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A few changes would have to be made to force that call, unfortunat
ely. Actually striking out at Casey’s woman would have to be the next move.
With that move, the danger of actually harming her was increased. And it was a danger that would have to be faced. Faced and accepted. It was one that preference would have dictated unnecessary; unfortunately preference wasn’t an option any longer.
Beauregard Fredrico couldn’t be allowed to escape so easily.
He had to pay.
And, just as in the past, a woman would have to pay for his crimes. Hopefully, this Nick Casey was the identity Beau had chosen. It meant no other woman would have to be endangered.
With any luck, it would end very soon.
chapter 9
one week later
sheila stood at the large picture window in the center wall of her father’s office and stared out at the tall, evergreen border of trees that separated her small bungalow-style house from her father’s front flower gardens.
Her mother had planted those flowers. Hundreds upon hundreds of perennials that filled the exquisite English garden her mother had created several years before her death. A garden her father worked in daily to keep it in the same pristine condition her mother had so enjoyed. Just as he kept the maid busy creating the dozens of flower arrangements that filled the house.
Cutting through the immaculate acre of fragrant blooms was a stone path that led from the evergreen wall to the side of the house. The blossoms waved in the breeze, their soft fragrance wafting through the heated Texas air and filling the office through the AC unit positioned outside.
Her father had tinkered with that unit for years to allow the fragrance from the air outside to fill the office. The office was the bedroom her mother had been confined to in the year before she had died. That bouquet from the flower gardens she worked so hard on had been her father’s last gift to the woman he had loved.
The gardens had once been a source of comfort, but now, Sheila watched them with a frown, wondering if they could hold something more sinister than the precious memories she’d always had of them.
Memories of working with her mother to plant the fragrant blooms. Memories of gathering the ones her father had used to create the arrangement atop her mother’s casket.
And with those memories was the one created last night. The one where she had slipped along that stone path, a feeling of trepidation breathing at her neck as panic had tightened her chest.
Someone had been in her house.
Crossing her arms over her breasts, Sheila closed her eyes and fought to control the fear.
Who would have dared to break into her home? And even if they had dared, how had they managed to break the locks her father had had installed on both the front and back doors?
She couldn’t think of anyone but Casey who could do such a thing; he was simply extraordinarily well-trained in such things.
“Sheila, dammit, I can’t find my glasses.”
Sheila nearly jumped out of her own skin.
A squeak slipped past her lips as she jerked and turned around, facing her father breathlessly, her heart nearly choking her as it pounded out of control.
Her father paused, a scowl tightening his expression. “Are you okay, dear?”
For a moment, Sheila considered telling him about her suspicion of a break-in.
He would lose his mind, though. Protective, overly so, and filled with fatherly concern, Douglas Rutledge would put one of his guards on her twenty-four/seven and she’d never have a moment’s peace.
Which wouldn’t be so bad if someone had definitely broken into the house. The problem was, she just couldn’t be sure. She hated worrying her father without some sort of proof, or at least her own certainty that it had happened.
Had she really walked away from her house and left the doors unlocked? Had she been so deep into her anger and need for Casey that she could have done such a thing?
“Sheila, girl, you’re not answering me.” There was a hint of true concern beginning to edge into his tone.
“I’m fine, Dad, just distracted.”
