To the Limit (14 page)

"Look out!" Mac yelled, and, grabbing her, dived toward the curb.

Taking her down with him, he twisted at the last moment and took the brunt of the fall. She landed on top of him to the sound of squealing tires and a string of swear words from the pedicab driver who'd barely managed to jump the curb with his bicycle to avoid being hit.

The pedicab driver shook his fist and took off in hot pursuit of the van that never stopped, never even slowed down, to see if anyone was hurt. Like he could possibly catch it. The vehicle had already disappeared in traffic.

"You OK?" Mac asked as she braced herself on top of him.

She took stock, nodded. "Yeah. I think so. How about you?"

"Great. Nothing like a little hit-and-run to get the old juices flowing. Asshole must have been stoned or something."

"Or something," she speculated, a familiar sense of unease sending a shiver down her spine. It had been several days since she'd been attacked. And that little hit-and-run scenario was just a little too coincidental.

But she kept her suspicions to herself as Mac set her aside, rose painfully to his feet, and held out a hand to help her up.

His heart had settled down and the throbbing pain in his leg had downgraded from bullet-biting intensity to stalling the urge to whimper by the time they managed to hail another pedicab.

They reached Mac's car first. He eased carefully out, limped to the driver's side, and scooped a fistful of parking tickets out from under the windshield wipers.

"Nice to know that Key West's finest are Johnny-on-the-spot," he muttered, and tossed the tickets into the backseat. "Too bad they couldn't have been on the square when we were scrambling for our lives."

"You really ought to see a doctor about that leg," Eve said, ignoring his grumbling. "And get some antiseptic on your lip and eye."

Interesting,
Mac thought, casting a glance back at Eve where she sat in the pedicab, the driver patiently waiting. That was twice she'd mentioned a doctor. And she'd gotten him ice. If Mac didn't know better, he'd think she might actually be worried about him. "I'm fine. You driving back to West Palm tonight?"

"Have I found Tiff?"

"Right. Stupid question."

"What about you?"

He looked down the street. If possible, it was busier than it had been during the day.
Nightlife was the right life in Key West.
"I'm not going anywhere."

"Well," she said, looking uncomfortable with all this civil chitchat. "Guess I'll be heading out."

He dug into his hip pocket, fished out his wallet, and shoved some bills into the driver's hand. "Take her wherever she needs to go."

Then Mac turned to Eve, intending to tell her good-bye, and got lost for several long moments just looking.

Her cheeks were pink from the Key West sun. So were her shoulders and the tops of her breasts above the low neckline of her little red top. Her hair had been combed by the wind; delicate violet smudges colored the skin beneath blue eyes, showing hints of fatigue. She had a dab of mustard and dirt from their scrape with the crazy driver on the thigh of her white pants, and the toes that peeked out of her sandals and sported siren red polish were powdered with Key West street dust.

She looked messy and amazing. And the best part of it all—she didn't care. Didn't bother her at all that she wasn't fashion-plate put together, that her lipstick had worn off hours ago and her makeup couldn't conceal her fatigue.

He thought she looked damn near perfect. Real. Genuine. Tough. And juxtaposed against it all was a stunning vulnerability she'd never, in a million years, admit to.

She'd been vulnerable that night in the cabana. He should have felt more guilt over running out on her. He hadn't then, but he did now. Now that it was too late. Story of his life.

He dug back into his wallet, finally came up with a business card. "My cell number," he said, handing it to her.

She stared from him to the card.

"In case you missed it, that was your cue to give me
your
number."

She smiled and tucked the card in her purse.

Well, it had been worth a try. "Call if you need anything."

"Like someone to instigate another bar brawl?"

He grinned. "Yeah. If you need someone for that. Or if, you know, you find yourself in trouble."

She looked away from him and down the street. "You have a room booked somewhere?"

He shook his head. "Gonna have to fire my travel agent for that misstep."

She expelled a heavy sigh. They both knew he didn't have a prayer of getting a room with the college crowd in town. What he hadn't expected was that she actually looked a little worried about him. Again.

"Hey—I'll be fine. Won't be the first time I slept in my car."

"Or in your clothes," she added with a dry look.

"I like to travel light."

She looked like she was about to say something else, then thought better of it, so he picked up the thread. "What about you? You have someplace to stay?"

"Uncle Bud's."

Oh yeah. Good ole Uncle Bud.

"Well," she said, a clear precursor to
adios.

"As long as we're in competition over this, how about a little side bet?" he asked abruptly. Partly because he didn't want her to leave just yet. Partly because he couldn't pass up one last chance to rile her. Just a little.

"Side bet?"

"Yeah. Just to make things more interesting."

"This ought to be good."

"Oh, it is. If you find Tiff first, I have to take you to bed."

She snorted. "Yeah,
that's
going to happen."

"No. No. It gets better. If
I
find Tiff first, then
you
have to take
me
to bed." He grinned when she rolled her eyes. "What do you think? Win-win all the way around, right?"

"Good night, McClain," she said, and asked the driver to start pedaling.

"G'night, cupcake."

Weight slung on his good leg, Mac stood and watched them pull away. He watched for a long time, until the motor traffic and the foot traffic swallowed them up. She hadn't turned around to see if he was watching. But then, he hadn't expected her to.

"And what exactly do you expect of the lady?" he asked himself aloud.

Big surprise. Another question he had no answer for. He didn't know what he expected. He really didn't know. But he couldn't quite block the images he'd offered up in the form of a side bet. And he couldn't help but think about that night all those years ago.

A man didn't forget a night like that. Just like he didn't forget a woman like Eve—even if she hadn't exactly been a woman at the time. She'd been a good girl with a yen to go bad—at least that's what he'd told himself at the time—and he'd gladly provided the ticket for her walk on the wild side. For a long time afterward, he hadn't felt nearly enough guilt over what they'd done. She had, though. Just like she'd expected more from him than he'd been able or willing to give.

His guilt had come later. Much later, when he'd become a father and he thought of some superstud asshole hurting his little girl the way he'd hurt Wes Garrett's little girl.

He wiped a hand over his face as a horse-drawn carriage rolled by, shod hooves clicking on the pavement. Hell. He'd only been eighteen himself. If he'd stuck around, then he'd have done something really stupid, because what pretty Eve had made him feel was heat—so much heat he'd dropped her like a hot poker and run as far and as fast as he could go in the opposite direction. No way was he going to get himself tied up in knots over that elegant little blonde with the kiss-me mouth and promise-me-forever eyes.

Georgia Tech had been far enough. And later, Chicago had been even better. The Chicago PD had been job enough to make him forget all about Eve and get stupid enough to decide it was finally time to settle down and marry the absolute wrong woman. He'd tried to make it work for six long, wasted years. Wasted, except for Ali. Ali was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

When the marriage was over, at least he'd still had his job. And then he didn't even have that anymore. Now fate, it seemed, had brought him back in contact with Eve Garrett.

Helluva deal. Helluva rush when he'd seen her standing there that night at Club Asylum, sleek as a cat, dressed all in black, all centerfold curves and .38 caliber of firepower aimed dead center at his heart. And damn if he didn't find himself wondering if picking up where they'd left off wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.

He was no romantic. In fact, he was cynical at best when it came to the opposite sex—and with good reason. Angie had damn near gelded him, and when she'd gotten done with him, her lawyer had taken a turn at working him over, too. But there was something about this woman that got to him. Had always gotten to him. God's honest truth, Eve Garrett still scared the living shit out of him. He felt too many things when he was around her. Alive for one. Wired for another. And just a little too open. Hell. He'd told her about his divorce today. About his kid. What was that about?

Just because she made him hot? And heat was all he was willing to cop to. Any other possibilities sent him into a cold sweat.

He let out a long breath, braced himself for the pain, and maneuvered his bad leg into the car. If he ran into Larry Linebacker or the sonofabitch in the blue van again, he was up for a little payback. Leaning across the seat, he opened the glove compartment and rummaged around until he found his bottle of ibuprofen. His prescription pain medication was in there, too, but he didn't want it. He had work to do tonight and that stuff always made his head murky.

Because he had nothing to drink, he downed three ibuprofen dry, then shoved a stick of gum in his mouth to generate a little saliva. He found a little packet with a wet wipe in it and dabbed it on his lip. It stung like hell, so he counted it as antiseptic and, because it was wet and cool, held it against his eye for a second or two.

"Good to go," he muttered, tossed the wipe in the ashtray, and pulled away from the curb.

It was back to business. Tiffany was out there somewhere. Because of his bum leg he didn't particularly want to walk, but he could cruise around on the off chance that he'd spot her. He'd cracked more than one case on a lucky break. Nothing said it couldn't happen on this case—and it might take staying up all night to do it.

And nothing said he had to think about Eve Garrett. Nothing said he had to think about how he'd like to sink into all that silky softness and experience something just short of what he knew would be a near-religious experience.

Eve let herself into Uncle Bud's little bungalow with the key he'd given her years ago.

"Uncle Bud? You home?"

Silence. Possibly it was poker night. Possibly he was at Juanita's, his longtime companion.

Whatever, Eve closed the door behind her, leaned back against it, and let out a deep breath—glad to have a moment to herself. A moment when she was not behind the wheel of a car, in the seat of a pedicab, or searching for Tiffany Clayborne.

A moment to get a little distance from the unsettling concern she felt for Tyler McClain.

She pushed away from the door, walked over, and turned on the brass and stained-glass lamp that sat on top of a rattan foyer table.

How about a little side bet?

McClain was a jerk.

After turning on a ceiling fan to move some of the stuffy air, she plopped down on the sofa. Stared at the far wall.

A jerk of an ex-cop with a bad marriage behind him and a little girl clear across the country. He missed his daughter so much that the pain on his face when he spoke of her outdistanced the pain in his leg. Oh yeah. And he'd played hero twice tonight.

She shook her head, called herself ten kinds of sap, and dug her cell phone out of her purse. She debated for all of a deep breath before she punched in the phone number on the business card McClain had given her.

He answered on the second ring. "McClain."

"Um ... look," she said, suddenly wishing she'd worked through the blond moment that had prompted her to call him. "I was just thinking ... I could maybe make some calls for you, see if I could turn up a room."