A Bad Boy is Good to Find (4 page)

His gut recoiled at the prospect of drinking this early. It was 10:30 in the morning and she’d apparently had a glass or two already. “Uh, sure. Champagne sounds good.”

She sashayed across the Saltillo-tiled floor and he followed her into the room. A smallish Southwest-style bedroom with stuccoed walls and rustic pine furniture. The big bed unmade, clothes and cosmetics strewn about. French doors opened onto a terrace—they’d come in handy.

“You lost weight.” He couldn’t help saying it. Feeling it with a pang of sorrow. A white tank top molded to her sports-bra squashed breasts and whittled waist.

“Yes.” She turned to him with a triumphant grin.

Even her face was thinner, cheekbones standing out.

“And you straightened your hair.” His heart sank at the sight of all those glorious curls pressed out of existence.

“Yes, thank God! Who knew it was so easy?” She tossed the sleek mahogany mane over her shoulder as she turned from him. Con swallowed hard. What had he expected?

She filled a champagne glass she’d retrieved from a carved armoire and handed it to him. The lovely soft arms he used to rest his head on were hard with muscle, tanned.

The big brown eyes he used to lose himself in were cold. “So, what the hell are you doing here? Despite appearances to the contrary, I’m still flat broke.” She slurred a bit, but didn’t seem to notice.

“How much are you drinking?”

“As much as I can.” She raised her glass and plastered on a smile before taking a gulp of champagne.

He drew in a breath. “I came because I’m worried about you.”

“You’re worried about me? Don’t tell me you believe what you read in the gossip rags. I’m used to being the fat wallflower, so I’m enjoying my newfound celebrity. Look at this.” She snatched a newspaper off the bed. “‘Lizzie Hathaway dances the blues away. The glamorous former heiress laughed when asked about her father’s recent indictment for stock fraud. Cutting up the dance floor at L.A.’s newest club, Breakdown, she and cousin Maisie Dixon turned heads until five in the morning. Speculation about her father’s…’ blah blah blah. Who cares about Hathaway freaking industries?” She flung the paper down.

“Is your cousin Maisie here too?”

“She was. Left for some kind of job. In
television
.” She raised her eyebrows at the last word and shook her head. “I’m glad she’s gone. I’m tired.” She sipped her champagne. She had shadows under her eyes.

She slipped her hand into a bag of Cheetos on the counter. “Like a Cheeto? I’ve discovered they’re the perfect food. Dairy, grain, salt and sugar. A bag of Cheetos and a case of champagne and you’re good to go.” She crunched the orange Styrofoam peanut between perfectly straight white teeth. “I’m going to write a diet book. “The Champagne and Cheetos diet,” using myself as a testimonial.” She indicated her slim body with orange-powdered fingers. “I think it will be a mega-bestseller, don’t you?”

“I bet it will. How much have you lost?”

“Twenty pounds! In little more than a month.”

“Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair. How was that even possible? Certainly wasn’t healthy.

It was all his fault, though.

“Now let’s look at you.” She peered at him, scrutinized him from head to toe, teetered in her heels. “Disgustingly good-looking as usual. And you must be the only man on earth who could drive nearly three thousand miles and arrive in Arizona in one hundred degree heat without a single wrinkle in his white dress shirt. Your nose looks a little different though, if I’m not mistaken.”

He touched his nose. She wasn’t the first person to comment on it, though it looked the same to him. “You broke it.”

“Did I?” Her high pitched laugh hurt his ears.

“Blacked both my eyes too.” He managed not to smile. “I deserved it.”

“You damn well did. Let’s drink to that!” She raised her glass, then swigged more champagne. “I left you for dead and I haven’t looked back.”

He steeled himself against her hatred. What had he expected? “I don’t think you’ve looked forward either, have you?”

“What do you mean?” She frowned, weaved and grabbed another Cheeto from the open bag.

“What are you doing with your life?”

“Living it to the fullest!” She hiccupped and sprayed some orange powder at him. “Sorry.” She frowned. “No, actually, I’m not at all sorry. I’d like to dump this whole bag on you and your crisp white shirt, but that would be a waste of the perfect food and it’s not easy to get around here.”

“You can do what you like to me. I don’t mind, I had it coming. But I can’t watch you do this to yourself.”

“No one invited you to watch anything. I don’t know what you’re doing here. You said you needed to come in for one minute, and your minute is up. Get out.” No emotion showed on her flawless face.

She looked at him so coldly that the air squeezed out of his lungs.
Oh, Lizzie. What have I done to you?

He’d made mistakes before. He hadn’t been able to save the people he loved, and he lived with that guilt every day. Since then he’d done a lot of things he wasn’t proud of in the name of survival. He couldn’t change the past, but he could take responsibility for hurting Lizzie and try to make things right. “How are you paying for all this? Don’t you owe your brokerage two million dollars?”

“That’s their problem, not mine. I’ve discovered the joy of credit cards.”

“You’re running up credit?”

“I sold some old jewelry too.” She peered down her nose at him. “But don’t get excited, there’s none left now.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Drink, not eat and be merry for tomorrow we may—” Another hiccup made her rock on her heels.

His heart clutched and he grabbed her arm. “Lizzie. Come on, you’re killing yourself. Come with me and we’ll get you sorted out.”

“I said the jewelry’s all gone. There’s nothing in it for you!” She spat the icy words as she wrenched her arm from his grasp.

“I don’t care about your money, but I can’t let you drink like this. You didn’t drink at all until you met me.”

“Had no idea what I was missing!” Her lipsticked mouth twisted into a fake grin. “I have to thank you for showing me the light—which looks especially golden through the bottom of a bottle of champagne. Cheers!” She drained her glass, then slammed it down on the table. “Now get out.”

Time for plan B. Actually it was plan A, since he’d pretty much assumed she wouldn’t go willingly.

“I brought you a present.” He lifted the flower-patterned bag filled with pink tissue paper.

“Oh, how touching. Now take it with you when you piss off.” She picked up the champagne bottle and refilled her glass, spilling some on the table.

“How much have you drunk today?” He didn’t manage to sound casual.

“Don’t worry, dear, it’s my first bottle. Whoops, it seems to be empty. Lucky thing I have a case in the fridge.” Her empty eyes stared at him in mute challenge. Devoid of all the love and laughter he’d once put there.

“Won’t you at least see what I brought you?” He shook the bag and a metallic clank sounded under the rustling tissue paper.

“Gold ingots? Those would come in handy.”

He stepped toward her, crowded her. She didn’t smell like roses anymore. She wore a heavy, harsh scent probably designed in a Paris lab.

“You’ll need both hands to lift it out.” He raised the bag. She looked at him, suspicious but curious, then dipped both hands into the bag. Lifted out a pair of chrome handcuffs.

“What the—?”

He pushed her onto the bed and pinned her with his weight while he grabbed the handcuffs and clamped them on her wrists. She struggled and shrieked but was no match for him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he pulled the wad of cotton primed with knock-out drops out of a Ziploc bag buried in the tissue paper and covered her mouth and nose. She stared at him, plainly terrified, as her body went limp.

“It’s for your own good,” he whispered. She couldn’t hear him, and he hoped no one else had either. Lucky her room was at the end of the hall.

The next part of the plan promised to be tricky. The French doors to the garden were a blessing, but he still had to get her out there and over the low stucco wall that surrounded the property. And he needed to bring her stuff. Since money was tight now, everything counted.

He rooted around under the bed and in the closet looking for a suitcase. Nothing. She’d come here empty-handed after braining him with the champagne bottle. He found an expensive looking shopping bag from some store in Beverly Hills and shoved all her clothes into it. Mostly skimpy workout stuff. Piled a load of cosmetics on top, keeping one eye on the door. The strappy sandals took up less space than sneakers, so he took them instead.

He left the Cheetos behind. And the case of champagne. He scribbled a note about settling the bill later and forged her girlish signature on it.

With the bulging shopping bag slung over his shoulder, he flipped the lock on the French doors and propped one open with her sneaker. No one outside. Good.

Her limp body felt like a sack of lead. Her newly toned muscles flopped, arms hanging, as he tried to get a good grip on her.

I’m so sorry, Lizzie
. Her straightened hair hung in a shiny curtain as he carried her over the threshold, out onto a tiled patio. The heat smacked him in the face, and he adjusted his arms around her chest.

He kicked the sneaker out of the door frame and eased the door closed with his foot. He wanted it to look like she’d slipped out the front door when no one was looking, skipped out on the bill.

The wall was a problem. For a moment he contemplated sneaking around the inside of it and strolling out the front gates. Nah. Too much chance of being seen through a window. The smooth stucco rose only chest high, but he couldn’t step over it. Regretfully, he leaned over and lowered Lizzie’s limp body as far as he could…

Then dropped her.

He grimaced as she fell to the sun-baked dirt and rolled, hair sprawling in the red dust.

I, Conroy Beale, will never again do anything dishonest, low-down, underhanded
—

He hugged her limp body to his chest and shuffled along on his knees through the sandy dirt, making sure to keep his head beneath the level of the wall. One of her feet dragged, no matter how he tried to hoist her higher. The sight of his car gleaming in the sun around the corner made him limp with relief.

An invisible cloud of heat exploded in his face as he opened the passenger door and shoved her in. He jimmied her into position and propped her with his arm so she wouldn’t flop forward and bang her head on the dash while he buckled her seatbelt.

He tossed her bag in the back seat and climbed into the driver’s side, relieved the vintage engine started on the first try. Hoped she couldn’t feel any pain as her short shorts and skimpy top left plenty of flesh exposed against the scorching leather seats.

I’m so sorry Lizzie.

I wanted to make us both happy. I never meant to hurt you.

Her sleeping body exhaled fumes from the liquor percolating through her system. A distinctive smell he’d known since the cradle, that never failed to turn his stomach.

Soon he’d have her tucked up in bed, with a good meal and plenty of water to drink. He’d get her dried out and straightened up. Then they’d figure out what to do next.

Chapter 4

“W
hat on earth?” Freezing daggers pricked Lizzie’s skin and roused her from a distorted dream.

“Thank God.” A man loomed over her, face in shadow. Behind him a showerhead pelted her with tiny drops of icy water.

The scream she let out practically pierced her eardrums. Before she knew what was happening he’d wrapped his arms around her and lifted her out of the tub.

“You had me worried there. I don’t know what’s in that stuff I gave you. Guess I should have asked.”

Con
. Of course. Her heart both sank and rose at the same time. Funny how it could still do that when it was
broken
.

She kicked and struggled as he carried her out of the bathroom into a tiny hotel bedroom.

“Where am I?” she shrieked, as he lowered her onto the bed.

“Shhh. A motel in the desert.”

She scanned the room as he disappeared back into the bathroom. Garish geometric curtains and a wood-grain TV suggested a time warp to the 1970s.

He reappeared with a towel and started to rub. Conroy Beale, onetime man of her dreams, looked different with his shirt soaked and streaked with red dirt and his hair sticking in all directions. “You’ll get a mean headache soon, but after a rest you’ll feel good as new.”

“I thought I killed you.” She flopped back on the bed as an anvil fell on her head. At least that’s what it felt like.

He disappeared back into the bathroom and emerged with a paper cup. “Drink it.”

“I can’t, my head hurts too much. What am I doing here?”

“I kidnapped you.”

“You’re an idiot. I’m broke, remember? Besides, my parents wouldn’t waste money on a ransom for me.” The cold emptiness threatened to close over her again. “Champagne, I need champagne!”

“That’s the last thing you need. Drink this water and I’ll get you some more. I’ll bet you’ve been drunk an entire month.”

“Best month of my life,” she rasped. Her head was too heavy to lift.

“I’m not going to have your death on my conscience, so your boozing binge ends right now.”

“What nonsense. Champagne isn’t booze. It’s made from squeezed grapes, you know. Healthy and delicious… Ow! Stop banging my head like that!”

“I’m not. I’m a good five feet away from you.”

The furniture shifted and twisted as she tried to focus. She could barely keep her eyes open. “Take me back to Zen Mind. I have yoga class at two and I can’t miss it.”

“Yoga’s over. You’ve been out five hours. I thought you’d never wake up.”

A hollow laugh rattled her ribs. “I’m almost sorry I did. Would have been fun to leave you with a body to dispose of.” Even in blurred half-vision he looked revoltingly handsome—all intense dark eyes and wild dark hair. Bastard. “Who am I kidding? You probably have experience disposing of dead bodies.”