Sonny sent Grant a quick text as she drove down to America’s Cup Harbor. JT rented a slip on Shelter Island, and she wanted to get there before anyone else did.
She hadn’t told Tom Bruebaker she suspected JT of sleeping with Olivia-or with Sheila, for that matter-but he might put two and two together. God forbid he bury the hatchet and call Ben. She’d never be able to question JT if the disgruntled husbands showed up.
When she arrived, it was just past sunset and the sidewalk traffic along the marina was steady. Shelter Island was a patrolled, gated community, and it cost a lot of money to tenant here. Gleaming yachts sat alongside smaller, more modest recreational crafts and sport fishers.
Most of the owners didn’t live aboard.
JT’s houseboat,
It took her less than five minutes to break in.
The place was neat as a pin and ruthlessly organized-necessary, perhaps, with such limited space, but not what she’d expected from a party boy like him. She also found things she did expect, champagne and candlesticks, condoms and soft-core porn. Nothing terribly kinky. Just your average arsenal for seduction.
In his closet he had casual, expensive sportswear, vintage T-shirts, and designer jeans. He must be independently wealthy, because he also owned a lot of high-tech gadgets, an impressive collection of surfboards, and a top-quality, titanium-lined wetsuit.
Heart pounding with excitement, Sonny worked faster, sorting through a significant array of masculine beauty products and rifling through closed drawers.
There was one nondescript cardboard box hidden beneath a pair of sweatpants in the bottom drawer. Sonny pulled out the box and took off the lid. Inside, there was a dirty green trucker hat and a pair of old sunglasses.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. These things had belonged to Arlen.
Scrambling to her feet, she dug her cell phone out of her purse to alert Grant. And heard the click of a revolver in the entryway behind her.
Making a split-second decision, she let the phone fall to the carpet and slipped her hand into her jacket, going for her gun.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned.
She paused, fingers touching metal. If she ducked down as she drew her weapon, there was a good chance he’d miss.
“This is a.38,” JT explained. “At this range it would blow a hole through you the size of a watermelon.”
Keeping her hand where it was, she tilted her head to look at him.
He smiled at her, coldly handsome without the charming, sleepy-eyed facade. “Remove your weapon and take out the clip.”
It occurred to her that not only did JT know she was carrying, he knew
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Toss that on the bed.”
“Backup is on the way,” she said, hoping it was true. “Any minute, there’ll be feds and local police crawling all over the place.”
“Then we’d best get going,” he said.
She turned to face him, moving slow. His eyes were cool and his hands were steady, but she knew he was afraid to approach her. As well he should be.
“Do you have a pair of cuffs in your purse?” he asked, studying her warily.
“If you think I’m going to make this easy for you-”
“Do it or they’ll never find Carly.”
Her stomach lurched. “Where is she?”
JT’s mouth twisted with impatience. “We aren’t negotiating, bitch, we’re leaving. Now take those cuffs out and put them on your wrists or I’ll just shoot you now and be on my way.”
It was highly inadvisable to let a perp take her to another location. Her best chance at survival was to scuffle with him, even to risk taking a bullet in an attempt to break free.
Because she had Carly to consider, she removed the handcuffs from her purse.
“Make them tight,” he said.
Gritting her teeth, she secured her own wrists. She didn’t know how he’d snuck up on her, because she hadn’t heard a sound, and the boat had never shifted under his weight. If she made it out of this situation alive, and she wasn’t sure she deserved to after this rookie mistake, she would never leave her back to a door again.
Stephen watched JT and the woman from a distance. They were walking away from Shelter Island Marina, and in the deepening gloom, he couldn’t see her very clearly.
Something about her was familiar.
He hesitated, glancing back at the houseboat. It appeared as though JT had forgotten to lock up on his way out. The woman wasn’t struggling or showing any signs of distress, and JT was leading her toward other people, not away from them.
If Stephen followed them, he might not see anything more interesting than a moonlit walk or a romantic dinner, and what he really wanted to do was snoop through JT’s belongings. He waited until the couple was out of sight before he stepped from the shadows, hurrying across the concrete pathway and slipping onto
He was afraid to turn on the lights, so he had to wait for his eyes to adjust. Heart pounding a mile a minute, he stood inside someone else’s home, a silent intruder. After an indescribable length of time, the gleaming surfaces and clean lines took shape.
Stephen gulped, more nervous than ever. This was the kind of place where one stray fingerprint would be noticed. He had to be careful not to touch anything.
Hands sweating, pulse racing, he moved from room to room, hoping his boots didn’t leave scuff marks on the polished hardwood. A quick glance told him what was out of place. In the bedroom, there was a clip on the ground and a gun on the bed.
Next to the clip lay a woman’s handbag. It was lying on one side, its contents spilled across the carpet.
“Damn,” he whispered, knowing he’d made the wrong decision. He should have followed them.
Wiping his palms on the legs of his jeans, he reached down to pick up a single white business card. Flipping it over, he saw a familiar name.
Special Agent Sonora Vasquez.
“Damn!” he repeated. The woman who took off with JT was that blue-eyed FBI agent, the one who’d treated him kindly. She’d made him uncomfortable-all women did-but he’d felt an instant connection with her. A kinship.
His eyes moved past the card, to an empty shoe box near the foot of the bed. Inside, barely discernible in the approaching dark, was one of his dad’s old trucker caps and a pair of dirty sunglasses. The lenses glinted wickedly in the meager light.
Stephen sucked in a sharp breath. And felt his vision narrow.
Arlen may have deserved killing, but none of those girls had. He could still see their pretty faces, smiling up at him from their photos.
“You murdering motherfucker,” he muttered, picking up the gun. He didn’t know how to use it, but it felt good in his hands. It felt damned good. He scooped up the clip and jammed it into the chamber, surprised when it easily clicked into place.
He was locked and loaded. Ready to go.
And when he heard a voice behind him, a man busting through the door, he was so geared up for violence, he whirled around and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 24
