Forty-eight hours ago, she wouldn’t have imagined herself having a conversation about intel and burners and such things. Nor would she have imagined a man like Coburn, who could eat Chips Ahoy at the same time he was discussing a man he’d killed only a few hours earlier.
She didn’t know quite what to make of Lee Coburn, and it was disturbing that she wanted to make anything of him at all.
Changing the subject, she asked, “Where’d you get the truck?”
“I got lucky. I spotted a rural mailbox with lots of mail in it, a dead giveaway that the residents are away. House sits way back off the road. The truck keys were hanging on a peg inside the back door. Just like at your house. I helped myself. Hopefully the owners will stay gone for at least a few more days and the truck won’t be reported stolen.”
“I assume you switched the license plates with another vehicle.”
“S.O.P.” Reading her blank look, he said, “Standard operating procedure. Remember that if you decide to pursue a life of crime.”
“I doubt that will happen.”
“So do I.”
“I don’t think I’m cut out for living on the edge.”
He gave her a slow once-over. “You may surprise yourself.” When his gaze reconnected with hers, it was hot and intense.
Uncomfortably, she looked away from it. “Did you buy or steal the groceries?”
“Bought.”
She remembered the money he’d been carrying in the pocket of the jeans. “You weren’t afraid of being identified?”
“The cap and sunglasses were in the console of the truck.”
“I recognized you in them.”
He chuckled. “They weren’t looking at me.”
“They?”
“I stopped at a bait shop out in the middle of nowhere. Slow day. No other customers in the place. Only the bottled-water delivery truck in the parking lot.”
She cast a glance at the twenty-four bottles encased in plastic. “You stole that off the truck?”
“Piece of cake. When I went into the store, the deliveryman was behind the counter with the cashier. His hand was inside her pants and his mouth was on her nipple. They had eyes only for each other. I grabbed my stuff, paid, and got out quick. They won’t remember me at all, only the interruption.”
Honor’s cheeks burned with embarrassment over the images he’d conjured. She wondered if the story was true, and even if it was, why had he painted such a vivid picture? To fluster her? Well, she was flustered, but if Coburn cared or noticed, he gave no indication of it as he checked his wristwatch.
“I’ll try Hamilton again.”
Using his own phone, he redialed the number, and this time Honor heard a man answer. “Hamilton.”
“You son of a bitch. Why are you fucking me over?”
He replied blandly, “A man in my position can’t be too careful, Coburn. If the caller ID is blocked, I don’t answer.”
“I identified myself.”
“After I heard the news, I would have known it was you anyway. You’re in a world of hurt. Or should I say a vat of gumbo?”
“Oh, that’s real funny.”
“Not so much. Mass murder. Kidnapping. You’ve outdone yourself, Coburn.”
“Like I need you to tell me that. If I wasn’t in trouble, I wouldn’t be calling.”
Switching to a more serious tone, the man on the other end said, “Is speculation correct? Do you have the woman?”
“And her kid.”
“Are they all right?”
“Yeah, they’re fine. We’ve been picnicking.” After a weighty, sustained silence, Coburn said again, “They’re fine. You want to talk to her yourself?”
Without waiting for an answer, he passed the phone to Honor. Her hands were trembling as she raised it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Gillette?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Clint Hamilton. I want you to listen carefully. Please, for your child’s sake as well as your own, don’t underestimate the importance of what I’m about to tell you.”
“All right.”
“You, Mrs. Gillette, are in the company of a very dangerous man.”
Chapter 21
Tori had slammed her front door hard behind Doral, flipped the deadbolt, then for half an hour had railed at herself for not slapping the fire out of Doral Hawkins over his parting remark.
But even long after he’d left her house and she’d had time to calm down somewhat, his threat echoed. It had been unsettling to say the least. She wasn’t as afraid for herself, however, as she was for Honor.
Tori was self-sufficient, independent, and accustomed to taking care of herself. But she wasn’t above asking for help if she deemed it necessary. She placed a call.
“Tori, sweetheart. I was just thinking about you.”
His voice immediately soothed her raw nerves. Matching his sexy tone, she asked, “What were you thinking?”
“I was just sitting here daydreaming, wondering if you’re wearing panties.”
“Of course not. I’m my horny self. Why do you think I called you?”
That pleased him. He gurgled an ex-smoker’s chuckle. He was thirty pounds overweight and had bright capillaries on his nose from imbibing oceans of bourbon over the course of his fifty-eight years. But he could afford to drink the best.
His name was Bonnell Wallace, and he had more money than God, which he kept in the New Orleans bank that had been privately held by his family since the Spanish had governed Louisiana or since the beginning of time, whichever had come first.
His beloved wife of thirty-something years had succumbed to cancer a year ago. Fearing the same fate, Bonnell had tossed the cigarettes, cut back to five or six drinks a day, and joined Tori’s health club. Which more or less had sealed his future.
He’d become husband candidate number four, and that was fine by him because he thought the sun rose and set inside the panties she claimed not to be wearing.
“Will you do something for me, Bonnell?”
“You name it, sugar.”
“A friend of mine is in danger. The life-or-death kind.”
Instantly, he dropped his bantering tone. “Jesus.”
“I may need some money on short notice.”
“How much?”
Just like that. No questions asked. Her heart swelled with affection.
“Don’t agree so fast. I’m talking serious cash. Like a million or more.” Tori was thinking in terms of a ransom, and wondered what the going rate was for the safe return of a young widow and her daughter. “I’m good for it. But I may not be able to access my accounts in time.”
“Tell me what’s going on. How else can I help?”
“Have you heard about the woman and child who were kidnapped this morning?”
He had. Tori filled in the blanks. “I can’t even think about what she and Emily might be going through. I don’t know what to do, but I can’t just sit here and do nothing. With your help, I can at least have cash on standby if her father-in-law gets a call from their abductor. Stan’s financially stable, but he won’t have that kind of money.”
“You just let me know what you need, when you need it, and it’s yours.” He paused, then said, “I’m only a phone call away, Tori. Good Christ, you must be worried sick. Do you want me to come and stay with you?”
Because of his grown children, and because of her policy that employees of the club were not to date the clientele, they had kept their affair a secret. His willingness to drop everything, leave the bank in the middle of a workday, and rush to her aid signified more than just courtesy and concern.
In a voice choked with emotion, she said, “Have I told you what a sweetheart you are? How important you are to me?”
“You mean it?”
“I do,” she said, speaking with an unmitigated honesty that surprised her.
“Well, that’s good. Because I feel the same.”