Drop Dead Gorgeous (31 page)

He could almost believe the man was leading him a merry chase. Laurence didn't doubt for a moment that it was a man. It wasn't Harriet—he'd have known if she drove an expensive BMW—nor was it Zach. For the same reason. Some inner sense, maybe a sixth one, if he believed in that kind of thing, told him there was something more malevolent at work here than petty anger over a tiff at work.

Thank God it was a Saturday, and 280, trafficwise, was never as much of a problem as Highway 101. The Beemer kept a safe, steady sixty-five miles an hour. Laurence slipped in easily three cars behind, ready for any lane changes.

He'd begun to doubt he'd stumble upon any red-handed activity with which the police could nail the perpetrator to the wall. But when the little black bomb finally stopped and the driver exited his vehicle, Laurence would have an identity. He smiled. This was far more than Madison would have expected from him. She'd be delighted. She'd be grateful. She'd drag him off to—

The black Beemer exited the freeway, another mall exit, dammit, dammit. Didn't the man know how difficult it was to follow in all that ridiculous shopping traffic? Of course, he did. Laurence's jaw turned to steel.

The bastard found a nifty little spot right near the mall entrance, with nowhere even remotely close for Laurence to park. He couldn't just idle in the lane waiting to see who emerged from the vehicle, especially since somebody behind him laid on the horn when he didn't turn into the next aisle fast enough. Talk about attention getting. He circled, tromped on the accelerator and zipped back down the aisle his quarry had parked in.

Empty car. Empty aisle. Empty sidewalks at the entrance to the mall. Laurence hit the steering wheel with his fist. Now all he could do was find a convenient spot—of which there appeared to be none—and wait for the bastard driver to come back.

He circled twice, found a slot one aisle over but facing, the view unobstructed. He'd wait until his quarry returned.

He wouldn't daydream about Madison's firm breasts, would not close his eyes and imagine her tightness as he entered her or the sweet suction of her glorious mouth. He'd pay attention, focus on that car until his head hurt and his eyes dried out. He'd concentrate so hard his brain would—

The passenger door opened. He turned to stare into the barrel of a gun, then lifted his eyes to the face.

Dick the Prick.

Shit. He'd known it in his gut.

Still, he'd failed to solve Madison's problem, failed to protect her. Her danger was far from over. It was only beginning.

“M
A, DID
I
LEAVE
my slippers the last time I was here?”

“Which ones?”

“Cat in the Hat.”

“No self-respecting female is going to catch a man when she's wearing the Cat in the Hat,” Sean grumbled from a filled mouth.

Ma had piled the kitchen table high with meat, cheese, bread and fresh-cut vegetables for her family's health. Silverware and china clattered as they gathered round on chairs and stools.

“Since when is any man going to see me in them?” Madison slapped deli-sliced turkey on buttered bread.

Sean harrumphed, mouth now closed. James raised his eyebrows and looked to Thomas crawling between his feet.

Patrick snorted. “He's not going to understand what we're talking about.”

Ma pursed her lips. “The rest of the big ears will.”

Indeed, childish eyes rounded and ears seemed to wiggle.

“Let's drop the subject,” Madison decided, a faint unease setting butterflies free in her stomach. Her brother couldn't be matchmaking. Could he?

Sean swallowed. “You could do worse than T. Larry.”

My God, he
was
matchmaking. Despite being Episcopalian by training, they were still Catholic and Irish by birth. Their heritage was in their genes. Catholic brothers simply shouldn't approve of their unmarried sisters spending the night with a man. Not even T. Larry.

“I haven't seen your slippers,” her mother said neutrally.

“Bet T. Larry has.” Patrick waggled his eyebrows, then took a bite of his sandwich before she could be sure the words had come out of his mouth.

“Bet he's seen more than her slippers,” Sean murmured, gaze on her face.

“If he has, she has to marry him.” James scooped Thomas onto his lap, cradling his huge sandwich in his other hand.

Madison made a study of pasting cranberry jelly onto her turkey. “He hasn't. And we…haven't.”

Three snorts accompanied that disclaimer.

“If ever there's a man that looked like he'd just—”

Being closest, James's wife, Carol, slapped Patrick on the arm and pointed to all the big ears.

“You'll have to marry him,” Sean remarked, this time his eyes on his wife, Sherry.

“Too late to plan a June wedding,” James added.

“Sean asked in June, and we still managed to get married in September,” Sherry said. “We'll all help.”

“T. Larry hasn't asked me.”

“James never asked me, either.” Carol retrieved Thomas from her husband's lap and used a wipe on the boy's sticky face.

“All I asked about was my slippers,” Madison muttered, concentrating on her sandwich creation which seemed to grow larger the longer the conversation went on around her.

A small hand tugged on the hem of her shirt. Madison looked down to find little Kirsten beaming at her. “I like Uncle Larwy.”

Madison's chest got tight and her eyes blurred. “He's not your uncle, Kirsten.”

“Yet.” She wasn't sure who had said that. It could have been any of her brothers.

And then they bombarded her.

“He's got a steady job.”

“Great earning potential.”

“He's old enough to take care of you properly.”

“To keep you in line when you need it.”

She drummed her fingers on the table. The sound reminded her of something, she couldn't think what. Probably the beating of her heart last night when T. Larry touched her.

“He's not in love with me.” As much as she wished and prayed and hoped, sitting at the kitchen table, her family doing all the talking, she just couldn't seem to share their faith.

“What man ever believes it when you first tell him he's in love,” Patrick's wife, Sophie, expounded.

“He thinks I'm all wrong for him.” Except for last night when she did actually seem to do everything right. But that wasn't love. It was something else, at least on T. Larry's part. Sandwich ignored, Madison's fingertips drummed faster, quick, staccato beats.

“Don't be silly. He adores you.” This from her mother, the one person she'd assumed sane in the now too-tiny kitchen.

“What about my slippers, Ma?” Her voice held an edge of hysteria. Tap, tap, tap went her fingers on the Formica tabletop. Tap, tap, tap, like high heels on tile.

“I told you I haven't seen them, sweetie.”

Tap, tap. Yes, high heels. Someone watching women in high heels. Tap, tap, tap. Richard watching. Avidly. Eyes glazed. Oblivious to anything else but…footwear.

Amongst her slashed clothing, she'd found one untouched skirt, the one she'd worn on her date with Richard. She'd even thought of him when she saw her shoes had made it through the devastation unscathed, and Richard loved shoes. The smell that permeated her cubicle began with the arrival of Richard's flowers. He was alone in her office while she went for the vase. Hadn't he suggested she go to the coffee room? Yes, he had, providing time to put the box in her file drawer.

She'd discounted Richard because she thought he didn't know where she lived. And more importantly because she didn't want to think someone she knew would do these things. Believing in her friends was good, but not everyone who came into her life was a friend. What she thought was loyalty and trust was really just blind stupidity.

“I know who did in that poor little squirrel,” she whispered. An ache beat in her chest right along with her heart.

 

L
AURENCE WOKE
with a blinding headache and the knowledge that he'd failed Madison miserably. That fact hurt worse than his head and his predicament. Which he took stock of through slitted eyes.

He was tied to a metal chair like the ones he'd sat on in school when he was a boy—hard, unrelenting and cold. The ropes didn't have an ounce of give as he tried to wiggle his arms. A bare bulb hung from the low concrete ceiling. An array of vicious-looking tools adorned a heavy workbench against the concrete wall to his right. Or his left. His head pounded so badly he couldn't tell left from right. On his other side were shelves filled with cans, bottles and jars whose labels he couldn't read. A series of gray metal cabinets hugged the wall in front of him. The cold of the cement seeped through the soles of his shoes.

A door opened, above and behind him. Footsteps on wood, stairs, he presumed.

Dick the Prick appeared in front of him.

Laurence managed a growl. The man had forced him at gunpoint to drive out of the mall, through narrow, cluttered streets, and into the driveway of an unprepossessing house in a first-time buyers' neighborhood. When he'd realized he'd left his garage door opener in his own car, Dick had hit Laurence over the head with the butt of the gun and knocked him clean out.

“How did you get me down here without the neighbors noticing?” His bruised and aching body was certainly a testament to being dragged down the stairs.

Pretty Boy Dick just stared at him, the gun in his hand wavering slightly. Considering his blurred vision, aching head, queasy stomach and the fact that he was tied to a fucking chair, Laurence debated the wisdom of pushing the man too far too fast.

Dick looked the worse for wear. He'd torn the pocket of his neat cotton cardigan meant for the golf course, oil stains marred the knees of his slacks, scuff marks peppered his leather shoes, and his hair, neatly combed and professionally styled on the two occasions Laurence had seen him, now stood on end in some places and matted down in others.

He looked like a wild man. For the first time since he'd seen the gun in his face, Laurence felt a tickle of fear. Good God, the man might actually kill him. His only choice was to take the bull by the horns and hope to talk the little bastard out of it with strong dialogue.

“I suppose you've worked out how to dispose of my body once you kill me.”

Dick cocked his head but said nothing.

“Or are you going to just leave it here to rot? The neighbors might notice the smell, you know.” Unlikely, since he was obviously in a basement and the smell wouldn't travel through concrete, but still he wrinkled his nose for effect.

“You're a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“Ah, he speaks. Why exactly do you consider me a pain in your ass?” The question seemed a good diversionary tactic. A man with a gun in his hand who could easily have killed Laurence in the car and dumped the body in some field yet had chosen not to…well, that meant he wasn't too sure about what he was doing. Keep him talking, and he might talk himself out of it.

Dick dropped the gun to his side and paced the width of the small basement. “She was supposed to turn to me.” He stabbed his finger at his chest. “But there was always
you.
”

The finger then stabbed at Laurence, who miraculously managed to keep his head still. “Why on earth would she turn to you?” He was afraid he knew.

“Because of her tires. Her apartment. The squirrel.”

“You did all that just so she'd cry on your shoulder?” He snorted. “Pretty lame, man. You should have waited until she knew you better.”

Dick's shoes slapped against the concrete. “It's worked before.” He shrugged. “Well, almost.”

What clues were there in that story? What had not been uncovered in the police background check? “What happened?”

Dick looked at his shoes and grimaced. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Imagining the details the man
couldn't
talk about, Laurence's blood had never run colder in his veins. He probed on Madison's behalf. “Let me get this straight. You talk to her once on the phone, then slash her tires, trash her clothes and put a dead squirrel in her drawer.” He shrugged his shoulders as best he could with his hands tied to the chair. “To what purpose?”

Dick wagged his head dejectedly. “You don't understand.” He certainly had that right. “I saw her all the time on the train. Way before I called her. I tried to talk to her. But…I couldn't. So I followed her around. Just to see where she lived and worked and stuff.” The bulb glinted off his spiky hair as he looked to Laurence for…something.

Laurence offered nothing.

“Then I thought about calling and pretending I thought she was someone else.” Dick's eyes suddenly brightened. “It worked. It was marvelous.”

“But you blew it with the tires.” It may never have come down to a choice between them if Madison hadn't been in danger.

Dick grimaced.

“How'd you get her key?” Most likely from under the mat.

The little bastard surprised him, though, with his ingenuity. “That first night, when I went back into the restaurant to get her purse, I made an imprint of her key. It was easy to have it copied.” Hell, he'd probably done it before, too, one of those other times his plan had “almost worked.”

“I just wanted to see inside her apartment, that's all. And I only borrowed her hairbrush, I was going to return it.”

Her hairbrush? That's the first he'd heard her hairbrush was missing. Then again, would Madison notice in the mess?

“And I cleaned up for her, too. I left her roses.” Dick raised his arms, questioning. “She didn't even say anything to me about it.” His head dipped to his chest. “Then she dumped me.”

Laurence quickly quashed a spark of sympathy. After all, Madison hadn't fully appreciated Laurence's manly attributes for seven years, and he hadn't taken to slashing tires and trashing clothes. “So, now you've decided you need to get me out of the way so she'll finally turn to you?”

Dick backed up until his butt hit the metal cabinets with a clang, then slid down until he'd seated himself on the floor, his forearms draped over his knees, the gun dangling between them. “I didn't exactly decide. I just saw you following me. And I had this brilliant idea.”

Laurence knew all about
brilliant
plans. Look where his had gotten him. Trussed like a turkey in a crazy man's basement. “So…how are you going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kill me.”

Dick's lips worked. His head wagged. “I don't know. It'll be such a mess. It was bad enough getting you in here. With you still sitting in the driver's seat, I had to roll the car into the garage, drag you up the steps to the kitchen, then down here. I had a helluva time. Jesus, you're heavy.”

“I work out regularly. It's all muscle.” He bantered while his mind worked furiously. He could talk Dick out of it. He was sure he could. Maybe he could even work these bonds loose. With a little help from God or a few angels.

“What am I going to do?” Dick moaned, putting his head in his hands, the gun perilously close to his skull.

For one thing, Laurence decided, the man could pull the trigger right now and thankfully blow his brains out. Not the best tack, though. With Dick's gaze on the floor, Laurence wiggled his arms. Yes, they were looser, he was sure of it. “Have you got a tarp or a nice big piece of plastic?”