Then You Hide (15 page)

“I was. They wanted to convert me. But you totally misread the situation.”

She laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, there’s a lot of room for interpretation in ‘You have to wear a condom.’” She pointed to the road. “Can we go now?”

“I think so.” He pulled out and turned right. “The road that cuts through the rain forest is just before Newcastle. It’s probably pretty rough in spots, but we can take it down past the mountain, then cut over to Red Cliff. I studied the map last night while you were sleeping.”

“All right, but hurry. We’re down to about forty-five minutes now.”

In ten minutes, they found the southern crossroad, and he knew it would be a challenge to make it in less than an hour. The asphalt was completely missing in places, and some of the foliage was so thick it nearly blocked the narrow road.

“What else did your girlfriends say about Clive?” Vanessa asked.

“They said he got drunk and cried over a guy.”

“Not a surprise. He loved Russell. Always did.”

He squinted through the palm fronds to gauge how far the next crossroad was, because he heard another vehicle but couldn’t see it in front of them.

“Actually, they mentioned a different guy. Charlie. He kept saying it was his fault, which just shows you…”

“Who?”

At the sharp note in her voice, he turned to see she’d drawn back, her hand over her mouth. “What’s the matter?”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah. Charlie. You know him?”

“What exactly did they say?” Her fingers closed over his arm, clammy. “Exactly, Wade.
What
did he say?”

He frowned at her, his attention divided among the road, the intersection, and the sixth sense that another car was coming. “They said he cried because whatever happened with Charlie was his fault.”

They neared the intersection, barely visible from the thick fronds that hung far into the road.

“Are you
positive
that was the name? Not Charles?”

“Yes, Charlie.”

“Charlie French?”

“I don’t—” The sound of a revving engine pulled his attention, and suddenly he saw a white van through the trees, careening full speed down the road to their right, straight toward them.

He had to get through the intersection before the van did, or slam the brakes so hard they’d probably skid into the ditch.

“Hang on!” he ordered, stomping the gas and weaving with the sudden acceleration. Gravel and asphalt spewed behind them, almost drowning out Vanessa’s shriek of surprise.

The van shot onto the road right in front of them, forcing Wade to stomp the brakes and fishtail wildly. The second they got through the intersection, another engine screamed, and the yellow truck came roaring out from a hiding place like the one they’d used ten miles back.

“Oh, my God,” Vanessa gasped. “It’s him.”

The truck sped up behind them just as the van slowed down in front, sandwiching them.

“Get down!” he ordered. “All the way! Before you get shot!”

She snapped off her seat belt and rolled to the floorboards. The van slowed to less than ten miles an hour but swerved every time Wade tried to pass.

Behind him, the yellow truck got closer and closer, then hit their back bumper hard.

Wade whipped the Jeep to the left just as the van came to a stop, so he hit its back corner and slid wildly. The truck rushed by on the right. Long dark hair whipped around a bearded face, and a hand reached out, middle finger poised in the air.

“Watch who you fuck with, dickhead!” He swerved viciously into the Jeep, forcing them into a four-foot gulley, where they crunched to a complete stop.

The truck roared away with the van, leaving only the echo of their engines and the clicking of the useless Jeep.

Wade reached down to help Vanessa up. “They’re gone.”

She climbed back into her seat with a grunt of pain, her face white, her eyes wild.

“They’re gone,” he repeated.

All she could manage was a nod, swiping the hair out of her eyes and righting her glasses.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her, a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I might be able to push us out of here. If not, I’ll call the rental company. It’s gonna be all right. We might not make the racetrack, but it’s okay.”

She shuddered, still looking at him with horror in her eyes. “It’s not okay.”

“I’ve been through worse, believe me. Even if they come back, I’ll…” His voice trailed off as he watched her crumple before his eyes. “What is it, Vanessa?”

“Charlie French, she…she is…was
not
a man. Charlie was a woman we worked with at Razor.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “She was murdered. Brutally stabbed to death right in her own apartment.”

“When?”

She swallowed, visibly struggling with the act. “The day before Clive suddenly disappeared on his first vacation in five years.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE FASTER HE
ran, the more blood he left in his wake.

And wasn’t
that
an appropriate metaphor for the mess that was his life?

Clive turned, jogging backward for a few steps to look at the bloody footprints he’d left in the sand, admiring the perfectly straight line, the even spacing of each step, and marveling at his time.

Even with a dozen cuts on his feet from broken shells and rocks, he could run fast. Even without his custom-fit Asics, even without comfort food, even without a finish line in sight, he could run really fast.

Damn good thing, considering how many people were after him.

Bending over to catch his breath, he pulled up his sweat-soaked T-shirt and dried his face, wincing at the sting in his eyes. Just as he blinked to clear them, a frothy wave rushed the sand and wiped out his footprints. For some reason, that pissed him off.

And being pissed off was the best feeling in the world.

Anger was always the first indication that the inner pendulum that whipped from happy to sad had peaked on the misery side and was sliding back to normal.

God, as if
. Normal? How about content? His lips lifted in a bitter smile. How about
alive
?

Even that was a little shaky these days.

He looked left at the endless ocean and then right at the thickest jungle he’d ever seen. Was someone hidden in there, aiming a rifle at his head? He started running again, imagining what it would feel like when the bullet hit his back and bored a hole right through his heart.

It was a bizarre feeling, knowing someone wanted him dead. Even more bizarre not knowing who.

He concentrated on his feet, his legs, his oxygen, slowing when he passed the four graceful coconut palms bowed from years of tropical breezes and the weight of their fruit. The trees marked the last stretch before his little piece of “paradise.”

He stopped again, propping his hands on his hips and bending left, then right, to stretch his spine and muscles, squinting into the copse of trees and rocks where his house was hidden.

Something moved. Someone was in his house.

Swallowing hard, he took a few steps closer. His heart rate ratcheted up. It could be anyone, friend or foe.

He trusted his friends. They’d gotten him here, fed him, aided him, and loved him. But his foes…Christ almighty—look what they did to Russell. Look what they did to Charlie.

He liked blaming their deaths on someone else. It eased the burn in his chest and the ache in his stomach. Guilt…
hurt
.

From the moment he saw her lying in her blood, Clive was sick with guilt for what he’d done. He should have stayed for her memorial service; that just made him look guiltier. But he couldn’t stand in some church as people talked about the life of Charlotte French. What kind of hypocrite would that make him?

Through the trees, he could see the stone walls of the little hut, the thatched roof, the patio where he liked to sleep. Who’d violated his hiding place? He hadn’t heard a helicopter and couldn’t see a boat. There was no other way, unless someone was on foot and intrepid as hell.

He squared his shoulders and headed in. What was the worst that could happen?

Charlie’s body. That
was the worst that could happen.

“Hey, beautiful.”

He gasped and spun at the words, whispered so low they could have been part of the breeze.

“I’m right over here.” A low melody of male laughter followed. “You should be more attentive, my friend.”

Relief washed over him as a familiar figure lumbered out from some bushes.

“You fucking scared me,” he growled.

“Special delivery, Mr. Easterbrook.” He held up his right hand. “And it’s Kraft, too. Your personal favorite.”

“Thanks.” As Clive walked up the path, he saw a motorboat moored next to the little sailboat tucked into a cove, far enough away that he hadn’t heard the engine. He let himself be hugged, tightly and for a long time, trying to return the embrace without showing too much affection. He walked such a dangerous tight rope with this man; falling meant death.

“I have news.”

Clive stepped back and frowned. “That sounds ominous.”

“It is. They’ve found Vanessa. They’ve got her.”

“Jesus Christ! Is she okay? Did they—”

“They don’t actually have her, but they’re all over her every move. And if she is remotely successful in finding you, so will they. You must be hypervigilant. No more solo runs on the beach. No more lights on at night. And no more phone calls to her, do you understand?”

Clive leaned against the rickety column that held up the thatching. “I have to talk to her. I have to tell her to go home. She shouldn’t be in the middle of this. It’s crazy.”

“She’s crazy,” he shot back. “Talking to the whole world, giving too much information away, drawing attention to herself. She is a huge liability to you, my friend.”

“She is not a liability.” Clive worked to keep from sounding defensive. This protector could snap at any moment, and then where would he be? “Where is she now?”

The gaze that met his was sharp, midnight-black. “There’s nothing you can do. Save your ass. That’s all that matters.” He grinned salaciously. “Especially to me.”

“Where is she now?” Clive repeated. “Still on Nevis? I just need to know.”

“She’s back on that cruise. Surrounded by people and perfectly safe. Let it go.”

He frowned in disbelief. “You mean, she gave up already?”

“Like you said, she moves fast. Maybe she’s just back to Plan A to follow your footsteps on the cruise.” He gave Clive a hard look. “And don’t even think about it.” The stern warning was accompanied by a pointed finger. “You
cannot
leave this house. You cannot contact that ship. You cannot use that phone.” A large, warm hand landed on his shoulder. “Come on. I cooked for you. We’ll eat this garbage you call food, then we’ll smoke. And maybe we’ll…talk.”

The euphemism hung in the air as thick as the tropical humidity. They would not
talk
.

“I quit smoking,” Clive said, dipping out of the touch to enter the single room. “Just this morning, as a matter of fact.”

That earned him a solid pat on the back. “I am proud of you. It’s a nasty habit. But you will start again.” Low laughter rumbled.

Clive stopped at the sink, washed his hands, and threw water on his face.

No, he wouldn’t start smoking again. Maybe this time, he could keep his pendulum on the right side. Maybe.

“Why do you eat this crap, anyway?”

“My mother made it for me,” Clive said, inhaling the smell of cheap melted cheese. “It smells like my happy childhood.”

His cell phone was on the sideboard. Clive glanced at it, considering the possibilities and risks. As he pulled out his chair, he blocked the phone from view and casually lifted it. When he sat down, he slid it under his thigh.

“I don’t feel like talking tonight,” he said, looking at his plate so he didn’t need to see the hurt in his friend’s eyes. He put his napkin on his lap, leaning forward to inch the phone between his calves. “You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course. Maybe we’ll just play hangman, or I’ll leave after we eat.”

Clive reached across the table. “You’re good to me, and I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah. You don’t appreciate it enough.” He gave Clive a hollow smile. “But you will. You will eventually love me, Clive Easterbrook. By then, all the darkness in New York will be behind you and forgotten. And you will love me so much that you will never go back.”

Was he really doomed to spend his life here? Was that the punishment for what he did to Charlie? “I have to go back. That’s my life, not this. No matter…how I feel.”

“I’ll take my chances. Now,
bon appétit.
Eat your lousy meal that I have made you, and tell me about your happy childhood.”

“No.” Clive stabbed a forkful of yellow comfort and worked the phone down his legs without letting it clunk to the floor. “It’ll make me homesick and depressed.”

“You’re funny when you’re depressed.”

The comment felt like a smack across the cheek. “I am?”

“And needy.”

He just looked, the fork frozen in front of his mouth. “Really?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. I like you when you’re depressed. Everyone does.”

Not Vanessa. Was she the only real friend he had? The only one who didn’t encourage his weaknesses because they enjoyed the wry, bitter, sardonic Clive?

Yes, he thought as he took a bite. She’d proved it over and over again. Vanessa loved him as a true friend and proved it constantly. Not like the friend across the table, who was using him in his own way.

Vanessa’s love was real—and he owed her that real love back. He had to get to her somehow. He’d tell her enough to get her to leave and stop looking for him. He’d convince her this was the life he wanted. He’d never tell her the truth about Charlie, and she’d probably never find out about Russell. But if anyone saw him…if he got caught, it was over.

This man would not protect him any longer.

Very, very carefully, he worked the phone to his ankles, then used his bare foot to slide it deep under the table. Yes. He’d take the risk for friendship. And then he’d have a little less guilt on his conscience.

“What are you thinking about, my friend?”

Clive swallowed and smiled. “How truly good this crap is.”

Wade smelled.

Even a few feet away, with the tropical breezes blowing the fragrance of saltwater and exotic fruits through the air, Vanessa could pick up his scent—a mix of sweat and earth and the last remnants of soap.

He smelled like a man who’d pushed a Jeep out of a ditch, fought and failed to start it, walked a mile in blistering heat to get a cab, rented another vehicle, drove like hell to the racetrack where three hundred crazed locals drank beer and ate chicken and bet wads of cash on second-rate horses, scouring the crowd and stands for a man who wasn’t there, then drove all the way back up the island to crash a resort looking for a guest who had never been there under either of the names they had.

No wonder he smelled. She probably did, too.

Perched on the lowest of the wobbly wooden stairs that led from the deck to the beach, she nestled her chin on her knees, hugged her legs, and let the sights and sounds and smells and sensations of sunset in the Caribbean islands surround her. Along with guilt, worry, bewilderment, and, just to confuse matters more, an attraction that she didn’t want or need.

Wade paced through the surf in front of her, on the phone to a woman he called Luce. His voice was low and steady as it drifted over the twenty feet of sand, allowing Vanessa to glean nuggets of the conversation.

He talked about Clive. About Russell Winslow. About Charlie French. He even mentioned Nicholas Vex. After a day of abusing his incredible body and applying his sharp brain to attack her problem, he was now seeking help from someone who, according to Wade, had a security company chock full of super-technology and legions of capable men and women to use it.

He’d made a deal, and he was obviously a man of his word. And he’d expect her to keep her end of the bargain. She curled her bare toes into the warm sand and stared at the cobalt horizon, where the sun melted like a massive ball of orange sherbet dropped on a hot plate, letting her thoughts go back to the strange connection of Charlotte French and Clive’s disappearance.

Charlie’s vicious murder a month ago had been called random violence, a stunning and unsolved act of brutality. Vanessa had suspected Charlie’s death was a catalyst for Clive’s sudden vacation, figuring it was his way of dealing with the shock. She even figured it had incited his latest bout of the blues.

He’d known their coworker much better than Vanessa had; Clive had done several deals with Charlie and had mentored her when she first joined the hedge-fund division.

Vanessa refused to believe he’d murdered her. Clive wasn’t capable of murder.

But then why was he in hiding? Why did he have a bloody T-shirt in his hastily abandoned villa, along with the news story about the death of a man he’d once loved? And why, oh why, was he drunk in a bar crying that Charlie’s death was his fault?

And who bugged her room and drove her off the road and sent her on wild-goose chases around Nevis? Clive? Could
he
be pulling the strings hard enough to get her to go home?

Wade snapped the phone shut and sauntered toward her, dragging his T-shirt over his head, wearing only dirty khaki shorts. His chest was sculpted as if Michelangelo himself had done the work. More of an assault on her battered senses, including whatever sense made her a woman.

He dropped his shirt on the sand and stood over her, blocking the last vestiges of sun. “I got Lucy’s operation up to speed. They’ll start supplementary investigations and research. She’s certain we’ll have a location for that call by tomorrow morning.”

“Great.”

“And just in case you were wondering…” He sat next to her, the soft hair of his legs tickling her. “Eileen Stafford is still in a coma.”

She wasn’t wondering. She inched away and rubbed her temples. “My head is throbbing.”

“You’re hungry. Let’s go up and find something to eat.”

“Good luck with that. I checked the pantry.” She let him pull her up when he stood. “If you don’t like Campbell’s tomato soup, extra-wide egg noodles, or buttered microwave popcorn, you’re in trouble.”

He shrugged. “I’ve survived on worse. And it had eight legs and bit back.”

“Ewww.”

“Spoken like a true girl.” He gave her a smile so endearing she forgot to be insulted. “But you’re discounting nature’s bounty.” He placed a hand on each of her shoulders to nudge her up the stairs. “There’s enough fruit here to keep us alive for days. Let’s go picking.”

She let him push her up just because she was so tired, and fruit sounded good, and his hands were strong and solid and secure. At the top of the steps, he pulled her over to a thick tree, laden with golden red fruit.

“You allergic to mangoes?”