Annabel pictured the splintered memento box and crushed jade pendant left on the floor of her loft. Her throat constricted as if wrapped in the coils of a colorful snake. “None visible, at least.”
Sydney’s expression softened, her eyes conveying concern. “Are you worried about what’s going on with Patrick in the kitchen?”
“As far as the food goes? No.” Annabel took a deep breath. “But, yes. I’m worried.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. But I’ll send Ray down if it would make you feel better.” Sydney lifted both brows in question.
Annabel nodded. She didn’t want Patrick to think she didn’t trust him to take care of himself or to make it through the hectic evening without cracking the skulls Devon had teased her about. It wasn’t that at all.
It was that she loved him and until Dega was caught nothing would make her feel better.
“C
OMING THROUGH
!” Patrick called, using his good foot to propel the rolling desk chair the length of the kitchen. Getting from here to there on wheels only made sense in that it left his hands free to double-check the trays of food going upstairs.
So far, so good. Having a commercial kitchen to use, and one so convenient, had made this whole cooking on crutches business a lot easier to manage. Annabel had fretted all day that he’d need more help than he’d arranged with the Three Mings manager to have on hand.
But everything was coming together better than he’d ever thought possible.
The restaurant was hosting a private party, which had the kitchen hopping. Patrick needed only one prep table, and sharing the ovens and stovetops hadn’t been the sort of hassle it could’ve been had the kitchen been open for regular business.
Still, he had to admit being surprised that Annabel hadn’t been downstairs fifteen times by now to check on him. He liked what that said about the extent of her trust. Now to parlay that trust into an admission of love, and he’d be set for life. Yeah. He liked the concept.
He rolled on into the small office at the back of the kitchen. Time to switch the wheels for the crutches he’d left leaning against the room’s file cabinet. He needed to whip up more rum cream and could hardly operate the mixer when sitting on his ass put the prep table at chin level—
Slam!
Patrick whipped his head back toward the door in time to watch Russell Dega, decked out in kitchen scrubs, turn the dead bolt. Patrick’s stomach dropped to his feet; his heart shot into his throat. The Glock 10 mm automatic in the other man’s hand guaranteed that no one would be getting out without a hell of a messy fight.
He hated the disadvantage of sitting, but stayed where he was.
Think, think, Patrick. Think.
Calm under fire. That was his priority. “Russell, my man. You’re a day early. A dollar short, too, no?”
Dega’s expression remained darkly blank. “The element of surprise, Mr. Coffey, though I doubt you’re at all shocked to see me.”
No, no. He couldn’t say that he was. Time for a quick reconnaissance. His knife in his pocket. His brother up
stairs. His crutches behind him on the file cabinet. A kitchen of deadly possibilities right outside the door…the closed and locked door barred by a Glock and a man without compunction.
It was either talk his way out of here or shut the hell up. He chose the latter.
“Come now, Mr. Coffey,” Dega said, gesturing randomly with the gun, the silent stare-down having apparently gone on too long for his liking. “Give me what I’ve come for, and I’ll be on my way.”
At this point, turning over Soledad’s information and allowing Dega to fly the coop sounded like a plan to Patrick. All but the part where he’d have to lose a leg. “Sorry, Russ. No can do. You said tomorrow. I didn’t come prepared.”
“You’re trying my patience, Patrick.” Dega spat out the words, considered him down the sight of the Glock.
Patrick rolled his chair six inches closer to the desk and didn’t say a word. The phone was less than a foot away. Knock the receiver from the cradle. Punch a quick 9-1-1. That’s all he had to do. All he had to do. He clenched his fist around his tingling palm.
Dega’s expression remained devoid of emotion. “Not to mention that I see straight through your bluff.”
“Yeah?” Patrick asked, stalling and distracting. “What bluff would that be?”
“That you would deliver to me Soledad’s information at our next meeting.”
“Our next
scheduled
meeting. Tomorrow.” Patrick shrugged, sweat rolling between his shoulder blades. He braced an elbow on the desk. One more minute.
One more minute.
“Can’t help you out tonight, Russ.”
Dega’s nostrils flared. His black eyes darkened. “You
have what is mine, and I’m prepared to get it back. At any cost,” he added, sharply punctuating the last words.
A punctuation Patrick didn’t need to understand the extent of the shit he was in. “Including killing me?”
“If necessary.” Dega barked out a menacing laugh, the sound deep and low and nearly soundless, which made it that much more eerie.
Patrick’s mouth went dry. His mind raced. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. His minute was up. He swung his hand, knocked the receiver from the cradle, punched 9-1-1 before Dega’s cane cracked against the side of his head.
The desk chair sailed back with the force, and Patrick went flying. Pain burst through his shoulder, exploded through his skull. The phone clattered to the floor nearby. Breathe, breathe,
breathe.
It took forever, but finally he gasped, pulled in a short ragged breath, peeled open his eyes. Then wished he hadn’t.
The barrel of the cane gun was three inches away and aimed right between his eyes.
“Dead or alive, Mr. Coffey. It doesn’t matter to me. I want the head of the snake in the middle of your back, and I’ll skin it off of you if I have to.”
The head of the snake? Grimacing, Patrick pushed up to his elbows, then into a sitting position. He kicked the chair toward Dega, who swung it around the front of the desk and toward the far wall of office machines.
Patrick nodded toward the copier in the corner. “How about we take a picture? It’ll last longer.”
“That would still leave you walking around with my map. And I can’t have that.”
“Your map?”
What the hell?
What about coded account numbers and the like? The FBI was certain that’s what they’d find. A complete record to replace the one de
stroyed in the raid on the island. But Dega wanted a map? “What’re you talking about, your map?” Patrick demanded, scooting back against the file cabinet.
His crutches lay on the floor on his right. His knife, tucked deep in the left pocket of his snap-away pants, bounced against his leg. The odds weren’t great, his head hurt like hell, but no way was he going to give up or give in.
With the Glock aimed at Patrick, Dega leaned a shoulder against the door, his cane in his hand, supporting the rest of his weight. “An armored-car heist and a bag of gold bars, Mr. Coffey. Many years before we settled into our profitable lifestyle, Soledad and I found a suitable rock of an island and hid the gold in a small cave. It didn’t occur to me after we’d spoken last that your tattoo is the obvious key.”
“And my tattoo tells you, what? How to get back there?”
“Along with the information of our activities she coded, I’m quite certain Soledad recorded the island’s coordinates. She knew the information would eventually be deciphered. I doubt, however, she intended for me to be the one to use it. But with my records being destroyed and my memory not quite as good as it once was…” He gestured with the gun. “On your feet. We’re leaving.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Dega didn’t miss a beat. “Then you die here, and I take the map.”
Stalling more than weighing options, Patrick asked, “And if I go?”
“Once I have my treasure, I’ll leave you with a gun and a single bullet. Then you can decide how long you live.”
“Sounds like paradise.” He bit off the words, inching his hand toward his pocket. The knife was his best hope.
“Patrick?” Ray pounded on the office door.
Dega shifted to train the cane gun on Patrick and raised the Glock chest high toward the door. Toward Ray. “You tell him you’re fine, or he’s dead.”
“Be right out, dude,” Patrick called, hearing the flatness in his own voice and hoping like hell his brother believed him and didn’t start anything stupid.
“Yeah, well…” Ray hesitated, his voice muffled. “Poe wanted me to check on you.”
Patrick closed his eyes and pictured Annabel upstairs in her gorgeous white dress. His heart pounding, gut churning, he looked up slowly, and furiously met Dega’s gaze. “Tell her I’ll come upstairs in a few.”
The idea of this bastard getting to Annabel…Patrick grabbed hold of the edge of the desk and one crutch and levered himself to his feet. “Good enough?” he mouthed, his hand, now free, reaching for his knife.
Dega nodded and whispered, “We’ll give your brother time to get out of our way and—”
The door burst inward and caught the bastard’s shoulder. Dega went flying, landed on his back, sliding head-first into the copier stand. Patrick scuttled in reverse, watching the battering ram knock the door off its frame.
Uniformed officers pushed through, yelling at Dega. “Drop your weapon. Drop your weapon.”
Then Ray was in the doorway. “Ray, no!” Patrick cried.
Dega raised the Glock.
“Drop your weapon!”
Dega fired once, twice.
Ray dived. Patrick threw the knife, followed his brother to the floor. Then he whipped his head up,
searching out and finding—
goddamn, there they were
—the bullet holes in the ceiling.
Ray’s throat convulsed as he swallowed. He glanced over Patrick’s head toward the officers, then nodded. Patrick turned to see two of them backing away, guns lowered, faces solemn. He rolled to his one good knee. His brother helped him to his feet, handed him a crutch.
And then he couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t respond. Dega lay on the floor, the knife quivering beneath his Adam’s apple. Patrick stood there, leaning on his crutch and the arm his brother wrapped around him, and watched Dega’s life flow away in a dark ribbon of blood.
“Your call got through,” Ray said gruffly, his mouth at Patrick’s ear. “I was coming down to check on you just as the cops showed up. When the dispatch came through, they were only a block away. I can’t believe it. It’s done. After all this time, it’s done.”
It was over, over. Patrick wasn’t sure that he wasn’t going to pass out. And then he heard Annabel’s voice raised in argument with the police officers keeping her from the scene. He gave Ray a final hug. “I’ve gotta see her, man.”
He was barely out of the office and into the kitchen before Annabel was in his arms. She held him so tightly he had to back into the door frame for balance. He didn’t move. She didn’t exactly cry, though heaving sobs rattled her chest.
His own breathing grew ragged and taut. His eyes burned. His throat tightened. He held her while officers shouted orders and radios crackled and sirens wailed through the open kitchen door. Even with the mayhem and an audience, Patrick did the one life-affirming thing he had to do.
He kissed her.
He cupped his hand to the back of her head and ground their mouths together. Passion wasn’t a part of it, and his only desire at the moment was to sweep her into his arms and get the hell out of here. But he couldn’t walk, and ahead lay a long messy night of questions and answers and paperwork….
He sighed, and she pulled away to take his face in both of her hands. Her makeup ran in jagged streaks down her pale face, tears spilling unheeded. “I heard the gunshots. I thought you were dead. I just knew you were dead.”
He shook his head, pressed his lips to her inner wrist. “I’m too hardheaded and mean to let you off the hook that easily.”
“Oh, Patrick. If anything had happened to you…” She pressed her quivering lips to his cheek, moved her mouth to the barest edge of his. So soft. So gentle. “I love you. I love you, and losing you would be more than I could bear.”
He felt his grin start deep in his gut and stop to massage his heart before it hit his mouth. “Does this mean I don’t have to move out tomorrow?”
“If you do, I’ll never speak to you again,” she said, and sobbed.
He considered for a moment the pandemonium, feeling nothing but relief, nothing resembling the guilt he’d expected over killing a man. But he had to know. He needed to know. “I just killed a man, Annabel. Are you sure you can live with that? With me?”
“Oh, Patrick, yes.” She nodded quickly, her hair settling to frame her chin. “You acted in self-defense. How could I think badly of you for that?”
“Just making sure, sweetheart. Just making sure.” He
reached behind him, where earlier he’d tucked a kitchen towel into the waistband of his pants. “Here. Fix yourself, woman. You’re a mess.”
With a sharp teasing glare, she took the towel and dabbed at her face before blowing her nose loudly.
“Ooh. My kinda sexy woman,” he said, and ruffled her hair.
She growled. “I hate it when you do that.”
“No, you don’t. You love it,” he said, and sighed. How could one woman make one man so insanely happy?
“You’re right. I do.” She smiled. “Almost as much as I love you.”
A
NNABEL STOOD AT THE BOW
of the rented schooner, the brisk Caribbean breeze ruffling her hair. The skies were the blue of postcards, the water an unbelievably clear turquoise. The sun warmed her from the inside out with its brilliant heat.
With her arms wrapped around her bare middle, she watched the cove come into view—the very cove depicted in the head of the snake tattooed as a map on Patrick’s back. Millions in gold bars. She had to laugh at the possibility.
The past six months had brought an amazing whirlwind of change to her life. At long last she had her degree, though she’d yet to leave gIRL-gEAR. She had time. She also had offers. It felt good to be wanted by three out of the four crime labs she’d queried. It felt equally good to know that, no matter her partners’ regrets at seeing her go, they supported her decision.
But nothing would ever feel as good as loving Patrick Coffey.
She shuddered even now to think of New Year’s Eve and all that had happened since. Patrick loathed the notoriety that had come from being a local celebrity, but Tony’s Restaurant had never been busier. Patrick’s reputation, in fact, had caught Nolan Ford’s attention.
Sydney’s millionaire father, having taken a big step backward out of the business of venture capital, was talk
ing with Patrick about a future executive chef position at the restaurant he planned to open.
Life for all of the gIRL-gEAR partners was surging strongly upward. Macy’s baby was due in another month. As tiny as Macy was, she never ceased to amaze the rest of the girls that she was able to walk with a belly that size. Chloe and Eric, as well as Sydney and Ray, had set wedding dates for the next year.
Melanie had moved in with Jacob and the two were discussing opening their own media firm. Lauren and Anton were as happy as a married couple could possibly be, though Kinsey and Doug were definite rivals for most newly wedded bliss.
And, finally, finally,
finally,
Annabel and Patrick were taking a real vacation. Unlike the time she’d had off at the end of last year, which hadn’t been the least bit relaxing, this was a real trip away from their very busy lives.
He’d bought a house in River Oaks and was fighting off the attention of bored soccer moms and the upwardly mobile
Sex and the City
types on a regular basis. Annabel had seen it happen more than once.
Several times she’d stood at his home’s front windows as he’d driven up and rolled out of his El Camino, his hair still cropped close, the sun glinting off his sleek designer shades and the hoop in his ear, his long, rangy body drawing hot female stares from the parade of SUVs and chic status cars that seemed to follow him everywhere.
She certainly didn’t blame the onlookers for wanting what she had. Oh, no. She couldn’t blame them at all. There was definitely something to be said for younger men. And even more to be said for savage beasts and jungle boys.
As if reading her mind, Patrick walked up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, soaking up the heat of his bare chest on her back, settling into the circle of his arms and knowing she’d never felt more safe, more secure or more loved.
“You ready for this?” he asked, his voice husky near her ear.
She wiggled against him, feeling his nipple ring sear her back. “Do you really think we’re going to find anything?”
He stepped back, turned her around. She laced her hands behind his neck; he moved his to her hipbones. His skin was bronzed and beautiful, his body ripped with muscle.
And she remembered the bad boy in the bomber jacket who’d kissed her senseless less than a year ago and was now the man whom she loved.
“Who the hell cares?” he said, his hands sliding up her rib cage and around to the small of her back. “I’ve got my treasure right here.”