Baddest Bad Boys(42)

She looked at her watch—well after midnight.

“First ferry is 5:15 in the morning,” Hugh said.

“I’ll make it.”

“I’ll go back to your apartment with you, wait while you pack.” He stood and offered his hand. She took it, and when she was on her feet, she hugged him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Hugh. I really don’t.”

“We’re friends, Tommi. You won’t ever have to.”

An hour later, in the gray-lit parking garage under Tommi’s apartment building, Hugh loaded her bags into the trunk of her silver Lexus, then opened the driver-side door. He handed her a crude map.

She got in and lowered the window. “You’re sure Mac said my coming was okay?” Useless question, because she was sure Hugh wouldn’t have taken no for an answer no matter what Mac said. Like it or not, she was about to foist herself on an unwilling man.

“He said he’s glad you’re coming, and he’s looking forward to seeing you again.”

Tommi eyed him, nearly smiled. “Liar.”

He shrugged, slapped the top of the car above her door. “Just go. Mac will come around.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that.”

“Call me. Let me know you made it okay.”

She nodded, locked all her doors, and started the car.

Truth was, she no longer cared if Mac wanted her at his fishing camp or not, and she was more determined than ever to get out of Seattle. Her voice mail and call display told her Reid had called four times; twice while she was out with Hugh, and twice while she was packing. His messages were veiled threats for her to be careful, not to do anything foolish. He’d be furious and suspicious as to why she wasn’t in her apartment and hadn’t returned his calls.

She intended to be long gone before he decided to arrive in person. She shuddered at the thought.

Her hand slid to the large tote on the passenger seat. She had the means to ruin him, and after what she’d experienced tonight, she had no doubt Reid would do whatever it took to stop her.

She remembered his hands on her throat; it brought a simmer of panic, made her heart thump erratically. She tightened her grip on the wheel and took some deep breaths.

When she pulled up to the parking lot security gate and looked through it to the heavy gusting rain and the blessedly empty street, she relaxed. And even though the night matched her mood, grim and dark, she suddenly looked forward to the long, solitary drive to the ferry.

At the top of the exit lane, she glanced left and right down shadowy, night-lit streets, then cleared the building.

The aging, dark-blue Chrysler gave Tommi a few minutes’ lead time before it swerved out of the shadows. Lights off, it positioned itself some distance back in her rain-splashed wake.

The burly man in the car picked up his cell phone from the passenger seat, hit a number on autodial. “McNeil? She’s on the road. What do you want me to do?”

“I knew she was lying! That stupid, stupid bitch!”

“Hey man, I’m not interested in your woman troubles, just the job. So what do ya want me to do?”

“Follow her, Borg. And don’t let her out of your sight.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“It’ll cost me a hell of a lot more if she decides to do what I think she might. Stay on her ass!”

“I ain’t drivin’ across the damn country, McNeil. Not in this old beater.”

“You want to pay that bookie of yours, you’ll do what I say. Call me…on the hour.”

When the phone went dead in his hand, Borg cursed violently, punched his radio on, and twisted the dial until country music filled the car.

He swore again, took a swig of black coffee, and settled in for a long night.

2
Mac Fleming put down his book, pinched the bridge of his nose, and looked at his watch. Almost six. By now it was cave-dark out there.

If Smith had left when Hugh said she’d left, she should be here by now. Hugh hadn’t told him much—said he couldn’t tell him what he didn’t know, but Mac had the gist of it.

She was in some kind of trouble, and Mac had no doubt a man was somewhere in the mix. Probably some pissed-off guy she’d cut loose who’d decided to give her a hard time.

Not that he gave a damn. But he still should have warned her about the road. Eight miles of ruts and bumps, barely okay on a good day, but today, given the nonstop rain, there was a good chance it might be washed out. She could be stuck.

Hell!

He got to his feet just as the wind slammed the side of the lodge and whistled down the chimney to send a spray of sparks across the deep slate hearth. The fire sputtered but held. The stone fireplace was gigantic, and he’d already banked it with enough logs to power a fifty-car steam train, but he threw another on for good measure, pulled the mesh curtain to a tight close, and headed for the door.

Outside, the rain was merciless and the wind nonstop, strong, sharp gusts carrying heavy inflows of frigid ocean air, salt-filled and harsh. And this was only the beginning of a storm the weather idiots said wouldn’t hit hard until midnight. Hell, if this wasn’t hard, Mac didn’t know what was. He pulled the hood of his rain slicker over his now dripping hair.

The weather might be miserable, par for the course this time of year on the northwest coast, but what pissed him off most was having Hugh lob Smith his way. He’d come here to get away, catch up on some work, then grab some downtime, not play the caped crusader. He didn’t like Tommi Smith, never had—even if she had inspired his first wet dream.