts, they were dispelled now. He really did hate her that much, and she wanted to scream in frustration.

“Who’s Cam?” Trevor asked, having stopped a few paces ahead.

“You don’t want to know.” She stood, trying to squelch the panic; breathe in, breathe out. “But those dogs are the best. He’s probably getting the biggest freaking kick out of this. God, I swear, I could just kill him.”

Trevor cocked his ear toward the sound the dogs were making as if judging the distance from the sound alone.

“You may get your chance.”

Wait . . . let me get this straight. You. Want me. To give Bobbie Faye Sumrall
flaming
batons for the camp talent show? I just don’t have that kind of death wish.

—Tamar Bihari, Wemawacki’s fifth-grade camp counselor

They ran.

The dogs bayed as branches pummeled Bobbie Faye. Trevor barged through spiderwebs, drafting long silken strands behind him like silver kite tails. Where the spiders dove to, Bobbie Faye did not know and she sincerely hoped she wouldn’t find out. She had to wrap her long hair around one hand and hold it so it wouldn’t fly and snag and trap her in the brambles she passed.

Perspiration slicked her skin as her boots sunk into the soggy ground and then suctioned back up again. She ached. Her stomach growled. She wanted to point out to her stomach that this was not exactly the time to be growling. Her stomach sent a loud memo that it really didn’t give a damn; it hadn’t had anything since the biscuit, and the night before she’d been all diet-conscious and had eaten a light salad because she had wanted to be able to eat freely at the festival today.

Thwap.
Another branch sprang back, smacking her in the face, snapping her back to the present. No matter how she
tried to distract herself, the hounds’ baying echoed off the trees. Closer.

And closer.

Being careful wasn’t an option anymore. They sprinted flat-out through the woods . . . past snakes, lizards, squirrels, coons, and God knows what else. She knew there were panthers in some parts of south Louisiana, and black bears, and geez, she needed a reverse for her brain to go back to not thinking about the woods’ inhabitants.

The barking echoed, moving closer, surrounding her senses.

Bobbie Faye prayed that if Cam was with the dogs, he was somewhere far far behind them. Preferably tripping, falling, and smacking himself unconscious. (Well, a girl could hope.)

She gave herself a mental shaking. She didn’t want to think of the baying dogs, or by extension, the man behind them. There were serious things to think about. She was running for her life, trying to get to a boat so she could get to the tiara so she could save Roy’s life before she had to kick his ass from here to Texas for being such a screwup as to get them in this mess in the first place. (She was not ranting. She was
listing
. An entirely different thing.)

She was short of breath and hurting all over, but she could do serious. Of course she could. Because she was not going to think random, silly thoughts. Bobbie Faye was not, for instance, going to think about the fact that Victoria’s Secret underwire lace bras are so not made for running for your life through the woods. Or anywhere, for that matter. Especially if the breasts were a “C” cup.

It didn’t help one whit that her purse strap was slung across her chest, and with the purse itself hanging behind her, bouncing with every step, the straps cut into her shoulders and amplified the pain. In spite of her determination to not think about it, she realized she’d been having the mental background noise of “Boobs hurt, boobs hurt, boobs hurt,” with every step (and please, God, let that have been an internal dialog).

At that moment, Bobbie Faye felt an unbridled hatred for every movie heroine who’d ever raced away from the villain in Jimmy Choo shoes, looking all perfectly coiffed and ready for an afternoon tea. That was just wrong. When the pain finally got to her, she tossed pride way the hell away and pressed her free arm across her chest to hold her boobs a little steadier. Unfortunately, that shortened her reach and she was unable to block briars and limbs and vines at face-level. Unwilling to admit defeat, Bobbie Faye held her forearm across her breasts while twisting her wrist so that her hand flapped in front of her to help with deflecting the underbrush, all while holding her hair with the other hand. She hadn’t quite perfected the coordination of running to flapping when Trevor glanced over his shoulder. As he turned away, she distinctly heard something that sounded a little too much like “spastic, hobbled penguin.”

“Bastard,” she muttered. She hoped he came down with a bad case of chiggers in his boxers.

The only way she managed to maintain a (somewhat) positive attitude was to remind herself that all of the running had helped her clothes dry a little, in a rancid sweat-soaked damp sort of way. She hadn’t thought she could get any skankier than that morning, but she’d achieved a new personal low. At this point, she figured roadkill had her beaten on the beauty scale. Maybe when she showed up with the tiara, she’d just scare the kidnappers to death and she and Roy could get away safely.

Her relief at finally being dry was cut short when she heard the dogs’ deep baritone barking, closer now, frenzied. The goddamned dogs were gaining on her.

Damn freaking Cam and his freaking overachieving ass. It was the thing she had both admired and simultaneously loathed about him. Whether it was winning a Heisman Trophy, tracking a criminal, or flaming out a relationship so angrily that fourteen years of prior friendship were nothing more than crispy ashes in the aftermath, he didn’t do anything halfway. Anything. She shuddered and wobbled a moment just thinking about the other things he didn’t do halfway,
but that was gone. Which was probably just as well, because he was so fucking sure he was always right and their battles had been so epic, she would have had to kill him in his sleep probably a lot sooner than later, and she really didn’t look good in jailhouse orange.