Present Tense (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 2) (2 page)

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Where's the prisoner?"

"Inside, where he belongs, handcuffed to his seat. The less I see of that yappy bastard, the better." He dug into his pocket and produced a key, then took a folder from under his arm and held both out to me. "And you'd better keep him cuffed at all times, no matter what he tells you. He's all gurgle and no guts, but I wouldn't trust him for a minute."

I took the key and folder. "Does he have a name?"

Wilky gestured. "It's all in there. Name. Offense. Criminal history. Got a sheet longer than Tallahassee's tail."

I flipped open the folder and read the summary. Richard Henson. Arrested for bank and insurance fraud, larceny, forgery, investment schemes and impersonating a law enforcement officer. All strictly white collar. His bail was set at two million, but he had been due in court the previous week and his last contact with his bail bond agency was three months ago. Attempts to reach him had been unsuccessful.

"He should run for Congress," I said. "How did he wind up with you?"

"The agency in Los Angeles got wind that he'd been spotted in Houston under the alias Eric Pritchard. We've got a cooperation agreement, so they asked me to find him and we picked him up at the Haversham Hotel, smack in the middle of another Ponzi scheme. He's insisting we have the wrong man."

Where had I heard that before?

"So do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have the wrong man? I don't see any photos in this file."

Wilky looked vaguely insulted, but then a memory surfaced. "Oh, that's right. You told me at the barbecue how you and Parker met."

I wasn't sure
I
was the one who had told him, but that didn't much matter. I wasn't about to be party to another case of mistaken identity.

"I understand the concern," he said, "but trust me, he's our man. And the court only gave us a one week window, so if we don't get him back to L.A. by tomorrow afternoon, a lot of money goes bye-bye."

"Just as long as you're sure he's who you think he is."

"I've been doing this for thirty years, darlin', and I haven't made a mistake yet."

I considered this and nodded. "That's good enough for me."

"Glad to hear it. And thanks again for stepping in at the last minute."

"Any time," I said and shook his hand. "I'll call you once he's been delivered."

He grinned again. "I wish every job was this easy." He doffed an imaginary cap and started back toward his Lincoln. "Nice to see you again, Ms. Coe. And tell that lucky sonofabitch Parker he'd better treat you right."

"So far so good."

When he was gone, I turned, accessed the plane again and said to Hap,
 
"Are we set to go or should I call a tow truck?"

He frowned at me through the windshield and cupped an ear, indicating that he couldn't hear me—just as I had suspected.
 

He leaned over and opened a side window. "Happy to make your acquaintance, ma'am. You go ahead and climb on in and we'll be underway shortly."

"You sure you wouldn't rather take a nap first?"

If he was insulted, he didn't show it. "I'm saving that for when we're in the air. Now hurry it up. I'd like to get to L.A. sometime today."

Considering it was barely past eleven, I didn't think that would be a problem, but I did as he asked, moving to a tiny hatch of a door that stuck when I tried to open it.

"She needs a little persuasion," Hap said. "Just give her a good yank."

I did and the door protested, coming open with a groan.
 

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

I was pondering this question as I ducked down and reluctantly stepped inside—

—only to be stopped in my tracks by the site of the prisoner, who was cuffed to his armrest on the left side of the plane.

My heart started thumping and I blinked a couple of times, convinced that I had just stepped through a portal into the past. Because the man in that seat was not Richard Henson. That may have been what people called him, and that may have been the name he was arrested under, but it wasn't his.

The man in that seat, staring back at me with equal amounts of surprise and confusion, was none other than Ethan Robert Rider.

My old high school boyfriend.

I've never kept in touch with the guys I dated in high school.

Why on earth would I?
 

Most of them were relentless horn dogs whose self-conscious pursuit of carnal gratification far outweighed their skills at seduction. I spent the majority of my dates fending off undisciplined tongues and roving, fumble-fingered hands.
 

Not that I wasn't interested in a little fumbling myself, but I quickly discovered that looks and brains are a delicate mix, and the guy I might think was attractive from across the classroom usually lost his allure once I was trapped in the front seat of his car.
 

Most attempts at conversation centered around sports or video games or what a girl might—and might not—be willing to do in exchange for burgers and a movie. And my frequent admonitions that my date should keep his paws (and lingual membrane) to himself were usually met with equal amounts of surprise and scorn.

There were exceptions, of course. Freshman year and a boy named Brad who was dangerously smart and had the face and body of a Greek god. He had channeled his energy into studying philosophy, but was no slouch on the basketball court. At the time, I didn't understand half of what we talked about—Decartes and Kant and Sarte—but it didn't matter. I loved listening to him. And looking at him. Unfortunately, I didn't get to look or listen long, because three weeks into our budding relationship his grandmother died and the entire family moved across country to live in the mansion they had inherited.

There were a couple other exceptions whose names and faces elude me at the moment—

And then there was the guy I thought was
the one
.

Ethan.

Ethan Robert Rider, whom I'd told myself I would remember until I was old and dying and still dreaming about what could have been.
 

Oh, I'm perfectly happy with Parker. Don't think that I'm not. The bond we share is stronger than anything I've ever felt. But I'd be lying if I said I've never engaged in games of "what if."
 

We all do, don't we?

And before that day, when I thought about Ethan, my heart always fluttered a bit—despite how it had ended between us. I remembered junior year and nights when the fumbling fingers and the awkward attempts at conversation were all mine. Ethan was a senior, but years beyond his age, and was smooth and unruffled and full of the kind of brazen self-confidence that every seventeen-year-old—male
or
female—only dreams of possessing. I had been with him when that confidence started to falter, but from the moment I met him I knew he was destined to go places and do great things.

Or so I had thought.

Now, to my utter astonishment, he sat cuffed to that armrest, staring at me as I stood in the small plane's doorway trying to convince myself I was merely hallucinating.

In a voice laced with the same incredulity I felt, he said, "Kelsey? Kelsey Coe?" Then he glanced at the Glock holstered at my hip—my attempt to look badass—and shook his head in disbelief. "You have
got
to be kidding me."

If you've been paying attention, you know that I'm rarely at a loss for words. But at that particular moment, as I looked into those intense brown eyes, I couldn't find any.
 

Not a single one.

Ethan seemed to have expended his vocabulary as well, because he suddenly got quiet, and I knew his mind had to be tottering.

Mine certainly was.

Still fiddling with the controls, Hap filled the void. "I'm gettin' the impression you two know each other."

Neither of us responded. We were too busy gaping.

"Do I need to get Wilky back here? Because I've done enough of these runs to know a conflict of interest when I—"

"No," I said, finally able to speak. "We'll be fine."

"You don't look fine to me, young lady. What you look is flabbergasted, and in my book, flabbergastery and prisoner transport ain't a good fit. Maybe this boy needs a new escort. You look a little too young and delicate for this kind of work anyway."

"Just fly the plane," I told him, then moved down the short aisle and dropped into the seat directly behind Ethan, feeling shell shocked and a bit numb.

Hap stared at us for a long moment then shrugged, took a swig from his Thermos, and went back to his controls. "What the hell do I know? I'm just the chauffeur."

He flipped a couple switches and got on the radio and a moment later the plane roared to life, the propellers kicking into gear. I wasn't paying much attention because a couple trillion thoughts were bumping and stumbling over one another as they raced through my mind.
 

I still hadn't quite processed what was happening here.

Ethan, on the other hand, seemed well on the way to recovery and was once again the confident, gorgeous rock star I remembered from high school. He turned in his seat, opened his mouth to say something—

—and my cell phone rang.

The ringtone, a shrill rendition of "Boogie Oogie Oogie," was assigned to Parker (for reasons I won't disclose), and I immediately felt as if I had been caught in some kind of lie.

I have no idea why.

I answered it and Parker said, "You in the air yet?"

The plane was rolling out of the hangar. "Almost."

"Good. I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry for doubting you earlier. I have to learn not to turn into a overprotective dick every time you feel like stretching your legs."

There was a joke to be mined in that statement, but with Ethan nearby I resisted the temptation. Besides, I wasn't feeling particularly humorous at the moment. I wasn't sure
what
I was feeling.

"Don't worry about it," I said in a clipped tone. "What's done is done."

Parker paused. "Is something wrong?"

"No, why?"

"You don't sound like you."

Actually, I did. But it was a me that Parker had never heard before. He knew the
indignant
Kelsey, the
scared
Kelsey, the
furious
Kelsey, the
incredulous
Kelsey, the
loving
Kelsey and the
yes, yes, oh God yes
Kelsey.
 

But despite opening a skip trace agency with him, I had never conjured up the
no-nonsense
Kelsey—that reserved, all-business desk bot who had recently worked part-time in a law office. There had been no reason to. And to be honest, I wasn't sure I had one now, yet there she was, as distant as a third cousin.

"I have to go," I said, "before the pilot yells at me for using my cell."

"Are you upset with me?"

"No, everything's fine. I'll call you when I get to L.A."

"Kelsey…"

We were on the runway now, the plane picking up speed. "We're about to take off. Talk to you soon."

Before Parker could say anything more, I hung up, feeling guilty as hell. I can't explain the feeling, or my actions, but at the moment I couldn't talk to him. My piece-of-cake job had suddenly turned into something altogether different and I was still trying to figure out how to process it.

As I shoved the phone back into my pocket, Ethan said, "Flabbergasted. I like that word. It's the only one that can adequately describe how I'm feeling right now. Not that I haven't dreamt of this moment, but this isn't quite how I pictured it."

"Flabbergasted is a good word," I said.

"Was that your boyfriend on the phone?"

I frowned. "Now why would you think that?"

"Come on, Pooks, you've always been easy to read. He's either your boyfriend or husband, but I don't see a ring, so I'm assuming I got it right the first time."

I glanced self-consciously at my left hand. "Still observant as always, I see."

He smiled. "Occupational necessity. Although I have to say I never thought I'd see a gun on your hip. How the hell did that happen?"

"Long story. And don't call me Pooks."

"You didn't mind back in high school. Especially when we were locked in one of the theater department dressing rooms."

Ethan and I had met in drama class, and had worked on several plays together. He'd always been a wonderful actor, while I was just a talentless wannabe who had fallen hard for the leading man.

"You lost that privilege a long time ago," I said. "And you're the one wearing handcuffs, so maybe I should be asking the questions. What happened to you, Ethan? You fall off the face of the earth and this is where you wind up?"

He shrugged. "You know how crazy I got after my father died. Especially when I found out what kind of man he really was."

"Which is why I didn't argue whenever you said you needed space. Maybe I should have."

He laughed softly. "What would you have done—reform me? Don't let the pretty face fool you. I'm not afraid to admit I'm an egotistical ass and always have been."

"You weren't back then."

"I just hid it well, like dear old dad. And when I decided to embrace my heritage, I figured I'd spare you the heartbreak of falling out of love with me."

"How considerate of you."

I probably should have had a harder time believing that Ethan had gone from high school sweetheart to wanted criminal, but I remembered how rebellious he often was. With his parents. His teachers. With cops, when he encountered them. And considering that his father had hung himself in a jail cell after an embezzling conviction, maybe the transformation from school boy to con man wasn't all that surprising.

But I was stunned nevertheless.

"Look, Pooks, that was all a long time ago and we obviously have very different lives now. I'm sorry for hurting you, but I did what I thought was right at the time."

"I told you not to call me that."

He must have sensed my anger rising, because he held up his free hand. "All right, all right, message received." The look in his eyes would have melted me when I was sixteen. "I don't suppose I could convince you you've got the wrong man?"