Читать книгу: «Undeniable Proof»

Willa couldn’t remember ever feeling so isloated.

So alone. Not even in the middle of South Dakota, miles from the nearest town. Surely all the people looking for her would have a hard time finding her on Cape Diablo. But she didn’t delude herself. She would never be safe. The sound of the boat motor died off into the distance. She looked back once but the boat had already disappeared from sight. All she could see was the horizon and the endless Gulf of Mexico.

As she looked up at the villa, she wondered if there was any place safe enough or far enough from civilization to elude the men who were on her trail.

If it wasn’t Cape Diablo, then no place existed.

Willa stopped in front of the villa. She could hear the waves lapping at the dock and the wind whispering in the palms as if it were hiding some sinister secrets….

Undeniable Proof
B.J. Daniels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for Tim and Elise who told us about these waters and gave us our first chart of the islands. Thank you for many hours boating through a blur of mangrove-green islands on endless water. There is no neater place to be lost.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

B.J. Daniels’s life dream was to write books. After a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist, she sold thirty-seven short stories before she finally wrote her first book. That book, Odd Man Out, received a 4½ star review from Romantic Times BOOKclub and went on to be nominated for Best Harlequin Intrigue of 1995. Since then she has won numerous awards, including a career achievement award for romantic suspense.

B.J. lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, two springer spaniels, Scout and Spot, and an aging, temperamental tomcat named Jeff. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards, camps, boats and plays tennis. To contact B.J., write to her at P.O. Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771, or check out her Web site at www.bjdaniels.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Willa St. Clair—The artist’s dreams were all coming true—until she witnessed a murder and was forced to hide on the island of Cape Diablo.

Landry Jones—His life depended on finding the artist and making sure she never testified against him.

Zeke Hartung—What had the undercover cop been thinking the night he died?

Freddy D.—He’d do anything to get the name of the man who’d betrayed him—and the missing evidence that could save him from prison.

Odell Grady—Was the writer working on a book about Cape Diablo? Or was he up to something that could get him killed?

Henrietta “Henri” LaFrance—The good-looking redhead had come to the island to escape a bad relationship. Or had she?

Blossom—All Cape Diablo needed was a surly teenaged actress.

Alma Garcia—The former nanny had been on Cape Diablo so long everyone thought she was crazy.

Carlos Lazario—The old fisherman moved around the island like a ghost.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

He’d waited too long. They knew. The realization turned his blood to ice water. If they knew that he had the disk, then they also knew what he planned to do with it.

He felt the full weight of the disk in his breast pocket. In the right hands, the disk was gold. In the wrong hands, it was a death warrant.

Simon didn’t look back but he knew they were behind him, following him. Two of them. He could hear them. Feel them working their way along the dark street.

All he could guess is that they weren’t sure where he was headed. They would want to know who he’d planned to give the disk to. He had a pretty good idea that they knew exactly who he worked for—but just wanted proof.

He’d changed course the moment he’d heard them behind and now found himself headed for the beach. Ahead was the artsy part of St. Pete Beach, the small southern Florida town at the edge of the Gulf of Mexico. Art galleries, studios, little shops. All closed this time of the night.

No place to hide.

He had to ditch the disk. It was his only chance. He was probably a dead man either way, but he might be able to talk his way out of this if the disk wasn’t found on him.

Ahead Simon spotted a light burning in one of the art studios. Was it possible it was still open? Could he be that lucky?

He could hear the quickening of the men’s steps behind him as he neared the shop entrance. Inside, the light silhouetted a figure at the back of the shop apparently working late. His good luck. That person’s bad fortune.

It took everything in him not to run. But that would make him look guilty. That would get him killed before he could hide the disk.

Simon reached the front door of the shop and grasped the knob. He could see a woman working in the studio at the back. The men behind him were so close he thought he could feel their collective breaths on his neck. As he tried the door, he expected to feel a hand drop to his shoulder and a cold steel barrel press against his backbone.

Locked! He couldn’t catch his breath. He jiggled the doorknob. His heart pounded so hard, all he could hear was the blood buzzing in his ears.

The woman who’d been working at the back looked up. Obviously she hadn’t been expecting anyone.

Simon waved and called to her in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own, “Sorry I’m late.”

Surprise registered in her eyes, but she stopped what she was doing and walked toward the door.

He thought he heard the two men slide back into the darker shadows as the woman opened the door.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” he said, stepping in, forcing her to step aside as he pushed past and into the shop. “I was afraid you’d already gone home. I called about one of your—” he glanced to see what kind of work the woman did “—paintings,” he said, and stuffed his hands into his pockets so she didn’t see how badly they were shaking as he turned to look at her.

He’d thought her twenty-something but she could have been younger. It was hard to tell her age with such pale skin sprinkled with golden freckles and blond hair that she had pulled back in a single long braid that trailed down her back. She wore a sleeveless T-shirt, peach-colored, and a pair of denim cropped pants. He caught the scent of vanilla.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking confused. “Are you sure you have the right gallery?” Simon could see that she was scared. If she only knew. But she closed the door behind her, failing, he noted, to lock it, though. Would the two men come in here after him? He couldn’t be sure.

But if they did, the woman was as good as dead.

“Yes, this is the shop,” he said, improvising as he moved to look at one of the Florida landscapes done in pastels. “My wife said she was told someone would be here late.” A man with a wife would make her feel safer, he hoped, as he saw that she hadn’t moved. In fact, she seemed to hover by the phone on the desk by the door.

He thought of the real wife he’d had. She’d left him because she couldn’t take the line of work he was in. Low pay, ridiculous hours and always the chance that tonight might be the night he didn’t come home. Tonight might be the night she got the phone call. Or worse, opened the door in the wee hours of the morning to see one of his buddies at the door bearing the bad news.

He studied one of the signed paintings, trying to focus. Thinking about Evie right now was a really bad idea. Next to it was a poster announcing an art show at a gallery down the street tomorrow night. “Are you W. St. Clair?”

“Yes.” She sounded shy, maybe a little embarrassed. Or maybe it was just nerves with him in her studio this late at night. He could see where she’d been framing some paintings at a workbench in the back.

“You say someone told your wife I would be here late?” she asked. He could hear her trying to come up with an explanation. “I can’t imagine who would have told her that.”

He shrugged and moved through the paintings, trying not to look out the front windows. Just act normal. The thought almost made him laugh. A normal man would be smart enough not to have gotten caught. And he was caught. Even if he ditched the disk, he wasn’t sure he could save himself. Those men wouldn’t be after him unless they knew he’d double-crossed them.

“I had to work late myself tonight,” Simon said, making it up as he went. Nothing new there. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get here in time. You see it’s our anniversary. Ten years. My wife told me about a painting she saw here and I thought it would make a great anniversary present for her.”

Evie had bailed after six years. Hadn’t even waited for the seven-year itch.

“Your anniversary?” The artist smiled. She wanted to believe him. Simon knew he was laying it on a little thick but he needed her to feel safe. To act as if she’d known he was coming. Act as if nothing was wrong for the men who he knew were outside watching him. Watching them both.

The ploy seemed to be working. He saw her relax a little, her movements not as tense as she stepped away from the front windows.

“Do you mind if I just look around for a few minutes?” he asked. “I know I’ll recognize the painting she fell in love with from the way she described it.”

“If you tell me—”

“You do beautiful work. I can understand why she was so taken with your paintings,” he said, cutting her off.

“Thank you,” she said, sounding less suspicious although clearly still cautious. “I have a show coming up tomorrow night so I was working late framing. I’m afraid some of the paintings aren’t for sale—at least until the show tomorrow night. I hope your wife didn’t choose one that’s tagged for the show.”

“Well, if she did, I’m sure I’ll find something that she’ll love.” Simon heard her go back to the bench. All she had to do was look up and see him from where she worked. He continued to move through the paintings, pretending to admire each as if in no hurry to find the one his wife wanted.

There was only one spot in the small shop where she wouldn’t be able to see him. Nor would anyone outside have a clear view because of several large paintings that hung from a makeshift wall.

He found a painting that was marked For Show, Not For Sale and slipped the knife from his pocket. He quickly cut a small slot along the edge of the paper backing the framed painting—one of a colorful sailboat keeling over in the wind—and slid the disk inside between the paper and the artwork.

The disk fit snug enough that it made no sound when Simon picked up the painting as if inspecting it more closely. No one should notice the careful cut he’d made. Not that anyone would get the chance. He’d be back tonight for the painting just as soon as he got rid of the two men after him.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he picked up another small painting of a Florida street market, colorful and quaint and the painting was not tagged for the show.

“This is the one. What does the W. stand for?” he asked as he took it over to her.

“Willa.” She smiled as she saw which painting he had selected. “An excellent choice.”

Simon paid in cash and watched her carefully wrap it, priding himself on the fact that he hadn’t once glanced toward the front windows. Anyone watching him from outside would think this had been his destination all along. At least he hoped so. Everything was riding on this.

“You really saved my life,” he said, smiling at the young woman. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was to see that you were still around tonight.”

She handed him the package and smiled back. “Happy anniversary. I hope your wife enjoys the painting.”

“Oh, she will.” Evie would have had a fit if he’d brought home a painting by an unknown. Evie liked nice things. And Simon had failed to give her what she needed.

Swallowing down the bitterness, he idly picked up one of the flyers by the cash register announcing Willa St. Clair’s gallery showing the next evening and pretended to study it before he folded the flyer and put it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

She followed him to the door.

“Good luck with your show tomorrow night,” he said as she started to close the door. “Maybe my wife and I will stop by.”

“It’s just down the street, at the Seaside Seascapes Gallery.”

Simon nodded as she closed and locked it behind him, then he turned and started back the way he’d come, taking his time, the small painting tucked under his arm.

He waited for the two men to accost him as he walked down the street. Two blocks from Willa St. Clair’s art studio, and he hadn’t seen anyone who wanted to kill him. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he’d hidden the disk and blown off his delivery meeting for nothing.

He should have been relieved. But instead, it made him angry. He’d panicked for nothing. Now he would have to go back and get the damned disk after the studio was closed. Worse, he would have to set up another delivery meeting. Any change of plans always increased the danger.

At his car, he beeped open the doors, the lights flashed and he reached for the door handle.

They came at him from out of the darkness, surprising him. Simon reached for his weapon, but he wasn’t fast enough. The small painting he’d bought fell to the ground with a thud as the larger of the two grabbed him, the smaller one taking his gun and searching him.

“What the hell do you want?” he bluffed, recognizing them both. “You scared the hell out of me. You’re damned lucky I didn’t shoot you both.”

The smaller of the two men scooped up the painting from the sidewalk and tore the canvas from its frame, tossing it aside when he didn’t find what he was looking for.

Simon considered whether he could take them both and decided he’d be dead before he even had one of them down. No, he thought, he had a much better chance if he could get them to take him to their boss. He’d managed to bluff his way this far. He had to believe he could get himself out of this, as well.

“Where is it?” the small one demanded as he jammed a gun into Simon’s kidneys.

He groaned. “Where’s what?” The big one hit him before Simon even saw him move. The punch dropped him to his knees.

“Not here,” the smaller one snapped and Simon heard the sound of a car engine.

A moment later he was shoved onto the floorboard of the back seat, something heavy pressed on top of him.

He tried to breathe, to remain calm. The disk was hidden. If he played his cards right, he could get it back and still make delivery. Too much was at stake to give up now.

If there was one thing Simon Renton was good at it, it was talking his way out of trouble. Didn’t everyone say he was like a cat with nine lives?

He just hoped he hadn’t run out of lives.

Chapter Two

Simon was dead.

Landry Jones stood in the large office of the Tampa warehouse fighting the urge to put a bullet hole into the brains of the two men who’d killed Simon. Stupid fools.

But then he’d have to take out their boss, Freddy D., and that wasn’t part of the plan. At least not yet.

“We almost got him to tell us who he was working with,” said the larger of the two thugs, who went by TNT or T for short, no doubt because of the man’s short fuse.

The other man, known as Worm, was smaller, cagier and meaner if that were possible. “I told T to back off a little but Simon was giving him a lot of grief.”

Knowing Simon, he would have purposely got T going, so the fool killed him before he gave up the names of the other undercover cops who’d infiltrated the organization.

Landry swore under his breath. “That’s why I wanted to handle this. I would have gotten the names out of him.”

Freddy D. studied him from beneath hooded gray eyes. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Landry shook his head angrily. “So where’s the disk Simon supposedly made?” he asked the two thugs. “Or did you kill him before he told you that, as well?”

“Easy,” Freddy D. said, but turned his big bald head to take in T and Worm. “Tell me you got the disk.” The tone of his voice made it pretty clear that T and Worm might not be around long if they didn’t.

Landry held his breath. T squirmed but Worm looked almost cocky. “He told us where to find it,” Worm said.

Landry let out the breath he’d been holding. “Great. You don’t have the disk, you don’t even know if it exists or if Simon was a cop or not.” He felt the corpse-gray eyes of Freddy D. shift to him again.

“My source said he was a cop and that there were two others working with him in my organization,” Freddy D. said.

“Yeah? And what if your source just wanted Simon dead and you running scared of your own men?” Landry asked, knowing he was stepping over the line. “Simon was smart. He was good for business. Now he’s dead and there might not even be a damned disk.”

“Cool down…” Zeke said from where he lounged against the wall. Zeke Hartung, known affectionately as Zeke the Freak, was tall and slim with rebel good looks. Landry had never asked how he got the nickname. He didn’t want to know.

“We all liked Simon,” Zeke continued. “If he was a cop, then I’m a cop and I’m taking you all in.”

The men in the room laughed nervously. Landry met Zeke’s gaze. Zeke smiled. The bastard loved to bluff.

“If your source says there’s a disk, Freddy D., then there’s a disk,” Zeke continued. “So let’s find it. Find out what’s on it. Find out where Simon got his information—or if these two morons killed the wrong man.”

“Who you calling a moron?” T demanded, going for Zeke.

Freddy D. stopped it with a wave of his hand. “Zeke’s right. Once we have the disk, then we’ll know who we can trust. So where is this disk and why don’t I have it yet?” Freddy D. asked, a knife edge to his voice.

Even Worm looked a little less sure of himself. “Simon said he hid it in a painting in one of those art studios down by the beach.”

“You think he’s a cop, you think he has information on a disk that will bring down the entire organization or make it possible for some other organization to move in on us, and you trusted him to tell you the truth about where he hid it?” Landry demanded incredulously.

Freddy D. shot Landry a look that dropped his blood temperature to just above freezing before turning that cold stare on T and Worm. “So why didn’t you just get the painting and bring it to me?”

Worm swallowed, his Adam apple bobbing up and down. “It’s in this art studio. The thing is the shops are all open now. We can’t just waltz in and take the painting in broad daylight.”

Freddy D. sat up, his weight making the chair groan. “Don’t take it, you fool. Buy it. How much money do you need?”

T and Worm exchanged a look. “It’s not for sale.”

Freddy D. sat back as if Worm had slapped him. “You aren’t serious.”

“The painting is part of an art show tonight at some gallery called Seaside Seascapes,” Worm said. “I just thought I’d go to the show tonight and buy the painting.”

Freddy D. groaned. “You? At an art show?”

“Better than sending T,” Landry said.

Freddy D. swiveled around in his chair to pin Landry with that corpse-gray gaze again. “You go, Jones. T and Worm will be waiting for you in the alley to make sure there are no problems. You buy the painting, make sure you get it tonight, you hand it over. They’ll be watching you the whole time. Have a problem with that?”

“That’s assuming T and Worm aren’t undercover cops,” Landry said sarcastically.

Even Freddy D. laughed at that.

“I don’t know. They’re dumb enough to be cops,” Zeke said.

Both men looked like they could kill Zeke, but were smart enough not to try. At least not right now in front of the boss.

“I don’t want those two in the alley,” Landry said. He knew the best thing he could do right now was to go along with Freddy D.’s plan. But it was too late in Landry’s life to do the best thing. Far from it.

“Think about it, these two hanging out in the alley behind a fancy art gallery?” Landry said. “First off, anyone who sees them is going to call the cops, thinking they’re staking out the place. Secondly, if your source is right and Simon was a cop working with the feds and had made a disk he planned to hand over, then the feds are looking for this disk, too.”

Freddy D. narrowed his eyes at him, and for a moment Landry thought he might tell T and Worm to kill him. “While not eloquent or wise, you do make a good point. You’re saying that Simon might have gotten the feds word where he hid the disk.”

Landry doubted it. Otherwise the feds would be busting down the doors right now, guns blazing. “I think it would be a mistake to underestimate Simon. I know if I was him and I spotted these two behind me, guilty or not, I’d do whatever I could to cover my ass.”

“I’ll cover the alley,” Zeke said. “Or better yet, I’ll go to the art show and let Landry wait in the sidelines.”

“Like you know squat about art,” Landry said, then pretended not to care. “Whatever.”

Freddy D. raised a hand. “Landry goes in. Zeke, you take the alley. T and Worm won’t be far away just in case.”

Just in case any of them thought about double-crossing him. “I want that disk,” the boss said.

“If it exists,” Landry added, and Freddy D. gave him a warning look before turning again to T and Worm. “What do we know about this artist where Simon said he hid the disk?”

The thugs exchanged confused looks.

“The painting he had on him was signed W. St. Clair,” Worm said. “Simon said her name was Willow.”

“Or something like that,” T said. “He wasn’t talking too clearly.”

Freddy D. groaned. “What about the artist? Is it possible she’s his contact?”

“You hear sirens?” Zeke asked sarcastically. “If the feds had the disk we’d all be facedown and handcuffed.”

“Zeke’s right,” Landry said. “So what does this painting look like? You did get that, right?”

Worm looked like he was itching to punch Landry’s ticket. “It’s a painting of a sailboat. It had a red and white sail and the boat was blue. The boat is at full sail and there is a blond woman at the wheel. Her hair’s blowing back and she’s kind of hanging off to the side like she’s having a great time.”

Landry stared at Worm, amazed they’d gotten that much information out of Simon about the painting but weren’t sure about the artist’s name. He wanted to believe that Simon had made up every word of it. But Landry had seen T in action and knew that few men could withstand that form of torture. Even Simon.

“I’ll find the painting,” Landry said.

“I also think it would be wise to find out what the woman knows about Simon,” Freddy D. said. “Either way, she’s a loose end.” Freddy D. was looking straight at him. “You have a way with the ladies, Landry. Take care of her.”

WILLA ST. CLAIR GLANCED around the gallery at all her paintings hanging on the walls and could no longer suppress her excitement. She still couldn’t believe it. All the hard work, the long hours painting then framing, had finally paid off.

Just when she thought that her life couldn’t get any better than this, she saw the handsome dark-haired man standing by the door.

He’d caught her eye several times earlier, lifting his wineglass and giving her a nod. She’d felt herself warm, complimented by his attention.

Now he smiled and she saw that the crowd had thinned. Clearly he was waiting for her. Her heart beat a little faster.

Several of the stragglers came over to congratulate her. Like her first two openings, this one had been an incredible success. She still couldn’t believe it. Almost all of the paintings had small red dots on them, indicating they were sold.

Her dream had come true. She tried to calm her runaway heart, took a deep breath and turned to look toward the door.

He was gone.

Her disappointment pierced the helium high she’d been riding on just moments before. She’d taken too long. He’d gotten tired of waiting.

She couldn’t help feeling regret. He’d made a point of getting her attention during the show. But each time she hadn’t been able to get away to talk to him. She’d hoped he would find a way to talk to her before the evening was over.

“Great show, sweetie,” the gallery owner, Evan Charles, said, coming over to give her an air kiss beside each cheek. “Everyone was just raving about your use of color. You’re a hit.”

She thanked Evan and promised to let him know when she had enough paintings ready for another show. Taking her wrap from the closet by the door, she stepped out into the Florida night air, closed her eyes and breathed it all in as he locked up behind her.

You’re not in South Dakota anymore.

She smiled to herself. She would never tire of breathing sea air. She could hear the cry of the gulls and the lull of the surf not a block away. She loved Florida. And Florida, it seemed, loved her.

“Beautiful night,” said a male voice as warm and silky as the night air. “Beautiful woman.”

She opened her eyes and turned already smiling, knowing it was him. He had waited for her.

“Congratulations,” he said. “I was hoping all evening to get a chance to meet you. You were much too popular. And I was much too shy.” He grinned and extended his hand. “Landry Jones.”

He was anything but shy, she thought as her hand disappeared into his large one. His touch was gentle but there was raw power behind it. She shivered as she looked into his dark eyes, and he grinned as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Amazingly, he was even more striking up close. Not classically handsome. Too rough around the edges for that. He wore khaki chinos and a palm-tree-print short-sleeved shirt and deck shoes. He was tanned and the fingers on his left hand were scraped as if he’d been in a fistfight. He looked like a man who could hold his own in a fight, she thought, as a niggling worry wormed its way into her perfect night.

Landry Jones wasn’t the type of man a woman met at an art showing. Especially not hers.

“So, you’re interested in Florida landscapes?” she asked, cocking her head to one side. “You don’t seem the type.”

He feigned hurt, laughed and gave her a sheepish grin. “Actually I’m more interested in the artist, although I find both intriguing.”

She felt her cheeks heat under his compliment as well as his dark piercing gaze. If he was trying to charm her, he was doing a darned good job. “Thank you.” She wanted to pinch herself. This night was just too good to be true.

“Any chance I could buy you a cup of coffee?” he asked. “Now that we’ve officially met? There’s a coffee shop I know that’s still open not far from here. Or if you’d like something stronger…”

If only this night never had to end. And Landry Jones was like the topping on the cake. And maybe the ice cream, as well.

So what if he wasn’t the type to frequent art shows? For tonight he could be her type, she thought with a thrill.

“Coffee would be great.” She couldn’t trust herself with anything stronger, not while feeling as exhilarated as she was already.

“Coffee it is then,” he said, his smile mesmerizing. “This night calls for a celebration. If you’re feeling adventurous, we could even have a piece of key lime pie.”

She was feeling adventurous, all right.

“My car is just over here.” He pointed down the dark street and suddenly she wasn’t so sure.

She knew she was being silly. But suddenly the reality of the situation hit her. This wasn’t South Dakota and she didn’t know this man from Adam.

The idea of getting into a car with a complete stranger was totally alien to her—and suddenly seemed more than a little dangerous.

Odd as it might seem, she knew everyone back in her small hometown in South Dakota and never dated anyone she didn’t. Now she was about to get into a car with a stranger she’d met just moments before.

While she could hear traffic a few streets over, there was no longer anyone around, all the shops and galleries were now closed and she was feeling a little vulnerable.

She turned, hoping Evan was still inside closing up. Even the gallery lights were out. She hadn’t seen Evan leave, but then all her attention had been on Landry Jones, hadn’t it?

Landry must have seen her indecision and the way her feet were rooted to the sidewalk. “Wait here. I’ll get the car.” He flashed a reassuring smile, then turned and keyed his remote. A set of headlights flashed down the street. She watched him walk toward a newer-model blue BMW, telling herself she was being very foolish.

Yes, she was taking a chance, but hadn’t she had to take a chance when she’d left South Dakota to come to Florida? And look how that had worked out. Sometimes you had to take a chance.

Especially with a handsome man on one of the most exciting nights of her life.

She groaned as she took a few steps down the street away from the gallery—and Landry Jones. With her luck, the man would turn out to be a serial killer ax murderer. Otherwise, it was almost as if he was too perfect.

AT THE CAR, Landry climbed in and pulled out his cell. He punched speed dial as he watched Willa St. Clair.

“The painting wasn’t in the show,” he said the moment the line was answered. He could see Willa St. Clair waiting for him. “But don’t worry. I’ll find it. I have the artist in my crosshairs right now, so to speak. Tell Zeke I won’t be needing him. I’ll call when I have the disk.” He snapped his cell shut before Freddy D. could argue.

With a start, he saw that Willa St. Clair was walking down the block toward the alley behind the gallery.