In the Enemy's Arms (15 page)

The air was heavy, charged. Warmth seeped through him, and when she moistened her lips with her tongue, his body turned hot enough to combust. Only a few feet separated them. He could cover it in two steps, take those clothes from her, give her something else to cling to and kiss her. Just one kiss. That would be more than enough for now…would never be enough.

He forced his gaze from hers, drew strength he didn’t know he possessed and looked down, over pajamas covered with flamingos, fuzzy slippers and red toenails, then managed a sorry excuse for a smile. “Another niece?”

She nodded.

“I never thought of you as a pink person.” His voice was husky, a parched sound from a throat too constricted to swallow.

So was hers. “You never thought of me as a person at all.”

“Not true. I thought you were a beautiful pain in the ass who was interfering with my fun.”

“I thought you were a handsome pain in the ass who was interfering with my marriage.” Finally she took a step, but not toward him. To the bed, where she stuffed the ball of dirty clothing into the vinyl bag. “Deep inside, of course, I knew that wasn’t true.”

“The handsome part? Or the pain-in-the-ass part?”

She smiled tautly. “The interfering-in-my-marriage part. If Trent had cared, no one could have made him behave the way he did.”

Justin wrenched a bottle of water from the plastic liner and took a long drink. “He cared. He just—”

“—cared more about himself. He’s not like that with Susanna. He would die—” Her face flushing, she broke off, and her hands trembled when she zipped the suitcase and heaved it to the floor.

Silently he offered her a bottle of water, which she accepted, and junk food, which she didn’t. He swept his backpack to one side of his bed, folded back the covers and lay down, turning to face her. “They’re okay, Cate.”

There was too much hope, too much wanting to be convinced, in her eyes. He prayed he wasn’t offering false hope, because he wanted to be convinced, too.

When she remained silent, he used the remote to switch on the television, then shut off the bedside lamp. It was too early for sleep, apparently for her, too, so they both settled in and he began flipping through the channels, finally stopping on a cooking show.

After a while, he went to the bathroom and turned off the light over there on his return. He switched off the only remaining light, right in front of the door, and by the flickering light of the TV, he eased back into bed, lowering the sound. “What made you decide to become a doctor?”

“My grandfather said I was born to be one. It’s all I ever wanted. Well, for a while, when I worked for our vet after school, I considered being a vet. After all, dogs and cats don’t argue with you.”

“Yeah, but people don’t generally bite.”

She gave him a wry look. “You haven’t spent enough time in the E.R. I’ve had plenty of biters, most of them adults. I’ve been bitten, spat on, punched and puked on and had things thrown at me that you don’t want to know about.”

“You don’t get paid enough.”

“Any doctor who’s in it for the money needs his head examined. It’s a tough job. You make a mistake, someone can die.”

“Has that happened to you?”

“Not that I’m aware of, thank God.”

The annoying music and loud voices of an infomercial came on the TV, and rather than change channels, Justin shut it off. Darkness settled over the room.

“What was the one thing you wanted most?” she asked after a bit.

Sitting up, he pulled off his clothes, tossing them to the floor, then slid under the sheet in his boxers. The only honest answer he could give was the one she already knew, and it embarrassed him. “To have fun. I never really wanted for anything. My parents spoiled me. They gave me everything, including their attention. Neither they nor my grandparents have ever had actual jobs. They do charitable stuff—organizing, fundraising, donating—and between that and their social obligations, they stay busy enough that they actually have staff to help out, but as far as a regular job…” Even though she couldn’t see, he shook his head.

“Some people do. Some people give. They’re all vital.” She paused for a delicate yawn. “So you were happy being young and irresponsible until you nearly died in that accident. Then you realized you needed more.”

“Yeah.” He waited. “What? No smug remark about it taking a life-changing event to make me do what everyone else had already done and grow up?”

“No, not from me. I’ve seen people undergo life-changing events without changing one bit. They never appreciate what they have, what they’ve done, what they can do. I’m impressed.”

Justin was practically speechless. Twice in one evening, she’d said that. Was saying it as strange to her as it was for him to hear it?

“This is weird,” he said at last, determined to lighten the mood. “I’ve never laid in bed in the dark talking with a woman who wasn’t in that bed with me. Wanna come over here and snuggle while we continue this conversation?”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“You’re not suggesting we might do something other than talk?” he asked innocently, focusing on the deeper shadow on the other bed that was her.

“Are you suggesting we wouldn’t?”

He laughed. “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one thinking that way.”

Her voice sounded huffy, or maybe just muffled by the covers as she turned over. “As long as thinking is all we do…”

And now he wasn’t going to be able to think about anything else.

His smile faded, and for a long time he listened to the sound of her breathing, slowing, steadying, lulling. When he was pretty sure she was asleep, he whispered, “Good night, Cate.”

And after another long time, she whispered back, “Good night, Justin.”

* * *

Thanks to Justin’s heavy foot and a relative absence of troopers on the interstate, they reached their first destination in Atlanta just before eleven. They drove past the house belonging to Martin and Denise LeFrancois twice before he parked a few doors down on the quiet street.

“These two are both in internet businesses,” Cate said while scanning Amy’s email. “He’s a partner in a search engine and online auction company, and her company provides virtual personal assistants to the rich and lazy. They share an office in the Peach Tree Complex. Their financial records do show payments to a pediatrician and a nanny—” a relieved sigh shivered through her “—but Amy didn’t find any school records for seven-year-old Graciela.”

She shifted her gaze from the tablet to the LeFrancois house. Like the Clarences’, it was an old beauty kept in impeccable condition. Huge trees dominated the yard, a lot probably ten times the size of hers. A privacy fence of brick and wrought iron blocked the view into the back, and the four garage doors—
four,
with only two adults in the family—were all closed. “They’re probably both at work. Doesn’t anyone stay home these days?”

Justin gave her a wry look. “I don’t know,
Dr.
Calloway. Would you give up medicine if a baby Calloway came along?”

“That isn’t going to happen. I’m a doctor. I know what causes pregnancy and how to prevent it.” Besides, though she hadn’t told him, she agreed with his view. There were too many kids already in the world who needed parents. If she ever developed the longing for a child, she would adopt long before having one of her own.

“Hello.”

His soft exclamation redirected her attention to the house, where the front door had opened and a young woman was maneuvering the Rolls Royce of strollers out onto the stoop.

“Come on, doc, let’s go for a walk through our new neighborhood.”

She got out hastily, stepping over a strip of grass lush enough for a country club to reach the sidewalk. Justin fell in beside her, taking her hand in his. Her fingers automatically curved to fit inside his, and once more that little sense of security quivered through her.

It was just a show, she reminded herself. They didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Claiming to be husband and wife was one thing; acting the part was another.

The woman she presumed to be the nanny was nearing the end of the drive at the same time they approached. He smiled broadly and said, “Hey. Nice day, isn’t it?”

Young, Latina, shy, the woman bobbed her head and would have gone on if Cate hadn’t blocked her way. Crouching, she locked gazes with the blue-eyed, blond-haired baby strapped into the seat, probably about a year old, chubby-cheeked and fair, with two fingers in his mouth. He grinned without removing them.

“What a little sweetheart,” Cate gushed—she, who had never gushed over a baby in her life, not any of her nieces, not even the first baby she’d delivered. “He’s such a doll with those big blue eyes.”

“Yes,” the woman agreed with a nod and a move to leave.

Cate remained where she was, wrapping one hand around the padded bar at the front of the stroller as if she needed it for balance, and Justin launched into their cover story while she continued to coo at the little boy.

“My wife, Daisy, and I—”

She darted him a sour look, and he grinned expansively without missing a beat “—have just moved in down the street, and our neighbors said that a girl about the same age as our daughter, Lily, lives here. We’d love a chance for her to meet someone before she starts school next week. Are you Denise?”

The nanny’s smile quavered as she shook her head emphatically. “Mrs. LeFrancois is at work. I take care of the baby.” Her English was heavily accented, and her gaze darted everywhere except Justin’s direction. “We must go now. Time for baby’s walk.”

Cate nearly lost her balance for real when the woman tugged on the stroller. She stood, smiling with as much forced warmth as she’d shown when she’d met Trent’s parents for the first time. “It’s a beautiful day for a walk. Do you take care of the LeFrancoises’ little girl, too, when she’s out of school?”

Darting a look over her shoulder toward the house, the nanny tightened her grip on the stroller and backed away a few steps. “There is no little girl. Just the baby. We must go.”

“No little girl. Really, you’re sure? Yeah, of course you would be. You live here, right?” Justin’s smile was pleasant and charming but didn’t reach his eyes. “I guess our neighbor must have been wrong. Have a good walk.”

The woman swiveled the stroller in the opposite direction and walked along the sidewalk. Every few feet, she glanced back at them and picked up her pace a bit more until she and the baby were practically jogging. When they reached the corner two houses down, they turned and disappeared from sight.

“Who do you think she was scared of? Us? Mrs. LeFrancois?”

Justin, staring at the house, absently answered, “Or immigration. If the LeFrancoises went south of the border to get a kid, maybe they also got their nanny there. How better to get good, cheap help than to hold arrest and deportation over their heads?”

After a moment, he took her hand. “Let’s get out of here before someone who
is
home calls the cops on us for hanging around where we don’t belong.”

Still part of the show, she reminded herself. Nothing more.

It was a forty-minute drive across the city to the next house on their list. They stopped for lunch when they reached the area, then drove into yet another neighborhood of expensive homes. Unlike the last two, though, these houses were new, built to seriously impress, with tons of brick, slate roof tiles and columns on every other mini-mansion. Elaborate wrought-iron gates marked the entrance, but they stood open.

“No point living in a gated community if you’re not going to close the gates,” Justin murmured.

“Yours didn’t do much to keep the Wallaces’ punks out of your house,” she reminded him drily.

“No, but these would have kept us out. I don’t know how to bypass an electronic lock. Do you?”

“Sorry. They didn’t teach that in medical school. There it is.” She gestured to a faded brick monstrosity two blocks in on the left. The slate roof soared at so many angles it was dizzying to look at, and the leaded windows were tall and narrow, reminding her of defensive ports on centuries-old forts. The similarity summoned the far-from-reassuring thought of Mr. or Mrs. Grayson waiting behind one of those windows with a crossbow, a pot of flaming oil or an automatic weapon.

“You want to go or do you want me to?”

You go.
Her stomach was knotted and her chest hurt as if she’d cracked a few ribs and couldn’t breathe deeply. But when he parked a few feet in front of the garage, she undid her seat belt. “I’ll go. I look way more harmless than you.”

“I’m harmless,” he protested, then grinned at her snort. “Go ahead, ring the bell. They’re probably not home, either.”

She was about to close the door when he leaned over. “I won’t be able to see you at the door. Scream if you need me.”

“I’m a great screamer.” Hands clammy, she shut the door, then followed the curve of the sidewalk to double doors deep inside the entryway. The metalwork on the doors was iron, huge black straps that reminded her again of ancient fortresses. As a welcoming feature for the home, they fell far short of the mark. The bell echoed distantly, a discordant peal for attention. Not expecting an answer, she studied the iron sconces mounted on each wall, the worn brick beneath her feet and the sculpture to one side that was all sharp edges and angles. It looked as if it belonged in a torture chamber, not in the entry of a multimillion-dollar Atlanta home.

The door opening startled her, and she snapped a smile into place as she turned. Halfway through the motion, she lost the smile and the only turning she wanted to do also involved running. Her feet seemed frozen, though.

The man who stood in front of her—Hector Grayson, her brain supplied, though its fight-or-flight mechanism had apparently stopped working—was tall, muscle-bound and fierce. With salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a ponytail, heavy brows drawn together, a hawkish nose and a bandito mustache, under the best of circumstances he would have made her uncomfortable. Under
these
circumstances, she was having trouble breathing.

“It’s for you,” he said, his voice somewhere between a growl and a snarl. When he thrust out his hand, she cringed, but still her body didn’t heed her desire to flee. It took a moment to realize he held a phone in those thick fingers, a moment more to realize he expected her to take it.