Hell on Heels. Carla Cassidy
from the nightstand. She was just in time to catch the ten o’clock news.
She sat up as an attractive reporter announced that the Willowby jury had delivered a verdict late that afternoon. “Guilty,” the reporter exclaimed, as if personally pleased with the jury decision. “But the real news is that Jonathon Mathis, Willowby’s lawyer, was unable to produce his client for the verdict. Tonight a warrant has been issued for Marcus Willowby. Anyone with any information as to his whereabouts is asked to call the TIPS hotline.”
Chantal lowered the volume of her television and picked up the phone receiver by her bed. She quickly punched in Big Joey’s number. Busy.
She got out of bed and headed for her computer, sleep the last thing on her mind. Her conversation with Belinda played and replayed in her mind and the rich anger that had filled her then consumed her now.
She hadn’t realized when she’d made the promise to Belinda that Willowby had already flown the coop. Chantal didn’t make promises easily and she never made promises she didn’t intend to keep.
Because of her love for Belinda, because of what Willowby had done to her and to so many other helpless women, Chantal would use whatever means necessary to hunt him down and see that he faced the justice that he’d managed to escape for so many years.
“Game on,” she murmured as her computer connected her to the Internet.
Chapter 3
Sleep deprivation made Chantal cranky, so did dieting, rude salespeople and non-returnable policies on anything, but lack of sleep was the worst. She was a nine-hour-a-night kind of woman and actually preferred ten to twelve whenever possible.
It used to drive her mother crazy, Chantal sleeping away half a day. “Life is passing you by while you’re dreaming,” Katherine would say. For a while Chantal had tried to exist on six to eight hours of sleep a night, but within weeks she was back to her normal pattern.
When she pulled into Big Joey’s the next morning she was definitely feeling the effects of a night with too little sleep and she was more than a little crabby.
She’d spent most of the night printing off whatever she could find about Marcus Willowby’s life and trial. She had a feeling that somewhere in the ream of paperwork she’d printed off was a clue as to where he might run. All she had to do was find that clue.
Her foul mood instantly intensified when she pulled into Big Joey’s parking lot and saw Luke Coleman standing outside the bail bonds building.
As usual, Luke was dressed in a white T-shirt that displayed muscled biceps and worn jeans that hugged his slim hips and long legs.
Despite the early-morning hour, dark whiskers covered his firm jaw, making her wonder if the man even owned a razor. The brilliant sun managed to pull highlights from his shiny, long, dark hair.
As she got out of her car she felt his gaze on her, and, as always, a small knot of tension balled in the pit of her stomach. What was it about the man’s very presence on the earth that bothered her?
She wondered what he was doing standing outside the building in air that was already far too hot for mid June.
Maybe he’d been fired, she thought optimistically. Yeah, right, and maybe Paris Hilton would go to work for the Peace Corps.
“We need to talk,” he said as she approached.
“I can’t imagine what we’d have to talk about,” she replied with just the right amount of cool disdain in her voice. “Unless of course you feel the need to apologize for your behavior on Saturday night.”
One corner of his mouth curved upward and his dark eyes lightened in obvious amusement. “Why should I apologize for saving your ass?”
“You didn’t save my ass, you stole my collar.” She tried to keep her tone cool and calm even though she wasn’t in the mood for him, especially if he intended to gloat. “I’d staked out that bar for four nights to get Wesley Baker.”
“You’re handcuff-challenged and you made a lot of mistakes,” he returned, “but that’s not what I need to discuss with you.”
“And I told you we have nothing to discuss.” She walked past him and headed for the door.
“Chantal, we need to talk.”
She froze at the sound of her real name and whirled back around to face him in horror. “How do you know my real name?” She’d been so careful to make sure nobody here knew her as anything but Carol Worth. How long had he known her real identity? How in the devil had he found out?
He stepped closer to her, close enough that she could smell the scent of minty soap and his spicy cologne. That’s one thing she’d noticed about him, no matter how disreputable he looked, he always smelled clean and good.
“I knew who you were the day after you started working for Joey. I make it my business to know the kind of people I work with.”
“I don’t work with you and you need to forget anything you think you know about me.” She wasn’t sure why, but the idea that Crazy Luke Coleman knew her real identity made her feel vulnerable.
“Don’t worry, your little secret is safe with me. I’m not worried about where you live or what’s in your bank account. I’m more worried about the fact that according to my sources you now have a price on your head.”
“What are you talking about?” How she wished she’d gotten more than three hours sleep the night before. How she wished she’d taken the time to put on mascara before leaving the house that morning. The utter irrationality of this thought let her know she was beyond sleep-deprived. She was positively delusional.
“Remember Perry Mundy?”
“Of course,” she replied. Perry Mundy was a two-bit dope-dealing punk who had skipped bail and taken to the streets. Chantal had brought him in and she’d heard that only a week earlier he’d been sentenced to five years in prison. “What about him?”
“My street sources tell me he’s put out the word that he wants you dead and he’s willing to pay for the job. I’d say the best thing for you to do is to take a little vacation, get out of town until Mundy cools off and calls off his dogs.”
She stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and horror. A price on her head? Was that possible? Disbelief quickly won over horror.
“What’s the matter, Coleman? Can’t handle a little competition?”
He frowned, eyes narrowed to mere dark slits. “What are you talking about?”
She shrugged. “I just find it interesting that yesterday Marcus Willowby jumped bail and this morning you’re telling me to take a vacation because some punk has put out a hit on me. The timing is just a tad suspicious to me.”
Once again she turned to go inside, but squeaked in surprise as he grabbed her by the upper arm and spun her around to face him once again.
Her heart thumped wildly as his gaze bored into hers. All trace of amusement had fled from his black eyes and his mouth was nothing more than a grim slash. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “This isn’t one of your little society soirees, this is a very real threat that you’d better take seriously.”
She jerked away from his grip and stumbled two steps backward. “Fine. You’ve delivered the information. I’ll take it under consideration.”
She breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t stop her from going inside. It took her only ten minutes to find out that Big Joey knew nothing more about Willowby’s disappearance than she’d managed to glean from the news.
However, there was an intensity vibrating in the air inside the office. Big Joey had put up the bond for Willowby and he was beside himself with rage. When Big Joey wasn’t happy, nobody in the office was happy.
When she discovered he didn’t have any information