“That man at table fourteen is watching you.”
Jenny Holloway glanced up from the produce bill in her hands, trying to keep up with her friend Carolyn Roberts, who was carrying an armload of steaming pasta dishes and weaving through the tables with the artistry of a ballet dancer. “What?”
“That man. Table fourteen.” Carolyn nodded toward the back of Riccardo’s L-shaped dining room. There, an arched, stone doorway led to a smaller room filled with square tables draped in white damask cloths. But the table in question was around the corner. All Jenny saw were the soft, glimmering shadows thrown against the stone walls by the crystal votive candles on the tables.
“I’ll take your word for it. I can’t see table fourteen,” Jenny said, heading for Riccardo’s kitchen and back offices. A frisson of unwelcome fear slid along her spine. Someone watching her? She’d had that strange sensation for the past few weeks but she’d chalked it up to nerves. She was anxious—excited, really—about the decisions she’d made concerning the money she was about to inherit.
Remembering her mother’s promise still brought tears to her eyes. “I’ve saved something for you, Geneva,” Iris Holloway had whispered to her as she lay in the hospital bed. “But it won’t be yours until you turn thirty-five. Just know it’s there and it comes from love.” But teenaged Jenny, plagued with self-doubt and sick with fear over her mother’s imminent death from pancreatic cancer, had been unable to think about anything but her own misery. She’d cried furious tears, angry at her mother for dying too soon, and her father, whose affair with a woman closer to Jenny’s age—and subsequent marriage—had estranged father and daughter forever.
But now, so many years later, Jenny could see how wise her mother had been, and how farsighted. If Jenny had come into all of her inheritance when she was young, she might have frittered it all away. Now, with a teenager of her own and some hard-won experience to guide her, she was ready to invest the money in the business her family knew best: restaurants.
She had more than one reason to be edgy. So what? She wasn’t being paranoid or anything. Just cautious.
“I know table fourteen’s around the corner,” Carolyn said, catching up to her outside her office door. “Just go look! He’s a hottie with a capital H!”
Jenny snorted and laughed. This sounded a lot less sinister than she’d thought. Carolyn described any guy with a decent face and powerful physique as a “hottie.” During her last five years with Riccardo, Jenny had learned to discount anything the petite blond waitress had to say about men. Carolyn was actively looking for Mr. Right, a search Jenny had given up years earlier.
“I think I’ll pass,” she said.
“You’ll be sorry. He’ll be gone in a few minutes and you’ll miss a date with destiny.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Carolyn shook her head dolefully at Jenny’s unwillingness. But she knew that Jenny had suffered at the hands of a self-absorbed, abusive husband, and it had put her off men in general.
Spying her boss, Jenny waved to Alberto Molini, owner of Riccardo’s. Carolyn groaned. “Don’t make Alberto the only man in your life.”
“Too late.” Jenny grinned, and she called out, “Hey, there,” to the rotund restaurateur as Carolyn threw her hands in the air, then returned to fetch another order.
“Bella!” Alberto cried, stretching out his arms to Jenny, greeting her as effusively as ever.
Dodging his flour-dusted arms and apron, thinking of her black sweater and skirt, Jenny waved him off. “Don’t you dare,” she chided. “I can’t afford the cleaning bill.”
“Then I will kiss you from here,” he declared, smacking the tips of his fingers.
Jenny chuckled. Alberto was the grandson of the original Riccardo, first proprietor of the popular Houston restaurant. Five years earlier, when Jenny had come in looking for work, Alberto turned his gaze to the heavens and declared that his prayers had been answered. “You are my daughter,” he’d cried joyously, embracing her as if she were indeed some long-lost child who’d finally come home. Bewildered by his unexpected enthusiasm, she had simply stared, wondering what on earth possessed the man.
“Bella!” he had declared. “You are a gift! A godsend! I was praying just for you!”
Jenny remembered wondering if that were some strange come-on line. “You were?”
“Ah, yes. And here you are! God has looked down at his poor Alberto and said, ‘You work hard, and you deserve something beautiful.’ And here you are.”
She had quickly learned that Alberto was effusive in every way. He was loving and generous—and exacting and tyrannical, at least when it came to Riccardo’s cuisine.
Now, as Jenny disappeared into her tiny office, she smiled to herself. She felt like his daughter. He’d certainly been more of a loving father to her than her own had ever been. But when she’d broken the news that she planned to move to Santa Fe and start her own restaurant, Geneva’s, Alberto had tried to stop her. Wringing his hands, he’d begged, “Stay with me. Be my partner! We could expand. Don’t leave!”
“I’m sorry, Alberto,” she’d said gently. “But it’s time for me to leave Houston. Find a new life.”
“What kind of food? What will you do?”
“I plan to go southwestern,” she’d replied. Compete with my father…
Jenny still wasn’t sure her decision had been all that wise. Her combative relationship with Allen Holloway hadn’t improved much over the years. She’d been happy to become Alberto’s protégée, and though she’d been around her father’s Rancho del Sol restaurants all her life, it was Alberto who’d really taught her the business. Accepting him as a mentor was the one good choice she’d made after a series of really bad ones. Her exhusband, Troy Russell, at the top of that particular list.
But she wasn’t going to think about him now. She’d married Troy mostly to escape living with her father and his silly, anorexia-thin wife, Natalie. But at least that brief and unhappy union had given her one beautiful gift, her son Rawley. Rawley was all that mattered to her now, and she hoped her move to Santa Fe would benefit him as much as her. Alberto might bemoan her decision, but she knew it was the right choice.
Her overbearing father might not approve of her move from Houston, but she didn’t care. She rarely saw him anyway. As warm and giving as Alberto was, her own father was cold and self-involved. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it, these days Jenny had as little to do with him as possible. Since her mother’s death, and Allen’s remarriage, Jenny was no longer daddy’s little girl. And she was no longer Troy’s obedient wife, either. She was a thirty-five-yearold divorcée and mother who was on the verge of great things.
Glancing at the produce bill she’d nearly forgotten about, Jenny stuck her head outside her office. Spying her once again, Alberto cried, “Bella!” She laughed aloud. It was a routine that had developed into near farce; the surrounding chefs and waiters alike simply smiled at them.
“I’ve about got this figured out,” Jenny told him, fingering the bill which she’d marked with questions and underlined in several places. The produce bill was invariably wrong. Not that the members of Gaines Produce had any intention of cheating Alberto; it was just that their company, also privately owned, was in a constant state of flux. Had Jenny been the one to make all the decisions she would have switched suppliers long ago, but Alberto was stubbornly attached to the Gaineses. Their friendship went way back. He put up with the inconveniences of their haphazard delivery and lack of inventory with a dismissive wave of his hand while Jenny was left to sort everything out. It was just one of the things Jenny planned to do better in her own restaurant.
“Good, good.” Alberto’s eyes had strayed to the ribolita, a Tuscan stew that resembled Thanksgiving Day turkey stuffing more than anything else but tasted like heaven, in Jenny’s opinion. It was being prepared by the newest junior chef. Clucking his tongue, Alberto practically shoved him out of the way, ignoring the other chefs resentment as he yammered on about everything the inexperienced man had done wrong.
Jenny winked at the others in the kitchen. Their expressions varied from sympathetic to satisfied—but all of them respected Alberto’s manic attention to detail. Either one learned, or one was let go. There was no compromise at Riccardo’s.
Settling into her office chair once again, Jenny listened to the familiar squeak and groan of the beat-up old thing, her own addition to the cramped quarters. If she had to straighten out these financial messes, she was darn well going to be comfortable. Alberto couldn’t care less. Jenny was thorough and quick, and she knew what she was doing.
It didn’t hurt that her background was in food service. She’d grown up in the restaurant business and the Rancho del Sol chain was one of the best. Allen Holloway might have been the brains and financial brawn behind its success, but young Jenny had been an apt pupil. He’d always planned to put her in charge or so he’d said. But then circumstances had changed everything and Jenny had stopped adoring her father.
Carolyn blew into the kitchen again, on her way stopping at Jenny’s office door. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Did you check him out?”
“Who?” Jenny was preoccupied with the week’s payroll.
“The hottie! Good grief, my dear. You didn’t even look! Are you completely unaware of the male sex? What does it take to get your attention! If you don’t want him, turn him my way. Now, go. Right now!”
“I…”
But Carolyn was yanking on her arm, dragging Jenny from her chair and herding her through the kitchen to the main dining room beyond. “Go,” she urged. “And I can’t be doing this all the time, you know. I have work to do.”
“What does he look like?” Jenny said. “Maybe I know him.”
“Tall, dark, and handsome. It doesn’t get any better than this, honey.”
Tall, dark and handsome. That was how she’d described Troy to her friends when she’d first met him. She’d been giddy with delight that this “older man” had fallen for her. Only later did she learn he’d fallen for her money. Later still that he possessed a sadistic side that bordered on criminal …
She drew a deep breath. But Troy was out of her life now. Paid off by her father, a plan she’d disapproved of but had secretly been grateful for, especially when she learned that she was pregnant with Rawley. By the terms of her father’s agreement with him, Troy could never enter her life again. And one thing she knew for certain about her ex-husband was that he would never give up cold, hard cash for anything.
“Jenny,” Carolyn said, looking peeved. “Go now and look. Go, go, go! I swear, if you miss him I’ll have a hysterical fit right here!”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Carolyn gave her a hard look.
Jenny lifted her hands, in an I-give-up gesture and nodded vigorously. “Okay! Okay!”
“All right, then.” Carolyn scurried back to her tables. For a moment Jenny simply stood where she was, enjoying the rich aromas of garlic and tomato and basil and onion, and the low hum of conversation, punctuated occasionally by a ripple of laughter. The votives flickered. To her right, one of the waiters poured a deep red chianti into a glass for a white-haired gentleman to savor. Sensing Jenny’s gaze, the man lifted his glass appreciatively in a silent toast to her.
Walking toward the archway to the smaller dining room, she slowed, apprehensive again. She didn’t want to confront some man who may or may not have been watching her. The whole idea made her uncomfortable. She’d been the object of male interest since she was a teenager. Her blue eyes, the unruly auburn locks now firmly held at her nape in a tortoiseshell clip, and her slim, athletic body had attracted many an admiring glance. But since her divorce, she rarely wore makeup, and her clothes were somber and businesslike. It didn’t take a psychotherapist to figure out the reason why: she didn’t want any man to be interested in her. Not any more.
Still hesitating, she glanced inside. The stone walls were topped by cream-painted plaster and a ceiling that arched high above the narrow room. Heavy, almost gaudy, chandeliers hung above, their crystal drops refracting light over the gleaming tableware and white damask tablecloths. The room was welcoming, even cozy, but Jenny shivered involuntarily. A male voice spoke from somewhere near her right and she jumped, startled.
In a bad Italian accent, she heard, “Madam, this insalata Caprese lacks spirit even though the balsamic vinegar is speaking with joy. I suggest a different olive oil, possibly something with deeper flavor and emotion.”
Lips parting, Jenny blinked, then gave the speaker a hard look. Hidden behind Riccardo’s burgundy leather menu was a dark-haired male with a very familiar tenor voice. Reaching over with one finger, she pulled the menu away from the handsome face of her son Rawley.
So, this was her male “watcher”! Relief and delight flooded her. “And just what are you doing here?” she asked, surprised that he would deign to come see her at all. At fifteen Rawley had become a handful.
His blue eyes, so like her own, flashed with humor. But he also resembled his father, something that occasionally squeezed her heart with fear. Troy had been—and undoubtedly still was—an unrepentant bully. In the few short months they’d actually lived together as man and wife, Jenny had learned to fear him and it had taken all the courage she possessed to leave him.
Her father’s unspoken “I told you so” had been the final blow to her pride. Knowing that he had essentially bought her freedom was so humiliating that she had trouble even allowing herself to remember the details.
But it was all over now. Troy was history, and though it sometimes weighed on her conscience that Rawley had never met his father, she knew it was better that way. Her son didn’t need to know Troy.
“I was just remarking on the salad,” said Rawley, as if he were a connoisseur of Italian cuisine.
“Sounded like Alberto’s complaining to me,” she teased gently. She had to be careful with Rawley these days. His moods were mercurial, loving one moment and surly the next.
Now, he flashed her his devastating smile, so full of dash and vigor and fun that the girls were already ringing the phone off the hook. Unfortunately, that smile, too, reminded her of Troy. She’d fallen for Troy’s good looks and ignored his immaturity and half-hidden viciousness.
And, of course, her father had been against her relationship with Troy from the get-go. A fact that had turned her toward him like a vane spinning in the wind.
“First of all, that is not insalata Caprese. There’s not a teaspoonful of balsamic vinegar or olive oil to be seen. You’ve got your basic American garden salad there, buddy. The only greens you’ll eat, as far as I know. For your information, insalata Caprese consists of tomato slices, fresh mozzarella cheese, and fresh basil leaves. The last time I served it you made gagging sounds and thoroughly disgusted me and our guest, Benjamin.”
Rawley grinned wider. “Benjamin couldn’t care less.”
Jenny smothered an answering smile. Benny was the neighbor’s big, scruffy mutt with a tail that cleared the top of a coffee table in mere seconds. Jenny shooed him out every time, while Rawley sneaked the happy hound in whenever her back was turned.
“I thought you were going to be at Janice and Rick’s tonight.”
“I had soccer practice at 3:00 P.M. Rick came to watch, but afterwards I just wanted to leave.” He shrugged.
Rawley seemed to think of their neighbor, Rick Ferguson, as a substitute father these days. He’d wanted to be someone’s son—anyone’s son—for a long time. She understood completely, but Jenny was still loathe to talk to her son about his real father. A few months earlier, she’d found a picture of Troy in Rawley’s old baseball cards and personal junk. Though he never asked about his father, he was obviously thinking about him, and Jenny suspected it was just a matter of time before she’d have to explain more.
Jenny often wondered what Rawley was thinking. He knew Troy had never contacted him. A tough situation for a boy whose friends’ fathers almost always attended their soccer games and other sports and school events. She had the feeling that Rawley’s hidden emotions on this issue were about to explode. And there was nothing she could do about it.
“I told Janice that you wanted me down at the restaurant,” he said. “And Alberto said I could order anything I wanted.”
“Alberto would,” Jenny murmured. “Was Janice picking you up, or do you need a ride?”
Jenny nearly choked. Their apartment was miles and miles away and the multilane highway that led to their neighborhood wasn’t exactly the best place for a kid to be walking, especially after dark. But Rawley didn’t want to be babied. He was teetering on the verge of manhood, and it was a knife’s edge. The wrong word from Jenny would end up cutting them both.
And so far he hadn’t put up too much of a fuss about moving to Santa Fe. If she could keep him happy on that score, everything else would fall into place.
“I wish you’d ride. It’s safer,” she said, holding up a hand to forestall his protests
“But I’d be fine.”
“I know—”
“I’d be fine! You don’t trust me at all’
“It’s not you,” she declared in exasperation “It’s everybody else! Good grief, you know the way they drive in Texas! I just wouldn’t be able to stand it if I thought you were walking home alone. It has more to do with me than you.”
Rawley rolled his eyes. “I’m not five years old.”
“I know.” She glanced around, not wanting this battle. “I’ve got to get back to work. If Janice can’t come, I’ll take you home.”
Rawley retreated behind the menu, stiff with anger. Jenny sighed inwardly. Until last year she and Rawley had been fast friends. Other mothers had warned her about adolescent obnoxiousness, but she’d blithely believed that Rawley, whose good manners were remarked on and envied by others, would not succumb to teen-itis. She’d been astonished by the change in him.
Returning to her office, Jenny placed a call to Janice, her neighbor and friend. Janice and Rick lived around the corner from Jenny’s ground-floor apartment in a comfortable, two-story house. Since they were Benny’s rightful owners, Jenny was more tolerant of the dog than she might normally have been and consequently Benny crossed the Holloway welcome mat as often as his own.
“Hello?” Janice sounded harried. A distant cacophony reached Jenny’s ears.
“Bad timing?” she suggested.
“Oh, hi, Jenny. It’s the twins. They can’t play a board game together. Becky cheats, and Tommy throws the game pieces and dice at her.”
“Ahhh …” Janice’s seven-year-olds were going through a tough phase, according to their parents. They were exhibiting just the kind of behavior that Jenny had congratulated herself on never seeing in Rawley. My, my, how things could change.
“Is something wrong?” Janice asked suddenly. “Aren’t you at work?”
“Yes, yes. Rawley’s here. I was just kind of checking up.”
“He said you wouldn’t mind having him there.” In the background, Becky commenced a keening wail. “Jenny? Can you call back? I’ve just got to take care of this and I’ll be able to talk.”
“Never mind. Everything’s cool. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for keeping tabs on Rawley.”
She exhaled a deep breath as she hung up. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Jenny to ask much of the Fergusons. Their twins were a handful, and their older son, Brandon, was Rawley’s age and not exactly a choirboy. The arrangement that had once worked so well was falling apart fast. But what could she do? Rawley was too old to have a babysitter and a little too headstrong to be left by himself.
And what will you do in Santa Fe?
“Start over,” she said aloud, as if someone had actually asked her a question.
Well, maybe their upcoming holiday together would help ease the transition. Friends had asked her and her son to join them at their rented villa in Puerto Vallarta. It was an incredible hillside manor, only accessible via a winding stony road, with a full staff including a cook, maids and gardeners. The villa had eight bedrooms with as many baths, a kidney-shaped pool, a view to die for, and a rented Jeep for the week.
A time for family bonding. A time for fun. A time to set things straight again.
Retracing her footsteps, she found her son tucking in to a plate of ravioli and Italian sausages. He gave her a sidelong look.
“I called Janice and she was playing referee with the twins.” Rawley grunted acknowledgment which encouraged Jenny. “I’ll take you home. I’m about ready to leave.” Since this was a blatant lie, Jenny mentally crossed her fingers.
“I can walk. I’ve got two legs.”
“Let’s not argue.”
“When are you going to let me be me?”
She wanted to laugh out loud. “When haven’t I let you be you?”
“Now!”
“Shhhh,” she said gently, but firmly. “Alberto gave you a free meal because he likes you. Behave yourself in his restaurant”
“I’m behaving myself. Besides, Romeo said he didn’t want me to starve. He insisted I order two sausages.”
Romeo was Rawley’s nickname for Alberto. He’d seen Alberto work his Italian magic on the single women who frequented the restaurant His shameless flirting amused Rawley to no end even though Jenny, and the targeted customers, knew it was all in fun.
Rawley grinned. “I know.”
“You’ve got to stop taking advantage of his sweet nature. I mean it.”
This time Rawley didn’t argue with her. Jenny had some hope that all was not lost when it came to her son’s worrisome behavior. He did know when he was being a brat—even if it had to be pointed out to him now and again.
She glanced over her shoulder. There was still so much left to do. Could she really afford to leave? Maybe. As long as she could find a few hours tomorrow, on Sunday, to come in and make up some work. Her birthday …
“I’ll be ready whenever you are,” she said on a note of finality.
He nodded. She marveled as he stuffed half an Italian sausage into his mouth with little effort. Retracing her steps to the kitchen once again, she felt another frisson of uneasiness run down her spine and wondered what in the world was wrong with her. She’d never been so susceptible to atmosphere and mood.
Catching up with Alberto, she told him regretfully, “I’ve got to head out. My son needs a ride home, and I think we should spend some time together.” She wagged a finger in front of his nose. “And you shouldn’t let him twist you around his little finger.”
“He is like my grandson. What I have, is his.” The twinkle in Alberto’s dark eyes gave him away; he was totally unrepentant.
“Hmm.” Jenny gave him a mock glower.
“He needs to be fed, that boy. To be strong.” Alberto lifted his chin and flexed his biceps. “To be a man, to take care of his mama.”
“Oh, right,” Jenny muttered.
Alberto laughed aloud, and Jenny shook her head. It was useless to talk to him. He and Rawley had an unspoken agreement—a male pact—and there wasn’t anything she could do about it.
Five minutes later, her paperwork in hand, Jenny headed out of her office for the last time, standing for a moment in the kitchen, the heart of the restaurant Plates of steaming calamari and scallopini in garlic butter and savory osso bucco flew by. She loved all the mouth-watering aromas and lush-sounding names of the dishes. It was a kind of olfactory and auditory ecstasy.
Soon, soon, she would be involved in Geneva’s. And she had her own amazing chef who was waiting in the wings, ready to step in as soon as the final renovations on the restaurant were completed. Gloria was one of the main reasons Jenny had chosen Santa Fe. Part Hopi, part Mexican, and a kitchen wizard with a true cook’s temperament, Gloria had been born and raised around Santa Fe. She was, like Alberto, a demanding personality, but her perfectionism translated into dishes that were indescribably luscious. She’d once worked for Jenny’s father, who had tried to force her into the Rancho del Sol mold and that had been a recipe for disaster. Sparks flew from the onset. Sparks? No. More like an exploding volcano. And Gloria had flat-out refused to work for another Holloway at first. When Jenny then explained her relationship with her father, the woman signed on with a flourish, ready to thumb her nose at the man she considered “stupid about food.” Jenny was thrilled to have someone so strongwilled and talented on her side.
She smiled to herself again. She and Gloria would be up to their elbows in work within a few weeks, but for now there was Puerto Vallarta. And Jenny planned to use the trip for culinary exploration, as well. If there was something out there with just the right flavors and presentation, she would coax Gloria into giving it a try.
Alberto was currently standing over the chef he’d upbraided earlier. The younger man looked ready to explode. But for once Alberto held his tongue. Whatever issue he wanted to address remained hidden for the moment as kettles and deep-dish frying pans bubbled and hissed on top of the burners.
Jenny said, “Anytime you want our extra customer out there to wash some dishes for his meal, feel free to put him in front of the sink.”
“Ah, bella, you are so cruel!” Alberto spread his hands expansively, stepping away from the other chef so that peace reigned—at least for the time being. “He is so thin. He needs my pasta to build strong muscles.”
“Why are you patting your stomach as you say that?” Jenny observed.
“Oh, funny, funny lady.”
Chucking her under the chin, he then waved her away. Jenny shut the door to her office and locked it. On her way out at last …
Carolyn caught her in the main dining room. “Did you see him?”
“Yes, I saw him.” She smiled at her friend. “And he’s very handsome. A little young, perhaps, but hey, what’s twenty-some years.”
Carolyn looked nonplussed. “What are you talking about?”
“Rawley. I found him. And he’s in trouble whether he thinks so or not. He can’t just show up and expect a meal just because I’m here. He sure as heck knows how to work the system.”
“Rawley?”
“Yes, Rawley …” Jenny trailed off. With a jolt she suddenly realized her son had not been seated at table fourteen. He’d been at table eleven.
“Not him! This was an honest-to-goodness hunk,” Carolyn declared. “Go look again! Maybe he’s still there. I want you to see him. I mean, the way he watched you when he first came in … wow. And then when you walked by while I was taking his order … He didn’t think I saw, but his eyes were all over you, like he was studying you or something.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “He was mentally taking notes. I’m surprised you couldn’t feel it.”
“You’re creeping me out, Carolyn.”
“Oh, no, no. It was in a good way. I wouldn’t have minded him looking at me that way.”
“Well, you’re not me.”
“Look, he’s sexy. That’s all I’m saying. Go look. Table fourteen …”
Filled with trepidation, Jenny slowly approached the stone archway one last time. Her gaze jumped from Rawley’s table to the now vacated table fourteen. Her heart beat quick and fast. Her breath jumped in and out of her throat. Nothing. No reason to be so jittery.
“Come on,” she said to her son, shooting a glance around all the darkened corners just to make sure. “Let’s go home.”
Outside Riccardo’s a slender yellow moon rose over the forest of commercial buildings, wires, and parking lots—ugly reminders of urban humanity. Hunter waited in his Jeep. He was tired. He’d driven from Santa Fe to Houston nonstop and had been unable to sleep much since, especially when he was lying on some hard motel bed and staring at the ceiling.
But his weariness went further than that. It was bone deep, a product of long hours and lost hopes. These last six years in Santa Fe he’d managed to fight it back, but from the moment Joseph Wessver brought up Troy Russell it had come back with a vengeance. Oh, sure, part of him still wanted to get Russell, a hope that refused to die no matter how many times he reminded himself of the hard realities of “no evidence.”
Troy Russell had killed Michelle Calgary as surely as if he’d put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. That Michelle had leapt from the roof of her five-story apartment building near La Cienega Boulevard in Los Angeles didn’t cut any ice with Hunter. He knew Russell was responsible, and Hunter had lost his job with the L.A.P.D. because of it.
He’d been unable to convince anyone that Michelle, who had a healthy fear of heights, would never choose to end her life that way. Troy Russell had pushed her off that building after mentally and physically abusing her for several years. That was Hunter’s theory. But that she’d been about to leave him, that she’d broken down and told Hunter she would testify against him, anything, anything to put him behind bars, was not enough to prove the man had been with her on the roof that day.
But Hunter knew …
Now, he closed his eyes and felt a familiar ennui settle over him. He’d outrun it for a few years, but it was apparently still there. Burnout. Bad case. A lack of passion for anything. He’d recharged some in Santa Fe, but when it came right down to it, the battery was essentially dead.
But he’d promised to watch out for Allen Holloway’s daughter. Be a bodyguard. Save her from Troy Russell. Her ex-husband.
That, at least, still penetrated.
Sighing, Hunter thought over his meeting with Wessver, and then the subsequent one with Holloway himself. He’d learned a great deal about the man, and about his daughter, and about their relationships with the man Hunter wanted to bring to justice more than anything else. So, he’d agreed to be Jenny’s protector, only to learn that she had no knowledge of Allen Holloway’s plan and the danger that lurked in the shadows.
“She won’t appreciate my interference,” Allen Holloway had told him. “Mention my name, and you won’t get near her. But I need you to be near her. Now, more than ever, because Russell’s putting on the heat. The man’s a bloodthirsty lunatic and he wants my daughter more than money these days.”
“That’s what he said?” Hunter had asked.
“No. He said he wanted to up the ante. More money. And if it were just that, I’d be glad to do it. I don’t care. But it’s not. He might know about the boy. I’m not sure. Jenny’s kept a pretty low profile for a long, long time. But Troy’s been out of Texas ever since the divorce, and now he’s back. Contacted me from the Warwick, which isn’t cheap. He lives high. Needs to, to pick up women.”
Holloway’s words pricked Hunter like needles. Michelle had fallen for Troy Russell’s good looks, perfect charm and apparently endless supply of money. Holloway’s money.
“I want her safe. She’s flying to Puerto Vallarta in about a week. Here …” He flipped an airline ticket Hunter’s way. “Get close to her. I’d rather be paying you than Russell,” he added emphatically.
So, here he was. Following her. Had been ever since that meeting with her father. But it wasn’t for the money. It was for Michelle, and for himself, and yes, for her safety. And in the process he’d become immersed in Jenny’s life, waiting outside her apartment long after the last light had been turned off. What had started out as a job was fast becoming an obsession. And about all he felt was a kind of exhausted relief.
Which was crazy, when he thought about it, but he was just glad to have a focus. A purpose. Quitting the Santa Fe police department to hang out on his dusty little ranch had seemed self-defeating at the time, yet he’d been unable to do anything else.
Hearing voices brought him out of his reverie. Sure enough, there she was, coming out the back door of Riccardo’s and walking toward her car alongside a rangy teenaged boy. He knew her by sight now. Geneva Holloway Russell, though she’d dropped her married name even before the divorce was final. The boy was her son. Rawley Holloway. No last name of Russell for him, either, apparently. A good sign, as far as Hunter was concerned.
He watched her walk with the boy to a blue Volvo sedan. Twisting the key in the ignition, he waited until she’d driven nearly out of sight before he eased into traffic behind her. When she turned into the parking lot of her ten-unit apartment building, he passed by, circled the block, then returned in time to see the master bedroom light turn on. He parked across the street and switched off his engine.
Her building had only two stories. A person might be able to survive a fall from the roof here, he mused, his thoughts dark.
A car drove past, slowed, crept for a block and a half, then sped up. Hunter memorized the license plate, but it looked like a rental. It didn’t return again, but he wrote the number down anyway. He might not be the only watcher out tonight.
Eventually her bedroom light was switched off. Settling down further into his seat, Hunter dozed fitfully. Hours passed and nothing happened. In the gray hours of dawn he fired up the Jeep’s engine and drove to his cold motel room on the edge of the loop, the circle of freeways that girded Houston’s center. Standing in the dark in the center of the room he breathed in the musty scents of mildew and disuse. For a moment he had a flash of desire to be back at his own place, alone as always.
I wish I had a dog.
Hunter felt mild surprise at such an alien, normal thought invading his mind.
Switching on his desk light, he glanced down at the travel documents in his name. A bright red brochure from Hotel Rosa lay beside the airline ticket.
“It’s practically right on the bay,” Holloway had told him. “Great open air restaurant and bar. Thatched roof. Authentic, reputedly incredible Mexican cuisine. If so, Jenny’ll be there to taste the food. She fancies herself a restaurateur and I understand that she’s renovating a place in Santa Fe. Hang around the hotel and you’ll catch up with her eventually. Everyone goes there.”
Hunter responded to the one thing that bothered him ever so slightly. “Santa Fe?”
“You’re almost going to be neighbors,” Allen said with a sniff of disapproval. “She’s opening a restaurant on one of those arty little streets with all the galleries. Geneva’s. For the grandmother she’s named after. Yes, I know more about her than she thinks I do, but I want you to learn even more.”
Now, Hunter gazed down at the brochure and airline ticket There was an underhanded element to this whole scheme that normally would have bothered him. But Allen wanted to stop Troy Russell.
And there was nothing Hunter wanted more.