A Bad Boy is Good to Find(8)

“Gold ingots? Those would come in handy.”

He stepped toward her, crowded her. She didn’t smell like roses anymore. She wore a heavy, harsh scent probably designed in a Paris lab.

“You’ll need both hands to lift it out.” He raised the bag. She looked at him, suspicious but curious, then dipped both hands into the bag. Lifted out a pair of chrome handcuffs.

“What the—?”

He pushed her onto the bed and pinned her with his weight while he grabbed the handcuffs and clamped them on her wrists. She struggled and shrieked but was no match for him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he pulled the wad of cotton primed with knock-out drops out of a Ziploc bag buried in the tissue paper and covered her mouth and nose. She stared at him, plainly terrified, as her body went limp.

“It’s for your own good,” he whispered. She couldn’t hear him, and he hoped no one else had either. Lucky her room was at the end of the hall.

The next part of the plan promised to be tricky. The French doors to the garden were a blessing, but he still had to get her out there and over the low stucco wall that surrounded the property. And he needed to bring her stuff. Since money was tight now, everything counted.

He rooted around under the bed and in the closet looking for a suitcase. Nothing. She’d come here empty-handed after braining him with the champagne bottle. He found an expensive looking shopping bag from some store in Beverly Hills and shoved all her clothes into it. Mostly skimpy workout stuff. Piled a load of cosmetics on top, keeping one eye on the door. The strappy sandals took up less space than sneakers, so he took them instead.

He left the Cheetos behind. And the case of champagne. He scribbled a note about settling the bill later and forged her girlish signature on it.

With the bulging shopping bag slung over his shoulder, he flipped the lock on the French doors and propped one open with her sneaker. No one outside. Good.

Her limp body felt like a sack of lead. Her newly toned muscles flopped, arms hanging, as he tried to get a good grip on her.

I’m so sorry, Lizzie. Her straightened hair hung in a shiny curtain as he carried her over the threshold, out onto a tiled patio. The heat smacked him in the face, and he adjusted his arms around her chest.

He kicked the sneaker out of the door frame and eased the door closed with his foot. He wanted it to look like she’d slipped out the front door when no one was looking, skipped out on the bill.

The wall was a problem. For a moment he contemplated sneaking around the inside of it and strolling out the front gates. Nah. Too much chance of being seen through a window. The smooth stucco rose only chest high, but he couldn’t step over it. Regretfully, he leaned over and lowered Lizzie’s limp body as far as he could…

Then dropped her.

He grimaced as she fell to the sun-baked dirt and rolled, hair sprawling in the red dust.

I, Conroy Beale, will never again do anything dishonest, low-down, underhanded—

He hugged her limp body to his chest and shuffled along on his knees through the sandy dirt, making sure to keep his head beneath the level of the wall. One of her feet dragged, no matter how he tried to hoist her higher. The sight of his car gleaming in the sun around the corner made him limp with relief.

An invisible cloud of heat exploded in his face as he opened the passenger door and shoved her in. He jimmied her into position and propped her with his arm so she wouldn’t flop forward and bang her head on the dash while he buckled her seatbelt.

He tossed her bag in the back seat and climbed into the driver’s side, relieved the vintage engine started on the first try. Hoped she couldn’t feel any pain as her short shorts and skimpy top left plenty of flesh exposed against the scorching leather seats.

I’m so sorry Lizzie.

I wanted to make us both happy. I never meant to hurt you.

Her sleeping body exhaled fumes from the liquor percolating through her system. A distinctive smell he’d known since the cradle, that never failed to turn his stomach.

Soon he’d have her tucked up in bed, with a good meal and plenty of water to drink. He’d get her dried out and straightened up. Then they’d figure out what to do next.





Chapter 4





“What on earth?” Freezing daggers pricked Lizzie’s skin and roused her from a distorted dream.

“Thank God.” A man loomed over her, face in shadow. Behind him a showerhead pelted her with tiny drops of icy water.

The scream she let out practically pierced her eardrums. Before she knew what was happening he’d wrapped his arms around her and lifted her out of the tub.

“You had me worried there. I don’t know what’s in that stuff I gave you. Guess I should have asked.”

Con. Of course. Her heart both sank and rose at the same time. Funny how it could still do that when it was broken.

She kicked and struggled as he carried her out of the bathroom into a tiny hotel bedroom.

“Where am I?” she shrieked, as he lowered her onto the bed.

“Shhh. A motel in the desert.”

She scanned the room as he disappeared back into the bathroom. Garish geometric curtains and a wood-grain TV suggested a time warp to the 1970s.

He reappeared with a towel and started to rub. Conroy Beale, onetime man of her dreams, looked different with his shirt soaked and streaked with red dirt and his hair sticking in all directions. “You’ll get a mean headache soon, but after a rest you’ll feel good as new.”

“I thought I killed you.” She flopped back on the bed as an anvil fell on her head. At least that’s what it felt like.

He disappeared back into the bathroom and emerged with a paper cup. “Drink it.”

“I can’t, my head hurts too much. What am I doing here?”

“I kidnapped you.”

“You’re an idiot. I’m broke, remember? Besides, my parents wouldn’t waste money on a ransom for me.” The cold emptiness threatened to close over her again. “Champagne, I need champagne!”

“That’s the last thing you need. Drink this water and I’ll get you some more. I’ll bet you’ve been drunk an entire month.”

“Best month of my life,” she rasped. Her head was too heavy to lift.

“I’m not going to have your death on my conscience, so your boozing binge ends right now.”

“What nonsense. Champagne isn’t booze. It’s made from squeezed grapes, you know. Healthy and delicious… Ow! Stop banging my head like that!”

“I’m not. I’m a good five feet away from you.”

The furniture shifted and twisted as she tried to focus. She could barely keep her eyes open. “Take me back to Zen Mind. I have yoga class at two and I can’t miss it.”

“Yoga’s over. You’ve been out five hours. I thought you’d never wake up.”

A hollow laugh rattled her ribs. “I’m almost sorry I did. Would have been fun to leave you with a body to dispose of.” Even in blurred half-vision he looked revoltingly handsome—all intense dark eyes and wild dark hair. Bastard. “Who am I kidding? You probably have experience disposing of dead bodies.”