Money To Burn (39 page)

“Another sign we’re compatible,” I offered.

“Want another one?” he said.

The kiss lasted a good ninety seconds and took us beyond every chapter in the Kama Sutra and all the way into Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson territory. By the time it was done, I knew, without a doubt, that there was no way this man was leaving my house before the night was done. I’d tie him to the bed if I had to—and maybe even if I didn’t. But most of all, whatever it took, I was going to find a way to make him feel as good as he was making me feel.

“Wow,” he said. “That was downright electric. I swear I’m regaining feeling in my lower lumbar.”

“Shut up and do that again,” I demanded.

When we came up for air, I started to laugh. “I haven’t made out since junior high school,” I confessed.

“That was the only good thing about junior high school, don’t you think?”

We kissed again and his hands began exploring parts of my body that no one had bothered to touch in decades, including myself.

“Let’s move on to high school,” he murmured, his hands sliding to the back of my dress. “I was voted most likely to seduce a teacher.”

“God, you had a progressive yearbook,” I whispered.

“It was an unofficial vote,” he explained, unzipping my dress and letting it fall to my waist.

“Who voted?” I asked, trying to stay focused. “The football team?”

“The faculty.”

I started to laugh again, my whole body shaking.

“Be still,” he warned me. “I can’t get your bra.” He fumbled at the clasp and it came undone in a cascade of white lace and satin.

Burly peered inside one of the cups, inspecting the fabric.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“A holster,” he said.

“Sorry, you’ll have to go lower for that.”

When I began to laugh again, he grabbed me around the waist. “It’s like trying to pet a wiggling puppy,” he complained cheerfully. “I don’t have a chance of hitting the right spot in this position. Why don’t you wait for me in bed? I’ll be there in a minute. I have to do something in the bathroom first.”

I stood up and he slid my dress and underwear off, his hands lingering on my body. “You have beautiful muscle tone,” he said. “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

“You wish,” I told him.

He frowned for a second, the momentary crease of his forehead making him look like a little boy. A serious thought had intruded. “Before we get in that bed together, I want you to promise me one thing,” he warned.

“Name it,” I offered. “So long as it doesn’t involve livestock, we’re in business.”

“Don’t get mad at me if I tell you to do something, like move over here or put your hand there. I’m not trying to boss you around. I’m asking you for a good reason and, if you don’t get hot-headed about being told what to do, I think you’ll find it’s worth your while.”

“Okay,” I said agreeably. “You’ll be the first man in my life I’ve ever let order me around.” Now was not the time to bring up my ex-husband. “But it’s a limited time only offer, understand?”

He groaned and shook his head as he wheeled toward the bathroom.

I snuggled under the sheets, anticipating the delight of entering an alternate dimension, where dead men and money didn’t exist and where all of life was warm and liquid, with just a touch of mystery—like Jack Daniels in the belly or the smell of cardamom in the air.

Burly emerged from the bathroom after a few minutes and wheeled to the edge of the bed. “Turn your back for a second,” he told me.

I rolled over and waited while he maneuvered himself into bed beside me. His weight caused half the bed to sink and I rolled against him. He caught me there, running his hands up and down my body, leaving trails of heat wherever his fingers touched my skin.

I forgot about everything in an instant—fire, murder, greed, money, even the necessity of having our dance so carefully choreographed.

“Turn around,” he whispered. “So I can see you.”

I rolled over and pressed against his body. Finally. Talk about coming home.
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“Show me how to make you feel good,” I asked him.

“I will,” he promised. “Right after I show you exactly how I feel about you.” 

“Casey.” The whisper grew louder. “Casey, wake up.”

I was deep in dreamland, lying on a hot sandy beach kissing a man whose face was a fire-filled oval and whose hands moved over my body like hot liquid. I ignored the interruption and struggled to hold on to the image.

“Casey!” Burly’s voice hissed into my ear as he shook me awake.

I mumbled and pushed his hand away.

“Wake up,” he whispered, his voice urgent and low. He pinched me and I squeaked in protest.

“Ssshh,” he warned. “Wake up. Someone’s trying to get in your front door.”

“What?” My eyes were open in an instant, the dream forgotten.

“Do you have a boyfriend who has your keys?” he whispered.

“No.”

“An ex-boyfriend?” he asked softly.

“No. Are you sure someone’s at my door?”

“Yes.” His voice was little more than a warm breath in my ear. “Listen.”

I froze, every muscle in my body stiff with adrenaline. It was quiet in the apartment. I could hear Burly breathing next to me, the bedside clock ticking—and the faint rattle of my front door knob being turned.

“Can they get in?” Burly asked.

“No. I have a deadbolt,” I whispered back.

“Did you lock it?” he asked as the rattling stopped and a faint click, click wafted toward the bedroom.

“Sure, I always lock the—” I stopped, stunned. Yeah, I always locked the deadbolt and chain. Except when I was too busy pushing someone in a wheelchair over the threshol s th” I stopd in front of a crowd and slamming the door shut with my foot. I’d left it unlocked. There was nothing but a half-inch wedge of brass between us and the intruder.

As Burly reached for my hand, we both heard the door open in the dark, the lock giving way with a soft series of clicks that sounded like a snicker.

I moved a hand slowly out from under the covers and slid open my bedside table. Holding my breath, I moved my fingers over the bamboo interior, searching for my gun. Oh, God, I thought, as my fingers closed around the tiny Colt .25, what I wouldn’t give for a .44 instead.

A barely inaudible bump, followed by a faint dragging swish, told me that the unseen intruder had hit the side of my sofa but recovered and reached the linoleum-floored hallway in one piece. Whoever it was moved slowly, waiting for his or her eyes to adjust. I decided to let twenty seconds go by, and then turn on the lights, hoping to blind them while I got off a good shot to scare them into freezing. Then I’d move in for the kill.

I eased closer to the lamp and Burly grabbed my arm, trying to pull me back over to his side of the bed. Either he didn’t want me to leave him alone in the bed, or he thought we should stick together. But both of us were afraid to say a word for fear of drawing fire.

I counted slowly under my breath and, as I approached twenty, I mentally prepared to make my move. My ears were roaring as loudly as a pounding surf. I could hear my
heart beating, yet I could also hear the faraway honk of a car horn on a distant street—as well as every soft step of the approaching intruder. I inched closer to the edge of the bed.

Burly pulled hard on my leg and I kicked him away. I couldn’t just lie there and do nothing.
I rolled quickly, grabbing for the cord on the lamp. I pulled. Nothing happened. I pulled the chain again. Still darkness.

My electricity had been cut off.

“Stay right where you are,” I screamed as loudly as I could, scrambling to my knees on the bed and aiming the pistol with both hands. “I have an automatic and I’ll spray the entire apartment if I have to.”

“Hah.” It was a grunt, nothing more, but it was enough to tell me my assailant was male.

“Who are you?” I asked loudly. “I like to know who I’m killing before I kill them.” My money was on Franklin Cosgrove or Donald Teasdale.

There was no answer except for the soft click of a safety. He was playing it smart, waiting for me to make myself an unmistakable target before he shot.
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My mind raced through my options and I desperately tried to calculate my advantages and disadvantages. I knew the apartment better than anyone. I could make a run for the armchair and crouch behind it. And I could leap over the sofa in the dark and be out the door in ten seconds, if I had to. But I was probably outgunned and, worst of all, Burly was stuck in bed, unable to move quickly without help. I couldn’t just leave him there to be shot.

“I’m getting out of my bed now,” I called out, false bravado making my voice boom in the darkness. “I plan to shoot first and ask questions later.” Why should I be the only one scared?

I eased my feet onto the thin carpet of the bedroom floor and clomped closer to the window, leading the intruder’s attention away from Burly. If I could just open the curtains, the glow from the street lamp down the block might help my aim. The light was too far away to be of much use, but it was better than nothing.

The intruder fired. I heard only a faint pop, yet the bedroom window behind me shattered in thousands of glass shards. They rained down on the floor behind my bare feet, making it impossible for me to safely back up. The intruder was using a silencer and that scared the shit out of me. It meant he had come for one reason only—to kill me and to get away with it.

“I mean it,” I warned into the darkness. “I have a gun.”

There was another soft pop. The mirror on my closet door shattered, the sound followed by the crack of wood splintering. The bastard had some heavy-duty firepower, all right. It had penetrated an oak door.

“Missed,” I said loudly, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I was afraid to move toward the closet, but had nowhere else to go. Did I have anything stored in the closet that could help me? Something heavy I could swing, maybe a shoe to lob and draw fire away from the bed?

Why hadn’t I bought a bigger gun?

The bed springs started to squeak—what the hell was Burly trying to do? I coughed to cover the sound. The intruder fired in my direction and I flung myself to the floor, rolling close to the edge of the bed just as a bullet hit the poster of Benicio del Toro I kept above my bed, breaking the Plexiglas cover with a sharp crack. That made me mad. Posters of Benicio are hard to come by.

I rolled back up to a kneeling position and fired off a series of shots toward the doorway. My gun sounded more like bubble gum popping than a deadly weapon. That’s what I got for trying to be fashionable.

But I hit him.

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I heard a grunt, followed by cursing. Then all hell broke loose. He retaliated by squeezing off a round that peppered the wall above my head.

Simultaneously, Burly began screaming. “Get down, Casey! Get down! His clip is empty. Move now, while he reloads! Get under the bed. Move away from the window. Move toward me. Get away from the door. I need to know where you are.” For a man who didn’t want to tell me what to do, he sure as hell was taking charge.

I hit the deck pronto and rolled under the bed as fast as I could. My hand knocked against the metal leg of the cheap frame, cutting the skin and sending my gun flying into the middle of the room. Shit.

A deafening boom exploded in the close confines of the bedroom, the retort ringing in my ears only to be drowned out by another explosion, and then another and another. The echoes rolled through the room like thunder at ground zero.

Jesus, the intruder had two guns. One with a silencer and one without. That meant both Burly and I were dead.

“Burly!” I screamed “Burly! Where are you?”

No one answered. My head throbbed with the aftereffects of close fire. I could hear the pounding of my own ear drums as loudly as if an Apache war party were at my elbow.

“Talk to me!” I screamed. If Burly was dead, the killer would be moving toward me next.

An incredibly strong hand gripped my leg and tried to drag me out from under the bed. I screamed and began kicking furiously.

“Let go of me, you motherfucker!” I yelled, pulling away and gripping the nap of the carpet with all ten fingernails. I kicked the hand away and scrambled to safety on the far side of the bed.

My ears were still ringing from the gunshots, making me partially deaf, and the air was thick with the smell of cordite. All I knew was that someone was behind me, someone with a strong grip and loaded gun. I ran to the window, heedless of glass on the carpet, pulled the curtains from the rod with one big rip and began to scream through the shattered pane. “Help me! Help! Call the cops! Someone call the cops.” I shut my eyes and yelled it over and over, the hell with dignity. If I died, that bastard was going down with me. I’d make sure someone saw him leaving my apartment, whoever he was. He wouldn’t get away with it. I grabbed the safety bars and continued to yell for help, waiting for a final boom before the darkness.

I had screamed for a solid thirty seconds before it hit me. Someone was calling my name from across the room— and that someone was Burly.