Metsy Hingle - Behind The Mask

“Why didn’t you say up front that she stole the kid?” Sullivan demanded.

“I was about to,” Adam lied, surprised that a man who was reportedly a real hard-ass should care about the kid. He certainly didn’t give a damn about the brat. As far as he was concerned, his problems with Elisabeth all began with the kid. Not insisting that she terminate the pregnancy had been a major screwup on his part—one he would make sure didn’t happen again. But first…first he had to get Elisabeth back—and that damning disk. Did she even know what was on it? Or the damage it could cause him if it got into the wrong hands?

“How old’s your boy?”

Adam frowned at Sullivan’s question and quickly calculated how old the kid would be now. “Almost three.”

“Man, that’s got to be rough, him being so little and you missing all that time with him.”

“It is,” Adam said, because it was obvious that Sullivan expected it. “I want you to find my family for me, Mr. Sullivan. And I’d like you to start looking for them right away. If you’ll come by my office, I’ll provide you with any other information you need, and give you a retainer for your services. I’ll expect you within the hour.”

“I can’t make it today.”

Adam scowled. “Why not?” he demanded, unaccustomed to having his requests denied.

“Because I’m in the middle of another job.”

“And is this other client offering to pay you a million dollars for your services?” he countered.

“No.”

“Then I don’t see the problem. Tell your client to find someone else to handle whatever it is you’re doing.”

“That’s not the way I work,” Sullivan said, his voice cool and hard. “When I make a commitment, I honor it. I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a call when I get back and, if you’re still interested in hiring me, we’ll talk.”

When the dial tone buzzed in his ear, Adam slammed down the receiver. “Arrogant bastard,” he muttered, clenching his fists. Sullivan would pay for that, he promised. As soon as the man found Elisabeth, he would make Sullivan regret his insolence. Shoving back from the desk, he headed to the bar and poured himself a shot of bourbon. He tossed it back, felt the sting as the drink slid down his throat like liquid fire. After pouring himself another one, he grabbed the crystal tumbler and stalked across the ultramodern office on which he’d spent a small fortune. Ignoring the polished finish on the black marble desktop, he set down his glass and picked up the silver-framed picture of Elisabeth. He stared at her—the pale delicate skin, the silky blond hair, the long slender neck. Never taking his eyes from the photo, he reached for the bourbon and tossed back another swallow.

She belonged to him, he reasoned, and felt that violent punch of lust that always came with thoughts of Elisabeth. From the moment he’d first set eyes on her he’d wanted her. Even at fifteen and still an innocent, she’d left him breathless and aching. She’d been worth ten of her mother. It was the reason he’d saved her. Were it not for him, she’d have probably hooked up with some two-bit punk and been selling herself on the streets of Miami before she’d turned sixteen.

Instead he’d rescued her from her wretched life. He’d provided for her education, showered her with gifts, and when she’d been a legal adult, he had married her. Any number of women would have killed to be in her position, just for the chance to be in his bed. He knew he looked good. He took care of himself, kept his body in shape and could easily pass for a man twenty years younger. Hadn’t he heard a woman in one of his clubs call him a stud just last week? He could have had his pick of women, but he’d chosen Elisabeth.

Elisabeth.

So sweet. So soft. So young. His breath turned to a pant as he thought of taking her that first time, of thrusting himself into her warm tender flesh. And the memory made the throbbing in his groin even more painful.

He slapped down the glass and reached for the phone. “Kit, it’s Adam,” he said when the line was answered at his Miami nightclub. “How’s that new girl working out, the young blonde with the southern drawl you introduced me to last week?”

“You must mean Annabelle,” Kit said, her voice warm and sultry. “She’s working out fine. A little shy, but the customers seem to like her. She’s a fast learner and very eager to please. She should be here in a few minutes.”

“Send her up to the penthouse when she gets there,” he said, already anticipating the feel of the pretty, young girl beneath him. “And Kit, get someone else to take her shift tonight. She’s going to be busy.”

After hanging up the phone, he reached for his glass and started toward the bedroom adjoining his office to wait for Annabelle. But his gaze fell on Elisabeth’s photo again. He lifted his glass in a mock salute. “It won’t be long now, darling,” he whispered before downing the remainder of the whiskey. He would use Sullivan to find her, and once he had her and the disk back, he’d see to it that she never dared to defy him again.

As for Sullivan, the man was in need of a lesson in respect—which he personally intended to deliver.

“According to the APB on him, his name is Bill ‘The Bull’ Dozier and he’s wanted in three states for robbery, rape and murder,” the broad-shouldered state trooper told Michael.

Michael took in the scene before him—the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance, the brightly lit front of the all-night store advertising drinks, food and gas, the dark, lonely stretch of road with cops and paramedics at a crime scene. He couldn’t help feeling a sense of déjà vu. When he saw three curiosity seekers make their way over to the storefront to look inside, he had to fight the itch to tell them to stay clear and to let the cops do their jobs. But he was no longer a cop, he reminded himself. He was a bystander and a witness.

“Man, he is one big mother,” the trooper said as two Florida state police exited the convenience store with the bald, tattooed piece of scum. Michael had interrupted him in the middle of raping the store’s female clerk.

“Yeah. But you know what they say. The bigger they come, the harder they fall.” But this one hadn’t gone down easy, Michael admitted. It had taken him more than a dozen vicious blows and two bullets to finally bring the man down. And even with two slugs in him, shackled and bleeding, the guy was still able to walk out of the store to the second ambulance that had been called to the scene. As Michael watched him being loaded into the ambulance, he thought of the terrified young woman whom he’d rescued a short time ago. Remembering her battered face and the way her clothes had been torn from her body, he clenched his bruised fingers into a fist and wished he could ram it down the monster’s throat. “How’s the girl?”

“Alive, thanks to you. She’s lucky you came along when you did. According to his rap sheet, he took a knife to the last woman when he was finished. A remote spot like this and this late at night, chances are no one would have found her for hours.”

“That’s probably what he was counting on,” Michael said. And if he hadn’t been so determined to make it back to Miami tonight, he never would have pulled off the interstate and come to the all-night store in the middle of nowhere in search of a jolt of caffeine to keep him awake. For the first time in the four days since his temper had caused him to mouth off to Webster and blow off what was a once-in-a-lifetime fee of a million bucks, Michael cut himself some slack. Had he taken Webster’s job instead of tracking down the deadbeat who’d wiped out a widow’s savings, he wouldn’t have been here to save the girl. If he were a man who believed in such things as fate, he might even think that something besides the need for coffee had made him choose this particular exit on this particular night.