[Continuing chapter fourteen]
“She couldn’t have been aiming at you,” Desiree said. “If she’d tried, she never could have hit you.”
“Maybe she was trying, a little,” Casey said. “Because she very nearly did miss.” He looked at the blood-stained tear in his brand-new trousers, where the bullet had gone through before slicing through the skin on his hip, and sighed. “This suit is only twelve hours old,” he said.
“You can worry about that later. Right now we have to figure out what we’re going to say to Grey. And the police, if he brings them with him.” Desiree smiled, a little crookedly, at him. “It was depressingly easy to persuade Mr. Bello—that’s Jean’s stepfather—not to call the cops. It was a lot harder to keep him from calling Howard Hughes.”
“That probably would have been safe,” Casey said. “I’m pretty sure Hughes doesn’t know about any of this. That goon wasn’t working for Hughes, I’ll wager. He’s Buckley’s boy all the way.”
“Goon?” Desiree giggled. “What a silly word.”
“Means hired thug, I think,” Casey said. “Hindu word originally. Came across it in a British newspaper.”
“Well, shouldn’t we be getting the police after this ‘goon’?”
“He wasn’t kidnapping Eve, Desiree. He was rescuing her.” Casey got to his feet. “But getting after him seems a good idea. I’m going to get the car. Here’s what I want you to tell Grey when he gets here—”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Desiree said. “You don’t go anywhere this morning that I don’t. For one thing, you’re in no shape to drive.”
“I’ll be fine. And if you think I’m letting someone like you behind the wheel of that green monster there”—he pointed to the Bentley—“you’re very much mistaken.”
He reconsidered. He didn’t think he’d lost much blood. Still, it would probably be a bad thing if he passed out again while racing down some rural road. “You win,” he said. “But in that case, we have to make sure that Grey knows where we’ve gone.” He thought about what he was likely to find if he caught up with Eve and Buckley. “I’ll give the message to Bello,” he said. “Could you”—he shrugged apologetically—“go under their car and pick up Eve’s pistol? Use a handkerchief if you’ve got one; the gun’s got her fingerprints on it and I’d just as soon not add any. But we may need something to persuade Buckley to stay put.”
“Stay put where?”
“Caddo Field. Go get the gun.”
On meeting Miss Harlow’s family, Casey quickly learned that the mother was the person to deal with. Bello was a gigolo, all bluster without a shred of competence—or, Casey guessed, integrity—and Jean herself appeared to be in shock. Mrs. Harlow, eyes alight at the prospect of playing a bigger part in this drama, eagerly took in Casey’s instructions.
It was Jean, though, who asked after Casey’s condition and offered to replace the sticking-plaster Desiree had applied with something a bit more effective. There wasn’t time, though—and Casey didn’t relish the thought of dropping his trousers so that this astonishingly beautiful girl could apply a pad and bandage to his hip. Promising to check on them as soon as he could, Casey took his leave of them and rejoined Desiree in the Bentley.
“You going to be all right?” Desiree asked.
“Hope so,” Casey said. He looked across at her. She was tired; he could see the skin under her eyes beginning to swell and her mouth drooped in a thin-lipped frown. “How about you?”
“I’ll survive.”
“Uh, should we phone McMahon?”
Desiree’s mouth twitched up, just a little. “We probably should. Let’s go.”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen
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