The Quiet Seduction (10 page)

“Yes, well, as I told you before, I had one. And I'm sorry as I can be if I was wrong, but something about
those two men just struck me the wrong way. Well, for one thing, I'm almost sure they were lying. I mean, if they were looking for a friend, wouldn't they have been more distraught? Concerned, at the very least?”

“I take it they weren't. These two cool dudes identified me as their buddy, J. S. Harrison? I probably am, you know. Harrison, if not their buddy.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake, do you honestly think I'd have kept you here if you were that kind of person? I couldn't even bear to have them on my property, much less in my house.”

“Describe them.”

She shrugged. “Like I said before, one of them didn't say anything—he was short, actually, not much bigger than I am. I couldn't tell about his features, he had this hat on. The other one had all the tattoos. He was wearing a black T-shirt, but parts of his tattoos showed above his neckline—either flames or snakes…or maybe they were octopus tentacles, I don't know. I'm no expert on tattoo designs.”

Storm mentally examined two separate parts of the puzzle: the two lowlifes who for some reason were trying to track him down and the nebulous link with a missing district attorney. How did they fit together? Or did they? He stared morosely at the untouched pie. It appeared increasingly likely that the nagging sense of connection with jails and prisons wasn't so far-fetched after all.

What about his instinctive reluctance to go to the cops? Where did that fit in? Was it another part of the puzzle or totally unrelated?

“I seem to have lost my appetite,” he said quietly.

Ellen looked close to tears, and he forced himself to shove his own problems back under cover. They both
knew she should have told him as soon as the two goons had showed up, but making her feel guilty now wasn't going to solve his problems. Sooner or later another piece of the puzzle would come into focus, and he'd be on his way to solving the riddle.

Her own problems, he suspected, would not be solved that easily, and that troubled him almost as much as his own situation did. But at least he could spare her the burden of guilt.

“For what it's worth, Ellen, I think you did the right thing. At the time, I was in no position to defend myself.”
Or you.
The words popped into his mind unbidden, and he accepted the fact that until he knew exactly what the situation was, and where any possible danger might conceivably come from, she was potentially as vulnerable as he was.

Her lips trembled. He didn't know if she was about to cry or to smile. He did know she tempted him beyond belief. He picked up his fork again. “This pie looks delicious,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “You say you bought it with your own lily-white hands?”

“Oh, hush up,” she muttered, sliding her own plate closer.

Some ten minutes later they parted friends. Or if not exactly friends, certainly not enemies. He told her that while she'd make a damned fine witness with her eye for detail, he wasn't certain instinct was admissible in court.

“Who knows, maybe you saved me from having a warrant served on me. Could be they were bail bondsmen or bounty hunters. I might have been on my way to the border when fate in the form of that twister intervened.”

She yawned, then said something about Pete and guardian angels, but distracted as he was by the tempting shadows that followed the line of her throat, he missed most of it.

He had a feeling sleep wouldn't come easily tonight. “As much as I hate to eat and run, one of us, mentioning no names, is bushed. How about we save the dishes until tomorrow, and I'll wash them with the breakfast things.”

“You're spoiling me.”

“I hope so. Someone damned well should,” he said gruffly. And like the fool he was, he stood and reached for her hand just as she got to her feet. What the devil was this magnetic attraction between them? Did she feel it, too, or was she only tired—tired and maybe feeling sorry for him?

Wrapping his arms around her, he gave her a final squeeze, resisting the temptation to kiss her senseless. “Go to bed. I'll lock up and turn off the lights.”

 

Hours later he lay awake, staring into the darkness, his mind off again on the trail of his missing identity. Given a choice of several options, he would prefer to be the missing D.A., but there was an equally good chance that he was some kind of white-collar crook. A crime boss. The well-dressed type that moved easily among certain levels of the political and business community. The concept didn't exactly feel…alien.

Oh, hell, he was probably just a traveling salesman with a talent for self-dramatization.

Think, damn it, think! It was there—so close. So tantalizingly close. It was almost as if he didn't want to remember….

Forcing himself to concentrate on the shadows cast by the night-light, he eventually dozed.

And awoke at daybreak, knowing.

Knowing!

H
is first impulse was to leap out of bed to go find Ellen. He had actually reached for his clothes—he'd long since quit sleeping in her husband's pajamas—when he stopped dead in his tracks.

The story about the missing D.A. had run only twice to his knowledge. Why had it been dropped? He might not be important as a man, but his position was important. Damned important, especially right now when the mob was in a desperate fight for more influence over Mission Creek politics.

That last headline—Newly Appointed D.A. To Continue Prosecution In Judge's Murder Case—hadn't made any sense. Del Brio had to be behind the new appointment. It had to have been Del Brio who'd applied pressure where it would do the most good. Otherwise they'd have held up the trial and put out an all-points.

No wonder the story in the
Mission Creek Clarion
had made him feel like throwing up. His belly had been trying to tell his brain to hurry up and get back to town before Black could be railroaded by a corrupt newly appointed D.A. He'd needed to get back in time to make a deal with Black, who'd been delegated to take the fall, to trade his testimony for a reduced sentence.

Taking several deep breaths, Spence confronted himself, vital statistics, flaws and all. Jason Spencer Har
rison, age 35, born in Midland, Texas, no stranger to juvenile court before he'd been hauled up before a tough judge named Carl Bridges. It had been that same judge who had jerked him up by the collar—figuratively, if not quite literally. Judge Bridges had set him on a track that had led eventually to Virginia Military Institute, the marine corps—hell, he even had a Silver Star in his dresser drawer. And a law career.

Feeling as if he were on a fast-moving roller-coaster car with no safety bar, Spence attempted to assimilate all the data to figure out what must have taken place behind the scenes after he'd dropped out of sight. Not all of it would have made the evening news. Even the parts that did would have been subjected to a hell of a lot of spin. Such as his disappearance. What had they done, put out the word that he'd dropped out in the middle of a trial he was preparing to prosecute to pay a lengthy visit to his great-aunt in Rhode Island?

He didn't have a great-aunt in Rhode Island or anywhere else. Didn't have any relatives at all, as far as he knew. Remembering a few incidents from his so-called formative years, it was just as well.

Damn it, if he knew who was doing the spinning, he might be able to figure out which way to jump. Part of the trouble was that there were too many shades of gray in a town like Mission Creek, where the same families had been interacting for generations. He could count on one hand the number of guys he knew for sure he could trust with his life. A few more that he could probably trust, but in this case, “probably” wasn't good enough. Something heavy was going down, and until he knew what it was and who was involved, directly and indirectly, he'd do well to remain out of sight.

Across the hall in the living room, the mantel clock announced 4:00 a.m. Spence fought down the urge to race to the kitchen, grab the phone and start dialing, regardless of the time. Luke was probably still out of touch, somewhere in Central America trying to locate Phillip Westin to bring him out. God knew they owed the man. As leader of their Special Forces team, Westin had risked his neck to rescue them after they'd been taken captive and held under…shall we say, less than hospitable circumstances, Spence reminisced with a bitter smile.

They had survived that. He could survive this. Flynt and Tyler should still be in town. Why hadn't they put out an all-points on him? They had to have known when he hadn't showed up to take that deposition that something was wrong. The twister had cut directly across his route, whether he'd been traveling on the interstate or through farm country. The fact that they hadn't made a move indicated that they'd had a good reason not to.

Lying flat on his back, one arm under his head, the other hand idly tracing a scar on his shoulder, a memento from his days in captivity, Spence began sifting through the known data. Knowing—or at least guessing at the who, what, where and when was a starting place. It was the why that really screwed up the works. And there was no way of determining the why without more evidence.

By the time he fell asleep he had made up his mind not to reveal his recovered memory to anyone. What he'd seen on the news and read in the papers might or might not be true. Either way, it was far from the whole story. If Ellen knew, he'd have no further excuse to stay, and until he found out which way the wind blew,
it was imperative that he stay underground. He'd been playing hardball with some pretty rough characters when he'd dropped out of sight. He didn't want her involved.

His first impulse had been to call either Flynt or Tyler, but phone calls were traceable. He'd have to think that one over. Hell, maybe he'd write a letter. No return address, of course. After all this time, another few days wouldn't matter. He could follow the court news from here, and if it looked as if Black's trial was going to be rushed to conclusion, he could always show up and put a spoke in the wheels of injustice. Granted, Alex Black was a hired gun. Granted, he deserved to serve maximum time. But the man who had ordered the hit was Spence's real target. Until that man was accounted for, it would be business as usual for the drug czars and pseudo-respectable money-launderers.

Waking later than usual that morning, Spence lay in bed, deliberately going over all the pertinent data. By the time he showered, shaved, dressed and made it to the kitchen, Ellen and Pete had already had breakfast and left.

Glancing out the window, he watched Pete empty the wheelbarrow and head back inside the barn just as Ellen led the two mares out to the paddock. Which meant it was Saturday again. Either that, or one of those vague holidays teachers used to catch up on red-tape regulations.

Up until today the calendar had been largely meaningless, marking off, as it did, his term of suspended animation. That was how he'd eventually come to think of his situation. He'd been alive. Oh, yeah, he'd been that, all right. Alive in ways that were becoming increasingly awkward under the circumstances. Until
now there'd been no way of knowing whether his sex life had suffered from a long, dry spell, or whether two weeks of abstinence had pushed his limit.

He was beginning to suspect that the answer was neither. The answer could be stated simply in one word.

Ellen.

And that was another problem that would have to be dealt with. Ellen and Pete. Whatever happened, they were going to be a part of his life in one capacity or another, if he had anything to say about it. Any possible relationship would have to be put on hold. The sooner he got this mess straightened out, the sooner he could concentrate on sorting out his personal life.

Ellen was leading the stallion out by the time he joined her. Pete had already started to muck out Zeus's stall. One of the barn cats raced past and the big bay kicked out, knocking over a bucket. Ellen took a tighter grip on the lead. “What this guy needs is a long, hard ride to work off some energy, only I'm not sure I'm up to it. Clyde's been up on him a time or two, but I didn't much like the way he handled him.”

Spence moved to lean on the fence beside her, admiring the big bay horse. “Want me to give him a run?”

She tilted her head to study him under the broad brim of her battered straw Resistol. “Do you think you could manage him?”

He started to say he'd ridden bigger, meaner horses before he was much older than Pete, but changed it to, “We won't know until I try, will we?”

“Maybe you'd better start out on one of the others. The geldings are gentle. The mares, too, only they probably shouldn't be ridden at this late stage. Which
reminds me, I'd better call the vet. I think it's getting close to time. With horses, the term evidently varies.” Curling a sidelong smile at him, she added, “My To Do list is growing like Pinocchio's nose.”

She wasn't complaining, merely stating a fact, but it occurred to Spence that she was right. It all added up to more than one woman and a kid could handle. As long as he was still here, he could sure as hell exercise the horses for her. He was no rodeo star, but he hadn't been thrown in years.

Of course, he hadn't ridden all that much in years, either, and breaking his neck on a half-raw stallion wouldn't help matters at this point. At the moment, however, he had other priorities. Zeus would have to take a number and wait.

“Pete, help me tack up the geldings, will you?” Spence called.

“We going to ride?” the boy asked excitedly.

“Either you and me or your mamma and me. I need to—” He'd been going to say he needed to loosen up a few riding muscles before he tackled the stallion. Again he changed course at the last moment. Lying, either by omission or by diversion, was still lying. He didn't like doing it, but until he was ready to tell the whole truth, it was the best he could do. “I need to find out if I know anything about these critters, and your mama says the mares probably shouldn't be ridden.”

“Clyde, he rides Miss Sara all the time,” the boy said.

Ellen snorted. “Oh, shoot! I told him plainly that they weren't to ride either of the mares. There's no need. That's what the geldings are for.”

Spence laid a hand on Ellen's arm. “Shh, don't
bother. The ladies look okay to me and your two creeps are not around to take their punishment. Save the pyrotechnics for when they'll do some good.”

“Fat chance of that. I doubt if Clyde and Booker will show their faces around here anytime soon.”

“Good riddance.” Spence saddled Sam, the larger of the two geldings, while Pete fastened the cinch on the other one.

Then the boy shoved his small hand into a worn, man-size work glove. “Mama, you go first, okay? I've got to finish mucking out, then Storm and me'll ride.”

Ellen's eyes met Spence's over the gelding's rump. Hers were questioning, his amused. He had a pretty good idea what the kid was up to. Pete was smart enough to know his mama needed a dependable man around. Evidently, he'd just been elected.

He wondered if Ellen had any inkling.

Evidently not. She said, “Pete loves riding almost as much as he dislikes mucking out stalls. Maybe I'd better stay here and send him out with you.”

“No way, lady. If I take a fall, I want someone around who's big enough to get me on my feet again. You've had experience, remember?” Grinning, Spence waited until the boy had gone back inside. “Besides, it wouldn't do any good. Your son's matchmaking, Mama. Don't you know anything?”

“Oh, for goodness' sake, that's absurd!” She hooked a booted foot in the stirrup and swung aboard, graceful as any ballerina despite her baggy work clothes.

Spence mounted and said, “On the other hand, a kid sees his mother struggling to make a go of a place like this, knows there's only so much he can do for the next
few years and it's not enough, knows how hard good help is to come by. What's the next logical step?”

“I don't know. There isn't one,” she snapped. Then, impatiently, “Oh, don't be so ridiculous!”

They rode out of the yard and headed down the long back lane. Ellen took the lead, her back rigid. She muttered something that sounded like, “You think you're so smart, don't you?” He thought she was blushing, but under the shade of her hat brim, he couldn't be sure.

Grinning, he called after her, “Marginally smarter than I was yesterday.” Let her figure that out. He still hadn't decided what, if anything, to tell her. He felt like a cur for deceiving her, but the fewer people who knew he was still alive, the better. Until he got a handle on what was going on in town.

At the time he'd dropped out of sight, Westin's disappearance and Black's trial weren't all that was happening. There'd been an ongoing tug-of-war between Frank Del Brio and Ricky Mercado over which one would take over as mob boss. Spence hadn't liked the idea of it being Mercado, a former friend and comrade in spite of his family's mob involvement. The alienation that had occurred when Spence, Flynt and Tyler had been implicated in the disappearance of Ricky's sister had never really dissipated. They'd been cleared, of course, thanks to Judge Bridges, but the constraint was still there.

On the other hand, Spence knew that with Ricky in place as mob boss, they might be able to work together to scale things back before everything blew wide open. There was a lot of good stuff in Ricky Mercado.

There was a lot of money in Lone Star County, too, and a lot of generations-old ties. Where there was
money, there was crime. Where there were old ties, trouble usually simmered just beneath the surface. All Spence had hoped to accomplish as district attorney was to keep things under some sort of control by weeding out the worst elements.

He now knew the identity of the two men who'd come looking for him. Knew them by reputation, if not personally. Peaches and Silent Sal were Del Brio's men, about as low as it got in that particular pecking order. They might as well wear sandwich boards to advertise their profession. If Del Brio had wanted to find him, he should have sent a more convincing emissary. If he'd wanted to make sure he stayed dead, that pair would have done the job just fine.

Which was a pretty good indication of which way the wind was blowing.

Ellen eased her mount from a brisk trot to a walk, her back no longer looking as if she had a ramrod for a spine. All around them the smells of a south Texas autumn were in the air. Dust. Grapefruit. Freshly manured fields. Someone was burning stumps, the pungent smoke drifting for miles on the warming air. The only sound to be heard was the occasional call of a bobwhite.

Peaceful. A man could live a full, productive life out here in the open country and never miss the fast lane.

Spence moved easily with the gait of the big sorrel. If Ellen noticed, she didn't mention it. Instead, when he caught up with her, she said with no preamble, “He wouldn't match-make, you know. Pete adored his father, he wouldn't want any man—”