To the Limit (19 page)

"Come on." Bob gripped her elbow when their train pulled in. "He's long gone. Let's get out of here "

Still a little unsteady, Eve let him steer her into the car. Again they got lucky, and found a pair of seats. She stared, without really seeing the advertisements posted above the windows on the train.
  
.

"Tomorrow, I'm pulling your case files," Bob said, his frown deep and troubled.

She nodded, shifting her purse from under her shoulder to her lap, feeling very weary suddenly. And something else. Vulnerable. She hated both feelings.

"My money's on finding some answers in them."

"It's possible, sure. You might want to start with the Clayborne case."

He lifted a brow, then nodded. "You sure you're OK?" He placed an arm around her shoulders. He felt solid and protective next to her. Yet his face was lined with worry:

"Good as gold," she assured him—as much for her sake as for his.

"I'm going with you to this meet," he said.

She shook her head. "Not necessary. He made his statement for the day. And McClain's solid. I'm safe with him," she assured Bob, surprising herself when she realized she believed what she'd just said.

When they reached Bob's stop, she hugged him again before he stepped out of the car. "You always were my guardian angel."

He squeezed her arm. "Watch yourself, kiddo, OK?"

She nodded and waved good-bye, a persistent sense of unease gnawing away as the subway train picked up speed again on the way to Time Squared.

It was close to six when she climbed out of the subway stop, walked the few blocks to the bar, and stepped into the dark, cool confines of Time Squared. A quick sweep of the place told her McClain hadn't made it yet.

She'd just sat down at a dark corner table with her back to the wall when he walked into the bar. At the sight of him her heart kicked her a good one dead center in her better judgment. Just that fast, she forgot all about her close call and experienced a momentary urge to duck out the back door.

Lord, he was a presence. His gaze swept the bar with the practiced eye of a cop. For the first time, she could actually see him in that venue. Even though he didn't spot her at first, she could definitely see him. Alpha male on the hunt, all dark dangerous looks fueled by pure testosterone.

Well, hell. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all. Sure, she'd had moments of awareness around him, but it had always been marginally easy to sweep them under a rug of dislike and disgust. And yeah, she'd felt a tug of empathy when he'd talked about his little girl, all the while holding ice on his swollen eye and limping without complaint to his car. It had been an understandable, even acceptable reaction. She'd gotten over it. After all, he was still a rat. She didn't want him anywhere near her life again. She'd been royally ticked over him showing up in West Palm. He'd made it pretty darned easy to stay that way and to ignore certain knee-jerk reactions—like gut-deep attraction.

Until now. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the uncertainty. But now ... now she just plain couldn't ignore them. The breadth of his shoulders was no longer minimized beneath a loose, painfully ugly tropical shirt. The underlying tension of a warrior and the rugged appeal of his lived-in face—black eye, split lip, and all—were no longer overshadowed by his cabana boy air.

That man—the Peter Pan "party dude" beach bum in worn flip-flops—must have taken a slow boat to Tahiti. In his place was a devastating combination of urban cosmopolitan and retro
Miami Vice.
A dove gray mock turtleneck hugged his broad chest and flat abdomen beneath a lightweight navy hip-length jacket. Pleated black pants emphasized a narrow waist, lean hips, and the length of long, muscled legs.

As she watched him, sexual tension coiled low in her belly and radiated to all points above and below. Without the loud shirts screeching at her, she could hear the call of the wild. Felt a little like howling herself.

Just what she needed. More trouble.

"What'll you have?" a forty-something waitress with bleached blond hair and hot pink nails asked as she placed a cocktail napkin on the table.

"Hemlock, please."

Eve got a long, bored blink and ordered a club soda.

Eve thought he'd underestimated her? What Mac thought, as he shouldered out of a cab and spotted a sign above a recessed door that ID'd the place as the Time Squared Bar, was that Eve Garrett was freakin' brilliant. He should have known she'd be ahead of him. And he should have known to trust a woman's instincts and heed her concern about Tiffany.

He'd just come from Margaret Reed's West Side apartment. After his conversation with Tiffany's old nanny, he was damn concerned himself.

The longer they'd talked, the more certain he'd become. And the more resigned he'd become to paying attention to the sinking sensation in his gut. It was the same kind of sensation he felt every time he thought of Ali. It felt like guilt, tugged like responsibility, and gnawed like a conviction to do the right thing. In this case, doing the right thing could cost him a whole lot of money. If Edwards got wind that he was considering teaming up with Eve, it could cost him this contract.

With luck, it wouldn't come to that. He wouldn't let it. He needed that money—and he was going to get it. Angie's constant threat to terminate visitation rights if he didn't keep up with child support was like a five-hundred-pound gorilla sitting on his chest. He wanted it off. He wanted breathing room, and the money from this job was going to buy it.

He opened the door and stepped inside. Time Squared had all the essentials to make it a perfect place to unwind after a day of warfare in the trenches—whether the battle was fought in the boardroom, on the sales floor, or deep in the subway humming nonstop beneath the city. It was small, it was dark, and it smelled like spilled beer, salted peanuts, and the ghosts of cigarette smoke that still lingered in the wake of the city's public-smoking ban.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he noted a dozen or so suits clustered at a round table gulping martinis; some blue collars tipping tap beer at the bar. The pool table in the far corner was idle; the TV above the selection of call liquor was turned to a Yankee game. The beautiful blonde with the "this better be good" scowl and frosty blue eyes was alone at the corner table.

"Eve," he said cordially as he walked over to her.

"McClain."

Oh, so formal,
he thought, suppressing a grin as he pulled out a chair, sat, then signaled the bartender for a beer. Then Mac did what he'd been wanting to do since he'd left her a little less than twenty-four hours ago. He looked his fill.

She had to be as drained as he was. They'd both been on the move for days. And yeah, she looked tired. Tired and incredibly beautiful. She'd been hot and spicy in her little red tank top and white capri pants under the Key West sun. She was cool and sexy as hell in a tailored black pantsuit beneath the bar's diluted light. And like damn near every time he saw her, his mouth dried up and key muscle groups did a lot of involuntary clenching and flexing and ruined the clean line of his trousers.

He made a subtle adjustment to his fly under the table. "I just came from a long visit with Margaret Reed."

Her eyes narrowed.

Yeah. He'd known she'd probably be hot over that. "She won't be returning your call, by the way, because she thinks we're working together."

"OK, simmer. Just simmer," he suggested when she looked like she was about to fly across the table at him and blacken his other eye. It wouldn't be the first time he'd have a matched set, but he'd just as soon pass on another one.

God, she was something. If the situation weren't so serious, he'd have some fun and needle her for a while. Just to watch her get all fired up. The lady was a sight riled. And aroused. He wondered if she still made those little throaty purring sounds when she came.

"Let's just get the cards out on the table, OK? This is not a scam. Not a test. I'm here to share information. Because," he interrupted when she opened her mouth to voice a distrustful "why?", "what Margaret Reed told me has brought me over to your way of thinking."

She leveled him a cynical look. Judge Judy about to pronounce sentence on the biggest rat in the pack.

"Among other things, I learned that Tiffany Clayborne used to sleep with a pink stuffed kitten. She named it Fuzzy. Fuzzy was her best friend. Her family. When she was tired and feeling insecure, she'd cry for Fuzzy if she'd misplaced it. She couldn't sleep without it. Had to supervise directly when Margaret tossed Fuzzy into the washer every week. Tiffany actually sat in the laundry room until the thing was fluffed and dry. Until she turned eighteen, next to Margaret, Fuzzy was the only thing that never left her.

"At twelve," he continued, seeing that he had Eve's reluctant attention, "she still slept with a night-light. She saw her father on Clayborne's schedule. Once a week. On Monday morning for an hour. When she turned fourteen, Clayborne cut
it back to half an hour. Guess the bastard figured he was spoiling her."

"When she went out and had her tongue pierced for her sixteenth birthday, desperate to do something to get his attention, Clayborne cut off even the Monday morning appointments until she had the thing removed."

All the time he talked, Mac watched Eve's face—not exactly tough duty. A poker player she was not. Empathy, sorrow, anger, it all flashed in those wide, expressive eyes before she tucked her emotions away again and repositioned her mask of distrust.

She toyed with her glass. Rocked it on a damp napkin. "So you had a nice chat with the nanny. Now tell me something I didn't already know about Tiffany."

"It was more than a chat. It was an education. Margaret agrees that Tiffany could act out when the spirit moved her. God knows she had good reason—especially after Clayborne went hermit a few years ago. Even before that, though, Clayborne was a cold piece of work. But Margaret insists that Tiffany is a good girl. She may have experimented with pot, but overall, she was afraid of drugs. And she's big into horses."

"I know. Equestrian events. Jumpers," Eve said with a nod.

"Which required random drug testing for her to compete," he supplied, noting that Eve had let her guard down enough to add to the conversation before she could stop herself.

"She always passed. And she's a good athlete. But again, you're telling me all of this like it's something I don't already know. You forgot, I spent several months with her. So unless this story is going somewhere—"

"It is. Just bear with me. According to Margaret," he continued, "it wasn't until after Clayborne went off the deep end that Tiffany started getting a little out of control. But still, Margaret insists Tiffany wasn't into drugs. She'd go out and drink too much, party a little too often, but she limited her illegals to marijuana if she did anything at all."

"Yet according to someone I interviewed in Key West, she was pretty much stoned the entire time she was at Ocean Key."

He nodded. "My guy at Atlantic City says the same thing. She was wasted most of the time she was there, too."

"It's the band," Eve said, too caught up in concern and conviction to realize they were no longer arguing. "More specifically, the boyfriend."

"Reno. Right."

Again, a look of surprise. That'd teach her to underestimate him.

"I caught up with them at the Key West airport. Shot some film. Had a friend of mine on the force run his picture through VICAP and got a hit. Lance Reno is a wannabe rocker with a bad drug habit and a penchant for high living. He's got a short rap sheet—minor stuff mostly. But he's not likely to be someone Clayborne would want to see Tiffany bring home to dinner. His buddy with the tattoos—"

"Abe Gorman," she supplied.

"Yeah," he said, impressed again. "Gorman's small-time, too, but likes to mix a little petty larceny and assault and battery in with his illegal activity."

"What about the third guy?"

"I was hoping you had something on him. I didn't get any pictures. He was already on board when I started shooting so he's still a mystery man."

"OK, McClain," she asked after she'd absorbed the information to date, "so what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that what on the surface appears to be a lark for Tiffany Clayborne has taken on some darker elements. I'm thinking that little Tiffany has fallen in with some bad dudes who love their first-class ticket to ride the gravy train."

She pinched her lips, slowly nodded. "They're manipulating her to the point she no longer knows what she's doing."