Bound and Determined (39 page)

Yanking the keys off the table and to her chest, Kerry felt a burst of relief. For once today, her luck held. But a quick turn of her head proved that Tiffany was gaining on her, was probably no more than three steps behind.

Praying faster than a repenting sinner on Judgment Day, Kerry reached for the edge of the little table and gave it a push. A crash, a shriek, and thud later, Kerry looked back to see that her brother’s traitorous wife had tripped over the lightweight piece of furniture, as Kerry had hoped.

“Damn you! That’s going to leave a mark,” Tiffany shouted as she struggled to her feet. “Can’t you just die quietly?”

Kerry grasped the knob to the garage and swung the door wide. “I’ve never been good at being quiet.”

Then she sprinted inside the hot, shadowy confines of the garage and slammed the door in Tiffany’s face.

Safe—for about three seconds. She had no way to lock the murderous witch out.

Blindly, she groped against the wall for the button that would open the garage door. One swipe along the wall. Another. A third. Nothing.
No, no, no! The button has to be right here!

The doorknob jiggled, warning Kerry that Tiffany was about to open the door. She ducked. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck as she crawled toward Tiffany’s car. The garage was damn near black now that the light from the house no longer streamed in. Tiffany’s car was every bit as old as her own and had no automatic key locks that would shed a little light, damn it.

God, was she going to die?
No!

Kerry tried to crouch on the oil-slicked cement and feel her way to the car door, using only the blessed light seeping in around the double garage door at the front of the house as a guide. She held the car keys tightly in her other hand.

With a lurch and a yell, Tiffany burst into the garage and
flipped on the overhead light. Kerry saw the driver’s side door. She reached for the handle and gave a frantic yank.
Locked!
She was as good as dead.

Tiffany laughed.

Doom pierced Kerry’s gut as her heart beat a frantic tattoo against her chest. She wouldn’t have enough time to unlock the door, get in, shut the door behind her, and lock it.

But doomed or not, she wasn’t done fighting.

“You shouldn’t have gone into my bedroom,” snarled Tiffany. “Slitting your silly throat would have been easier if you hadn’t figured things out.”

Wanting a shirt besides Rafe’s had tipped her off to the danger. Now she just hoped she’d done enough to save her life. “Why the hell are you trying to kill me?”

Tiffany stalked to the driver’s side door. Kerry ran to the other side, still keeping the car between them.

“Obviously you’ve figured out that I took the money from the bank. If I let you leave here, you’ll go to the police.”

“But I didn’t know that when you hit me over the head and set my house on fire.”

She shrugged. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually. Easier to get rid of you before you suspected. Jason told me you were due home that morning. I snuck in and waited. After his inept pass”—she rolled her eyes—“you were good enough to leave a voice mail telling me where to find Mr. Dawson. At that point, I thought you were expendable and dangerous to me.”

Unreal! The planning, the calculation . . .

“But then I went to Dawson’s hotel,” Tiffany continued, “and no amount of flirting was going to get me his room number since the desk clerk was a woman. So, in a way, it was helpful of you to come here so that I could persuade you to give me his room number.”

“I’m not the only one who knows the truth,” Kerry lied. “Rafe knows, too.”

Okay, so he suspected Jason. But if Tiffany thought she wasn’t the only one standing between herself and a clean getaway, maybe. . . what? Tiffany would drop the knife and leave her alone? No, but maybe she could think of something, some way to negotiate with the would-be killer.

“He’s next on my list, don’t worry. Once I’m done with you, I should have no trouble slitting his throat like I did Smikins. Men don’t really see women as a threat.”

Kerry gasped. “You—you killed Smikins?”

“What do you care? Even if I let you live, you wouldn’t miss him. He figured me out and he was in my way.”

Just like me
. Oh, this was bad. It was one thing to think Tiffany might kill her. Another to know for sure that she was actually capable of such a thing.

“Everyone underestimated me, I think.” Tiffany grinned, then she widened her eyes, taking on an insipid, somewhat vacant expression. “It’s so easy to be overlooked when everyone thinks you’re a harmless little bimbo.”

Then the intelligence and feral anger slipped back into Tiffany’s gaze. A foreboding chill skittered down Kerry’s spine. The criminal bitch was both calculating and serious. She had to do something, think of something. Maybe if she could keep Tiffany talking, she could formulate a plan.

“Why did you frame my brother? He loved you. He would have done anything for you. Anything.”

“He’s a great guy, good looking, well put together, good in bed, even. Unlike most jerks, he has a big heart . . . just not a big enough wallet.”

Tiffany lunged in her direction. Kerry ran in the other, until they had the full length of the car between them.

This was surreal—being hunted down like prey, hearing the woman her brother had given his heart and his name to admit she had framed him for the money. What next?

“He gave you the roof over your head,” Kerry protested. “You had a decent life with Mark.”

“Decent? By your standards, maybe. I wasn’t meant to work as an assistant to some asshole in a little bank, scraping by to pay off someone else’s medical bills, barely having enough money to eat out once a month. Forget shopping or vacations, nice cars or new clothes from anywhere but Wal-Mart.” She grimaced. “I grew up dirt poor. The daughter of a traveling preacher in Arkansas with eleven kids. I shared everything in a run-down camper with all my siblings. The minute I realized men liked the way I looked, I left. No more Ruthie Jo for me. I changed my name, lost my accent, learned
how to give a great blow job and convince men I was harmless. It’s worked for the last twelve years, sweetie. Mark was no different to me than all the others.”

“You bitch! I’d love to get my hands on your scrawny neck.”

“Come and get it.”

Kerry wanted to. The urge to jump over the car and strangle the conniving witch thrummed in her veins, pulsing hot and strong. But in a fight against Tiff and her friend, Mr. Knife, Kerry knew she’d lose. Now that she’d heard Tiffany’s confession, she had to stay alive long enough to free Mark—and keep the dangerous woman away from Rafe.

Damn it, Mark had achieved his black belt. Why hadn’t she listened more closely when he’d tried to teach her self-defense? Time for Plan B.

Too bad her Plan B’s always sucked.

“Nice try,” Kerry went on. “So did you marry him just to set him up?”

Tiffany suddenly sprinted toward the back of the car. Kerry charged toward the front.

“Of course,” said the duplicitous redhead. “This is a great scam. Or it will be once I get my hands on that money. How do I get those access codes?”

“What scam?”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Then I’m not telling you how to get the money.” As if she knew, Kerry thought.

With a long-suffering sigh, Tiffany said, “If it makes you feel better before you die . . . money laundering. I’m cleaning money for some crime boss back East and taking part of the cut. And if I don’t find them their money soon, they will come kill us all. They’ve called me five times in the last two days to remind me.”

That made sense. Kerry remembered the phone call yesterday at the bank that had shaken Tiffany. The liar had claimed the caller was a nasty customer, but she’d looked awfully pale. Then just a while ago in the kitchen, the whispers, the low voices, the sudden need to kill.

The Mafia meant business—but so did Kerry.

“So you married my brother for his bank access and his
passwords so that you could launder some crime boss’s drug and prostitution money?”

“Are you just slow today? I’ve already said that.”

The insistent burn of anger started creeping up on her fear. “And the computer knowledge? Where did you come by that?”

“That was easy.” She waved the technical feat away as if it was nothing. “A continuing fling with a programmer I met a few months back. You know what they say, ‘Men are like floor tiles. Lay them right the first time and you can walk on them for a lifetime.’ ”

“You cheated on Mark?” Somehow, that horrified her almost as much as knowing Tiffany had lied when speaking her wedding vows.

Her reaction made Tiffany laugh. “Spoken like a little virgin wearing rose-colored glasses.”

“Yeah? That’s better than being a deceitful, two-timing killer.”

Tiffany arched an auburn brow. “When this is all said and done, I’ll be set financially for a long while, and living on one of the most beautiful islands in the world. All I have to do is destroy the mainframe terminal I used, which is in the trunk of my car, and hop a plane by eight o’clock to enjoy a life of luxury. What would you have if I let you live? A job waiting on hicks at a greasy spoon and memories of a rich guy who gave you your first taste of cock, which you confused with love.” Tiffany looked at the knife in her hand, then glanced back at Kerry. “Sex is a transaction. You have something men want, and men have something you want. When the something you want becomes sex or love, you’re their slave. I learned that fast. Too bad you won’t get a chance to put my good advice to use. Now enough flapping our jaws. How do I get the money?”

“Are you going to spare me if I tell you?”

She cocked her head as if considering. “I might.”

But Kerry knew, just like she’d known Mark was innocent, that Tiffany was lying.

“Go to hell!”

“You first. The only thing standing between me and what I want are the access codes to the bank account Dawson moved the money into—and you.”

With that, Tiffany charged. Kerry tripped over the lawn mower and fell. Her knees crashed onto unyielding cement, but she didn’t dare stop to feel the pain.

As Kerry rose, she glanced over her shoulder and found Tiffany charging toward her. The redhead bared her teeth, eyes gleaming fury as she raised the large knife clutched in her hand. Scrambling away as fast as her feet would take her, Kerry’s back soon hit her brother’s tool bench, which was wedged against the wall. The impact jarred the car keys out of her hand. They skittered out of reach.

Now what?

Turning quickly, she grabbed the first thing from the squatty, red-legged table that resembled a weapon: a crowbar.

Clutching her new weapon in her hand, Kerry whirled around in time to sidestep the first plunge of Tiffany’s knife. Well, almost. Kerry felt a slice crease her forearm. She pushed aside the stinging sensation and gripped the crowbar tighter, raising it to meet the next attack. That’s when she saw the blood seeping a thin line through her skin, beading at the end before plopping onto the grimy cement.

Lord, Tiffany really meant to kill her. Logically, she’d known that, but to actually see blood . . . The moment felt crystal clear, yet slow. Danger dried out her mouth, made her palms damp. This really could be the end—before she could see Mark again, before she could kiss Rafe one last time.

No!

The psycho bitch growled and came at Kerry again. Prepared this time, she raised the crowbar to meet the blade, the clash of metal on metal resounding through the garage. The heavy metal bar in her hands held.

The good thing about outweighing someone by thirty pounds, Kerry discovered next, was that she could push her attacker away.

Tiffany stumbled back, nearly tripping on her own feet, then looked up at Kerry with a malicious gleam in her eye. “I never liked you. You’re the kind of woman who makes men think we’re weak and easily manipulated. I can’t wait to end your worthless life.”

Fury poured through Kerry like lava down the side of a volcano. This bitch was going down!

As Tiffany charged toward her again, she swung out with her crowbar and struck the scrawny slut’s shoulder.

“Ouch!” the redhead protested, glaring at Kerry.

“I don’t like you either. You’re the kind of woman who makes men believe they can’t trust us. You’re not going to kill me. I won’t let you get away with any of this.”

Gathering her strength, Kerry came at Tiffany swinging, right giving her might. Kerry vowed that she’d stop the schizoid from hurting Rafe, from framing Mark. Tiff’s next destination wouldn’t be a tropical beach but a cold eight-by-eight cell in some scary federal locale.

With a guttural yell, Kerry launched at Tiffany, her crowbar making a wide arc. Tiffany stumbled back, retreating. She tried to lean away, blue eyes as wide as swimming pools. Her skin paled in surprise, making every freckle stand out.

Then the crowbar struck Tiffany’s wrist. The brutal knife in her hand went flying. Tiff gasped, clutching her wrist as she dove for the knife skittering across the oily floor.

“Bitch!” she screamed as she reached for the blade.

Kerry kicked it out of the way and leaped on Tiffany, pinning her to the ground. Thanking her love of all things chocolate again for her superior weight, she straddled the skinny wretch, pinned her down, and thrust the crowbar across her neck.

“Oh, I think that honor is all yours. I can’t wait to see you wearing prison-issue orange jumpsuits, accessorized by handcuffs.”

A commotion at the door from the house to the garage brought Kerry’s head up. Two men rushed in. She’d never been so happy to see black uniforms and shiny badges in her life. Rising to her feet, she let the officers close in.

“Police! Hands up!” one shouted at Tiffany, gun drawn.

The other opened the garage door to the late afternoon sun—and another four officers waiting with guns drawn. Rafe and Jason stood just behind them.

“The police?” the criminal redhead screeched. “No!”

“Looks like the people who can make your worst fashion nightmare come true have arrived,” Rafe drawled to Tiffany as he walked in behind the police. “Hope you enjoy your new clothes from somewhere besides Wal-Mart.”