Too Far Gone Read online

  That thought brought Skyler to sobering reality. Suppose she turned this evidence over to the FBI—what was to prevent her father from enacting some kind of punishment, either toward her ill mother or toward her, if he discovered she’d betrayed him?

  The realization turned her hot, then cold.

  Would the diaries of an old lady with Alzheimer’s really be enough to bring down one of the most powerful men in the nation?

  Slowly, thoughtfully, she put the journals back in the box and locked it. As she dropped the key once again around her neck, the priest looked over at her inquiringly.

  “Father, would you keep this box a little longer for me?” she asked, rising shakily to her feet.

  He approached her with grave concern. “Of course, my child. Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.

  “Yes, Father. Please pray for me,” she begged. Feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders, she quietly turned and left the room.

  A brisk knock on the hotel-room door startled Ellie from her sleep. She jerked to one elbow, her heart jumping from her chest in fear that the Centurions had tracked her down.

  Sunshine blazed around the window drapes, telling her she’d slept at last, having paced the lonely room all night, fretting, plotting, and weeping.

  Without Sean, and even with Reno’s promise that he’d be down the next day, the loss of her boys seemed insurmountable. Reno wasn’t like Sean, who took on the enemy directly. He was a lawyer, forced to play within a set of rules, rules that Centurions had manipulated successfully for decades. How could Reno really help?

  The knock came again. “Ellie, are you in there?” called a woman.

  Ellie didn’t recognize the voice. She remained in bed, curled into the warm blanket, too wary to answer.

  “My name’s Ophelia,” called the voice. “I’m a friend of Sean’s.”

  Ellie’s stomach dropped. A friend of Sean’s? Just how many female friends did he have?

  “My fiancé works with Sean at Dam Neck. His name’s Vinny. Sean might have mentioned him.”

  Vinny. Yes, Ellie knew that name. The realization had her kicking out of her cocoon and crossing to the door. She set the chain first, then cautiously cracked it open. The woman outside jumped back. “Oh, you’re here,” she exclaimed with relief. “I’m Ophelia,” she repeated, taking in Ellie’s rumpled clothing, the dark circles under her eyes. “You must be so upset,” she said with seeming sympathy. “I’m hoping I can help you.”

  Ellie looked her over. Ophelia was perhaps a year or two younger than she was, dressed in a violet suit that enhanced both her figure and her copper-colored curls. “How?” she asked frankly in a voice that sounded like sandpaper.

  The woman winced self-consciously. “I’m a reporter,” she admitted, putting her hand on the door before Ellie could even consider closing it. “But I’m also a friend. I heard what you said to those reporters yesterday and I believe you. I want to get your story. I want to expose the Centurions and find out their reason for taking your boys.”

  Ellie put a hand to her aching eyes and rubbed them. Her brain was still groggy with exhaustion.

  “Tell you what,” said Ophelia, sensitive to her state. “I’ll run down to the lobby and get some coffee while you think about it. Fair enough?” She was already retreating down the hall, copper curls swinging between her shoulder blades as she glanced back and waved.

  Ellie quietly shut the door and stood there. My story, she thought, mulling over the offer.

  Would it make any difference for a journalist to run a sympathy piece on her plight? It might persuade people who’d unjustly condemned her to rethink their assumptions. It might get the public interested in just how powerful and how ruthless the Centurions were. And if there was even a glimmer of a chance it could expose the whereabouts of her boys, then, yes, she’d do it.

  Stumbling into the bathroom, she flicked on the light and groaned at her reflection. Lord have mercy, if she was going to have to be on camera, she’d better do something about the way she looked.

  Drake’s initial task as Owen Dulay’s gardener was to prune the trees and bushes Carl had let grow too large. Having tamed the riotous vegetation and bagged the clippings, a task that took until midafternoon, Drake returned the garden shears to the locker just inside the carriage house. There, he intercepted Owen Dulay in the process of leaving his home.

  “Spenser’s Law Office, please, Carl,” he told his chauffeur as the man rushed forward to open the rear door. “It’s on Whitaker street.”

  “Yes, sir.” Closing the door behind his employer, Carl threw Drake a superior smirk and jumped into the driver’s seat. The automatic garage door rumbled open, revealing the street at the back of the house, and Carl drove out into a cloud-covered afternoon without remembering to first don his seat belt.

  With a shake of his head, Drake shucked the gloves he’d worn, placed them alongside the shears, and closed the locker. He wondered if Carl even knew that Spenser was Dulay’s formidable attorney, a man who, for years, had routed the FBI’s attempts to subpoena information from Dulay, defending Dulay’s privacy with the ferocity of a pit bull.

  As the garage doors rumbled shut, Drake turned and hurried into the house via the kitchen entrance. Only when Dulay was absent did he dare place a call to headquarters, updating his father on Dulay’s movements. Although, HQ should already be tracking him, thanks to the tracer Drake had secured to the Bentley’s undercarriage.

  With a nod at the cook and the housekeeper, Drake passed straight through the bustling kitchen and into the foyer toward the servant’s staircase at the back of the house. He’d been given a small room on the third floor adjacent to the rooms of the other servants. Only Carl got accommodations like the apartment on the second floor of the carriage house.

  As he reached the narrow opening, the door at the front of the house eased open, and in stepped Skyler, looking flustered and breathless. Perhaps hoping to avoid intercepting her father’s departure, she had parked out front. Her gaze went straight down the length of the foyer, pinning him where he stood.

  “Hey,” said Drake, feeling like he’d been caught trespassing.

  “Hi,” breathed Skyler, putting her back against the door. He wondered at her flushed cheeks, the wild look in her eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  The odd reply prompted him to approach her. She stood as if transfixed, unmoving. With every step in her direction, the tension between them thickened and crackled. He hesitated, wondering if it was just in his own mind.

  But then she pushed abruptly from the door to rush at him. Going tiptoe, she kissed him desperately and passionately.

  Shocked by her boldness, Drake still managed to respond like a warm-blooded male. Hooking an arm around her waist, he kissed her back. Her mouth was warm and luscious. Within seconds, he was lost in the moment.

  Skyler released him and grabbed his hand. “Come upstairs with me,” she whispered urgently.

  He could no more turn her down than he could stop his heart from beating. He didn’t know what had brought about this sudden spontaneity, but it struck an equally impulsive chord within him. As they raced up the stairs together, he spared a glance back to assure himself no one was watching.

  “Skyler, what are you doing?” he asked with laughing disbelief as she pushed him into her room and locked the door.

  “Shhh,” she answered, her eyes wide and fixed on his, her finger to her lips as she slowly approached him.

  Her bedroom was a sea of cream brocade, gold gauze, and tassels. Her canopy bed loomed invitingly near. He yearned to feel her soft and naked and lying under him.

  Pausing directly in front of him, she stripped her lightweight sweater off over her head, making further questions unnecessary. It was pretty damn clear what she was doing.

  The sweater dropped silently to the floor, leaving her in a white lace bra that lifted her modest breasts enticingly. She looked
so pretty he wanted to weep. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

  “Because I can,” she insisted, that wild defiance back in her eyes. Releasing the zipper that secured her skirt at her waist, she slipped it over her slim hips. Drake’s mouth went dry.

  She wore matching panties and high heels. With a whispered exclamation, he reached for her, pulling her to him with all the hunger of a full-grown male. She melted into his embrace, a perfect fit.

  “Skyler,” he murmured against her ear, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he admitted. Cradling her face in his hands, he savored the vision of her sweet, plump lips, and then he kissed her.

  Her ardent response narrowed his awareness to her alone. The way she trembled, the way she breathed, the way she smelled, a beautiful womanly scent that made his heart pound, was all he could take in. Their mouths merged in a desperate but futile quest to get closer.

  Drake offered up one last appeal to sanity. “What if your father finds out?” he asked, gasping for breath.

  “I don’t care anymore,” she declared. “All I care about is this minute. Right now. With you.”

  Need clawed at him, overruling all his reasons why jeopardizing his position in Dulay’s household was a bad idea. By then, her hands had found their way beneath his T-shirt, tormenting him with the decadence of her touch. He stopped kissing her long enough to tear it over his head, to unbuckle his belt and shuck out of his jeans and socks. Naked, trembling with the force of his need, he reached for her again, scooped her up like a bride, and carried her to the thronelike bed.

  He laid her on her back and stood there, admiring her. Sunlight shining through the chiffon curtains bathed her in a golden shimmer. With a groan of adulation, he bowed his head over the flat plane of her belly, inhaling the subtle scent of her perfume, mixed with the essence of woman.

  “Skyler,” he groaned as she sank fingers into his dark curls. “Please tell me you won’t marry some old man.”

  “Don’t talk about it,” she begged him. “It’s not going to happen. I just have to find a way—” She cut herself off. “Please, just give me what you can.”

  Drunk with desire, he heard himself answer, “You don’t even know what I can give you. I can save you, Skyler.” Immediately, he kicked himself for revealing that much.

  Fortunately, she mistook his assertion for youthful confidence. Coiling her limbs around his, she pulled him closer. “Save me,” she breathed, tipping her hips toward his so that his erection rode the damp panel between her thighs.

  Drake pledged himself to ensuring Skyler would never forget this moment. Unlatching her bra, he whispered words of reverence as he suckled her taut, pink nipples. She raked his back with her nails. She writhed and sighed. He trailed nips and licks down her torso and outlined her lace panties with his tongue until she begged for him to take them off. And even then, he did so slowly, kissing her exposed skin inch by inch, lathing her lush, swollen sex.

  She gave a sob that had him glancing up in concern. He found her weeping.

  “Skyler?” He swiftly covered her, cradling her wet face in his hands. “We don’t have to do this,” he reluctantly reminded her.

  She shook her head in denial. “No, no, I want to,” she insisted. “I just thought . . .” She broke off with a sob.

  “Thought what?” he prompted.

  “I thought once would be enough,” she admitted, crystal droplets sliding from the corners of her eyes.

  Her honesty robbed him of platitudes. Once would never be enough. The realization shook him deeply. It changed everything—his agenda, his future, her future. He had to save her now. He couldn’t let her give herself to Jameson.

  “I have to tell you something,” he heard himself admit.

  “What?” she whispered, inviting him with glistening eyes to speak the truth.

  “I’m not who you think I am,” he said in a rush. But then caution reined him in. The chances were too great that telling her would impact his investigation. He didn’t want to disappoint his father or the Bureau, not when they’d invested so much time and effort, not when they were so close to exposing Dulay.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered, confusing him with her reassurance, stroking the side of his face. “You don’t have to justify what you’ve done and where you’ve been. You’re a good, kind man, and one day you’ll make a woman very happy.”

  Her praise was as unsettling as the admiration shining in her eyes. Damn it! Hiding his face against her cheek, he kissed the salty wetness of her tears, sought the slick center of her womanhood, and pushed gently inside her. With a sound between a sob and a gasp, she raised her hips in welcome.

  In the next instant, he was lost in the incredibly sweet grip of her flesh. Beneath heavy eyelids, he watched the reflection of his bliss in her eyes, in her face, felt it in the undulations of her body. She was, like him, a willing prisoner to her enthrallment.

  Slipping a hand between them, he sped her toward release, kissing her deeply to muffle her impassioned cry. As her pleasure poured into him, he surrendered his control, leaving a ribbon of ejaculate on her thigh as he hastily withdrew.

  A loud rapping at the door startled them both from their sensual lethargy. “Miss Skyler,” called the familiar voice of the housekeeper. “Mr. Jameson’s on the phone.”

  The suffering look that crossed Skyler’s face made Drake’s stomach cramp. “Tell him I’ll call him right back, Betsy. I’m changing,” she called shakily.

  “Yes, Miss Skyler.” Betsy departed, hopefully none the wiser.

  “You’d better not keep him waiting,” Drake said. Rolling from the bed, he snatched up his T-shirt and used it to wipe the moisture from her thigh while Skyler looked on. He was almost grateful to Jameson for sparing him from the tender moments after. How could he share his feelings for her when he hadn’t even told her who he was?

  She, on the other hand, had been achingly honest with him. But would she feel the same when he told her of his intent: to put her father behind bars where he belonged. Would she still care for him then?

  With guilt urging him to escape, he stepped into his boxers and jeans and picked up his shoes and socks, not slowing to put them on. “I should go,” he muttered, sparing her a quick kiss.

  “Drake,” she called as he turned away.

  He looked back reluctantly. She looked so lovely lying there that his heart clutched with regret. “Yes, Skyler?”

  “I hope you don’t feel like I used you.”

  “No.” He ground out that single word, unlocked the door, and hurled himself into the hall, so ashamed that she’d taken his feelings into consideration that his ears burned.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Ellie Stuart, thank you for sharing your story,” said Ophelia. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who hopes your sons will be quickly found.”

  “Thank you,” Ellie murmured, relieved that the interview was over.

  The cameraman ticked three seconds off his fingers as Ophelia gazed intently into the lens.

  And then it was really over. Ellie released a long sigh and felt her tension ease.

  “I think that went well,” Ophelia pronounced brightly. “You couldn’t have sounded more sincere. Public opinion is going to shift a hundred and eighty degrees. How do you feel?” she asked Ellie.

  Ellie searched herself. “Better,” she realized. The reporter’s timely arrival had alleviated her frightening solitude and given her a means of fighting for her boys. “Sorry for crying like a baby,” she apologized. She’d been appalled when her tears had turned into full-blown sobbing as she relayed the painful details of the last moments of the abduction and her feelings of terror, fear, and helplessness.

  “Are you kidding?” Ophelia retorted. “That was perfect. Believe me, you don’t want to come off looking unemotional. Then the public would never believe someone else took them, let alone the Centurions of Savannah. You did great,” she reassured her, offering her a swift hug as she stood from one of the two chai
rs they’d placed before the hotel room’s curtained window. “The only thing I can’t understand is why the Centurions abducted your sons in the first place. If we could just prove they had a motive.”

  Ellie frowned. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that,” she admitted, having returned to the question again and again. “I’ve tried putting myself in Carl’s shoes, trying to understand why he wanted his sons back when he couldn’t have cared less about them a year ago.”

  “And?” Ophelia prompted, her eyes bright with curiosity.

  “Well, the most important thing to a Centurion is having a male heir to leave his legacy to. Now Carl has three,” Ellie pointed out.

  “That doesn’t explain why the Centurions would break the law for him or enact an elaborate cover-up to hide their involvement. And from what you’ve told me, it sounds like stealing the boys was their idea in the first place.”

  “Right. Also, why is Owen Dulay, leader of the Centurions, so taken with Carl?” Ellie wondered out loud. “The man is rich and powerful, and yet he chooses a deadbeat like Carl to nurture and protect?”

  “Maybe Carl’s like the son he never had.”

  The women shared a long, thoughtful look.

  “If Dulay doesn’t have a son,” said Ellie, articulating their common realization, “who’s he going to leave his legacy to? Carl?” It was not only inconceivable; it was laughable.

  Ophelia narrowed her jewel-like eyes. “Let’s reason this out,” she proposed. “Owen Dulay earned a masters in business from Rhodes University, and his tax returns from the last three years put him in the top two percent nationally for gross earnings. Where did Carl attend college?”

  “He didn’t. He was offered scholarships to play football, but he married me instead,” Ellie admitted stiffly.

  “Football?” Ophelia mused. “Owen Dulay played college ball.”

  Ellie got up to fetch Carl’s I-LOVE-ME box, which she’d wedged between the bed and the wall. “If you want to know more about Carl,” she explained, heaving it onto the bed, “it’s all here.” She gestured for Ophelia to help herself.