“Promise me you won’t hurt the baby,” she begged. “You can take him back to the apartment and leave him there or take a cab and offer to pay the driver to take him and—”
“Shut up!” Monty exploded, his eyes snapping fire. “The kid stays with me.”
“But—”
“Get in,” he growled as they reached a dark blue Jeep. The vehicle Nick had thought was following them, the one at the church where Donald Favier was a preacher. She had no options. With a sinking sensation, she climbed inside the dirty interior. The stale scent of cigarette smoke mingled with the odor of grease. Old taco wrappers and beer bottles were strewn across the floor of the back seat. “Put your seat belt on,” he ordered as he settled behind the steering wheel, holding the squirming, crying baby on his lap. Kylie reached for her child and was rewarded with a smart crack on the wrist with the butt of his pistol.
“No tricks,” Monty warned. “Don’t try to pull a fast one.” He twisted on the ignition with one hand, held the squirming baby in his other. “If I slam on the brakes, the kid is either killed by the air bag or goes through the windshield. Like Pam.”
Terror drove a stake in Kylie’s heart. She didn’t dare move, did everything he said as the engine sparked and James started to cry in earnest. Monty pulled away from the curb and stepped on the gas. The Jeep roared up the hill. The baby wailed and Kylie was helpless to do anything. She thought of Nick. He was probably already dead and soon, soon, her baby would be too. Unless she complied. Or . . . Oh, God, could she go through with it—sleep with this vile killer? Could she pretend to be a woman she was not, just as she’d pretended confusion the night before with Alex? She nearly retched. Nausea roiled up her throat but she knew deep in her heart that she’d do anything to save her son.
Even if it meant seducing the bastard who held James’s fate in his filthy, cruel hands.
“What the hell happened here?” Paterno yelled. “Call 911. Get an ambulance!” Paterno was on his knees, feeling for a pulse, sensing that Nick Cahill was about to die in the hallway outside Kylie Paris’ apartment. “Hang in there,” he said and the guy’s eyes fluttered open. Doors opened to the corridor. Janet Quinn was already on her cell phone.
“Kylie,” Nick said, reaching up with effort, grabbing Paterno’s shirt front and tie in his fist.
“I know about her. Don’t talk.” The detective opened Cahill’s jacket and shirt, saw the dark ring of the bullet hole and the blood still pouring out Cahill’s wound. Gunshot. “Who did this to you?” He whipped out his handkerchief and ignoring all those warnings about gloves, tried to staunch the flow of blood.
“Marla . . . Kylie . . . Montgomery,” Nick rasped.
“Hell, he’s out of it.”
“Monty,” Nick repeated, his eyes glassing over. “He’s got her.”
“Who? Where are they? Where’s Marla?”
“The ranch . . . Cahill . . . ranch . . . but Kylie . . . you’ve got to find . . .” Nick passed out.
“The ambulance is on its way,” Janet said as she leaned down, felt for a pulse on the hand that had dropped away from Paterno’s shirt.
“It had better get here fast.” Paterno didn’t think Nick would survive. Chalk one more up to the killer.
“Jesus,” Janet whispered, more as a prayer than a curse as she saw the wound and Paterno’s blood-soaked handkerchief. “He’s not gonna make it.”
“You’re never gonna get away with this,” Kylie said as Montgomery reached into the glove box and pulled out an electronic garage door opener that not only opened the gate of the Cahill estate to swing open but also caused the garage door to crank up. “The house is filled with servants.”
“Is it? Well, the old lady is down at Cahill House making plans for the annual holiday party, Lars has been deployed to drive her wherever she needs to go, the teenager’s at school, Alex is making arrangements for your father’s funeral and the servants that were left were given the day off—because the old man died.”
Alone? She was going to be alone with him?
“This is how you got into the house,” she said, eyeing the garage door opener. “Alex—did he give it to you?”
“Smart girl,” Monty said, juggling James. “We’ll go in.”
“And do what?” she asked. “What is it you want?”
“Money.”
“I don’t have any.”
“But you have access . . . through the computer. All you have to do is make a few transfers.” He sent her a glance. “What’s a few hundred grand for your kid’s life?”
“I can’t even log onto the damned thing,” she argued. “I . . . I don’t know the codes.”
“Sure you do. You’ve done it hundreds of times. I’ve seen you.”
“No, I can’t. I’m not Marla.”