Janelle Taylor (19 page)

That would be impossible,
she told herself.
If nobody followed us out here
—
and I’m sure of that
—
then there is no way he could know where we are.

She hadn’t told a soul she was leaving town. It had happened so fast. And even if the pirate managed to track down Jeremy or one of her clients, nobody would ever connect her with Beau.

Nobody except Andrea MacDuff,
she thought uneasily.

But the woman had only set them up on a blind date. She had no idea what had happened between them since.

Still …

What if the pirate got to Andrea, and Andrea innocently mentioned Beau?

The thought was ludicrous. Half the time, Jordan herself couldn’t even reach the often elusive Andrea.

She was just paranoid, searching for reasons to be afraid.

Still…

The pirate had been snooping around her town house, asking questions of the neighbors. He might even have gotten inside, tried to abduct Spencer from his bed. The man was brazen and clever.

What if he had been spying on her and Beau on the few occasions they had come and gone together?

The man could have seen Beau’s car parked in front of her house. He could have followed him back to his place. Found out who he was. Asked some questions, and figured out that when Beau left town, he had brought Jordan and Spencer with him.

Why didn’t we think of that before?
Jordan wondered, trying to keep the frantic fear at bay.

Because she hadn’t been thinking clearly while Beau was around. Obviously, neither of them had been.

She had told herself that the only way anybody could find her here would have been to follow her. She hadn’t stopped to realize that all it would take would be a glimpse of Beau at her place—or even of his car parked out front—to launch sufficient detective work to trace Jordan to this house.

What if the pirate was here already?

What if he was out there somewhere in the dunes or even in a neighboring house, watching Jordan right now with a pair of binoculars?

She was suddenly aware of the well-lit room in which she stood.

Of the several pairs of French doors leading onto various decks, unobscured by draperies or blinds.

Anyone could see right inside.

You’re letting your imagination get the best of you,
Jordan scolded herself, pressing a trembling hand against her wildly pounding heart.

She strode over to the nearest double doors and stared out into the sodden, inky predawn light. She could see nothing but the reflection of the room behind her superimposed over a shadow of the deck beyond, and sheets of rain.

She reached out and flipped the light switch beside her, plunging the room into darkness.

Now she could see a bit more outside.

The looming, distant roofline of a neighboring house.

The silhouette of the dunes.

Nothing more.

The place was desolate, she realized.

It wasn’t a haven at all.

With Beau gone, she and Spencer were more vulnerable here than they had been in Georgetown.

At least at her town house, there were neighbors to hear her if she screamed for help. Here, the other houses were so few and far between that her screams would be swept away on the wind, obscured by pattering rain and the incessant roaring of the sea.

She didn’t even have a car so that she could escape if she had to.

How could Beau have left her here without a car?

How could Beau have left her here at all?

You told him to go.

You told him you and Spencer would be fine.

She had believed it then.

Not anymore.

Thanks to the crummy weather, there wasn’t as much traffic on the I-95 corridor as Beau had anticipated. By late morning he was passing the exits for Fredericksburg, about an hour south of Washington.

He had exhausted his supply of CDS, listening to the Rolling Stones a couple of times before getting as sick of it as he was of the steadily bobbing windshield wipers.

He was growing restless, his thoughts on Jordan and Spencer. He wanted only to get the drive and the meeting over with so that he could head back to them.

He had stopped only once, to get gas, a jumbo-sized coffee, and a stale service station blueberry muffin. Now, thanks to all that coffee, he had to stop again.

He pulled off the highway at an exit that had a Seven-Eleven. They usually had clean restrooms, and their coffee was more palatable than the bitter brew he’d ingested earlier.

He parked the car and put up his hood before venturing out into the rain. Here it was more drizzly than it had been earlier. It must be a coastal storm. It would be nice if it let up before he made the return trip, he thought as he stepped into the small, brightly lit mini-mart.

He made his way toward the back of the store to the rest room.

Standing before the mirror above the sink as he washed his hands, he saw his reflection. The lack of sleep was visible on his face. He’d been up so early that razor stubble had already sprouted on his chin. His hair was matted from the hood. He looked like hell. He couldn’t show up for a meeting with Landry looking like this.

He was planning to stop back at his apartment to change into a suit anyway. Checking his watch, he realized that he had made such good time, he should have time to shower and shave while he was at it. And if the return trip went as quickly as this one had, he should be back on the Outer Banks long before midnight.

Back out in the store, Beau hurriedly fixed himself a large cup of coffee at the self-service counter. He was dumping a third packet of sugar in when he overheard two truckers talking on the other side of the counter.

“Nah, I’m headed down to Norfolk,” one was saying. “Should get there right before the storm makes landfall. Figure I’ll stay the night, at least.”

“Yeah, but you’ll be sleeping in the rig. You won’t get a room anywhere within a hundred miles of there if they start evacuating the Outer Banks like they said.”

“Evacuating the Outer Banks?” Beau cut in, a sick feeling washing over him. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help hearing—what’s going on? How bad is this rainstorm?”

“Rainstorm? This ain’t no rainstorm, buddy. It’s Tropical Storm Agatha. Where you been?”

Tropical Storm Agatha …

Beau was struck by a sudden memory of something he’d read about that in the paper on Sunday. Something about forecasters keeping an eye on that storm in the Caribbean, and about its being unusual for a potent storm to pop up so early in the hurricane season, which had only begun June 1.

He hadn’t paid much attention to the article, and he hadn’t heard or read the news since. He’d been trying so hard to isolate Spencer from any bulletins about his parents that he hadn’t even risked turning on the radio.

Oh, hell. How bad was this storm?

“No, Gus, it’s not Tropical Storm Agatha anymore—
they just upgraded it to Hurricane Agatha,” the second trucker contradicted the first.

“Yeah?”

“Yup. I heard they evacuated Hilton Head. Mandatory evacuation. Storm’s moving up the coast and they’re talkin’ about evacuating everyone in its path. She’s gonna make landfall around Nag’s Head.”

Beau fumbled with the lid on his coffee cup, sloshing the scalding liquid over his hand. He cursed.

“Careful, there, buddy. Stuff’ll burn ya.” One of the truckers offered him a napkin, but Beau was already striding toward the register, barely noticing the stinging pain where his skin was already blistering.

He grabbed a copy of
USA Today
from a nearby display, threw several dollar bills at the clerk, and headed for the door.

“Wait! Mister, I didn’t even ring it up yet.”

“I’m in a hurry,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“But your change—”

“Keep it,” he said, and dashed through the rain to the SUV. Inside the cab, he scanned the headlines. Agatha was right there on the front page. That was an ominous sign.

Beau skimmed only half the article before reaching for his cell phone and the—

Damn!

Damn, he had forgotten to bring the small pad on which he’d scribbled the telephone number for the beach house.

His heart pounding, he dialed Ed at the office.

“Beau! Where are you? Did you know there’s a hurricane—”

“I know. Why the hell didn’t you tell me last night?”

“I just found out. Hell, Beau, I’ve been holed up
working on this plan for two days straight. I only know about it now because I happened to hear the weather forecast while I was in—”

“Ed, I need a favor.”

“Please don’t tell me you can’t get here. The weather can’t be all that bad yet, and Landry’s flight landed on time. He’ll be here in less than two hours, Beau.”

“I’m on my way. I’m in Fredericksburg. But I need the phone number for the house I’m renting. Do you still have it?”

“Yeah, I still have it. In fact, yesterday I—”

“Ed, this is an emergency. I need that number. Give it to me.”

“Hang on.”

Beau waited, thrumming the steering wheel impatiently with a pen, worried about Jordan.

She would have no way of knowing a storm was headed for the Outer Banks. She would have no way of evacuating.

She’d have to call somebody for help, he thought, if the weather got as bad as the National Weather Service was predicting. He should be able to make it back there on time, but if he didn’t, and there was an evacuation, the local police would have to get her and Spencer out of there.

Jordan would balk at calling the police, for any reason. But this was serious. It, too, could be life or death. And if somebody somehow figured out who Spencer was, well … they’d worry about it then.

Ed came back on the line. “Here’s the number, Beau.”

He scribbled it on a margin of the newspaper.

“But Beau, listen, I just want to—”

“I have to go, Ed. I’ll see you when I get there.”

He hung up on his friend, certain he knew what Ed had been about to ask him.

Beau, why on earth do you need the phone number for that house if you were staying there alone?

He dialed the cell phone so quickly that he punched a number in wrong.

Twice.

“Calm down,” he muttered to himself. “Just calm down.”

The third time, he entered the number correctly. He pressed Send, then waited through several seconds of static before the phone began to ring on the other end of the line.

It rang once …

Twice …

Three times …

Four …

Five …

Where are you, Jordan?

He let it keep ringing. She had to be there. She had to answer sooner or later.

Unless …

Had something happened?

Had the pirate found her and Spencer?

Beau slammed the steering wheel with the fist that had already been burned. Pain exploded, searing all the way up his arm. He didn’t care. He wanted to hurt. He deserved to hurt.

He was going back to her. Now. He had to. He had to …

He jammed the key into the ignition and the engine roared to life. He peeled out of the parking lot with a screech, his eyes searching for the entrance to the
interstate’s southbound ramp … not noticing an oncoming minivan in his path.

The driver leaned on her horn and swerved.

As he passed the vehicle, Beau could see a shaken mother at the wheel, and four small children strapped in back.

Hell.

He could have wiped out a family in that one reckless instant. Somebody’s wife and babies …

Hell.

He had to get hold of himself. He had to calm down.

You can’t turn around and drive right back down there. Not in this condition. You need to think logically.

Maybe Jordan just hadn’t heard the phone. Maybe she was in the shower.

And maybe the storm wasn’t as bad as those truckers—and the newspaper—made it seem. And even if it was…

Jordan and Spencer would be fine. He would get back down there to them before it got bad. He would be back there tonight. He just had to do one thing at a time.

He cautiously steered toward the on-ramp for I-95.

Northbound.

He would go to D.C. He would fulfill his obligation to Ed, and the firm, and Landry. He would find out what he could about the storm. And he would be well on his way back to North Carolina before nightfall.

Everything is going to be fine.

Everything is going to be fine.

It became his mantra as he drove along, heading for home.

Everything is going to be fine.

If only he believed it.

“Jordan! Check out that one! It’s bigger than every one we’ve seen so far!” Spencer bellowed above the wind and rain.

She nodded, watching the enormous, foaming white wave cresting a few yards from shore before spilling onto the beach.

“This is awesome,” Spencer shouted. He was standing right next to her, but the water, wind, and rain were deafening, especially when they both had their hoods up.

They were standing on Spencer’s rock. The surface was surprisingly flat and level, once Jordan had managed to climb up there with him. It was slippery, but they were being careful. And from this vantage point, they had a prime view of the glorious storm.

“It is pretty awesome,” she called back to Spencer, watching another towering wave building at sea.

“Thanks for coming out.”

His words caught her off guard. She looked at him, touched. He looked away.

“You’re welcome, Spencer.”

He shrugged, watching the water.

She hadn’t wanted to stay inside another minute any more than Spencer did. She was feeling uneasy in the house—wary and claustrophobic. Out here on the deserted beach, she somehow felt safer.

From the windows upstairs, they could see the choppy sea and frothing whitecaps out beyond the dunes.

Down here on the beach, they could feel the mist and salt spray mingling with the rain that hadn’t let up for a moment. It was wild and beautiful, and she wasn’t afraid here. Not of the storm.

A storm was the last thing to fear right now.

“Can we stay out here a while longer?” Spencer shouted.