Jen glanced at the time—Sunday already. She texted Christy to let her know she was okay and shut off her phone. Dave had asked her to stay as a guest. But she, of all people, did not deserve his hospitality. Or was his purpose to monitor her and force her to finish the work before he let her go? Bitter adrenaline gritted her teeth. What if he set this whole thing up to extract revenge? Frame her for Rey’s murder and then what? Make her a sex slave imprisoned in his home? That last thought sent a shower of tingles throughout her torso.
Jen slapped the bedspread.
Stupid. You watch too many horror movies. He’s just a broken man, and you did it to him.
The phone message replayed in her mind. “We have your daughter.” She wiped her face, unable to dispel her feelings of gloom.
It’s your fault, Jennifer Cruz. You deserve to pay for the hell you put him through.
A knock on the door snapped her back to reality.
Go away, she thought. “Come in,” she said.
Dave frowned. “Hey, turn off that laptop. You’re supposed to rest.”
“I was just checking. It looks like the code passed automation and sanity test.”
“Good.” He walked in with a guitar and settled on a beanbag next to the bed. “One bedtime story for the inmate coming up.”
“You’re serious?” She couldn’t hide a smile.
“Would you like hot chocolate or a splash of whiskey?”
“Why are you being so nice?” Jen placed her laptop on the nightstand. Despite the hot saucy kiss, Dave could still fire her in a Louisiana heartbeat.
He tilted his head and tuned his guitar. “Hot chocolate or whiskey?”
“Hot chocolate. I don’t drink on the job.”
Since he didn’t respond about her not having a job, she leaned back and tried to relax. He looked kind of cute sitting there picking the strings and turning the pegs. What was it about a man and a guitar? Jen caught a sigh.
Remember who he is and what gruesome thoughts you accused him of.
Heat flooded her instead. She had always liked him, but Jocelyn got him. Of course, petite, ninety-five pound, sweet and perky Jocelyn. About all they had in common were brown eyes, a Spanish surname, and Jennifer Lopez
Glow
perfume.
Dave finished tuning the guitar. “Hold this for me?”
She cradled it while he went to the kitchen, no doubt to rummage through the cabinet in need of a lazy-susan. Wouldn’t be surprising if the mix was the same Ghirardelli she bought Jocelyn the Christmas before she died. She ran her fingers down the smooth neck of the guitar. Jocelyn’s picture stared at her from the dresser. A beautiful Filipina.
Ay Bendito!
What was fat Jennifer Cruz with her adipose Puerto Rican and Cajun genes against such grace and beauty? She sprained her ankle and the pounds would creep back without the constant workouts.
Forget it, Jen.
He had glared at her with such hatred after the kidnapping. And here she was still crushing on him. Pathetic.
A flush of sweat mortified her. She set the guitar aside and opened her laptop. The transactional update had failed. She scrolled through her messages. Wei would check in a fix. Greta was badgering the engineers and asking why they hadn’t run regression. Satish reported a failure in the auto-update unit. She ought to be there to help.
“Jen?” Dave entered with a tray and two steaming mugs. His brow furrowed. “I thought I said to close your laptop.”
“But, the code’s broken again.”
“People are on the job to take care of it.” He leaned over and gave her a hot mug. “Be careful.”
“D-do I still have a job?”
He picked up his guitar. “Your access is still granted, isn’t it? I told Greta to let you have the weekend off. You’ve been through enough.”
She sipped on the chocolate. Why was he treating her like she was a princess when she was just an employee? But… a fluttering sensation tickled her inside when he hit his first chord. She was the only employee who knew about the blood under his car.
The Spanish lilt of flamenco caressed the edges of her nerves, dispelling her suspicions. She took another sip. The rascal had spiked it. Warmth bathed her chest, and the quiet melodies brought back memories of her mother brushing her long wavy hair and singing “La Pájara Pinta.”
And his voice, wow. Not at all like the nasal twang her father put on. Dave’s voice was full and melodious. Deep. ‘Still waters run deep,’ her mother used to say. Jen finished off the mug. Her eyelids drooped.
The driving guitar sped up and thundered her down the country roads of western Puerto Rico, on visits to Mayagüez, where Uncle José docked his sailboat, and her
abuelita
fanned herself under the bright red plume of the flamboyant tree. And the mangoes? Small, intensely yellow, and potent, rolling on the hot sidewalk, but oh, so sweet and juicy like Dave’s lips.
* * *
Dave put his guitar down and looked at the sleeping beauty. Did she have the slightest idea she was gorgeous? She didn’t give off the vibe of a woman used to male attention. Yet whatever she was hiding had made her bold to press that kiss on him. He lifted a lock of hair and stared at the fading marks on her neck and the fresh bruises on the side of her face. Whoever wanted the code was willing to kill for it.
He picked up the mugs and put them on the tray. She was in deeper trouble than she let on. What did they have on her to cause them to attack her? He arranged the pillows and tucked her in, careful not to wake her.
Asleep, she looked so pretty and innocent. He brushed her hair aside and then kissed her lightly on the forehead. A sigh escaped her lips. She smelled clean and chocolaty at the same time. He picked up the tray and backed out of the room. Hot, but off-limits. Not only was she his employee, but she was also mixed up with people who wanted to bring his company down.
After cleaning the dishes, Dave turned to his email and found a stream of messages from Sherry Monzon, her surname of the week. He skimmed and deleted them. Ridiculous. His cell buzzed. Claire. He chuckled.
Buzzing’s so passé.
He ought to have a more interesting ringtone too. A ghetto one Claire would choke on.
He answered the call. “Hey sweetheart, how’s the cruise?”
Claire’s voice crackled through a barely there connection. “Wonderful, darling. I miss you too. When I’m standing on the deck with Steve, I pretend it’s you.”
“Then give him a little loving.” He suppressed a snort. As if she could warm up fast enough. Unlike the firecracker Melissa, Claire was just about the slowest boat to Iceland.
“Ha, you’re a bad boy. About the funding. I’ll give you half a million tomorrow and the other two and a half million after your product launch. It’s not that I don’t believe the concept, darling. But it’s the execution I want to verify.”
“Claire, you’re too smart for your own good. How many shares do you think you’ll get before the launch versus afterwards? If I’m successful, I could price the shares higher, do a forward analysis and risk tradeoff. How about fifty-fifty?”
He could picture her wagging her patrician finger and fluffing her perfectly styled blond hair.
“One million tomorrow and two after the launch. A girl has to be careful about her nest egg.”
“Sweetheart, for you, I’ll give you a deep discount.”
“How deep?” Her throaty laugh crackled through the airwaves.
“How deep do you want me to go?”
“I’ll take a rain check. Oops. Time for breakfast, and there’s spa and massage this morning.”
“You do miss me.” He laughed. “If I were there, you’d have no time for breakfast, spa or massage.”
“Yes, thank you very much. I’ll take a look at the statement when I return.”
The call ended, no doubt interrupted by the appearance of her husband.
Dave turned back to his email. Delete, delete, delete.
One message was titled, “Urgent: Do Not Delete!!!!”
Dave laughed and hit delete.
He scrolled down. A slew of “Do Not Delete” emails trailed from this evening. An itch crawled on his scalp. What time had Jen been attacked?
He opened the message.
A yahoo account from Twinkletoes?
Mr. Jewell. Consider yourself warned. Back off from the Black Friday launch or you will suffer more repercussions. What happened to your girlfriend was no accident. We’re watching you.
Dave brought both hands to his head and slammed against the back of his chair. What girlfriend? Were they threatening Jen because of him? Sweat popped over his brow.
The tone did not sound like Sherry. He opened a Sherry-mail.
Dave, you slut. You man whore! I hope you enjoy that little claptrap. I hope you get AIDS.
He deleted it. Definitely not ‘Sherry M’ style. He added ‘Sherry Monzon’ to his filter and then wildcarded it to ‘Sherry M*.’ He didn’t know or want to know anyone named ‘Sherry.’
He opened another “Do Not Delete” message. It played the funereal “Dong, dong, dee dong…”
Black Friday will be your doom. Code Thief.
His breath hitched. He couldn’t fail. Not now, not when he was so close. His cell jingled with another text message. The mysterious number.
Enjoy boinking older women?
How the hell did Sherry M get his phone number? Somehow Jen was mixed up in this. Couldn’t be a coincidence her roommate’s name was Sherry. Another loose end.
He tipped the chair back and rubbed his temples. It had started to rain. The gutters rattled outside. Another cold, dreary, lonely November. Six years. November 20, 2006 was the day Abby disappeared. Right under the nose of that incompetent nanny. What was her name again? Strange how he had blocked her out completely during his stay at the mental care facility. They told him to forgive her, to let it go.
His fists clenched. Since he didn’t know who the kidnappers were, he’d shoved all the blame on her. All he remembered was her huge posterior and the stupid bun she wore, her hair pulled back from her acne and her eyebrows tweezed into a pencil line. Stupid barn owl.
He could look up the articles again, hunt her down, but then what? What use would that do? She had cried most pitifully. He had not pressed charges, only wished her good riddance and closed his heart forever.
A tear wet his cheek. He would never know what it’d be like to read Abby a bedtime story, give her warm milk and tuck her in. The nanny had deprived him of everything, and there would be no forgiveness. He poured himself a glass of bourbon and slumped onto the couch.
Chapter 13
Jen woke aching from her head to her sore ankle. She fumbled with the Tylenol bottle and downed two tablets. After she washed and changed her bandages, she put on contacts against the doctor’s advice and slipped into her clothes.
Grabbing a single crutch, she stepped out of the guest room. Steady snores came from the direction of the living room. The door on the other side of the hall from her led to Jocelyn’s sewing room. Had he kept it the same? Did she dare look? She cracked open the door.
Sunlight seeped through lacy curtains topped with ruffled valences. A dressmaker’s mannequin stood like a silent maid, a partially completed bodice pinned at an angle to the shoulder. Jen swiped a dusty cobweb off the velvety material and brought the pleated skirt to her nose. Chalky and dry. Not a whiff of sparkly scent, bright citrus mingled with warm lilacs, survived in the stark room.
A Cornflower Cissy doll stared at her with bright-blue button eyes. A ninth grade project. Jen fluffed its long elegant hair and traced a finger over the rose red lips. The gathering of its silky pinafore was evenly distributed and the golden piping perfect, as all Jocelyn’s work had been. Jen picked up Jocelyn’s cheerleading photo and blew off the dust. Looking at the perky bow-shaped smile in the sweet face of youth and hope brought a mist to her eyes. How simple it had been—the post-game pizza, arcade games, and sitting on the porch sipping lemonade—a time when best friends were meant to be forever.
A spray bottle of Jennifer Lopez
Glow
sat on a dresser alongside a giant conch shell and a row of cheerleading trophies. Jen uncapped the perfume and spritzed her neck, and for a moment it seemed as if Jocelyn would march through the door to tell her a joke. She set the bottle down and looked over her shoulder. He would not like her invading his sanctuary.
The snore droned from the living room. Relieved, Jen hopped over. Dave lay on the couch. Dark hair swept rakishly over his brows, and the shadow of his beard roughened the lower part of his face. She sighed. A man like that wouldn’t give a woman like her a second look if it hadn’t been for the blood under his car and the fact that Rey’s murder led to complications for his company.
She remembered sitting in church with Jocelyn and watching Dave in the choir. He was the only reason she attended the services. When Dave started dating Jocelyn, it hurt to sit there with a pasted-on grin while they went to restaurants and concerts, using her as a chaperone. Safe, fat, Jennifer Cruz. Nothing ever happened with her around. Of course, Dave paid for her meals and event tickets. But she was as invisible as if she had a sheet over her face, or a large paper bag marked FoodMax.
Dave yawned, blinking up at her. “What time is it?”
“Eight. It’s Sunday morning.”
He smiled. “Imagine waking up and seeing you.”
Gotta think of something safe.
She avoided his gaze. “Are you going to church today?”
He chuckled under his breath. “I should, shouldn’t I? Maybe all this is happening to me because I’ve been sinning.”
Yeah, sinning. That’s what it’s called.
She tapped the floor with a crutch. “If it makes you feel better, I haven’t been to confession since…”
Since before the kidnapping.
“Ha, you? You haven’t been guilty of half the things I’ve done. I read your personnel file, squeaky clean.” His eyes twinkled despite the redness. “Not even a traffic ticket with the way you drive.”
She perched on the arm of the couch. “What church do you go to?”
He rubbed his jaw, making a sandpapery sound. “I haven’t been since shortly after my wife died.”