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Chapter 10
Tamara
Who would think half a million dollars in twenties could be so heavy? Fifty-five pounds. Tamara knew because she'd weighed it—multiple times—on the digital bathroom scale that had come with her already-furnished rental. When a single woman didn't have television, high-speed Internet, or a library card, she had to make her own entertainment.
She ran her fingers tighter across the duffle bag's nylon straps as she and Isaac sat in his driveway, which was illuminated by the motion-activated security lights that had gone on like a spotlight the moment they'd turned off the road.
"Well, too fucking bad," Isaac said into her cellphone, which was registered to one Margaret Gorman, who'd won the first Miss America pageant in 1921. "She's not coming in right now." He'd swiped it from her hand the second it had buzzed, despite spending the entire drive to his house reading her the riot act for not bringing in the B-Squad from the get-go. "I don't care if you are her boss, Bianca. You're not mine and I'm her ride." After telling Tamara she was a stubborn fool, the last thing she'd expected was him backing her up. "You can pull every last detail out of her tomorrow at eight sharp.Until then, know she's safe." The hard, narrow-eyed look he shot her said exactly how dumb he thought it was that she wasn't talking to them now. One side of his mouth curled upward at something Bianca said on the other end. "No, you smart ass, not all of my dates almost end with a shootout. Then again, I don't normally date women on the run from some crazy-ass cult leader. See you tomorrow."
He hit the end button and powered down her phone before handing it back to her. She slipped it inside the duffle filled with cash, three driver’s licenses in the name of former beauty queens, and passports matching each license. In addition, it held one change of clothes, two wigs, and fake IDs with Essie's picture on them. Without a word, Isaac got out and crossed around the front of the truck.
Normally this was when she hurried up and jumped out of the mile-high truck with planet-sized tires before he could help, but she couldn't seem to move. The reality of what had just happened was sinking in like itchy strands of fiberglass. Taking Essie and running from Jarrod had never been a game, but it had never felt as real as it did now.
She was all that was standing between Jarrod and Essie.
The passenger door swung outward, the smell of warm leather, something woodsy, and a whole lotta trouble wafting in off the man holding it open.
"Come on, darlin', you need a decent night's sleep if you're going to face Bianca tomorrow." Isaac held out his hand. "Saying she's pissed you haven't been one-hundred percent truthful with the team—again—is an understatement."
Accepting his help down, even as she refused to hand over the duffle, she ignored the twinge of guilt tweaking her conscience. Bianca's feelings weren't her top priority. Essie was. And that's why she wouldn't be here come morning.
His palm flattened against the small of her back, not pushing, not guiding, just there in a reminder she wasn't alone. It was a weird feeling. It was a nice feeling. It was one she couldn't afford to get used to.
Gritting her teeth together, she marched to the front of the single-story stone building. The driveway had a separate gated entrance from the street from the main drive they'd passed first. This one ended at the back of the pool house, with its artfully weathered wood shutters bracketing the large windows and the iron rooster weathervane perched on top of the roof. She knew money. She'd slept with plenty of men because they'd had it. Isaac—or at least his family—had it. All the instincts she'd spent a lifetime honing buzzed to life.
"You have to look at them like they're another diamond to add to your tiara. It's not about what you want, Tamara. It's about protecting yourself for later. Do you really think I'd be living in this dump if I'd used what I had when I had it? No. If I hadn't met your father, I'd still be in New York without a care in the world." Her mother looked around the crowded two bedroom apartment, picking up one of Amelia's library books off the thrift-store couch and tossing it aside like trash. "Instead
, here I am with you two."
She closed her eyes and shut out her mother's voice. She'd been twelve when her mother had passed along that little gem of advice to mark the occasion of Tamara's first period.
The duffle's nylon handle dug into her hand, each of the fifty-five pounds wearing on her grip. It didn't hurt though. It was a good kind of pain, the kind that reminded her she didn't need a rich man's money to survive. She had her own and could make it last for a long time where she was planning to go.
"You know I can see the gears turning in that pretty head of yours, right?" Isaac asked as he unlocked the front door and pushed it inward. "But before you put your plan into action, how about a drink?"
"I think I've had enough." Between the sake and the adrenaline rush, she was feeling high enough already.
Isaac followed her inside, shutting the door behind them and arming the alarm system. "When you've just stared down the barrel of an automatic rifle and managed not to get shot or pee your pants, you should have a drink."
She chuckled despite herself. "I guess you'll be having water only?"
"Hell, I only peed a little." He grinned. "I'm getting a beer too." He strolled over to the fridge.
She sat the duffle down on the coffee table and looked around the pool house. He hadn't been lying about the floral or the wicker...or the talking fish on the wall. What he'd failed to mention was the custom-designed mosaic tile floor or the original David Hockney painting that had sold for more than five million at a Sotheby's auction. She'd known because her much-older boyfriend at the time had been hoping to get it himself.
She walked around the floral couch and the dark brown wicker end tables, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, until she stood in front of the large painting.
Isaac stopped beside her and handed her a beer bottle cold enough to give her a shiver. At least that's what she told herself had caused the reaction rather than being so close to a man who made it damn hard to remember why she was in his house in the first place. She sipped the beer, the crisp taste of the lager doing nothing to distract her from him. Every sense seemed heightened, every nerve primed. Post-adrenaline sex rush, the girls at the office called it.
Neither said a word as they drank in silence and stared at the painting of felled trees done in vivid greens and delicate browns with purple and red wildflowers dotting the bucolic scene. She still she could feel him—the heat of his body, the ghost of his palm against her back, the tangible need vibrating between them.
"Thinking about taking it when you sneak out at dawn?" he asked, curling an arm around her back and letting his fingertips rest on the swell of her hip. "Please do, the damned thing is uglier than a rodeo clown after last call."
The play of his fingers scrambled her brains and sent a rush of heat straight to her core. "What makes you think I'm leaving?"
The handsome bastard had the audacity to laugh. "Like I said darlin', I can see the gears turning."
"So you're a mind reader?" She pivoted on the ball of her foot as she said it, knowing the move was a mistake but unable to stop it.
