I'll Find You Part 9

Andre received the call from Daniella around nine, listened for a few moments, then said, "Okay," and hung up, his gaze flicking to Teresa. "Lumpkin's headed north. Daniella will follow him until you take over. Call when he lands somewhere."

Teresa knew enough about Robert Lumpkin's habits to figure his final destination would be a bar in Venice or Santa Monica. She gathered up her purse and got to her feet. "Should I take the Xterra?" she asked, as Daniella had the Chevy.

"Yeah."

Teresa's pulse was starting to jack up. The thrill of the hunt. Andre was looking at her in that intense way he had. Once upon a time that expression had gotten her juices flowing; all she could think about was Andre and s.e.x . . . s.e.x and Andre. And then they would work their magic together. A long time ago . . .

Reading her mind, Andre came over to her and stood in front of her, running his hands down her arms, fitting her up against him. She had been slipping her right foot into one of her heels, but she stopped, waiting, anxious to go.

"You smell good enough to eat," he said, inhaling deeply the citrus flavor of her perfume.

She quivered when his hand slid from her arm to her hip. Behind him, she sensed Naomi and Clarice move into the room. Good G.o.d, if Andre tried to claim her before she went out on her mission she might start screaming and never stop. He'd done it before. He had amazing radar when it came to sensing what she was feeling and he was feeding off her own adrenaline rush.

But she couldn't stomach the thought of making love to him now. Her feelings for him had been eroding over time, like water eating away at rock. He'd grown obsessive and full of strange beliefs. It was just . . . over.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she kept her face expressionless, fighting her claustrophobic anxiety. It was the thought of Tucker, safe, sound, and waiting for her, that kept her from losing it.

Then Andre's cell phone rang and he made a sound of impatience, taking a step away to answer it. At his curt "Yeah?" Teresa exhaled. So did Naomi and Clarice, though they probably didn't realize it.

Teresa could hear the tinny sound of Daniella's voice but couldn't make out the words. Andre grunted an "Okay" then snapped at Teresa, "You've got a phone?"

They shared cell phones except for Andre. "Yes," she said, recognizing his growing anger. He'd wanted to screw her, claim her right then and there, but he wanted to get Robert Lumpkin more. He didn't know about the other cell phone that she had in her own name or the studio apartment she'd been renting for two months now.

"He's in Venice at a place called Ray's," Andre said.

"I know it," Teresa said. Andre's eyes narrowed at her incautious answer. He clearly wanted to ask her how. Teresa preempted him. "I met Jonathan there a time or two."

It was a lie. Jonathan Cantrell would no more have gone to a dive like Ray's than fly to the moon. He liked the Peninsula Hotel, sw.a.n.k nightclubs on the Sunset Strip, expensive rooms with cabanas, pools, and girls in bikinis carrying trays of drinks, and humidors of cigars. Oh, yeah. Jonathan had liked the high life. He'd wanted to marry her and how Andre had laughed when she'd told him. "Well, he can't have you," he'd said, and Teresa, in those heady days before the handmaidens, had thrilled to his possessiveness. Jonathan had been the big mark before Stephen Laughlin, though there was something special about Stephen, from Andre's point of view, that she still didn't quite understand. She'd thought about it a time or two, but then had decided she didn't really care. Stephen had been a sweet guy, truly in love with her, or at least the Teresa he believed her to be. Whatever Andre's reasons for targeting Stephen were, they were his own.

Now she headed for the door, wondering if this was the last time she would cross this threshold. Hoping it was the last time.

She'd wanted to be that Teresa, the one that Stephen Laughlin had fallen in love with. She'd even thought she could be, for a while. That was when her love for Andre died, those few years she'd played at being Stephen's wife. Swept into the part of Teresa Laughlin, she'd repressed thoughts of her old life so deeply that she'd almost forgotten them herself. She'd even gotten pregnant, and had managed to keep it a secret from Andre. She'd lived in fear that he would drive to Bakersfield or Fresno, or somewhere in the Valley, and then decide to cruise on up to Laughlin Ranch, but he never had. But then he'd been too busy ama.s.sing the handmaidens; she just hadn't known it.

Then one day it was over. "Get the money and get back here."

She'd heard the underlying warning in his tone, knew her time was over. She'd already drained her account with Stephen and had Tucker's and her pa.s.sports ready when Edmund told her he'd set up the hunting date. She'd been teasing him in heated meetings with a lot of s.e.xual petting, telling Edmund she couldn't truly be with him while Stephen was her husband. She'd put the idea in Edmund's head without him knowing it that if Stephen were gone, say, then they could be together. But she hadn't realized how primed he was, how ready to jump to have her. She'd been home at the ranch, actually having dinner with Victoria in the dining room, a chilly affair that nevertheless alibied her completely, when they heard the news. Stephen had given her the bracelet just two days earlier.

Victoria was beside herself, and Teresa was shattered as well. She hadn't realized until the deed was done how much she'd fallen for Tucker's father. Stephen's death appeased Andre for a while, giving her enough time to fly Tucker to Martinique, and then return to Los Angeles. Andre had been disgusted with the paltry amount she'd come away with from the Laughlin affair after such a long time-she'd purposely left the bracelet with Aimee-but he hadn't been as upset as she'd expected.

Strangely, it was more like he'd pretended to be upset, and she realized there was something else going on he wasn't copping to. Some long-range plan that she wasn't privy to, apparently. Or maybe he was tired of the Laughlin plan. Andre's interest in anything was notoriously short.

Whatever the case, Stephen was gone, and she was sorry that she'd been a part of it. She'd thought that was the worst of it, but that was before Jonathan resurfaced and followed her to their house. Teresa had been so rattled to see him loping up the stairs to the front door after her, calling her name, she'd practically slammed the door in his face. He'd yelled through the panels at her that he wasn't leaving and had made such a nuisance of himself that she'd had to step outside and confront him.

She'd tried to convince him that she didn't live at the house, that she was just visiting a friend. He almost believed her. He wanted to punish her for leaving him, but even more than that, he wanted to pick up where they'd left off.

She couldn't do either.

After she'd finally agreed to meet with him the next day, she'd gone back inside and encountered Andre, who was cool, cagey, and surprisingly encouraging. She hadn't known then what his plans were for Jonathan Cantrell. She hadn't known then she would be the one to execute those plans. A s.h.i.+ver ran down her spine as she thought of the little boy who'd died because of her. Because of Andre.

"What's your plan?" Andre asked suddenly from behind her, yanking her from her reverie.

"I'll-show up at Ray's and see what happens."

He turned her around abruptly just as her hand was reaching for the front doork.n.o.b. His lips were pinched. "This isn't a long-term one, Teresa."

"I know what it is."

His eyes narrowed at her neutral tone, as if he were trying to fathom her thoughts. He was so good at reading her that Teresa blanked her mind to anything but the moment at hand. "Do you have the drugs?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Good. See you later tonight . . ."

"Uh-huh."

No. Not tonight. Not ever again. A few more hours, she told herself, thinking of the money in the Bank of America account. She had a debit card tucked away deep inside the seam of the stuffed bear that Stephen had won for her at a fair. She'd told Andre she'd won it herself so that he wouldn't take it from her. He hated any of them having personal possessions. Two days ago she'd swept up the bear and taken it to the apartment, pulling out the debit card and hiding it under a rock beside the garage.

As Naomi handed her the keys to the Xterra, the best car of their small fleet, she thought of the plane ticket she'd purchased with that debit card. A ticket that was placed on the kitchen counter of her studio right next to the rolling suitcase, which was packed and ready.

If all went according to plans, she could be in Martinique tomorrow.

Her heart was thumping as she collected her debit card then drove north to Ray's, a ramshackle cabana bar near the beach. It was frequented by the college crowd and in the summer it was full of bikini tops and short shorts. If Robert Lumpkin was headed that way, it was guaranteed that he was looking for t.i.ts and a.s.s, and the short white dress she was wearing showed lots of both.

She was going to make a statement when she walked in. People were going to remember her. Her hair was always a giveaway unless she dyed it a mousier color, which she had once or twice. Her jaw set as she thought about how many times she'd gone after a mark for Andre.

Well, this was the last. And she was going to do it her way.

She knew what Robert Lumpkin looked like per Daniella's description: late forties, balding, sporting a few extra pounds but p.r.o.ne to sucking in his gut as he was feasting his eyes on whatever hot young thing caught his eye. He drove a ten-year-old, green Ford Explorer, which she spotted immediately in the full lot. She had to circle around and find a s.p.a.ce on the street, a fifteen-minute enterprise that had her champing at the bit.

The men in the young crowd looked at her with initial interest but when she didn't catch their gazes their eyes drifted back to their dates. Lumpkin was easy to find; the only man fitting his description was sitting at the bar. He picked up on her as soon as she walked in and it was simple to stop near him and feign looking toward the back of the bar as if searching for someone.

"Who you waitin' for?" he asked.

She slid him a sideways glance. "Some friends," she said in a cool tone. Didn't want to seem too eager.

"You see 'em?"

"Not yet."

He pointed to the empty bar stool next to him and said, "You can wait here. The place is gettin' pretty full."

She pretended to mull that over, then, as if considering it to be her only option, slipped onto the stool. The hem of her dress hiked all the way up her thigh and she made a halfhearted attempt to bring it down a bit. She was curious if he would offer to buy her a drink. From what Daniella had said, he was tight as a frog's a.s.s.

The bartender cruised up and Teresa tapped her lips with one richly painted red fingernail, pretending to decide. Maybe if she gave him enough time he might say something, but Lumpkin, though maybe fighting with himself, lost the battle with near chivalry and kept his money in his wallet.

"White wine," she said.

"Chardonnay okay?" the bartender asked.

"Do you have a decent sauvignon blanc?"

"Not really," he admitted, flas.h.i.+ng her a smile.

Teresa smiled back despite her electric nerves. "Chardonnay'll be fine."

Not to be outdone, Lumpkin said proprietarily, "The reds are pretty good here."

Teresa half-turned his way. "Not with this white dress. I'd have to be stripping it off and was.h.i.+ng it immediately." She'd drawn out the word "stripping" and Lumpkin looked like he was going to s...o...b..r all over himself.

Her happy juice was in her purse: a sprinkle of Rohypnol in water, more commonly known as roofies. She thought of how many times she'd played out this scene, how many men she'd knocked out and robbed. Normally Andre would want to play the mark for all he was worth, keep him on a string until she could squeeze every last dime out of him, but this was Robert Lumpkin and from Andre's perspective, he was better off dead. He was basically their landlord. And after the way Jonathan had found them out, well, Andre wasn't taking any more chances.

Something s.h.i.+fted, she brooded. Ever since Stephen's death, Andre's directives had changed. No longer was it just about the money. Now it was all about taking the money and killing the mark. There was some new kind of enjoyment on Andre's part that hadn't been there before. His appet.i.tes were changing as was the frequency of the headaches that plagued him.

Something's very wrong with him, she thought, sipping her chardonnay. It was time to leave. Of course, that didn't mean she couldn't roll this loser first . . . and take the money for herself. Her debit card was in her tiny black purse, along with several twenties that Andre had given her for this job. She'd laid her purse on the bar, and now she pulled it toward her and pulled out the stick of red lipstick, adding another glossy layer as Lumpkin nearly p.i.s.sed himself watching her. He probably didn't have a ton of money on him, but she'd take what she could get.

She was getting the h.e.l.l out of Dodge tonight.

"So, how is it?" Lumpkin asked, meaning her drink.

"Pa.s.sable," Teresa said.

He leered at her. "You're a connoisseur, huh."

"I like the good stuff," she admitted with a smile. "But I definitely drink too much of it."

"Yeah?"

"I get a little crazy sometimes. My ex loved it, but man, I don't remember some really important parts, you know?" She leaned a little closer to him, a confidante, then pulled away again. She wasn't wearing underwear beneath the dress and she wondered if she should thrill him with a Sharon Stone move la Basic Instinct.

Lumpkin chugged down the rest of his beer and ordered another. Teresa figured it was just a matter of time before he had to empty his bladder and hoped he would do it before he drained the next one. No way she was going to put her happy juice into a gla.s.s he was finished with.

Sure enough, he swallowed about half of the new beer, fought back a belch with limited success, then said he'd be right back, looking back at her a couple of times as he hurried to the men's room, worried that she would leave. It was the perfect moment to Sharon Stone him and she did, turning on her bar stool just so . . . spreading her legs for a straight view to her hoohaw before she recrossed them.

He practically had a heart attack as he stopped and gaped, then stumbled over his feet as he went to relieve himself. As soon as he was out of sight she glanced around to make certain no one was looking. The bartender had his back to her as did the man seated on the other side of her, talking to his date. She surrept.i.tiously pulled the happy juice from her purse with her left hand. The bottle was tiny enough to hide in her palm. Sliding his beer directly in front of her with her right hand, she then transferred the bottle from left to right and plucked her cell phone from her purse with her left. She set the phone on the table, then feigned texting while she unsnapped the top of the bottle with her thumb and sneaked liberal drops into Lumpkin's beer.

She'd barely gotten the beer gla.s.s placed back in front of his spot again before he was scurrying back to his bar stool. "I'm Robert," he said, practically panting as he held out his hand.

"Julia," Teresa answered, squeezing his palm warmly. She hoped to h.e.l.l he'd washed, the rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"How many of those have you had?" he asked.

"My first." She knocked back the rest of it and signaled for the bartender.

"Things are gettin' kinda crazy already, aren't they?" He glanced down in the direction of her crotch in case she failed to remember what she'd done.

"Crazy's not a bad thing, the way I see it. My ex taught me that."

"That who you were lookin' for?"

"My ex? Oh, h.e.l.l no. He can go f.u.c.k himself."

"Yeah. He can go f.u.c.k himself." Lumpkin laughed like a hyena. He was leaning toward her so much he was about to fall off his stool into her lap, and he hadn't even taken another drink of his beer. It never occurred to him to wonder what Teresa saw in him. Like so many other men, Lumpkin thought more highly of himself than he ought to.

Teresa touched her gla.s.s to his. "Cheers."

"Cheers!" He swooped up his beer and tossed it back, mimicking her. When the bartender brought her second chardonnay, she took an experimental sip, lifting an eyebrow at Lumpkin. "I'd better go slower, or the night might end too soon," she said with regret.

She set her gla.s.s down then delicately touched the corners of her mouth with her index finger, before running her tongue in a full circle around her red, red lips.

Lumpkin followed the movement, his own mouth hanging open. "Hope your date doesn't show."

"I was just meeting a girlfriend, but it looks like she's not going to show. Figures. She's flaky that way."

"Yeah?" He wasn't really listening. He was staring, gla.s.sy-eyed, taking her in.

Teresa bantered with him for about ten minutes more, then asked, "Tell me about yourself, Robert."

"Not much to tell." He shrugged. "I was in home building, but I'm an invest-chor now. Investor." He giggled at his inability to p.r.o.nounce the word. "Real estate."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Own some property in . . . around here. A couple of houses. Think-ging about buyin' inta . . . um . . . condos, er, apart-apartments."

"Sounds like you do well for yourself."

"You bet. I doan mean to brag, but I've saned a pretty penny."

"You've saved a lot."

"Hunh," he agreed, staring ahead for a moment as if in a daze.

"You wanna go somewhere?" she asked softly in his ear.

"Yeeaahh . . . but I gotta go to . . ." He slid off the chair and swayed on his feet. Teresa pulled out his wallet and put some money on the bar for both of their drinks, then tucked a hand under one of his arms and propelled him toward the door. He was still able to walk pretty well; he would be flat out soon enough.

She'd learned that no one really expected a woman to roofie a guy; it was mostly the other way around. They would remember what she looked like after the fact, but since she had no plan to actually harm Lumpkin, she would just take his cash and leave him asleep in his vehicle. When he woke up, she doubted that he would want to even tell anyone what happened. He would feel too foolish.

Andre, of course, would be out of his mind when he learned she'd merely taken Lumpkin's pocket change and left him sleeping it off. He'd believed her earlier excitement had been because she was ramping up to kill Lumpkin, which was Andre's thrill, not hers.

Whatever. Her blood was pumping. She did like the game.

They staggered together to his vehicle. She got him into the car, laying his unconscious body across the front seats. Quickly, she ripped the money from his wallet. Naturally he didn't have that much cash on him. He'd also been lying about his real estate a.s.sets, she was pretty sure. He was, after all, just waiting for his mother to bite the big one so he could have her house. Andre wanted to kill him to a.s.sure that wouldn't happen.

Teresa had a hard moment while she wondered if she should have covered her tracks more, booked a more circuitous route. She'd thought of flying to Caracas, Venezuela, since Martinique wasn't that far from South America, but the expense had been prohibitive whereas she'd gotten much less expensive flights through Miami. Still, if Andre found a way to track her he might figure out where she was going. After all, it was where they'd met.

But she was getting on that red-eye tonight. She didn't plan to stay in Martinique long anyway. All she needed was enough time to pick up Tucker and flee somewhere else. Somewhere far away where they could build some kind of life together.

And just because she wasn't working for Andre anymore didn't mean she had to give up her ways. Maybe, if she was really, really, really lucky, she might meet another guy like Stephen Laughlin and this time she would make it work.