The Heart Has Reasons (2 page)

“I’m
twenty-six.  Time’s running out.”  She gave him a mischievous grin.
 “Maybe I’m really a lesbian.”

He
eyed her feet with a dubious arch in his brows.  “Honey, lesbians don’t
wear four-inch spike heels.”

“They’re
only three-and-a half, and you of all people should know that lesbians don’t
all wear flannel shirts and comfortable shoes.”  She rooted around in her
purse for her keys.  “If you don’t have any more appointments this
evening, you should come with me.  This new school is brimming with young,
buff men.”

“All
of whom are probably straight.”

“You’ll
never know if you don’t come.  Besides, think of all the calories you’ll
burn.”

He
gave her a grin.  “I can think of several more enjoyable means of burning
calories.  And besides, I’m
way
too pretty to risk having someone
punch me in the face.”

He’d
said it as a joke, but it was disturbingly true.  His eyelashes were so
long they looked false, and his beautifully sculpted mouth was sexier than a
man’s had any right to be.

“Full
contact sparring doesn’t come until much later, but even then, you wear padded
face gear.”

“Yeah,
well, you need some padded
body
gear.  I’ve seen the bruises you
occasionally sport.  Why do you put yourself through such torture?”

“Once
you let go of your fear, you realize that taking a hit isn’t nearly as
terrifying or painful as you’d thought it would be.  It’s actually quite
liberating.  But as long as Brian Sparrow’s still out there, I have to be
able to defend myself.”

“After
all this time I seriously doubt he’s still in Charleston.  In any case,
after you pumped him full of lead, I doubt he has the
cojones
to mess
with you again.”

“Would
you feel safe operating on that assumption?”

He
made a wry face.  “Well … I suppose not.  The police aren’t putting
forth enough of an effort to catch him.”

“If
all he’d done was attack me, then they probably wouldn’t expend a lot of time
and energy searching for him.  But he murdered a well-respected member of
the community.  Believe me, they’re still looking.  Until he
surfaces, though, they’ve nothing to go on.”

“Maybe
even after he forced that poor doctor to patch him up, he crawled off into a
hole somewhere and died.”

“I
should be so lucky.  No, he’s still alive.  It’s not over between him
and me.”

Brendon
frowned at her.  “It’s been
two years
.  If he were planning
something, he’d have done it by now.”

“Not
if he’s bidding his time, waiting for the perfect moment.”

He
made no attempt to conceal his dismay.  “Don’t you think you’re being a
little paranoid?”

“Honey,
don’t forget who you’re talking to — paranoia’s my middle name.  And the
fact that you’re paranoid doesn’t necessarily mean they’re
not
out to
get you.”

“Gee,
that’s a cheerful thought.  Thanks for brightening my day.”

* * * * *

Chase O’Malley snapped several
photographs of Larissa Keswick — or as she now called herself, Larissa Santos —
as she and her boss embraced at the door of the salon, and wondered at the
nature of their relationship.  The man was definitely more attractive than
her husband, although, by all appearances, considerably less affluent.

As
she climbed into her battered little Toyota Corolla, he cranked up the engine
of his rental car, followed her from the parking lot and merged into the heavy
rush-hour traffic.  Although the odds of her spotting him were slim, he
nevertheless maintained a generous distance between their vehicles.

They’d
traveled less than two miles when, without any warning, she suddenly pulled
over to the curb.  Cruising a quarter of a block behind her, he hit the
brakes and whipped into a vacancy between two cars, causing the driver of the
delivery truck behind him to hit his own brakes and lay on the horn.

Chase
watched as she got out and walked around to the passenger side to stare down at
the front tire.  She confirmed his assumption of a flat tire by opening
the trunk and removing the jack.  When she returned to the rear of the
vehicle and wrestled out the spare, he cursed.  Surely, she wasn’t
planning to change it herself.

He
wasn’t a man who believed women were the weaker sex.  In Afghanistan, he’d
served with women who were soldiers, mechanics, even helicopter pilots. 
However, it was somehow different to see a woman change a tire while dressed in
camouflage fatigues, than it was to see a woman perform the same activity while
wearing a sexy dress and spike heels.

Why
the hell didn’t she have AAA?

Cars
were speeding by, everyone in a hurry to get home and, since she was squatting
down on the passenger side, no one was going to stop and help her.  He
wanted badly to go to her assistance but, once she’d seen his face and vehicle,
she’d be sure to spot him later on.

* * * * *

Larissa lowered the car, finished
tightening the lug nuts, and slid the jack out from under the chassis, cursing
the fact that she’d have to buy a new tire.  Actually, she needed
four
new tires, but she could barely afford the one, much less a complete set. 
She threw the jack and lug wrench into the trunk with unnecessary force,
hoisted the flat atop the jack, and slammed the lid.

Her
dress was dirty, but fortunately the black fabric was washable, so she’d soak
it as soon as she got home.  Her hands were filthy, she ruined her French
manicure, and there was now a small run in the knee of her pantyhose.

Climbing
back behind the wheel, she glanced at her watch.  Class had already
started and she was still ten minutes away.  Actually, she was only three
minutes away if she took the expressway, but she predicated her life on
avoiding perilous situations, and what could be more dangerous than barreling
at high speed down the expressway during rush hour?  Putting the car in gear,
she eased into traffic.  Once home, she’d pour herself a tall glass of
wine and soak away the day’s frustrations in a hot bath.

Unfortunately,
the frustrations continued to accumulate.  She turned onto her street to
find Steve’s big black advertisement for LDS idling at the curb in front of her
house.

As
she pulled up behind him, he climbed down and, assuming the fraudulent guise of
gentleman, hurried over to open her car door for her.  She made no attempt
to conceal her irritation.  “Why are you here?”

“I
wanna talk to you.”

Shoving
past him, she hurried up her walk.  “There’s nothing more to say.”

Catching
up to her, he grabbed her elbow, halting her.  “Please, Larissa. 
Give me a second chance.”

She
yanked her arm from his grasp.  “I’ve given you not only a second chance,
but a third as well.  It’s over between us, and nothing you say or do will
change that.”

* * * * *

From down the street, Chase watched the
confrontation.  There’d clearly been a relationship between the two, but
the woman obviously wanted nothing more to do with him.

Hoping
he wouldn’t have to intervene, he snapped several photos as the man’s voice
grew increasingly louder, his movements more animated.  Finally, he jabbed
a finger at her and, from half a block away, Chase clearly caught his angry
“Fuck you, then, bitch”.  Spinning on one heel, he stalked back to his
truck and climbed in.  A moment later, the truck roared away from the curb
amid the squealing of tires.

Jesus,
the woman had not one, but
two
men desperate to get her back.

CHAPTER
2

The day after Chase O’Malley returned to
California, he brought his Harley-Davidson to a stop in the shade of the two
enormous tulip poplars guarding the entrance of his client’s estate.  The
wrought iron gates were closed, but a speaker was set into the stone wall
beneath the security camera.
 
He buzzed the intercom.  A
moment later the speaker crackled and Hank Keswick’s voice said, “Yes?”

“Chase
O’Malley.”

“Come
on up.”

The
ornate gate hummed smoothly open and the Harley rumbled up the long, sweeping,
cobbled drive.  Exquisitely landscaped, the grounds blazed with an exotic
riot of colors.  Shrub-sized geraniums drooped under the weight of globes
of red blossoms.  In colors that ranged from pristine white to the deepest
blood red, islands of roses sparkled in the sunlight, their heady fragrances
spicing the breeze.  Tall, deep hedgerows delineated the property line and
the nearest neighbor was nearly a quarter mile away.  Chase found himself
envying Keswick his privacy. 

He
parked the bike at the end of the drive, killed the engine, and took a moment
to admire the glossy-black Lexus that looked as if it had just been driven off
the showroom floor.  The house was less to his taste.  Painted a soft
pink, the contemporary stucco structure stood three stories high, with a
gracefully sloping red clay-tile roof.  Potted impatiens in vivid fuchsia
and orange marched in orderly rows up either side of the wide, brick steps, while
the lawn sprinklers
whick-whick-whicked
to either side of the brick
walkway. 

Dressed
in muscle shirt, parachute-silk pants, and expensive athletic shoes, Keswick
met him at the front door and led him from the marble-floored foyer through a
large archway flanked by two tall, potted rubber tree plants.

The
living room comprised more space than Chase’s entire apartment.  Pale
peach walls perfectly matched the thick carpet underfoot.  A sixty-inch
wall-mounted plasma television looked down upon a trio of lettuce-colored
leather sofas.  A life-sized, bare-breasted, reclining mermaid clasped her
hands behind her head, balancing a thick, glass tabletop on her elbows and the
flukes of her emerald-scaled tail.

Colorful
silk floral arrangements adorned the bar that stretched the width of the
room.  Ceramic, nude figurines abounded, and framed prints of yet more
nudes graced the walls.  On the rear wall, floor-to-ceiling glass windows
commanded a view of a rectangular fifty-foot swimming pool whose black-painted
bottom acted as a reflecting pond.  On the grounds beyond the pool stood a
guesthouse.

Overall,
an air of femininity permeated the room and so, despite the abundance of female
nudes, he assumed Keswick’s wife had been the decorator.  Despite the
opulence, the room seemed somewhat cheap and tawdry.  As they said, money
couldn’t buy taste.

Chase
seated himself across the massive ivory-painted desk from his client. 
Behind the desk was a huge gas fireplace with artificial logs that, in this
climate, probably rarely saw use.  On the mantle above was a framed
portrait of Keswick, his wife, and their two children.  Strange that she’d
not taken them with her when she’d left but, not only would two kids put a
crimp in her social life, some women had no more maternal instincts than the
average rock.

Dispensing
with the pleasantries, Chase told Keswick “Your wife is alive and well, and
back in Charleston, just as you suspected."

Keswick
released a huge sigh of relief and slumped back in his chair.  “Thank
god.  And you’re sure it’s her?”

Chase
handed the large manila envelope across the desk.  “You tell me.” 

Keswick’s
eyes burned with intensity as he slowly flipped through the
eight-by-tens.  Chase sympathized, for he knew exactly what the man had
gone through.

After
high school graduation and just before he’d enlisted, he’d married Michelle,
his high school sweetheart.  He’d dutifully sent her the majority of his
paychecks and had called her every day his training allowed.  Then he’d
gone temporary duty at Fort Bragg, to start SFAS — the Special Forces
Assessment and Selection course.  He’d explained to Michelle that she
wouldn’t be able to reach him during the twenty-four days of survival training,
and she’d assured him she understood.

Once
the grueling course was finished, his first act was to call her.  There
was no answer.  He continued calling, once an hour for the remainder of
the day.  Severely disappointed at not being able to reach her, he was not
yet overly worried.

On
the second day, he finally grew alarmed and called Michelle’s mother, who
professed to have no idea where her daughter was.

On
the third day, he continued calling even as he applied for emergency leave.

On
the fourth, he boarded a flight for Pittsburg.

There
was no sign of her at their apartment.  After making the rounds of all
their haunts, he headed to his best friend’s house, where he caught the two
in
flagrante delicto
.  After he’d finished beating the erstwhile friend
to a bloody pulp, Michelle had cried and begged for forgiveness.  Without
a single word to her, he’d turned and walked out.  Vowing to never again
to put himself into a position where he could be hurt, he’d returned to Fort
Bragg where he immediately filed for divorce.

Across
the desk from him, Keswick was still going through the photos.  Chase had
a second envelope inside his jacket, containing the photographs of the wife and
the man with the black pickup truck, but he kept these to himself for the
moment.  Keswick had hired him to locate his wife, not report on her
amorous activities.  If he wanted to know what — or whom — she’d been
doing, he’d ask.