Echoes (15 page)

“It all happened so quickly,” said one of the men, his bright orange shirt making Mac wince. “I'm pretty sure they looked us over, though not for long. Thank goodness, they must have realized we weren't a threat. This isn't exactly the relaxing vacation we had planned.”

“He should get an Oscar,” Callie remarked. “Role of totally innocent American tourist, or whatever.”

“Nash's people are well trained. If they came out of the DEA with him, they'll be chameleons. Take the outfit that guy has on. When people talk about him tomorrow morning over the breakfast table, they'll remember his shirt more than his words, and certainly more than his face.”

Callie turned her dark gaze on him. “They planned to wear those clothes because they knew they might end up on TV?”

“They're costumes. Not only overwhelmingly bright enough to draw attention away from the men's faces, they also play into the ‘stupid American tourist' stereotype, so they serve purposes for both French and American audiences.

“Nash thought it out that carefully?”

“Good strategy is all about details, and whatever else he may be, Nash has always been an excellent strategist.” Mac gathered their plates and stood. “You cooked; I'll clean.”

He carried the dishes to the kitchen and rinsed them before sliding them into the dishwasher. When he turned around to ask Callie whether he should make coffee, he saw she'd fallen asleep, her head resting on arms she'd crossed on the sofa back. Her hair had fallen over her face in a wild tangle—the combination of the racing boat and the helicopter hadn't been kind. She'd tied it up, but most of it had come loose.

He should wake her. She'd washed her hands and face earlier, but she would want to shower, tame the wild hair before she crawled into bed. Perversely, he wished she'd leave it. He no longer saw the similarity to Nikki when he looked at Callie, no longer imbued her with his former wife's lying ways, but even so he preferred the inherent honesty of the slightly ragged look to the polished, professional demeanor she'd worn when they'd first met. He refused to consider why such a distinction should concern him.

A shower sounded good, though, so he decided to let her nap a while longer while he, himself, cleaned up. Muting the television, he headed for the bathroom. He hadn't shaved in days, and hoped Nash had provided a razor.

***

Callie ran. White sand sucked at her toes, bogged her down, held her back, but ahead she could see her house. Just outside the door, her parents stood, laughing, chatting with Erin and Tommy. Erin's hand rested on the doorknob, her key in the lock. Any minute, she would open the door, invite them in, and turn on the kettle for tea.

And the house would explode.

Callie tried to call out a warning about the gas leak, but her throat closed over the words. She gasped for breath, running flat out, but no matter how hard she pushed herself, she got no closer to the group. And they did not see her, could not hear the choking grunts that were all she seemed able to produce.

Callie came awake with a start when Mac laid a hand on her shoulder. He crouched beside the sofa.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” She sat up, trying to clear her head. “It was a nightmare. Or . . .”

He settled beside her, chafing one of her hands between his own, and she saw the myriad little nicks and scars on his skin. “Or?”

“I think . . .” She swallowed, reorganizing her mind, admitting what the dream had been trying to tell her. Unconsciously, she laced her fingers through Mac's, seeking stability. “I think this guy has tried to kill me before.”

She explained the fireplace malfunction and how Erin's highly tuned chef's sense of smell had alerted them to the gas seeping into the house before any of them could be harmed.

“We could both have died.”

“But you didn't.” Mac dropped her hand and drew her close, wrapping a strong arm around her shoulders, and she let him. He had showered, she noticed, and he smelled of soap, shampoo, and something faintly musky. His black T-shirt and dark jeans were clearly new, from whatever stock the unflappable Nash had supplied, but they fit perfectly. Even the knowledge that she only focused on such minute details to avoid considering her own situation couldn't prevent the tiny, hormonal hum that trilled through her when he slid one large hand beneath her hair to rub away the tension at the back of her neck.

“It always bothered me that he let you get as far as St. Martin, knowing you'd run into Nikki's friends and family. This explains why. He didn't intend to; you slipped through. No police report, I take it?”

Callie shook her head. “It was a bad valve. Or so we thought. The plumber said it could happen to anyone. And since there were no damages, I didn't even have to file an insurance claim.” But she hadn't slept that night. And she'd spent the next day, while packing for St. Martin, assuring herself over and over that she didn't actually smell gas.

“You don't remember anything like that happening in the past? Any narrow escapes or close calls?”

“No. But, then, this whole thing just started, right? Debbie and Diane were killed a few months ago. And it's only been a month since Robin's murder. And Nikki . . .” She looked up at him. “I'm afraid I've been wrapped up in what's wrong with my own life. How are you holding up? Now that you know for sure?”

His fathomless green gaze caught hers, held. “I'm handling it. But I've known practically from the minute she disappeared—it's the one thing John and I had in common after the mystery woman washed up; we both hoped it would put pressure on the police to find Nikki's killer.”

“Why do you dislike each other so much?”

His lips twisted into a self-deprecating grin. “Right from the start, he thought I was after Nikki's money, and never made any bones about that belief. Kind of hard to get along with a guy who treats you like a fortune hunter. Plus, he's a pompous ass.”

A smile tugged at Callie's mouth, though she'd have considered it impossible mere minutes earlier. “He is a bit, isn't he?”

“I didn't realize you didn't care for him. You certainly acted bowled over by his charm.”

“Dealing with John is . . . easy.” She looked away so Mac couldn't see the corollary in her eyes:
Unlike you
. “I've been around his type my whole life. Born rich, made himself richer, used to being admired. He's far from the most arrogant man of his class I've ever met, but I can see how he might not make the ideal brother-in-law.”

“No. Unfortunately, the fact that he didn't consider me good enough spurred me on rather than deterring me.”

“Oh, dear.” She laughed, glanced up, and found herself trapped in the sudden heat in his eyes. He, too, seemed paralyzed, his fingers stilling on her neck muscles. Gradually, the smile faded from his lips. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then returned. The hand at the back of her neck urged her forward.

A tiny, tinny voice in the back of her mind tried to lodge a protest in the name of common sense, but the moment his lips touched hers it was drowned in a wave of sensation. Heat swamped her, rushing through her veins, along her nerves, under her skin, and all she could hear was the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. Of its own volition, her mouth opened beneath his. His tongue swept in, tangled, teased, coaxed, invited.

He shifted, pulling her with him until they lay pressed together on the sofa, her on her back with his heavy, taut body half covering her. God, he was big. She ran her hands across his shoulders, over his chest, tracing his muscles through the thin cotton of his shirt. His hands were moving, too, and she felt him tug her shirt free of the waistband of her pants. He muttered something incomprehensible against her mouth when his fingers found her bathing suit rather than bare skin. The slick Lycra of the maillot effectively transmitted the heat from his body, however, as his hand slid up to cup her breast. She heard her own whimper as his thumb brushed over her nipple. She opened her eyes, trying to get her bearings, only to find herself staring at a full-screen televised photograph of Nicole Lewis Brody.

Mac's wife.

The fire drained from her, leaving her empty, hollow.

To his credit, Mac stilled almost immediately, then slowly removed his hand from beneath her shirt and levered himself up slightly. He looked down at her, followed the line of her sight, then cursed softly.

“I'm sorry.”

That seemed to startle him, and he laid a finger beneath her cheek and turned her to face him. He studied her. “For what?”

“I don't know.” Nor did she know why she suddenly felt like weeping. “For not being her, I guess.”

***

Mac's inner cynic attempted to analyze the statement. What game was this? What was Callie after? She hadn't pushed him off, but she'd turned her head away again, staring at the television, though Nikki's picture had been replaced by an advertisement. He'd had plenty of experience with Nikki's manipulations—giving sex, withholding it, teasing until she got whatever she desired. He should be able to work out Callie's, but he couldn't see her angle. Of course, that could have something to do with the fact that the majority of his blood was still considerably south of the border, and his brain wasn't functioning at full capacity.

“Why in the hell would you want to be Nikki?”

He felt her shrug, and she still wouldn't meet his eyes. When she spoke, he could hear the effort she expended to make her voice light. “It would have been nice to be able to give you what you wanted.”

Fishing
, his inner cynic stated, but for once Mac didn't pay attention. Nikki would have been fishing. Callie was honest, which meant he had to consider her words in a way he never had with Nikki. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced her head around, waiting until she looked directly at him.

“You think this is about her?”

“Of course.” She smiled, even tossed her head as much as she could in her position, but he was learning to read her and knew the actions were as false as her lightness of tone. “You told Claudine I was a fat, boring imitation of your wife.”

“I never said that.”

Her glare was a challenge, and he pushed himself to think back to that first day, those first few moments when they'd met. He couldn't remember his exact words, but he knew they hadn't been kind. He'd been furious.

“Tell me what I said.”

She did.

“Fuck. I'm an ass, Callie. That day . . . Billy had called me from the gate. He said some woman who looked just like Nikki had shown up. You were on his reservation list, and you showed up right after she disappeared. It was like I'd been worried sick and she was just fucking with me. So I was angry. To put it mildly.”

“She was your wife. You make it sound as if you didn't even like her.”

“You're going to make me admit every ugly truth, aren't you?” And he was going to let her. Why, he couldn't say. Maybe because she was facing the ugliness of her own reality with such stoutness of heart. He shifted away, stood, and walked to the giant glass window. Outside, the river was quiet, blanketed in darkness. He turned his back on it to examine the woman who now sat on the sofa, knees drawn up in a way that was becoming familiar, watching him through wide, dark eyes.

“Did I tell you that when I was with the PD, I worked Narcotics?”

She shook her head.

“Well, I did. Most of the guys I came up with wanted assignment to Homicide, but that never held any appeal for me. I was an adrenaline junkie. I wanted the undercover ops, the edge, the scent of danger that hung in the very air around dealers and the vermin they ran with. I craved it.

“After the knife fight, when I couldn't work the street anymore, I went to see Travis because I couldn't figure out what else to do. And, God, I was so damned bored. Whatever I'd been hoping for, it wasn't living on a boat in the middle of nowhere doing nothing. I was about ready to leave when the security job at the Paradis came up. The money was decent, and I didn't have anywhere else to go, so I took it. But I was still . . . jonesing. I needed the rush.” Even thinking about those days disgusted him. He'd been so far gone. How much longer would he have lasted among the pushers and pimps before crossing a line?

“And Nikki provided it? The rush?”

“Yeah. She was dangerous. Don't ask me how I recognized it. Experience, I guess. I got the same sense when I was with her I'd once had in Atlanta.”

“You loved her because she was dangerous?”

“No. I
needed
her because she was dangerous. I was an addict looking for a fix. Even then, I never mistook the emotion for love, and by the time she disappeared, I'd already filed for divorce.” He wondered what was going on behind that dark gaze of hers. She was weighing, considering, but giving no indication of the direction of her thoughts. “Like I said, the truth isn't pretty.”

“Does all this”—she gestured vaguely around the room—“does it give you the fix you need? Boats exploding, climbing ladders into moving helicopters, shooting and being shot at . . . Does all that give you the rush you were looking for?”

“You don't like the easy questions, do you?” But she didn't return his smile, so he moved back to sit next to her on the couch, waiting until she faced him before continuing. He needed to have her completely focused on him if he was going to lay himself bare. “Living with Nikki wasn't the same as going undercover. It was more like playing in traffic with no one there to pick you up when you get hit. And you
are
going to get hit. Because when you're playing field hockey on a five-lane superhighway, it isn't about being fast enough, smart enough, strong enough or . . . good enough to avoid the cars. You may make the goal, but sooner or later, you're going to get crushed.