Susan Amarillas (25 page)

“I had it all set.” Frank knew this wasn’t a man to cross. “All they had to do was turn over the kid. I’d pay them off and send them out of town for a while. How was I suppose to know they’d get greedy?”

“All right, Frank,” the other man said softly. “I’ll make it work, though I wish to hell I had that money. I need it for...” He lifted his eyes negligently. “I need it. At least the newspaper is mine. She doesn’t know, does she?”

“No.” Frank smiled. “She doesn’t suspect a thing. She thinks it’s an eastern syndicate.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way. It’s only a matter of time until she comes to me.” He lounged back, and a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “In the meantime, I want you to put the word out, discreetly—” he sliced a glance in Frank’s direction “—that Jack Riggs has money, and if anyone finds him and wants to take the money away, well, you would be grateful.”

“They’ll kill him for that kind of money,” Frank said on a sudden intake of breath.

The other man gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Just put the word out. The wolves will hunt him down if he’s in town, and what they do then, well, it’s out of our control.”

A chill snaked up Frank’s spine at the cold way the man could order someone’s death. “But murder—”

“Not murder,” the other man snarled. Then, more gently, “I told you, it’s out of our hands. Besides, if they’d followed orders, no one would have been hurt, now would they?”

Frank shook his head.

“So, there, you see. It’s not our doing. They brought it on themselves. If Jack is arrested and talks, it’s you he’ll name, Frank, and if anyone looked really hard, they might find the connection between you and me. I’m only looking out for your best interests.”

“I understand.” Frank drained his glass.

The man chuckled. “Don’t look so worried, Frank. It’ll be all right. I’ll take care of you.”

The man stood, tossed some money on the table and left.

Frank lingered awhile over his whiskey. He’d never bargained on murder.

L
uke didn’t go to Rebecca’s that night. He didn’t go the next morning. Oh, he wanted to. He just didn’t know what to say. And even if he had he doubted she’d give him more than two seconds before she slammed the damned door in his face. Let’s face it, they hadn’t parted the best of friends. That was a polite way of saying they’d argued. Okay, they’d fought. Hell, they always fought, except when they were making love.

If fighting with her was hell, then having her in his arms was heaven, pure and simple. Holding her was magic, like holding a flame in the palm of his hand—too hot to hold and too exciting to release. It was a fire he was more than happy to be consumed by.

He dragged in a deep breath and held on to it, letting the oxygen fuel the fire that flared inside him. His eyes slammed shut. Dear God, how he wanted her.

But she didn’t want him. At least she’d made it clear that she was determined
not
to want him. Now that was an entirely different matter, he thought, intrigued by the notion. He didn’t believe her, didn’t care what she wanted. He wanted her and his son, and he damned well was going to have them.

She, on the other hand, was convinced that to love him was to expose Andrew to scandal and to deprive Ruth of her only grandson—who, unfortunately, wasn’t her grandson, at least not by blood.

He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but, dammit, there had to be a way.

So he sat here in his office, feet propped on the corner of his desk, trying to come up with a plan. Trouble was, he didn’t have a plan, not even a remote glimmer of a plan.

With unfocused eyes, he stared at the white plaster wall opposite his desk. He kept thinking, turning the problem over and over in his mind.

Sunlight poured through the dirty windows, and he idly watched the dust motes floating in the air. His gaze flicked from one white plaster wall to the other, and he felt confined. He hated offices, hated being cooped up inside. This place was the size of a jail cell, with barely enough room for his desk, a couple of chairs, and a well-used filing cabinet on the back wall, under a faded picture of George Washington.

Why the hell did every government office he’d ever been in have a picture of George Washington? he suddenly wondered, distracted. You’d think there hadn’t been another president since.

Dammit, this was getting him nowhere. Sitting up, he let his feet slam to the floor. He toyed with the mail, a month’s worth, piled high on his desk. A couple of wanted posters, an official notice of a change in reporting procedures, something that looked suspiciously like an invitation, and a note from the governor.

He slit the white envelope with his pocket knife. The note said the governor had had a change of plans. He was leaving for Los Angeles and would be back next week to attend a social event. He’d want a report then on Luke’s progress.

Luke tossed the note down, letting it flutter to a stop on top of the other papers scattered over the smooth walnut surface. He was a lawman, not a paper pusher, he thought irritably. Yeah, that meant he was short on organization and long on action.

Ha! You couldn’t prove either, looking at him now.

Well, don’t just sit there. Do something.

Yeah, get moving.
He always thought better when he was moving, working.
Like maybe a little of the work you were hired to do.

There was that investigation into city corruption he was suppose to be conducting for the governor, among other things. With a mumbled curse, he set about organizing the office. He took to the files first, straightening, sorting, putting the damned things in alphabetical order. It was menial work that required little brainpower, so he was able to keep trying to come up with a plan to win Rebecca.

He spent the next couple of hours sorting through the reports and such that had mounted up between his predecessor’s leaving and Luke’s arrival. He made up letters to a half-dozen prospective deputies. He’d never win any awards for penmanship, he thought, glancing at the scrawled names and addresses.

He cleaned out the desk drawers, made lists of things he needed to do and cleared off the top of his desk. By midafternoon, he was finished, and he still didn’t have a plan.

He spotted that invitation-looking envelope and thumbed it open. Yup, an invitation, all right. Seemed there was a meeting today at—he glanced at the school clock ticking loudly on the wall over the file cabinet—two o’clock. He was already ten minutes late,
if
he was going to go. A group of business leaders, wanting to talk about the future of the city that they had such a large investment in.

He wasn’t much interested in meetings. Right now, he wasn’t much interested in anything but Rebecca and his son. A lightness moved through his chest at the thought, making his breathing a little ragged.

It was an incredible feeling to know he had a son. He wasn’t a man much given to flights of fancy, but this—this was so incredible he wanted to cry, he wanted to shout every time he thought about it, which was about every other minute.

He reviewed the situation one more time. His goal was very clear. He wanted Rebecca and he wanted his son. They were a package deal, and he absolutely didn’t want it any other way.

He walked the two long steps to the window, leaned his shoulder on the smooth wood frame and looked out, only absently aware of Hansen’s delivery wagon lumbering up the street toward the corner of Third.

He was thinking. If he tried to take the boy, she’d fight him. He couldn’t blame her. What mother would give up her son? Certainly not Rebecca, he realized with more than a little admiration and gratitude.

He ticked off the options. Confrontation, demands, threats? She’d only dig in harder. No, he thought, tapping the invitation on the edge of his hand again. He had to move slowly, carefully. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake. A man only got so many chances, and he was well beyond his limit.

Luke glanced down at the invitation he held in his hand and cut a confirming glance at the clock. Two-twenty. Ah, hell, he’d go to the meeting. Maybe by the time it was finished he’d have an idea.

* * *

In the past two years, Rebecca Tinsdale had become a power, a force to be reckoned with, in San Francisco politics. With her newspaper, she had been able to shape public awareness and thereby public opinion on candidates and issues, at a time when the other papers in town seemed content to cover national news and ignore the local controversies.

Whether they liked it or not, business leaders and politicians had sought her out, asked for her endorsement or given her little bits of information, in the hope of discrediting their competition.

Rebecca had long since recognized what was happening. While she welcomed these visits, these requests, these bits of gossip, she had always made her own decisions, based on fact and fairness.

It was that trait, perhaps, most of all, that had gained her the respect of so many of San Francisco’s community leaders. It was, she suspected, why she’d been invited to this little gathering today, though exactly what the issue was, she wasn’t certain.

She was certain that they knew of her son’s kidnapping and of his safe return. San Francisco wasn’t so big that news didn’t travel fast in the right circles.

With Edward at her side, she walked into the grand dining room of the Hotel du Commerce. The men she was there to meet were conspicuously seated around a table for six near a potted palm in a corner.

The rich green carpet cushioned her steps as she and Edward followed the ma;afitre d’ between tables adorned with white linen and fine silver. She paused twice to speak to people she knew, to accept their good wishes.

The warm afternoon sunlight filtered through the delicate Irish lace curtains that covered the four front windows, opened to coax a breeze. There was none. The room was warm, and she was grateful their table was in a shadowed corner of the room.

“Gentlemen,” she said, taking in the three men with one greeting. Edward helped her take off her jacket.

The men stood, almost in unison.

“Mrs. Tinsdale.”

“Rebecca.”

They were all dark suits and celluloid collars. Except for their ages, they were very much alike, right down to the fashionably short, slicked-down hair.

She allowed Edward to help with her chair.

She sat next to John Riding, with Edward on her left. They chatted amiably while the uniformed waiter took their beverage order, then left, returning shortly with a pot of tea for Rebecca and coffee for the men.

“We’ll wait awhile before ordering lunch,” Henry Franklin told the waiter, glancing toward the open doorway.

“Expecting someone else?” Rebecca asked as she poured her tea, the rich burgundy liquid filling the translucent white china.

“I had hoped so,” Henry muttered.

John Riding spoke up. “Mrs. Tinsdale, we were so sorry to hear about your boy, and relieved when we heard he’d been returned safely.”

John was younger than the others. He had inherited money, then and very astutely doubled it. He owned the opera house, and several of the larger stores in town.

“Thank you,” Rebecca returned, glancing into his dark brown eyes. She liked John and his wife, and considered them friends.

“It must have been a terrifying experience,” Henry Franklin commented. Along with his partner, Logan McCloud, Henry owned the largest fleet in the harbor and controlled most of the city’s shipping. He was older than the others, his dark hair already showing signs of gray near his chubby face. His much younger wife had given birth to their first child only a few months ago.

“How is Mrs. Franklin?” Rebecca asked politely. “And the baby?”

“Oh, fine. Fine,” he replied with a schoolboy’s grin. “Thank you for remembering. And thank you for the lovely gift.”

“Of course. Please tell Mrs. Franklin I’ll call sometime next week, if she’s receiving.”

“I’ll tell her. I know she’ll be glad to—”

Merl Gates cleared his throat, obviously impatient with all this idle chitchat. Rebecca suppressed a small smile. Despite his gruffness, she liked Merl. He was direct to the point of being abrasive, but he was up-front and honest and never reneged on any pledge or promise. “The word around is that the new marshal pulled off a tricky bit of rescuing.”

“That’s correct,” Rebecca returned flatly, not wishing to discuss Luke Scanlin in any way, shape or form. Just the thought of the man, of the power he held over her, made her palms sweat.

“Heard tell there was a shoot-out. One man dead and the other got away. That right?”

“Yes,” she said softly, remembering the terror of that night alone in the blackness, with only Luke to help her, to save her. If he hadn’t pushed her clear, she might have been killed. If he hadn’t risked his life to follow that despicable man, she might never have seen Andrew again.

No wonder her hand shook when she tried to settle her cup back in its delicate saucer.

Edward spoke up for the first time. His slender features were drawn down in concern. “Dearest... Are you all right? All this talk is upsetting you. Perhaps we should go.” He made to stand, but hardly got out of his chair before Merl Gates cut in.

“Nonsense. Mrs. Tinsdale is not upset by a little conversation...are you?” It was more an order than a question. She dragged in a couple of breaths and willed her stomach to unclench.

The fear she felt was not so much from what had happened in that alley as from what had come after. She was made more uneasy by the shame and guilt of what had happened later. She had made love to Luke Scanlin. The one thing she’d vowed she’d never do again. He was like a drug in her system. The more she saw him, touched him, heard his voice, the more the addiction grew. And it was a sweet addiction, lush and sensual and carnal.

She had gone to his room, she had sought him out. Somewhere deep in her heart she had known what would happen, had wanted it to happen. And it had. Oh, Lord, it had been more wonderful, more sensual, more erotic, than she’d ever imagined.

Her body pulsed to life, nerves thrumming, and she quelled her rampant emotions. She straightened and squared her shoulders, suddenly afraid these men could sense the erotic path of her thoughts. When she spoke, her voice was shaky even to her own ears, but she toughed it out. “Of course, Mr. Gates. I have nothing to worry about.”

Never mind that one word from Luke and her whole life would dissolve faster than snow in the summer. While she didn’t think he’d be so cruel as to do it deliberately, he did have a temper, and a word spoken in anger was as destructive as any other.

“What about Brody?” Robert Lister’s voice broke into her thoughts, and she glanced up, grateful for this distraction. “Where was he through all this, as if I didn’t already know?” He shook his head.

“Captain Brody was...” She sipped her tea and composed her words carefully. After all, Edward was a friend and supporter of Brody’s, and she didn’t want to have a scene here. “At the marshal’s request, he made his men available for a search.”

“Ha!” Merl made no secret of his dislike for Brody. “I’ll just bet he did. And I’ll bet you were glad to see the marshal.”

“I—”

“Yes, Becky,” a male voice said from very close behind her, making her jump. “Were you glad?”

The sound of his voice went through her like a lightning bolt out of a clear sky. She whirled, her sleeve catching on the tablecloth and making her teacup clatter dangerously in its saucer. Luke stood there, dressed in black trousers and a midnight blue shirt closed at the neck with a string tie. His battered Stetson was in his hand, his black hair ruffled. His eyes were soft, and there was the barest hint of a smile on his lips.

All she could do was stare.

He tore his gaze away and greeted those gathered, then moved around the table, shaking hands.

All the while, he was thinking,
She’s here.
Luke had spotted her the minute he walked into the dining room. She was dressed in the latest fashion—he knew that, even if he didn’t know the name of the style or the fabric. It was dark green, all flat and fitted in the front. It had a high neck, long sleeves, and a bustle, and so much material in the back that he wondered that she could sit down. As it was, she was perched, sparrowlike, on the edge of the chair.