Night Thunder (14 page)

Why in the world was her heart hammering like this? She’d danced with dozens of handsome men before— Doug Fifer had been plenty handsome—yet she’d never felt like she was going to have a heart attack when she danced with him, or any of them.

But none of them was like Ty Barclay, none of them had ever triggered an electric jolt to her heart when they touched her, or made her pulse race and burn, as if she were running naked beneath the sun on a golden July day.

They danced slowly, intimately, as Rod sang “Reason to Believe.” Neither of them made any attempt to talk. She could only wonder if he was as intensely aware as she was of the silence floating above the music, of the sweet languorous night, of the wind rustling in the darkness beyond the balcony doors.

The song ended too soon. Josy took a breath and searched for something clever and light to say, something that would help her recover from the heat flooding her body. But before she could say anything, Ty caught her face between his hands.

She stopped breathing, her gaze locked on his.

Five seconds passed. Ten.

His gaze searched hers. Then he swore under his breath, leaned down, and kissed her.

It was a deep, slow kiss. More gentle than she ever would expect from such a strong man. His mouth moved smoothly, deliberately, savoring hers. And she melted, melted into a puddle of sensations. All of them converged, flowed, swirled through her body at once.

Pleasure and need ached through her, even as a voice inside warned that this was crazy.

Crazy or not, she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to. She lost herself in him, clinging to his mouth as he deepened the kisses, his hands roughly encircling her waist.

“Mmmm,” she gasped at last, coming up for air. Dizzy and breathless, she stared into his eyes, reading the dark hunger in them. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Don’t . . . stop,” she whispered raggedly.

And then Ty’s mouth was on hers again.

He was incredibly aroused. A part of him warned him to slow down, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. She tasted too sweet. She felt too good.

And she kissed him like a woman who knew what she wanted.

When he pressed his mouth to the pulse at her throat, her head fell back, and she moaned.

“Oh, baby,
” Ty muttered as his lips returned to her hot lush mouth, surprising her by sliding his tongue inside. Hers rose up eagerly to meet it.

Their kisses became hotter, faster, taking over what remained of reason.

This is insanity,
Josy thought dimly, even as her tongue stroked against his, as her hands fisted in his hair.
Total
insanity
.

And then she couldn’t think of anything but him and
this
and she fought for breath against his wild, crushing mouth. Sensation built upon sensation and Josy gave herself up to them all.

Rod was singing “Downtown Train,” but neither of them heard. Ty heard only her quick breathing and tiny mew of pleasure as he slipped a hand inside her pink tank top and bra, his fingers skimming over her nipple. He caressed her with soft, circular strokes, kissing her all the while. But when he started to lift the tank top over her head, she suddenly drew in a long, jagged breath and stopped his hands.

“Wait,” she gasped. “No.”

Ty’s hands stilled. He let the tank go, a sense of loss enveloping him.

He fought for control of his body and emotions as she stepped back, straightening her bra, her tank top, taking deep breaths of air.

“You . . . pack quite a punch, Sheriff Barclay.” She tried to sound flippant, but her voice was breathless. She couldn’t let him see how shaken she was, how vulnerable she felt. Her knees were trembling, for heaven’s sake, and her mouth felt bruised, tender, and scorched by his kisses.

“You pack a pretty big punch yourself, Ms. Warner.” He reached a hand to her pale cloud of hair. A few strands of that French twisty thing had come loose and the soft tendrils framed her face. Gently, he brushed them from her eyes.

“I like you like this, Josy. Loose, relaxed, warm. Do you know you’re sexy as hell?” He smiled, his body still tight with tension, still wanting her with a throbbing physical pain. She’d been letting her guard down, just as she had at the barn yesterday. It was making him crazy, for some reason he couldn’t quite figure out.

“It must be the music,” she murmured, trying to resurrect her defenses. “Rod Stewart’s voice . . . just loosens me up.”

“Rod’s voice. Uh-huh. That’s all it takes?”

She smiled at him, and his blood pounded. Her eyes were soft and dreamy as she reached up, tentatively touching his cheek.

“I should go,” she whispered, not because she wanted to, but because she knew if she stayed five more minutes, if she let him kiss her again, she’d do something stupid.

When the day had started this morning she’d never dreamed she’d end up in Ty Barclay’s apartment—dancing with him, kissing him. Never in a million years.

And all things considered it was a very bad idea.

“Sure you don’t want to stay for one more dance?”

She shook her head, praying he couldn’t see the truth in her eyes. A part of her wanted to stay there all night, in his arms.

But she couldn’t afford to get lost in that hot blue gaze. Or in that slow, sexy smile. She couldn’t afford to end up in his bed.

“Let me walk you home then.”

Her lips curved. “I think I can manage to get there without getting mugged.”

“You never know.” His hand smoothed her hair, slid down her cheek, resting there, very gently. “As a police officer, I’d advise you not to take those kinds of chances.”

Oh, God, she was falling. For a cop. A sheriff. She couldn’t do this to Ricky, to herself. It was too much of a risk, in so many ways. What was wrong with her?

She stepped back suddenly, too suddenly, and saw his brows shoot up.

“Okay, well . . . this was fun,” she said lightly. “Thanks . . . for the pizza. And the beer.”
And the kisses.

“Not all that exciting for a first date,” he said quietly. “I can do better. What about tomorrow night?”

“I can’t.”

A frown furrowed between his eyes. “Why not? Do you have another date?”
And is it with Chance Roper?
Ty wondered grimly.

There were a number of reasons why he disliked this idea. He didn’t want to explore the most pressing one. “Break it,” he suggested, his jaw clenched.

“I can’t do that. It’s Corinne. She asked me to meet her and give her some decorating tips. She wants to change around a few things in Roy’s place to make it feel more like theirs, not his. She’s cooking dinner for me and Roberta’s coming too. We’ll probably end up talking about wedding stuff.”

“I can make you a much better offer.” His thumb brushed her cheek again, then trailed down her throat, lingered at her collarbone. He felt the shiver go through her and his need for her heightened.

He had a wild fantasy of making love to her out on the balcony, then here on the sofa—and a third time in his bed, all night long . . . His chest was tight with the urge to pull her into his arms and undo that whole French twist thing so he could comb his hands through that gorgeous hair.

But his fantasy disintegrated when she shook her head again, offered him a forced smile, and edged back a step.

“Some other time.” When she moved toward the door, he had no choice but to follow her.

But when he began to walk her down the hall, she pulled up short. “Don’t be silly. I live thirty feet away. You don’t have to do this.”

He stopped, shoved his hands into his pockets. And nodded.

She was telling him to back off. Fine, he got the message. None of this was a good idea anyway. He wasn’t even sure what he saw in her, other than that she was beautiful. And sexy. Then there was the fact that her mouth was incredibly lush and soft, like rose petals.

And she had guts.

Old-fashioned, saucy, ballsy guts. He enjoyed being with her, even when she was cold and snotty and feisty. But much more so when she was lounging in his apartment, eating his pizza and drinking his beer.

She’s secretive, closed, and she’s going back to
Chicago in a few weeks. Forget it.

He waited while she pulled her key from the pocket of her sweatpants and turned it in the lock.

He heard her murmur good night and he grunted something in reply. It sounded like “See ya.”

Ty dumped what was left of the pizza in the trash, opened another beer, then left it sitting on the counter as he paced back and forth, finally ending up on the balcony.

Cool air blew on his hot face and neck.
She isn’t interested,
he told himself.
Or she’s scared. Or she can’t make
up her mind
.

That’s fine by me,
he thought.
I don’t have time for
games or women who don’t know what they want. I don’t
have the inclination to do that much thinking, or that
much work.

There were women in Thunder Creek who’d be easy on the eyes and a lot easier on the nerves. Women who wouldn’t run hot and cold, women who weren’t closed and secretive, who’d never been mute in their lives.

So why was he still thinking about Josy Warner?

Josy Warner was done. Toast.

“Over,” he muttered aloud.

But something deep inside him knew that if he had to take a lie detector test right now, he’d sure as hell fail.

Chapter 12

SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, KIDDO, BUT I RAN INTO
some trouble. Call me at this number as soon as you get
this.

Josy stared at the computer screen, her stomach lurching. Finally—Ricky had written back. She was so excited she gasped aloud, then threw a quick, wary glance toward the checkout desk. Maggie Cartright was busy on the phone.

Quickly, she read the rest of the e-mail.

Be sure you’re using a new cell phone, without an account, or any info that can be traced to you, like I told
you. We’ll set up a meet and I’ll come pick up my stuff.
Call now
.

Tears pricked her eyes. Ricky was safe. He’d made it— and so had she. With any luck this whole nightmare would be over soon.

Please,
she prayed.
Let it all be over soon.

She scribbled the phone number on a scrap of paper and shoved it into her purse, then deleted the e-mail and signed off. She hurried from the library and got into her Blazer.

She didn’t even want to delay calling Ricky until she reached her apartment. Sitting in the parking lot, she locked all her doors, even though the area was deserted, and pulled the cell phone from her purse.

“Yeah.” Ricky’s voice gave nothing away. It sounded hard, cool. And slightly suspicious.

“It’s me.” She heard the quiver in her own voice and tried to steady it. “Ricky, I didn’t know what happened to you. You didn’t answer me for all this time—”

“Sorry about that, Jo-Jo. I ran into some trouble, but brother, was I glad to hear from you.”

“Where are you?”

“You first, sweetheart. Talk fast, I never know when I’m going to have to run.”

“They’re still after you? Now?” Shock ran through her.

“Just tell me where you are, Josy.”

“I’m in Thunder Creek.”

“
Where?
”

“A little town in Wyoming. Thunder Creek.”

“Man, when I said you should go far away, you took me seriously.” She heard the chuckle of approval at the other end of the line. “Good going. Now I have to get to you.”

“From where, Ricky? What’s going on?”

“I’m in Boston, just blending in with the crowd. Looks like I’m headed west though. You still have that package, don’t you?”

“Last time I looked, which was about an hour ago.” She reminded herself that she wasn’t a child anymore, dependent on big tough Ricky to get her through the hood and the Hammond house in one piece. “Look, Ricky, don’t you think it’s time to tell me what’s inside it?”

“Better you don’t know. Trust me. Now give me your number, in case I have to call you.”

She did as he asked and waited while he repeated it back to her.

“You haven’t had any trouble, have you, Jo-Jo?”

“You mean the kind of trouble Archie had?”

“Along those lines.”

“No . . . or I probably wouldn’t be talking to you right now,” she said with more acid in her voice than she’d ever used with Ricky. She lowered her pitch, evened her tone. “I think I’ve covered my tracks pretty well. I haven’t used any credit cards or my old phone. I haven’t called anyone—even anyone from work.”

“Good. And don’t start now. Hopefully your luck will hold out until I get there. Once I take the package off your hands, they’ll only be after me.”

“Ricky, are you going to be able to get out of this mess? What’s going to happen?”

“Don’t know, babe, but I gotta go—”

“Wait—one more question.”

“What?” She heard the sudden tension in his voice now, and sensed that he was walking fast, very fast. She could almost see him looking around and it dawned on her that he was probably about to run, to take off, probably down some alley or something. Maybe someone was closing in . . .

“Is Archie dead?” she nearly shouted, as his tension communicated itself to her. “Do you know?”

“Yeah, he’s dead. And I will be too if I don’t get moving. Stay safe, don’t tell anyone else where you are, see you soon.”

Josy drove to the store, stocked up on groceries, and went straight home. When she got there she drew the package out of the recesses of her kitchen cabinet, set it on the counter. Then she waited until all of her groceries were put away before she carried it into her bedroom and placed it on the bed.

Sunlight slanted into the room as she sank down on both knees on the bed, studying the parcel.

Ricky had told her not to open it—and she hadn’t for the past two weeks. But she was neck-deep in this too, and much as she loved Ricky, she wasn’t a kid who needed advice and guidance anymore.

She made her own decisions. And she’d decided while Ricky was talking to her that it was time to find out what had gotten Archie killed and set her and Ricky on the run.

She didn’t feel the least bit guilty about defying Ricky as she lifted up the package and began tearing through the layers of brown wrapping paper.

Finally she reached a thin white cardboard box, which was sealed with tape. She used her apartment key to rip open the seal and carefully emptied out the contents— bubble wrap, tissue paper . . .

And inside four layers of the tissue paper . . .

She went very still.

It was a jewel.

Not just any jewel,
Josy thought, her throat closing. It was a diamond. A glittering, dazzling, golden-yellow diamond—and it was big as an egg.

My God, where did Ricky get this?

It glittered brighter than the sun.

How many carats can it be?
she wondered in awe, staring at it.
One hundred? Two hundred?

Her hand shook as she reached for it, carefully picked it up. Her palm tingled. The jewel felt warm, vibrant against her skin. She’d never seen, much less touched, a jewel of this size, or this brilliance.

She knew it had to be real—and priceless. A man had already died for it. Another man had killed trying to get it back.

And she had it. Here, in her tiny rented apartment in the wilds of Wyoming. She had this . . . this amazing treasure that had brought Archie death.

She gulped, thinking of it stored all this time in her cabinet. With the Cheerios and cans of tuna and the jar of Jif peanut butter.

Where did it come from?

She didn’t want to contemplate that; she only knew that if the men chasing Ricky didn’t kill him first, she would do it herself when she finally met up with him.

It had to have been stolen. Had to be. But . . . whom had he stolen it from . . . and why?

She dropped the diamond into the box on her bed, sprang up, and began to pace around the room.

Ricky was in deep trouble, deeper than she’d even contemplated—and so was she. She’d expected the package to contain some kind of evidence, evidence that would exonerate him from the charges that had been made against him in New York. Evidence that would incriminate someone else.

But she’d never expected anything like this.

And now she was an accessory to whatever crime had put him in possession of the diamond.

Panic bubbled in her as she paced.
Okay, think. What
can you do?

She had to turn it over to the authorities. Immediately. As soon as she did, the danger would be over—for her, and probably for Ricky. Once word got out that the diamond had been recovered and was in police possession, surely whoever was chasing them would back off. Regroup.

She and Ricky could get out of this alive.

But . . . they’d both still face charges. Unless they could cut a deal. Maybe Ricky could explain, could get immunity. Maybe there were circumstances that had led him to this, circumstances that could be explained, justified.

There had to be—the Ricky she’d known all these years wasn’t a thief. He must have had a good reason, she told herself, fighting back images of prison bars.

Josy went into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, drank one sip, and set the glass down. Her hands were still shaking. But she knew what she could do.

She could go to Ty Barclay. Turn the package over to him, let him contact the authorities in New York—and whatever else he needed to do. He would listen to her, she was pretty certain of that. Maybe he’d even help her, though she couldn’t expect him to vouch for her. She’d lied about too many things already.

But she thought he would at least hear her out.

Only . . . Ricky had told her the cops couldn’t get hold of the package. He’d insisted on it. And if she confided in Ty . . . they would.

She went back into the bedroom, threw herself down on the bed beside the box and the diamond, and covered her eyes with her hands.

Thinking back, she saw Ricky facing down the Callahan brothers for her. She saw Ricky sneaking into the Hammond basement, bringing her food, light, company.

She saw him teaching her how to kick a man in the balls to give herself time to get away if she was ever cornered, and insisting that she get familiar with the workings of a gun—even giving her one, already registered—as a welcome present when she’d moved into her first sixth-floor walk-up in the Village.

Of course she’d never used it. She’d given it to Jane, who’d been mugged one night at an ATM on her way home from work. Jane vowed she would use it if she had to—Josy had never wanted to even imagine having to use a gun. But she’d never told Ricky.

He’d only wanted her to be safe. Ever since she’d known him, he’d tried to keep her safe, tried to teach her how to get beyond being a mute victim of tragedy and of a system that was far larger and tougher than she was.

Ricky had been good to her. Was she really going to turn him in?

She knew the answer even as she peeled her hands away from her face. She gazed bleakly down at the diamond.

And suddenly she knew what she had to do.

Oliver Tate sipped a brandy as he strolled the length of his secret room. Hidden in the walls behind his wine cellar, this was his favorite room in the house, and the only room that even Renee was not permitted to visit without him.

It was thirty feet long and twenty feet wide, carpeted in black, with pearl-white walls. It was temperature-controlled, soundproofed, and lit by an extensive lighting system that dramatically spotlighted each of his many treasures from all over the world.

One of his greatest pleasures had always been to come here, anytime he chose, and survey everything he had acquired. He loved to touch them, all the beautiful pieces worthy of a king. Even more, he loved remembering how he’d acquired them and planning exactly where he would place and display his next precious acquisition.

But tonight as he waited for Renee to finish dressing for the AIDS charity concert at Lincoln Center, he was disturbed, too disturbed to even remotely enjoy this room.

Nothing was right here, not now, not since the diamond had been stolen. The Golden Eye had a reputation for being stolen that had been earned over centuries, and he himself had stolen it from an enemy, a drug lord in Malaysia. But it was not acceptable that the Golden Eye be stolen from him.

He needed it back, not only because its place on the black marble pedestal was empty now, but because it would prove that no one could cross him and get away with it.

Olvan Tatrinsky had learned long ago that strength, not weakness, was the key to success. And that scum cop Sabatini who’d wormed his way into his organization and won Lyle Samuels’s trust had made him look weak.

But not for long.

Dolph has had more than enough time,
Tate thought darkly, staring unseeingly at the luminous Rembrandt framed in burnished gold upon the wall, near the seventeenth-century Flemish tapesty that had once graced the British Museum.

If he can’t handle this, it’s time to find someone who
can.

Tate paused to survey the soothingly quiet room, his gaze restlessly skimming the paintings and statues and objets d’art—from the glistening samurai sword dating from the twelfth century to the antique pearl-handled Regency dueling pistols. He took in the exquisite Fabergé eggs glittering on a gilt-edged Russian table, and the Renaissance pendant necklace said to have been worn at one time by the Empress Josephine.

But tonight he couldn’t even be charmed by the array of golden, jewel-encrusted snuff boxes, or by his collections of Sevres vases or ancient Chinese jade.

No, tonight all he could do was curse the man who had pierced not only the secrecy of his organization—but also the privacy of his home.

Sabatini had somehow burrowed so deep undercover he’d been welcomed into the outer circle of Tate’s organization. And that had enabled him to collect damning evidence linking Tate’s business dealings to the very unsavory crime boss Julius Caventini.

And even Becker, Tate’s own private cop-in-the-pocket, hadn’t gotten wind of the undercover operation until it was too late. By the time Becker had a clue, Sabatini had already managed to turn over evidence that could send both Tate and Caventini to prison for the rest of their lives.

Tate scowled and polished off the last of his brandy.

He reminded himself that much of what needed to be done to rectify the situation had already taken place. With Becker’s help, they’d managed to make the evidence Sabatini had collected simply disappear. And Sabatini had been cleverly discredited, making him look like nothing but a dirty cop on the take, trying to save his own filthy neck— a cop whose word wouldn’t be worth a gram of crap.