Killing Bliss (15 page)

A few blocks from Susan Moore's house, he pulled off to the side of the road to think, to plan.

No way could he find Harding, but Bliss would be contacting him again. His need and greed would ensure that.

Grover pressed his fingers against the sudden flash of pain in his head. One thing was certain.

It wouldn't be Western Union delivering the cash.

* * *

After six o'clock, Addy tried Gus's number again—or at least what she hoped was still his number. The area code put him in Florida, but remembering the nomadic Gus, he could have moved a dozen times in the year and a half since she'd picked up his number off the call display.

Damn. Voicemail—again.

What worried her was that it wasn't Gus's voice on the recording. It was a generic message confirming the telephone number, asking her to leave a message, and nothing else.

She'd called off and on all day, and each time her nerves arced and spiked through her like a summer lightning storm. The difference this time was she'd left a message—about an hour ago.
Call Wart ASAP. It's urgent.
She hoped it was cryptic enough and made him angry enough to return her call.

Now all she could do was wait, and hope Beauty would do the same.

She stood and stretched. God. Every bone and muscle in her body ached from the day's work. And she was starving.

She remembered Cade Harding's invitation to dinner. If she'd accepted, she'd be tucking into a good meal right now—a meal cooked on a real stove, by a real person who used herbs and spices, wore an apron, and wielded wooden spoons with the skill of a master.

Too bad that would have meant playing nice with Cade. She was too exhausted for that, too keyed up. What she really wanted to do was scream and run naked into the lake.

Neither of which was an option she could exercise without sending every guest at Star Lake running for the exit road. Not that there were many at this time of year.

She stretched again, planted her hands on the small of her back, and massaged deeply. The microwave beckoned. She did have a new rice thing, not too appealing, but it would have to do.

When the phone rang, her heart landed in her mouth, and she rushed to pick up the receiver.

"Addy?"

"Beauty, are you okay?" She closed her eyes, said a silent prayer that her old friend hadn't done anything stupid in the last twenty-four hours. With Beauty, you never could be sure.

Her question was met with a languorous and very noisy sigh. "Better than okay. I'm in a four-star hotel in a bathtub so deep I could drown in it. I have a glass of perfectly chilled chardonnay at my fingertips and room service on the way."

Addy heard her drag deep on a cigarette and a shaft of furious and totally irrational envy poked her chest like a sharp nail. She shoved it aside and got to the matter at hand. "What are you doing?"

"Taking a night off from Frank Bliss." She laughed, and Addy suspected she was drunk. "You know, I'd forgotten how incredibly stupid he is, and when I—oops, dropped my wine in the tub."

"Beauty, what did you do? Tell me."
You crazy fool. If you were here, I'd wring your long, beautiful neck.

"I had a chat with him. Told him we'd pay him a half million dollars to get lost." She giggled. "Of course, he accepted."

The air departed Addy's lungs in a loud exhale. "A half mill—" She couldn't even say it. "Where are we going to get that kind of money?"

"We're not, my foolish friend, but that slime bucket doesn't know that. And by the time he figures it out, Gus will be here."

Addy's stomach dropped. She should have known, now that Beauty had Gus on her brain, she wouldn't think about anything else.

Beauty picked up on her silence. "Did you reach him yet?" She took a drag or drink or whatever, but Addy knew she was waiting for her answer.

"No," she said. "Not yet. And Beauty?"

"Uh-huh?"

"I want you to stay in that hotel until you hear from me. Do you understand that?" She didn't bother to add that there was always the chance—a good one—that Gus would blow her off and want nothing to do with them or Bliss. That was way too much reality for a woman in a bubble bath drinking chardonnay.

"Yes, ma'am." She giggled again. "But you can stop worrying, little sister, because I've got everything under control. For the next couple of days, you can consider Frank Bliss officially on ice. Call you tomorrow. Ta ta."

"Beauty." Too late. All she could do was stare at the dead phone in her hand. Except... she picked up the number from call display and dialed.

"Carlton Towers, how may I help you?"

"Sorry, wrong number. But can you tell me what town I've dialed?"

"Sacramento, California."

"Thanks." She hung up, walked to her beat-up sofa, and slumped into it like one of those sacks of cement she'd had delivered yesterday. There was nothing more she could do. At least she knew where Beauty was, knew she was safe—for the time being.

She rested her head on the back of the sofa, bone weary, and closed her eyes. Her brain wanted to shut down, while on another plane entirely, her stomach wondered what Beauty had ordered from room service.

A rapping on her back door brought her head up.

She groaned. What she didn't need right now was a cranky customer complaining about "crisp" toilet paper or a lack of towels.

When she looked up and saw who was on the other side of the door, her senses went on red alert.

It was Cade Harding, his face grayed by the mesh in the outer door. She went to the door, opened it, but left the screen door closed. She braced one hand on either side of it and stared up at him.

He stared back. The sun, settling somewhere behind him, made it difficult to see his expression.

It wasn't difficult to make out the smell.

He lifted a giant bag, waved it in front of her as if it were an incense burner.

Chinese. She loved Chinese. The man was evil.

"I said I didn't eat." The last thing she needed right now was Cade Harding and his easygoing, not-a-care-in-the-world attitude and silver-green eyes that spent too much time looking too deeply into hers. She'd get rid of him.

He waved the bag again. "It's either you or Redge. I bought enough for two."

She smelled the scents of the Orient—or at least what passed for the Orient in northern Washington—and her resolve was burned away by the thought of American-style chow mein, deep-fried pork, and sweet and sour sauce. "You don't play fair."

"Nope."

She opened the screen and grabbed for the bag.

"Uh-uh." He pulled it back. "This bag and I come as a set."

"Come in then, but don't be surprised if I fall asleep with a chopstick in my mouth. I'm not up for conversation."

"Fair enough."

Cade stepped in and looked around. "Nice." When he looked at the carpet, he shucked out of his sneakers.

She liked that. Truth was, she liked Cade. Which of course was stunning timing, considering what was playing out in the background of her life. She reached for the bag again, and this time he gave it up. "This way." She headed for the kitchen, which wasn't far. Only a tiled bar—she'd done it herself—separated it from the living room. "And you can tell Redge if he's a really, really good dog, he can lick the bags."

"I'll do that." He smiled, watched while she took plates from the cupboard.

"Where is he, by the way?" she asked.

"Left him home playing guard dog."

"He's welcome here. I like dogs."

When she went for some glasses, he reached over her shoulder and plucked a couple from the shelf. "These?"

"Uh-huh. And you'll find milk in the fridge."

"You drink milk with Chinese?" He said it as if the idea was akin to swilling pickle juice with a good steak.

She set the dishes, along with the glasses, on the counter, and flexed her biceps, a la Popeye. "I eat spinach, too." She risked a quick smile. What could it hurt? He'd be gone in a few days, and in the meantime, it was smart to act as normal as possible. But she spotted her lie right away. She wasn't being smart, she was looking for a diversion, and as diversions went, Cade Harding beat another wheelbarrow full of dirt hands down.

And he'd brought food.

Of course, his idea of a diversion would have more to do with sex than hers did, but she'd deal with that problem as she always did.

When she started to dish out the food, he stopped her. "Sit down. I'll do the honors." He glanced around, nodded toward the sofa she'd been sitting on when he came. "How about we eat in there?"

When they were both seated and their plates were full—hers twice as high as his—she took her first mouthful, then her second. "M-m-m... this is good." She gave him a sideways glance. "Did I say thank you?"

"No, but you eating that piece of pork and looking as if you'd tasted heaven will do." He winked at her and went back to demolishing his own plate, wielding his chopsticks like a pro.

She stuffed some noodles in her mouth, swallowed, and said, "If my source of food is a microwave, I'd say yours is takeout."

"You'd be right. Since I moved to Seattle—a couple of weeks ago now—I haven't turned on the stove." He put down his plate, wiped his mouth with a red napkin spotted with dragons, and looked at her. "I actually like to cook, just not every day."

"I hate it." She crunched into an egg roll. "Nuking is my life." She tackled the chow mein.

He laughed. "I don't think so. I think this resort—"

"—motel. It's a motel." What was it with men? They always wanted things to be more than they were.

"Motel," he corrected himself. "I think this motel is your life. And I'm guessing the physical work you do around here leaves you too tired to cook."

"Some days, that's for sure."

"And on the others?"

She glanced out the window. "I'd rather watch the sunset, take a swim, or—"

The phone rang. Addy's heart jumped, and she barely managed to put her plate on the coffee table without dumping it in her lap. "Excuse me. I'm, uh, waiting for a special call." She bolted toward the phone.

Chapter 10

Cade watched her hurry, almost run, to the telephone on a desk near a makeshift drafting table at the other end of the room. Before she picked it up, she turned her back to him, then she hunched over the receiver to muffle whatever conversation she was expecting to have.

Her greeting was barely a whisper, then she straightened and turned back to face him. She gave whoever was on the other end of the phone a list of rates and some information about fishing in the lake, then hung up. Walking back to him, she rubbed her forehead, looking both relieved and disappointed—and frustrated.

It was obvious she'd been expecting a call, and the one she'd answered wasn't it.

With those amazing eyes and lithe, strong body, Cade guessed she expected a lot of calls—all of them male.

He waited until she was again sitting beside him. "I guess those calls never stop."

She finished chewing on the piece of pork she'd put in her mouth and said, "Sure hope not."

When she didn't say more, he picked up the thread of their broken conversation. "So when you're not nuking, swimming, or sunset-watching, what fills your time?"

She tilted her head, leveled her gaze to his. "Why are you so interested in what I do?"

"You're an interesting woman. Why wouldn't I be?"

She studied him a long time, then burst out laughing. "Interesting? Me? A woman who runs a third-string motel miles from the highway or nearest town? You must not get out much, Cade Harding." She rose from the sofa. "Thanks for the food, but I'm beat."

As a dismissal, it didn't leave much room for maneuvering.

Cade didn't stand. Instead, he leaned back into the sofa and spread his arms across the backrest. She hadn't pulled her punches, nor would he. "You don't like questions much, do you?" He let his eyes wander over her. Not hard. "Is there a reason for that?"