The Baby Chase Page 5

  But suddenly she wasn’t smiling. This strange, warm, intense look shone from her eyes, making his pulse chug with alarm. For one horrifying moment, he was scared she was going to throw her arms around him again—and for damn sure, it was alarm that was chugging through his pulse, not anticipation.

  “I know you don’t believe this,” she murmured, “but I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself. Get some sleep yourself, Gabe. And for sure don’t waste your time worrying about me.”

  Not worry about her? Gabe watched her sprint toward the red Ciera—she dropped her backpack, picked it up, stubbed her toe when she almost tripped—and then finally made it into her car, which, he noted without surprise, wasn’t locked. She didn’t lock her door. She believed in love and white knights. As far as Gabe could tell, she really believed that right would prevail and nothing could hurt her.

  And he wasn’t supposed to worry about her?

  Rebecca parked the rented Ford Taurus in the only spare spot she could find in three blocks, then gulped a breath as she peered out the window. It was incredibly warmer in Los Angeles than in the bitter March winds she’d left in Minnesota that morning. But she was really unfamiliar with this part of the city. Late-afternoon sun glinted on the Randolph Street sign. She was on the correct street. There was no way to park any closer to 12970, but she could walk the few blocks.

  The neighborhood, though, left a tad to be desired. A cluster of tattooed skinheads were monopolizing one corner. Kids of all ages were hanging out in doorways. Graffiti spray-painted on all walled surfaces offered a free sex education. A man lay sprawled on the sidewalk, either dead or dead drunk; garbage spilled and reeked from rusty containers, and if she wasn’t mistaken, this street was sort of owned by the Tigre gang…judging from the tough young fellas sporting that tag on their bandannas and Ts.

  Boy, are you a long way from home, Toto. Gulping hard again, Rebecca stepped out of the car and locked it up tight, thinking that she’d written about scenes like this a zillion times…but never directly experienced one before. Through all the nuisance travel arrangements it took to get here, from the flight to L.A. to getting maps and renting a car, she’d considered that Gabe would probably have an eensy stroke if he knew she was here.

  But then, Gabe had no reason to guess that she’d memorized Tammy Diller’s address before giving him the letter…or that she’d be up at first light, putting travel plans in motion.

  A hispanic boy—maybe twelve?—whistled when she walked past. He’d make a tempting father, she thought objectively. Not the child. Gabe. It was relatively more comforting to concentrate on Gabe than to have a heart attack over the blank-eyed guy flicking open his switchblade just off to her left.

  Gabe was patient, principled, protective. Outstanding father qualities. No fortune hunter—or skinhead—would ever get near his daughter. As far as she could tell, Gabe didn’t give a rat’s tail about money, wasn’t swayed by anyone with it—or without it. He’d teach a son or daughter the right values. She couldn’t imagine him losing his temper. The only thing she’d ever caught annoying him was…well…her.

  That kiss had lingered hard in her mind. It had been a lonely kiss. Hungry. Hot. Sexy. She’d always loved the idea of being blown away by a man’s kisses, but it had never happened to her. Of course, the vast majority of her experience had been kissing frogs—fellas with their minds more on her family’s money than on her—or nice guys who seemed to prefer their bathwater tepid. Not hot. Not risky. Not dangerous.

  The delicious wickedness of that kiss had nothing to do with his having seriously good father potential…but, unfortunately, his attitude did. He’d never said why he was so antifamily. Actually she didn’t know him well enough that they’d ever had a chance to talk about it. But his feelings had always been clear.

  She wondered if he was equally dead set against playing a lover’s role. With her. She wondered whether he’d be as thorough under the sheets as he was with his job. She wondered if he’d feel as hot, and make her feel as delectably, wantonly dangerous—and immoral—as the emotions he’d inspired so damn effortlessly with a few kisses.

  She wondered if she’d lost her mind, to be thinking about sex and Gabe when six fellas—all wearing Tigre T-shirts—were walking shoulder-to-shoulder toward her. Even from twenty yards away, she could see the cold eyes, the strutting postures, the attitude. They were staring straight at her. And all the loitering bystanders who’d been milling all over the place seconds ago seemed to be scattering like leaves in the wind.

  Possibly wearing a green silk dress and heels was a less-than-practical choice, but she’d had no way to know ahead of time what kind of neighborhood the address would be in. Whoever this Tammy Diller was, the woman knew Monica. Rebecca had never anticipated that any acquaintance of the ostentatious, image-obsessed Monica would be living in this kind of down-and-out neighborhood.

  She’d assumed it would be a good idea to dress nice. Now she wished for running shoes instead of three-inch sucker heels. And a bulletproof vest instead of a short, thin dress. The charm bracelet jangled from her wrist, catching the bright L.A. sunlight, and probably the gold at her throat was a bit noticeable, too.

  The six guys were closing in. One was definitely looking at her throat. One was definitely looking at her legs. All six of them certainly looked like an impenetrable wall. Throwing up was looming as an option. She wasn’t sure if there were any statistics on whether throwing up discouraged thieves or murderers, but when Rebecca was scared enough, she was an excellent thrower-upper.

  The tall one with the spiked black hair said something to one of his cronies. The sly whisper appeared to be about her, and set off a set of chuckles that rippled through the rest of them. Her stomach clenched in rope knots. They were within ten yards of her. Five. Forming a semicircle now, not just a wall.

  She swallowed bile. Cocked up her chin, stocked up all the bravado she could muster and met the tall one’s eyes with her best company smile. “Hi,” she said cheerfully. “Could you help me?”

  Perhaps the lad had never heard the words before. Perhaps none of them had, because all six of them seemed momentarily too startled to look tough. Then the tall, skinny one cocked a leg forward. “You bet I can help you, babe.” His voice was low and rough, making the others laugh again.

  If she’d worn her red shoes, maybe she could have tried clicking the heels three times in the hope of landing safely in Kansas. Bravado didn’t seem to be getting her real far, but right then she seemed real short on other choices. “Well, good. That’s just great,” she said heartily. “Would you happen to know a woman named Tammy Diller? She lives in this neighborhood—” ducking her head, she reached for the piece of paper in her purse with the address on it “—at l2970 Randolph. Right up the next block from here?”

  “Don’t know no Tammy Diller. But I’d sure like to know you, babe. Real, real well.” A hand covered with snake rings reached out, etched her collar with a long, slow fingertip.

  Well, so much for fake courage. She was going to throw up on him, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

  Abruptly, though, he dropped his hand. Just as swiftly, the slow, insinuating smile on his face disappeared. He stepped back. Suddenly none of the six were smiling. They all stepped back.

  Instinctively Rebecca whipped her head around. And there was Gabe, standing behind her as if he’d appeared out of nowhere. His scowl was darker than a tornado cloud. In fact, he looked mad enough to shred steel with a single glare.

  Four

  “Left without paying last month’s rent, those two. I shoulda known better’n to believe them. The boyfriend—Wayne, Dwayne, something like that—he’s a real looker, but ain’t got that much upstairs. Tammy, now, she’s the one could charm a fish into flying. Always dressed real nice, pretty eyes—a few miles of road on that face, but no man I ever met’d mind traveling a few more with her. The way those two looked, the way they dressed, I jes’ believed what she said about their being
temporary down on their luck. Shore didn’t seem to belong in this neighborhood, otherwise—”

  Gabe cut through this long monologue. The landlord had a face like a possum—long nose, beady eyes—but he was more talkative than a magpie. “So this Tammy Diller cut out on you. And her boyfriend, Dwayne or Wayne—?”

  “I can’t tell you his name for sure. She was the one paying me—and in cash, yet—so I didn’t pay that much mind to the baggage she was carrying with her. Didn’t like the boyfriend much, though, can tell you that. He smiled with too many white teeth. You ask me, never trust a man with a smile like—”

  “When was the last time you saw them?”

  “Mebbe two weeks ago. I keep good care of the building, mind you, but I ain’t saying I’m here every day. Renters’ll plague you about every little leaky faucet and light switch if you let ’em—”

  “I’m sure they do,” Gabe said consolingly. “So you haven’t seen either of them in two weeks…and I don’t suppose you have any idea where they might have gone?”

  “If I had any idea where they’d gone, I’d be after them for the rent they owe me. Could be some of the neighbors know more, but I asked them, got nowhere. Course, people in this neighborhood ain’t much on talking….”

  The landlord was clearly an exception to that rule. As long as the man came up with information on Tammy Diller, Gabe could keep a rein on his impatience, but that abruptly changed. Instinctively he reached a hand behind him. He expected to connect with a body. He connected with nothing but air.

  Tuning out the landlord entirely, he whipped his head around. A millisecond before, Rebecca had been at his side—and definitely close enough to grab. Now she was gone.

  When he got her alone, he planned to kill her—preferably a nice physical death, like strangling her with his bare hands. If anyone was going to do her harm, though, he wanted first dibs. Which meant keeping her safe until he had the privilege, and in this neighorhood that meant keeping her in sight, and preferably on a short, tight leash.

  Gabe escaped from the gregarious landlord and hiked straight for the sagging screen door. It banged behind him. A cinch she wouldn’t stay inside, where she was relatively safe—Rebecca didn’t have the brains of a bat, much less any functioning self-protective instincts.

  Outside, it was hot, muggy and airless. He paused for ten fast seconds, scanning anything that moved for any glimpse of a redhead. No question she’d stand out in this crowd. A hooker in a tight black leather skirt was soliciting on the far corner, a drug deal going down half a dozen yards from her. A scrawny kid raced past, nearly tripping over Gabe, a nude magazine clutched to his chest and a wizened, whiskery storekeeper shouting after him.

  When Gabe arrived from Minnesota that afternoon—in damn good travel time, mind you—he’d known exactly what kind of street Tammy Diller lived on. He’d expected to find every single thing he saw when he climbed out of his car—except Rebecca, scared out of her tree, surrounded by a half-dozen punks. The image replaying in his mind made his blood pressure rise all over again.

  If she’d gotten herself in more trouble, he really was going to kill her. And, dammit, she’d better not be hurt. Now where the hell could she have gone—?

  There. He caught sight of the bobbing head, the lush russet-auburn hair glinting fire in the fading sun. Her body had been blocked for a few seconds…by a black dude about six feet five inches tall, in a muscle T, hair shaved in an initial on his scalp and shoulders flexing his tattoos. Rebecca was apparently talking to him. Willingly—as if she were having a happy chat with a good ol’ boy.

  From behind, Gabe could see that the dude had a seven-inch blade slugged in his back pocket. When she shifted on those damn silly high heels, Gabe had a clear view of her tousled hair, the bandaged gash on her forehead, the fanny-hugging short dress and the expensive gold glittering at her bare throat and wrists. The dude turned his head, too, and Gabe saw the long knife scar on the fella’s face. The guy lifted his hand toward her.

  Gabe didn’t take time to swear. And he’d moved faster. Just not in the past decade. There were too many people milling the streets for him to outright run, but when strangers caught the expression on his face, they promptly gave him clearance. Her auburn head kept dipping out of sight, but the tall black dude was an easy landmark.

  His lungs were chugging hard and his veins mainlining adrenaline by the time he came up behind the guy. His instinctive response was to grab the guy’s arm. Mr. Muscle-bound yanked around with a growled “Hey!”

  When Rebecca spotted him, her response was an instant “Gabe! Guess what?” in a voice more laden with guileless delight than Pollyanna’s.

  In three seconds flat, Gabe realized that the dude hadn’t been lifting a hand to harm Rebecca, but to shake hers. He let the guy go and tried to cool down. She wouldn’t recognize danger if it bit her on the tush, but for reasons beyond all logic in life—and especially this neighborhood—she wasn’t in danger. She bubbled out that this was Snark, and could he believe it, Snark knew Tammy, and the last Snark heard, Tammy and her boyfriend had taken off for Las Vegas, claimed to have some “business” there.

  Snark eyed him with all the friendliness of a cobra—he knew damn well why Gabe had grabbed his arm—but any body language or eye contact flew right over Rebecca’s head. Snark settled down. So did Gabe’s blood pressure. Eventually.

  And eventually her delightful new friend ambled off in a strutting stride down the street, leaving him alone with Ms. Bubbly Green Eyes.

  “So we might not have caught up with them, but at least we have another lead on where Tammy has gone now. Did you pick up any other information?”

  “No,” Gabe said curtly.

  “Well—” Rebecca seemed to be trying to sound empathetic “—sometimes a woman just has an easier way of getting people to talk. Good thing I came, hmm?”

  She had picked up information that he hadn’t. That her investigative techniques could have gotten her killed—or worse—didn’t seem to occur to her. Gabe hooked an arm under her elbow. The way she looked, she was drawing attention from any male eye within a three-block radius—and the damn woman didn’t seem to realize that, either. “Where is your car?”

  “A couple blocks down.” She motioned vaguely. With her left hand. He noticed she didn’t jerk her right arm away from his, although there was a sudden, interesting flush of color on her cheeks.

  “I’m walking you there.” His tone dared her to argue. “And then where are you staying?”

  “I haven’t made motel arrangements yet. It was all I could do to get a flight out this morning and get all that travel stuff done. I just figured when I got here, I’d worry about motels and a place to stay.”

  Gabe suspected that “worry” was a vast exaggeration on her part. Put her in a nest of vipers, and Rebecca probably wouldn’t worry. He told himself for the dozenth time that it wasn’t her fault she’d come from such a sheltered, protected background—and it wasn’t. But trying to keep such a rabid idealist safe was a mite on the challenging side.

  “You know your way around the city?”

  “I’ve been to L.A. all kinds of times.” She paused. “Although not exactly around here. I have a map, though—”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll drive with you to my car. Then you follow me, shorty, until we get you set up somewhere for the night.”

  The Shelton Arms wasn’t the Ritz, Rebecca mused, but it had all the comforts that would appeal to a man. The T-bone brought up by room service was definitely marine-size. The armchair was huge enough for a woman to curl up and nap in, and the room colors were all subdued blue tones.

  Rebecca finished her T-bone, and a mountainous baked potato and a Caesar salad, then peeked under the lid at Gabe’s plate. “If you don’t want your prime rib…” she warned him.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  “Before we’ve even kissed? That’s amazing.”

  Gabe sighed, heavily and loudly. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a d
angerous set of humor, Red? And get your hands off my prime rib.”

  “You were concentrating so hard, I didn’t think you’d notice.” Long before room service arrived, Gabe had set up a laptop on the far desk. The gumshoe era had definitely died, Rebecca mused. Gabe didn’t have to walk anywhere—even through the yellow pages—to plug into a zillion data bases for information. “Well? Did you find out if our dear Tammy knocked up any traceable credit charges in Las Vegas?”

  “Yup. She’s there. Charges all on her, none on the boyfriend, so I can’t tell if he’s with her. Could be that he depleted his credit a long time ago. Or that she took off solo from him. And I strongly suspect that ‘Tammy Diller’ is a made-up name, because the whole credit record on her has a short life history. A fake name would be a handy way for her to reinvent herself when credit sources dried up.”

  “And a fake name would make it extrahard to track her down…but from the charges in Vegas, could you find out where she was staying?”

  “Yeah.” But he neglected to tell her where, just lurched out of that chair and stretched, rolling his shoulders, before ambling over to the room service tray. “You actually leveled that entire plate of food?”

  “My theory on cholesterol is that if you’re gonna do something bad, you might as well binge and do it right.”

  “You’ll never finish that hot fudge sundae,” he predicted.

  Her eyes danced. “Ah, Gabe. Clearly you don’t know me at all well. Nothing, cutie—not tornadoes, world wars, or an audit by the IRS—would ever get between me and my chocolate.” She’d long ago kicked off her heels, but now she curled up with her legs under her and settled back in the armchair with the sundae and a spoon.

  Gabe dug in, conquering his prime rib with the same thoroughness and efficiency with which he did everything else. No taking time to savor. No taking time to smell the roses. Food was a body-maintenance requirement. A job was a job.