Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(138)

She hadn’t seen the Kennedy chest again, not until five days ago when she’d stumbled on the photograph of Cal Bonner and his wife in a People magazine that had been left at the Laundromat. For three years she’d wondered about that chest. When she’d broken the lock, she’d given the interior no more than a cursory examination. Later, she remembered how heavy it had been and wondered if it could have contained a false bottom. Or maybe a safe-deposit key lay concealed beneath the green felt lining.


As she drew the old beach towel tighter to ward off the night chill, she was filled with bitterness. Her son was sleeping in the backseat of a broken-down car after eating a peanut-butter sandwich and an overly ripe pear, yet five million dollars were missing. It was money that belonged to her.

Even after she paid off the last of Dwayne’s creditors, there would be a few million left, and she intended to use it to buy security for her son. Instead of yachts and jewels, she dreamed of a small house in a safe neighborhood. She wanted to watch Edward eat decent food and wear clothing that wasn’t threadbare. She’d send him to good schools and buy him a bicycle.

But she couldn’t make any of those dreams come true without the goodwill of Gabriel Bonner. These past three years had taught her never to ignore reality, no matter how unpleasant, and she knew it might take her several weeks to get inside her old house so she could search for the chest. Until then, she needed to survive, which meant she had to keep her job.

The leaves above her rustled. She shivered and thought about how she had stripped herself naked in front of a stranger today. The churchgoing Indiana country girl she had once been couldn’t have conceived of such an act, but being responsible for a child had forced her to leave her scruples behind, along with her innocence. Now she vowed to do whatever she must in order to keep Gabriel Bonner appeased.





Rachel had already cleared most of the weeds from the center of the lot by the time Gabe’s truck came through the gate at seven forty-five the next morning. Her hair was secured back from her face with a piece of copper wire she’d found near the dumpster. She only hoped the worn seat of her jeans didn’t give way.

With her sandals gone, she was forced to wear her only other shoes, a pair of clunky black men’s oxfords one of her teenage coworkers had given her when she’d grown bored with the style. The shoes were comfortable, but too hot and heavy for summer weather. Still they were more practical for heavy work than her shabby little sandals had been, and she felt grateful to have them.

If Rachel thought her early-bird industriousness would please Gabe, she was immediately proven wrong. The truck came to a halt next to her, and he climbed out with the motor still running. “I told you to be here at eight.”

“And I will be,” she replied in her most cheerful voice, trying to forget how she’d stripped for him yesterday afternoon. “I’ve got fifteen minutes to go.”

He wore a clean white T-shirt and faded jeans. He was freshly shaved, and his dark hair looked as if it might still be damp from his shower. For a few brief moments yesterday, she’d seen his mask slip, but now it was firmly back in place: bleak, harsh, unfeeling.

“I don’t want you here when I’m not around.”

All her good intentions to be respectful and compliant fled. “Relax, Bonner. Everything you own that’s worth stealing is too big for me to carry.”

“You heard me.”

“And here I thought you were only cranky in the afternoon.”

“It’s pretty much a round-the-clock affair.” His reply should have been humorous, but those emotionless silver eyes spoiled the effect. “Where did you stay last night?”

“With a friend. I do have a few left,” she lied. In fact, Dwayne had forbidden any but the most superficial contacts with the people of Salvation.

He pulled a pair of yellow work gloves from his back pocket and tossed them at her. “Use these.”

“Gosh, I’m touched.” She clasped the gloves to her breast like beauty-queen roses and told herself not to say another word. Before the day was over, she had to ask him for an advance on her paycheck, and she couldn’t afford to antagonize him. But he looked so remote as he slid back behind the wheel of his truck that she couldn’t resist a small jab.

“Hey, Bonner. In lieu of Prozac, maybe some coffee would help your disposition. I’ll be glad to make a pot for both of us.”

“I’ll make my own.”

“Great. Bring me a cup when it’s ready.”

He slammed the door and left her standing in a cloud of dust as he drove toward the snack shop. Butthead. She shoved her sore hands into the gloves and bent to return to her task even though every muscle protested.

She couldn’t remember ever being so tired. All she wanted to do was lie in the shade and sleep for a hundred years. It wasn’t hard to figure out why she was exhausted: not enough sleep and too much worry. She thought longingly of the jolt of energy she got from a morning cup of coffee.

Coffee . . . It had been weeks since she’d had any. She loved everything about it: the taste, the smell, those beautiful pinwheels of beige and mocha when she stirred in the cream. She closed her eyes and, just for a moment, let herself feel it sliding over her tongue.


A blast of acid rock coming from the snack shop shattered her fantasy. She glanced toward the playground where Edward had emerged from beneath the concrete turtle. If Bonner was this upset because she’d come to work early, what would he do when he spotted Edward?