“Where were you when this happened?” he asked. “Not here in Portsville—”
“No, in New Orleans. In the alley by my hotel.”
“What were you doing in an alley?” He wasn’t sure why, but finding her this way was sobering him up fast.
“Someone was chasing me.”
This didn’t sound like anything he wanted to hear. “Who?”
“I think it was Pearson Black. Or Phillip Moreau. Whoever it was wanted to kill me.”
That didn’t make sense. The danger was over. Moreau was dead; life was supposed to be normal again. “Why would anyone want to kill you?”
She wilted as she considered the question. “I don’t know. Can we talk about it in the morning?”
He wanted to talk about it now. But there was no point in making things worse than they already were. She was here, where he could look out for her; she’d be fine until daylight. “Are you planning to stay on the couch?”
He’d meant to be nice, knowing he’d have a better chance of getting her to accompany him to the bedroom if he could manage a little charm. But the words came out far too clipped for charming. They sounded more like a challenge.
He held his breath as he awaited her answer. I blew it. What the hell’s wrong with me?
“Do you have another suggestion?” she asked hesitantly.
His heart began to pound harder. Fighting the conflicting emotions inside him
—the pull of desire against the reluctance to feel any kind of need—he forced himself to respond with some heartfelt honesty. “I could keep you warm.”
He hadn’t meant to sound that vulnerable, but it worked. “Warm would be good,” she said.
Relieved, he ignored his pain and carried her into the bedroom. And just the scent of her as she curled around him was enough.
Chapter 12
Gruber hesitated, cordless telephone in hand. He knew Peccavi didn’t like to be bothered unless there was a good reason. But he was dying to know what’d happened to Jasmine. Was she alligator bait? Was the sister of his beloved Kimberly now dead?
Pivoting at the end of his bunker, he headed toward the couch and table, where he preferred to watch TV. A small closetlike room to one side held a cheap port-a-potty designed for RVs, but Gruber didn’t like emptying it. Unless he had a prisoner that made it necessary, he simply went upstairs.
He glanced at the clock. It was after midnight, but Peccavi would be up. He could phone, couldn’t he? What would it hurt?
He knew what Peccavi would say, that it was a risk. But they weren’t in any danger. There’d only been one close call—when Adele had tried to escape and Gruber had had to kill her to stop her from screaming. He should’ve done something other than dumping her body in that restroom; he should’ve hidden it in the bayou or driven it out of state. Instead, he’d made a public statement to punish her father for being so damn tenacious. If Adele hadn’t seen that news clip of Fornier talking to her, telling her how much he missed her and wanted her home, she wouldn’t have tried what she did.
He’d never forgive Romain for that.
Gruber set down the phone, then picked it up again. He had to know if Peccavi had killed Jasmine.
Preparing an excuse for the phone call, he dialed before the uncertainty returned.
“Hello?”
Gruber had his number blocked, so he identified himself. “It’s me. Gruber.”
Peccavi immediately lowered his voice, and Gruber had the impression he didn’t want to be overheard. “This had better be good.”
“It is good. I wanted to tell you I got the baby to Beverly.”
“She already notified me. That’s part of her job, not yours.”
“But I thought you might like to know that the mother has a friend who might be a prime candidate for our…program,” Gruber lied.
“We don’t pee in our own pool.”
“You took this one,” Gruber said.
Peccavi hesitated. “The circumstances were right.”
“Don’t you want to at least hear what I found?”
“Fine. How far along is she?”
Gruber chose what he thought would be a tempting figure. “Seven months.”
“Did you talk price?”
“I told her we’d make sure she and the baby are happy. She’s so strung out she can’t take care of a child, anyway. We’d be doing the kid a favor.”
“And?”
“She said she’d think about it.”
“Did you get a number?”
“She doesn’t have a phone right now. But she knows how to contact you via the Web site.”
“Then I’ll get her the way I do all the others. This can wait—”
“Don’t go!” Gruber cried before Peccavi could hang up. When he didn’t hear a click, he assumed his employer was still on the line. “Did you take care of our little…problem?”
“What problem?”
“You know what problem. Our visitor from California.”
There was a long pause, so long Gruber felt sure Peccavi had hung up.
“Hello?”
“No.”
“No?”
“She got away. And nearly killed me in the process.”
Gruber couldn’t believe it.
“But don’t worry. I’ll take care of her,” Peccavi added, obviously determined not to let her get the upper hand a second time.
What had gone wrong? Gruber wondered but was afraid to ask. Peccavi was normally as efficient as he was greedy. He claimed they were successful because of his work ethic and self-discipline, but Gruber was the one on the front lines who actually did the kidnapping. Peccavi just managed the business and arranged for the false documents. He had his truck driver scouts find children throughout the country, kids who matched the “wants” of potential parents gathered through a network of adoption attorneys. Then Peccavi paid a premium for each referral and sent Gruber out to pick up the kids. After that, he ordered the forged adoption papers and birth certificate. How hard could the coordination of that be?
Trying not to think about how often he’d been slighted by Peccavi through the years, Gruber focused instead on the strange elation he felt knowing Jasmine was still alive. And that she’d bested Peccavi, of all people. If she’d managed to outsmart Gruber’s boss, she was worthy; she was everything he’d thought she’d be. Stop me…
“Where’s she staying?” he asked.