One Last Breath by Lisa Jackson (11)

Chapter 11

Thursday morning Liam wheeled his Tahoe into the circular drive outside his parents’ house. He felt a little clearer about the future despite his disappointment at not finding Rory. A good night’s sleep at his condo, six hours straight after he’d thrown himself onto the bed, then a quick shower this morning, had put things right. He’d then met with Les Steele at the Hallifax work site. They were moving ahead with the project but hadn’t replaced the broken windows yet, though all the replacement panes had been ordered. “Kids,” Steele had said, staring at the vandalism.

“Let’s hope.” A random attack was less complicated than some kind of coordinated neighborhood uprising, or worse.

Now Liam was on his way to meet with his father, checking in because Geoff chafed if he wasn’t kept abreast of every detail of all the Bastian businesses. Normally, Liam dreaded these meetings. His father’s seething anger was just below the surface at all times, but today Liam figured he could handle the old man. He felt better than he had in a while. Rory could run away from here to eternity for all he cared. He would divorce her in absentia and get on with his life.

Time to move on.

As he neared the house, he spotted a dark green Mercedes SUV parked across the drive in such a way that no other car was able to get past it. “Great.” His sister’s wheels. He glanced at his watch and frowned. It was pretty early in the day for Viv to be here. Liam was the early riser in the family. Viv tended to roll out of bed sometime after ten.

Usually.

Before he could even climb from the Tahoe, Vivian herself came flying out the front door, as if she’d been waiting for him. “There you are!” she cried, stopping about a yard in front of him. She was in black running gear with a teal stripe up the side of her leggings, her blond-brown hair banded into a ponytail, her blue eyes full of accusations, her mouth sullen. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“We?”

“Where’ve you been?”

“At work,” he said, stepping around her and striding toward the house.

She hurried to catch up to him. “I mean before this morning, asshole. You were out there looking for her. That’s what Derek said, and I, of course, defended you, and said ‘Oh, no. Liam’s too smart for that.’ But look who was wrong. And then Dad went off on his usual tirade about her.”

“You mean Mom.” Stella was the one who’d struggled most with Liam’s choice in marrying Rory. The one who had pointed out that she had to be a gold digger.

“No, I mean Dad. You know how he is.” Her face was earnest, her lips compressed.

Liam didn’t answer. Yes, he knew how his father was. Geoff Bastian acted like he had little to no interest in his children’s romantic affairs. He let Stella play the heavy, which left him able to complain about all the drama, but in truth he was often more ironfisted than his wife when it came to family matters. He just handled himself differently. Liam had also learned that all his father’s proclamations about Liam taking over the company had been just to hear himself talk, until the shooting. Then he hadn’t been able to scramble around construction sites any longer in the same way, so he’d allowed Liam to finally take the reins. But that didn’t mean Geoff had given up control. He used Liam for his eyes and ears, and to a lesser extent Derek, who professed loud and long that he didn’t want any part of running Bastian-Flavel Construction, that he just preferred his paycheck with no strings attached.

“When the workday’s over, so am I,” Derek had said on many occasions, which Geoff tried to ignore, though Liam could see it stuck in the old man’s craw. Geoff’s relationship with his eldest son was full of dark swirls and eddies that Liam had spent the better part of his life trying not to get sucked into. Who knew how deep or muddy those fast currents ran?

“So?” Vivian asked now, bringing him back to the moment.

“So?” he repeated, lost.

“You didn’t find her. Obviously. So what are you going to do now?”

He hadn’t expected everyone including Viv to know all about his trip north before he had a chance to tell the tale himself, but he supposed the family grapevine was twisted and fast-growing enough that it had been bound to pick up the news and spread it.

Vivian grew impatient waiting for his answer and now stood in front of him on the brick steps, as if in so doing she could block his entrance to the family home. As if. “Liam, dear brother, you know I love you, but you’ve made this one really massive mistake, and you seem bound and determined to ignore fixing it. Time to get over it. Past time, actually. She’s gone, and good riddance. Divorce her already.” Then, as if she realized how harsh she sounded, Viv amended her words. “Hey, I liked her, you know I liked her, but she was a doe in the headlights when it came to our family. And mother’s right about her family. Thugs, thieves, and criminals, every one.”

Liam grimaced. They’d all learned a lot about the Stemples in the wake of Rory’s disappearance after the wedding debacle. There was a lot Rory had held back, and it irked him to have his sister remind him of that fact.

“Excuse me,” he said, gently pushing her aside. It wasn’t often that Vivian offered her advice, but when she did he never heeded it, and he didn’t feel like letting her know that he’d already decided to give up the search for Rory.

“You know I’m living here now,” she said, following him inside the foyer. He glanced at her, seeing the shifting spots of light across her face from the huge crystal chandelier hanging high above their heads.

“You and Javier?” he asked.

“Me and Landon and Estella. No Javier. Just me and the kids. We’re in the south wing.”

“Okay.” He didn’t want to go there.

“Javier and I are separated, as you well know. Why do you even ask?”

“You and Javier separate all the time, get back together, separate again. I can’t keep up with where you are in the cycle.” He headed through the foyer toward the back of the house and the den, where he figured his father would be. Through a bank of windows, he caught a glimpse of the swimming pool, sparkling blue beneath morning sunlight, and beyond, past a thin row of spotty hedges, Portland spread out along the shores of the Willamette River, as he turned down the short hallway to the den. Stella, in shorts and a boat-necked T-shirt, was seated beneath an umbrella, head and shoulders shaded, long legs stretched out on a chaise longue in the sunlight, as if she hoped they would tan. She was drinking coffee and looking sourly at the view, as if whatever she saw displeased her.

Vivian’s footsteps clattered after him. “When did you get to be such a bastard? Javier and I have separated exactly twice . . . except for this time.”

“So, that’s three,” he threw over his shoulder.

“Fine! Three!”

Her angry tone made him slow down.

“We’re divorcing. We really are this time,” she said in a small voice.

This from the woman who had so callously suggested he fill out the paperwork and end his marriage to Rory? Feeling a bit of a heel, he turned to see that her face was troubled, actually fighting tears. “Okay. Sorry.”

She flapped a hand at him. “It’s all right. There’s apparently. . . someone else.”

“Oh.”

She blinked bravely, showing some of that Bastian spirit. Clearing her throat, she admitted, “Javier’s fighting me for custody, can you believe that? Even though he’s the one with the affair, he still makes all the money . . . and he knows people. He could win, Liam.”

“You’re the mother. You win.”

“It’s supposed to work that way, but what if he . . . has something on me.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Some lie.” She avoided her brother’s eyes. “And . . . and what if he makes it stick.”

This was a new wrinkle. “Is there something to have on you?” he asked, peering at her closely, hearing something she wasn’t quite saying.

“No. Good God. No . . .”

“Vivian.”

“No, Liam. Except for the DUIs, but that was two years ago, just after I had Estella. The kids weren’t in the car. It was just me, and I’d only had a couple of drinks. I don’t even drink anymore. Not much, anyway.”

“That you, Liam?” Geoff bellowed from inside the den.

His insides tightened as they always did when he knew the old man was in one of his foul moods, which these days was more often than not. “Yeah,” he called back.

Vivian grabbed him by the arm and pulled him aside. She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “I need an income of my own, Liam. I’ve been taking care of the kids. I haven’t been focused on a career, and it’s going to hurt me.”

“You’re still their mother—”

“Stop that. It’s not enough.”

“Yes, it is. It counts for a lot. You’re being paranoid, Viv.”

“I need a job. That’s all. I want to work for the company.”

“You?” he said before he could stop himself. The last thing he wanted was another relative on the payroll. Derek and his flakiness was more than enough, and although Vivian was more stable than their eldest sibling, she’d never really held a job.

“Yes, me,” she snapped, inching her pointed chin upward, as if daring him to deny her some kind of birthright.

He couldn’t imagine what she would do, but it was a moot point anyway. “Dad’s the one to make that decision,” he told her.

“He put you in charge.”

More like he didn’t put Derek in charge. Liam knew his father hadn’t wanted any of them to hold the reins, and that he’d chosen his middle child because Liam was more responsible than his older brother. Also, Liam was Stella’s child, whereas Derek was the product of Geoff’s marriage to his first wife, Karen. If the old man had chosen Derek for a position of authority, Stella would have had a fit, would have seen it as a personal slight against her. That’s just how twisted she was; always thinking every decision, every idea, every joke, every anything was about her.

“Still, Dad makes those kinds of decisions. You know that.”

“But you have influence. I need this job, Liam. Make sure he understands that.”

“Talk to him yourself.”

Her snort was answer enough, as she stood back on her heels. The truth was Geoff Bastian was old-fashioned and a bit misogynistic. He’d never considered Vivian for a job within Bastian-Flavel because she was a woman, and a woman’s job wasn’t in construction. Not that he’d said as much aloud, but his actions spoke louder than words. And the lack of diversity in all the Bastian-Flavel administrative positions said something about Geoff’s feelings about that, as well. Geoff Bastian was a product of his generation, and he was slow to accept that the world had changed.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll tell him you want a job. But you’ll have to hammer out the details.”

“Or not. That’s what you’re inferring.”

“Just deal with him, okay. I’ll bring it up, but it’s up to you to close the deal.” With that he continued down the hallway and left Vivian staring after him.

“Close that,” his father said, making a shooing motion as soon as Liam entered the den. Liam softly shut the dark paneled door and turned toward his father, who was seated behind a large walnut desk covered by today’s newspaper. Rimless reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose, and he still wore the neck brace he’d earned by insisting on going to the Hallifax renovation site and toppling out of his chair, nearly down the stairs. It had been Liam who’d scrambled past his shocked brother and saved Geoff. Even so, there was no talking him out of visiting the various Bastian-Flavel Construction work sites from time to time.

“So, you went after her, huh?” his father said as he folded the pages of the Oregonian. “To Canada. That’s where you’ve been.”

“Among other places. How did you know?”

“That PI? The one Van Horne used? What was his name?”

“Jacoby,” Liam said, feeling himself tighten up.

“Yeah, him.”

“He wouldn’t have told you.”

Geoffrey shook his head, his scalp showing in his thinning hair. Obviously the old man was in an argumentative mood. No big surprise. He slowly removed his glasses, folded them and laid them on the paper.

Liam said, “Jacoby signed a confidentiality agreement.”

“Well, he did tell me.”

“Then he’s in breach of contract, because there’s a discretion clause. One that he pointed out to me. His own personal credo.”

“Okay.” Geoffrey frowned, as if second-guessing himself. “Maybe I heard it somewhere else.” That seemed a bald-faced lie. “What do you care, anyway? The point is, you’re still chasing after her.”

Liam’s cell phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. Normally he would let it go to voice mail when he was in a meeting, but he could feel his temper rising and almost welcomed the distraction.

“Don’t answer that,” Geoff said sharply.

Liam stared at the name in surprise. Mickelson. He’d entered the name in his contact list, but he and the detective hadn’t been in touch much since Mickelson left Seattle PD. Ignoring his father, he answered, “Liam Bastian.”

“Mr. Bastian, it’s Roger Mickelson.” Then without preamble said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but it’s been on the news. Pete DeGrere was murdered yesterday afternoon, just after his release from prison.”

DeGrere? Dead? “What? Dead?” Sweet Jesus! “No. I, um, didn’t know he’d been released or that . . .” Liam’s mind was racing and he turned his back on his father, who was watching him from the wheelchair at his desk.

“What is it?” Geoff demanded, his eyes narrowing on his son. “Who’s dead?”

Liam didn’t answer. Needed to concentrate.

Mickelson was still talking, “I’ve got my own detective agency, and I haven’t yet spoken to the authorities about DeGrere since his death, but I still believe he was involved with the attack on your wedding.”

“I remember.” Now that the initial shock had passed, Liam had a million questions. “So, what happened? Where was he? Who did it?” He was killed yesterday afternoon? While Liam had been searching for Rory? Coincidence?

“Happened at a strip club not far from Sea-Tac, only hours after his release from prison. Attacked in the parking lot. That’s about all I know.”

“Man.” Liam exhaled. He didn’t care a whit for DeGrere, had never met the man, but if he was somehow connected to the attack that had killed Rory’s brother, wounded him, and put Geoff in a wheelchair, then this was maybe connected. “You think his death is related to the sniper attack at the wedding?”

“That’s the theory I’m going on.”

And Rory, Liam thought. Jesus. He’d flushed Rory out of Point Roberts and now Pete DeGrere was dead. Was that coincidence? Had to be. Because DeGrere’s release date had nothing to do with Liam’s trip to Point Roberts.

“Whose death?” Geoff demanded again as he backed up his chair and rolled it around the corner of his desk.

“You think there’s a link between the two events? Two . . . homicides?”

“Yes.”

“You still think DeGrere was the shooter.”

“DeGrere? That little shit? Is he dead?” Geoffrey demanded loudly, though he’d rammed his wheelchair within inches of his son, nearly toppling a lamp that was positioned near the French doors that opened to the back patio and the pool area beyond. “What the hell are you talking about? Who’s dead? For the love of Christ, put your damned phone on speaker!”

“I’m doing some follow up. Just wanted to let you know about DeGrere.”

“Has someone hired you?” Liam asked.

Mickelson paused. “Sometimes a case gets under your skin, y’know? This one did that.”

Liam believed him. The guy sounded sincere. More interested in getting to the truth than Liam’s own damned family. The very victims. How was that for ironic.

“I’ll be in touch,” Mickelson promised.

“Good.”

Just the slightest pause, then, “And you let me know if you hear from that ex-wife of yours.”

Wife, Liam thought as Mickelson hung up, she’s still my wife.

“What the hell was that all about?” Geoff was glaring up at him, a position he detested, Liam knew. It made the old man feel smaller, less powerful to be relegated to a sitting position. He wheeled back to his spot behind the desk, reclaiming his place of dominance. “Who was that?” he demanded.

Liam explained about ex-police detective Roger Mickelson and Pete DeGrere’s murder.

His father didn’t waste time on false sympathy. “From what I remember, they all said DeGrere was a low-life thug. What happened?” He unfolded the paper again as if he hadn’t just heard that the man who had probably put him in a wheelchair, wounded others, and ended a man’s life, had been killed himself. “He could barely have been out of prison.”

“He was attacked within hours of his release.”

Behind his rimless glasses, Geoffrey’s old eyes glittered. “Is this detective on the case?” he asked, scanning the business section.

“Yeah, somewhat.”

“Somewhat?”

“Like I said, he’s in private practice. I’d really like to talk to the Seattle police.”

“Huh.” Geoffrey snorted, then dropped his attention to the newspaper.

Liam studied him for a moment, certain his father was just feigning interest. “Jacoby didn’t tell you where I was, so how did you know?”

Geoffrey kept on reading.

“Dad?”

“All right, your brother told me.” He finally looked up again.

“Derek didn’t know—”

“He deduced it. Derek saw Jacoby’s bill. Gas receipts. Charged to the company. They go through fast these days. From Vancouver, B.C.”

“Not that fast.”

The old man didn’t miss a beat, continued spinning his tale. “So he figured you were chasing after your missing wife.”

Liam realized his brother hadn’t seen the receipts go through the company books. No, there wasn’t enough time for that despite the speed of Internet banking. No, he must have seen the PI’s bill that had been in his suit-coat pocket. The suit coat that he hadn’t taken on his own trip to Canada and Point Roberts, but was still hanging in his office. “Derek looked at my personal mail.”

Geoffrey let out a huff of disgust and gave up the lie. Instead of deception, he went on the attack. Typical. “Don’t look so goddamn affronted. We all wondered where the hell you blasted off to.”

“You got him to do it,” Liam realized with sudden clarity. “You told him to find out and he lifted the bill from my coat pocket. And you told Vivian and probably Mom, too, that I was off chasing Rory.”

Geoff lifted his chin and once again pushed the paper aside. This time he didn’t bother folding the pages. His expression was perturbed, bordering on anger. “Next time maybe you’ll realize you just can’t take off from the job without telling anyone where you’re going.”

“You knew I’d be back in a few days. I had my cell phone. You could have asked.” Liam’s temper was escalating.

“You didn’t say you were leaving the country. So, where is she? Why did she run? Did she admit to being part of this?” He slapped a hand down on his thigh, hard, his face mottling with red.

“No.”

“She tell you that her family was in on it? Harold Stemple’s hanging out in prison, maybe acting the model prisoner. But his fingers are all over this. He probably hired someone to kill DeGrere to keep him from talking!”

“With all that money he’s making in prison, working in the laundry or whatever?”

“He could have some cash tucked away. He is a thief, y’know. Suspected in dozens of burglaries.”

“That’s a pretty big leap, Dad. To think Stemple used all his secreted cash to pay a hired assassin to kill DeGrere on the first day he’s out—”

“Well, what did she say?” Geoffrey demanded, waving away Liam’s argument with a wide arc of one hand. “Huh? Your wife? What did she say?”

Back to Rory. “I never found her. She was gone by the time I got there.”

“Jesus Christ.” He shook his head and moved his wheelchair back and forth two inches, the way he always did when he was agitated, a nervous display that bugged the hell out of Liam. “I thought at least you’d get something done. Learn something from her.”

Liam held on to his temper with an effort. “Mickelson’s still on the case. It’s the one that got away from him. He’s doing it on his own.”

“Well, that’s something,” Geoff allowed.

They heard a commotion in the hall and then a familiar male voice, calling aloud, “Hallloooo!” as the den door was yanked open and Derek appeared, wearing a construction vest. “Hey, brother!” His face broke into a wide smile. “Saw your car. On my way to work.”

It was all Liam could do not to glance at the clock.

Geoff said, “Then you probably guessed we were in a meeting.”

“I’ll leave if you want,” Derek answered, unperturbed at his father’s icy tone.

“No need,” said Liam. “We were finished anyway.”

“Do I detect some tension?” Derek asked, looking from Geoff to Liam, brows lifted.

“You read my mail,” Liam said.

Derek’s eyes widened, then he shrugged a little. “Oops.”

Geoff said a bit belligerently, “There aren’t any secrets in this family. We all work together, and I still run the company.”

“I beg to differ, Dad. Brother Liam’s the one who’s in charge. And he’s doing a good job, right? The Hallifax building still has months before its renovation is complete and the apartments are renting at warp speed. And they’re fucking expensive.”

“None of that talk.” Geoff glowered, and Liam wondered for a moment if he was referring to Derek’s swearing or the fact that Liam’s idea had been successful, especially when both Geoff and Derek had been lukewarm about the project from the get-go.

“I’m just sayin’ that Liam’s got the touch. Good job in putting him in charge, Dad.” He walked to the glass doors and stared out at the pool where Stella was sipping a mimosa, sunbathing, and flipping through a magazine.

Liam gazed at Derek, wondering what his brother was up to, needling their father that way. However, Geoff remained stoic as he ignored Derek and said to Liam, “I don’t care how you get rid of your problem, just don’t let it get in the way. Hallifax is on time, the last I heard, which was last week. I need daily reports.”

“I’m not sidelining you,” Liam told him, facing his father once more.

“I didn’t say you were. I just want the business to run efficiently. And I’m not sure about those last hires. Les Steele and Jarrod Uller? Never heard of ’em.”

Liam said, not for the first time, “They came from Barlow Development and—”

“Those fuckers at Barlow,” Derek growled.

Geoff snapped, “Derek!”

“Steele’s built apartments all over the city,” Liam went on, ignoring them both. “Uller’s worked with him on every one. To get Steele to move and become our foreman and project manager required Uller. They’re a package deal and they’re doing a good job.”

“Except for the vandalism,” Derek pointed out.

“Yes, except for that,” Liam said evenly.

“Well, don’t hire anyone else,” Geoff grumbled. “Eats up all our profits.”

Liam thought of Vivian’s job request and grimaced to himself. Or, at least he thought he’d hidden his expression until his father asked, “What’s wrong?”

After a moment of indecision where both Derek and Geoff were looking at him expectantly, Liam decided on honesty. “Your daughter would like a job with the company.”

“My—? Vivian?” Geoff’s look was almost comical. “She hasn’t worked a day in her life!”

“That’s not true,” Liam began, but Derek barked out a laugh and overrode him. “Viv wants a job at the company? Because she’s divorcing Javier and needs some dough?” He let out a deprecating snort. “Perfect.”

“What would she do?” Geoff asked in disbelief.

Liam said, “I don’t know. Before I walked in here, she just asked if she could work for the company.”

“Well, there’s nothing for her to do,” Derek put in.

Geoff shot his eldest son a dark look. “She doesn’t deserve a job, but you do? Is that what you’re saying?” He turned back to Liam. “She asked you, not me?”

“She asked me to ask you. Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters!” He pointed both of his thumbs at himself and demanded, “What have I been saying? This is my company and these are my decisions!”

“Well, she’s living here now. And she’s right outside that door.” Liam pointed to it. “Call her in here and tell her what you just told me. Now, I’m going to check on Hallifax and then I’ve got a meeting with the city planner.”

“The city planner,” Geoff echoed.

“About the parking issue on the east side.”

His father grunted. “At Flavel? Those homeless people still in the way?”

“Yep,” Derek said with a nod.

Liam responded a bit tensely, “I’ll say it again. Their camp is sanctioned by the city. The problem is with our tenants.”

“Those losers we’re trying to boot out of there,” Derek agreed. He shrugged as if there wasn’t anything much to do. “Don’t worry. I’m on it.”

The old Flavel building on the east side of the Willamette River had been purchased from Geoff’s ex–business partner, James Flavel, and then taken on by Derek, who’d made bad choice after bad choice, back when he’d still been interested in management. The result was the building had deteriorated to the point of almost being condemned. It was the biggest bone of contention between father and son because it was one of the main reasons, if not the only reason, Geoff had bypassed his elder son completely in favor of his younger, to head Bastian-Flavel Construction. Derek had used some less than legal tactics to remove the tenants who were behind in their rent. The result was that lawsuits had abounded and it had taken them to this point, years later, before the path was clear to move forward in renovations, though there were a number of groups in the area opposed to gentrification, so the project had gone fallow. Currently Bastian-Flavel Construction’s main project was the Hallifax building, another older apartment project which was in a more centrally located neighborhood and considered to be a hot property.

“They can lawyer up all they want. Their leases and their lawsuits are done,” Derek said darkly. “Assholes.”

Liam didn’t wait to hear any more. He had enough on his plate without playing referee for his family or revisiting old gripes about company decisions. “I’m outta here,” he said, then walked out of the door and spied Viv still hovering in the hallway.

“You’re on deck,” he said. “I told Dad you wanted a job.”

“And—?”

“And you need to talk to him yourself. Consider the ice broken.”

He made his way to the front of the house, backed his SUV out of the circular drive because Viv hadn’t moved her damned Mercedes squatting like an oversized toad and still blocking the drive. Then he drove away from the house, leaving the estate on the riverfront in his rearview. Just another day in the life of the Bastian family—his family, he reminded himself. Did he really blame Rory for running the first chance she got? The answer: Yes. She was his wife, or had been, and would be for a few more days. Until he could finish the divorce papers.

His cell phone, which he’d left in the car, made a noise and at the first traffic light he checked it. Bethany. Two messages asking that he call her. He would. Just not now. He drove to the south waterfront and the Bastian-Flavel offices, and when he stepped onto the street, he saw Rory walking down the street, away from him.

Liam’s intake of breath was harsh, and his heart seemed to stop as he saw the long, dark red curls bouncing against her shoulders, the smooth gait of her steps. He strode forward rapidly, intent on grabbing her by the arm, darkly furious. After all the running away, she was here? Now?

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, holding back the roar of fury that threatened to engulf him as he spun her around.

She nearly stumbled, staring at him in surprise, her eyes wide, her mouth an O of shock. It wasn’t Rory, he realized instantly, just someone with her same hair and body type.

“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” he stammered, feeling the fool. The past few days, being caught up looking for her, had obviously affected him and his judgment more than he’d realized. As he released the startled woman’s arm, he remembered the first time he’d met Rory, when he’d bumped into her and she’d stumbled on that steep Seattle street years before . . . “Thought you were someone else.”

“I guess,” she said sardonically, recovering herself. He half expected her to scream for the police, but she merely gave him a long look from head to toe, as if memorizing what the crazy man looked like, and twisted on her heel away from him.

“Jesus,” he muttered, irked at himself. He headed in the opposite direction, glancing back once to see her enter an office building several blocks down the waterfront. She really looked nothing like Rory, he realized.

He was chasing shadows. Had been for five years.

Definitely time to move on.

Definitely.

* * *

It was late night, a strip of moonlight barely illuminating anything in the older building that was under a major, major redo, as Teri Mulvaney stumbled up the stairs, trying to avoid the broken glass and pieces of material that made an obstacle course in this dim light. It was a real bitch trying to see where the hell she was. And from the outside the building looked like this huge monster with smashed-out eyes. The windows were a mess. Lots of spiderwebs crisscrossing those panes. Somebody had bashed them up but good.

“I—ooh!” She sucked in a breath as her ankle twisted. Fought back a shriek of pain that came out as a moan. Holy shit.

“Shhh,” her guide admonished in a whisper. “Can’t have anyone see us.”

“I know,” she whispered back, trying to sound upbeat, though her teeth were clenched.

She shouldn’t have worn her strappy heels, Manolo Blahniks, no less! The ones her ultra rich, ultra snobby bitch of an ex-sister-in-law had tossed her way in a lackluster show of generosity. Sure, they weren’t exactly her size, a little pinchy around the toes, and therefore her heel hung over a little, but so what. They were Manolo Blahniks. Cost a fortune that she didn’t possess! But they just weren’t made for this dead-of-night outing. If she’d had any sense at all she would have called off this “date” before it began.

But he was handsome, in that way she liked. Not too handsome. Just kind of bad-boy, ride a motorcycle and do a little slap and tickle to get the juices going handsome. The kind of guy that could get you into a lot of trouble. Just like she liked. She’d met him at Waterfront Park. He was just standing, watching the river, and she’d left a nearby bar and was walking, well, okay, stumbling a little, toward the street, intent on getting an Uber and hoping her credit card wasn’t maxed out. You know how those things go. Make a payment, gain a little breathing room.

He’d seemed like a ghost in the dark and she’d come up on him suddenly. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he replied, turning to look at her. That’s all it had taken. One look. She’d felt herself go hot and melty in her core, and he’d sensed it and simply moved a hand forward, catching her arm, dragging her to him. He’d started exploring her body immediately, taking all kinds of liberties. She’d pretended to be affronted, but, well, she had been kind of drunk, and it had felt a little good, and she’d been so lonely since her breakup with that asshole Karl. Still, when he’d wriggled his hand up her short skirt and stuck his fingers inside her, she’d slapped at him and told him to stop. Her mother had raised her right. He’d skipped first and second base and slid straight into third, and that just wasn’t right.

“Oh, baby,” he’d breathed in her ear, his fingers caressing hard, and Lord if she hadn’t almost climaxed standing on her tippytoes in those heels that wanted to sink into the soft earth.

Had she whimpered? She was pretty sure she had.

“You want me to stop?” he groaned, his fingers stilling.

God, no. No! But nice girls would ask for a kiss first, so she’d turned her lips toward him.

“Say it,” he ordered, his own lips a hairbreadth from hers.

“Say what?”

“Say you want me to stop.”

“I want you to . . . ooohhh . . . !”

She’d come right then and there, pressing herself to his marauding hand, holding on to his shoulders, knees weak, body quivering, desperate for more contact. “Harder,” she’d begged, pressing her hand on top of his, squirming against his hard fingers. He’d laughed and complied, rubbing her like she was a magic lamp, and she’d felt like one, bursting through to a shimmering climax, releasing a genie of desire, screaming silently in her throat.

Well, at least she’d thought it was silent, until his hands came around her neck and he whispered, “Quiet, beautiful.”

Beautiful. He’d called her “Beautiful.”

She’d been in lust like never before. He wouldn’t tell her his name, which drove her insane, and caused her to masturbate when they weren’t together, just thinking about him. She called him Duke in her mind, which was her boyfriend’s name from two years ago, a real asshole, but she was still kind of habanero-hot for him.

From that first meeting, they’d met by the water every night for two weeks, kissing and rubbing and getting each other off. Though she’d certainly given as good as she’d got, he’d never fully climaxed, though she did on a regular basis with barely a tease to the clitoris. Crazy!

Then last night he’d said, “Wanna have some real fun?”

“Sure.”

So, he’d told her to go to the bar and toss back a few cocktails, just to get the juices flowing. No problem there. Alcohol was her favorite sexual lubricant.

Then he’d come around for her in a pickup. Said he knew a guy who worked for a construction company and was borrowing it for a while. He got her off as they were driving along, and by the time they got to their destination, she was clinging to his shoulder while his right hand idly played with her in a way that made her want to shriek and claw and bite.

But now they were here, and she was picking her way through what had to be a hard-hat zone. Some old building under serious renovation.

“I wanna fuck on the top level,” he said.

“Yeah? I don’t see any elevator,” she quipped, finding herself really funny. Those huckleberry-and-lemon martinis had gone down icy cold. She reminded herself to thank him for the extra dollars he’d given her to help get her drink on.

“We gotta go up five flights,” he said.

Well, she was kidding about the elevator. Surely he knew that. She hurried up the first flight, missed a step near the top, and came down hard on her knee. She yowled with pain, but his hand swiftly came over her mouth.

“Shhh. Gotta be cool, baby, or they’ll come for us. Gotta be real quiet.”

They? The building owners? The police? She whimpered, but managed to shake off most of the pain as they climbed what felt like more than five stairways, finally reaching the top floor. The moon put a white spotlight on them.

“There we go,” he said, turning her to face him.

Finally, they were going to get down to business. Enough with all this handsy stuff. She wanted him inside her right now! Sure, she would have preferred a bed. The last time she’d screwed in the great outdoors was on a beach, and she’d gotten sand up her crack and it chafed and felt like forever to get it all cleaned out.

She saw him take off his backpack, dropping it to the ground. He took a couple steps forward, looking over the edge of the building. “You can see the river,” he said, pointing to the dark waters of the Willamette a number of blocks away.

She tiptoed closer, to stand beside him. She didn’t do well with heights and it was a long way down.

He came up behind her and tickled her, scaring her. “Stop it!” she cried, hanging on to his arm with a death grip.

“What, you’re afraid of heights?”

“Yeah, I am! Gawd . . .”

He turned her around to look at him. Now her back was to the edge of the building and that didn’t sit well with her, either. The moon was to her right now, leaving them in darkness.

“I’ve never heard you like this,” he said, amused. “Kind of bitchy . . . naggy.”

“Come on,” she said, trying to drag him away from the edge.

“I want to do it right here. Standing up.”

“I want to lie down.”

“It’s filthy. No way. We’d need a blanket.”

“Well, what’s in your backpack?” she asked.

“A hammer. Some gloves.”

“A hammer?” she repeated. “What for?”

“A little extracurricular activity.” She could hear the suppressed laughter in his voice, though she couldn’t read his expression.

“No blanket? Nothing?” she asked.

“Nope.”

There was another note in his voice, one she hadn’t heard before, one of excitement, anticipation. Well, good. Unlike most of the women she knew who moaned about their boyfriends getting right to the wham, bam, thank you, ma’am with barely a kiss, she was sick of foreplay.

“We’re gonna have ourselves a gooooood time,” he said, suddenly unbuttoning his pants and freeing a woody that sprang straight up, cocked and ready. Well, all right! She broke into a smile and ran a tentative hand over it. She’d felt him before, but he’d never been quite this hard. “What are you gonna do with the hammer, big boy?” she teased, catching his excitement.

“Smash a few windows.” He laughed beneath his breath. “Beat you to death.”

Teri’s heart lurched. He was the one who’d broken the windows? But then he was pulling down her pants and panties, stepping closer to wedge his cock between her legs. She tried to bend over to free her feet from her pants—her best ones, that she’d gotten on sale at Nordstrom but still cost a fortune—but he wouldn’t let her. He lifted her upward and settled her upon him, her knees bent outward, her feet still caught by the pants.

“Oh, my God, give me a break. I’ll get them off,” she whispered, giggling.

“Nah.” He pushed his cock hard up inside her, hurting her a little because it was such an awkward position. “It’s good, baby, huh.”

“Real good,” she lied. If he’d just give her a minute . . .

But then he began lifting her up and down on his cock, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, and she forgot her worries, her hands clinging to his shoulders. He held her with his arms, suspending her in the air, up and down, until she was squirming for him to go faster, harder. She wasn’t a big woman, but she marveled at his strength. “You must work out,” she panted.

“Some . . .” He spoke through gritted teeth, concentrating.

Before long she was close to coming. She tried to hold back, wanted the moment to continue, but he was strong, sure, and slamming into her in a way that sent her wild.

“You . . . you . . . oh . . . ohhhh . . . oh, God!” Her arms were wrapped around his shoulders, her eyes squeezed shut. She opened them, looked at the white orb in the sky, threw back her head, and wailed like a banshee.

He came on a groan right after she did. Moments later he pulled out and set her down on shaky legs. “Wow . . .” she whispered.

“No shit,” he agreed, sounding as happy as she felt. He tucked his cock away and bent down to his backpack as she pulled up her pants and panties. The claw hammer appeared in his hand and she saw him swing it around, testing it. It whistled by her ear and she ducked away.

“Hey!” she cried fearfully.

“Don’t worry. I got one for you, too.” He pulled another hammer out of the pack and handed it to her.

“I’m not sure I want to destroy stuff,” she said.

“I love destroying stuff.”

He grabbed her by the hand and took her back down a flight. They walked to the windows. One was already cracked and he swung the hammer and smashed the still intact window next to it. The crash was deafening. Somewhere a dog started barking.

“You said to be quiet! Oh, my God.” She was both horrified and thrilled.

“Here, you smash one and we’ll get the hell out.”

“O . . . kay.” She aimed the hammer at the window with the spider cracks. Lifted the hammer.

“Wait,” he ordered.

She stopped and looked at him. To her surprise, he yanked the hammer out of her hand.

“Change of plans,” he said, and then he swung the hammer at her head, dropping her with one hit.

Pain exploded in her brain and dully, she cried out, heard him . . . oh, God, whistling. Her mind was disjointed. Pain screaming and slashing at her. Her body convulsing as she felt her aching body being lifted. Then he threw her, hard, slamming her back into the broken window, sharp shards tearing at her flesh.

She saw him smile in satisfaction at the tinkling of glass far below. One extra push and she was outside, in the air, gravity pulling at her as she free-fell through the night. She opened her mouth to scream and bam! Her body hit hard. Jolting. Bones breaking. She blinked in one last moment of consciousness, saw him staring down at her, grinning like the devil, as if he reveled in the image of blood mixing with her red hair.

Then his head disappeared back inside the building, his footsteps clamoring down the stairs, as gratefully the blackness swallowed her on this, her last, warm summer night.