Ryan's Rescue Page 19

  “There’s me,” he said, aching for her, wondering if her wealth and status in life had always put people off, separated her from her peers. “I noticed, and I’m impressed.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said dejectedly. “I feel like everything I do, I’m just giving you more ammunition for your story. ‘Princess Christine couldn’t wait to get her hands on her makeup case. Even when she’s sleeping in a recliner, she wears a prissy nightgown that someone starched and ironed.”’

  He’d noticed the nightgown, all right, but he hadn’t thought of it as prissy. More like sexy, in a virginal sort of way. He’d fantasized for hours about how he would get underneath all those ruffles and flounces.

  How could he make her understand that he wasn’t out to exploit her? In the story’s latest evolution, he’d taken out almost all the personal details that didn’t relate strictly to the kidnapping or her dealings with her father.

  He could let her read it, of course, and see for herself that he wasn’t taking advantage of the fact that they’d been practically on top of each other for the past couple of days. But he resisted the temptation. When he’d faxed the story off and it was gone—then, maybe, he would show it to her.

  The phone rang. He tensed as the sound was cut off midway through the second ring. Apparently Fran had caught it on another extension. That meant she was out of the bathroom, he hoped. He felt grubby next to the pristine Chrissy, and he desperately needed a shower.

  “Ryan?” Fran called from the bedroom. “Can you pick up the extension, please? It’s the managing editor from Primus . He wants to talk to you about the story.”

  Ryan swallowed. He wished he could talk without Chrissy sitting two feet from him.

  “I’ll step outside,” Chrissy said, as if he’d broadcast his wishes over a loudspeaker. A door from the kitchen led to a back staircase with a roomy landing. She went out and closed the door firmly.

  Ryan picked up the kitchen phone, though in his mind he’d followed Chrissy outside. “Ryan Mulvaney.”

  “Ryan! Bruce Garlock, Primus. Holy cow, those pictures are dynamite! How did you do it? Where is she now? Who’s that guy she’s kissing?”

  Fran broke in. “Ryan, I told him there was a problem with that particular photo.”

  “Problem? What problem?” Bruce asked in a manic voice.

  “You can’t use it,” Ryan said, praying Fran would back him up. “It was sent by mistake. It has nothing to do with the story I’m writing. As for the guy, it’s me.”

  “Oh.” Bruce sounded suddenly deflated. “That does shed a different light on things. So? What about this story?”

  “It’s a different sort of dynamite.”

  “Christine Greenlow on a plate?” Bruce asked hopefully.

  “Better. Senator Stan Greenlow on a plate.”

  “Oooh, I like the sound of that. Bad enough to lose him the election?”

  “Bad enough to lose him any election, for the rest of his life.” He could almost see Garlock, the opportunistic little rodent, licking his lips.

  “So, what’s the E.T.A. of this little gem?”

  “Late this afternoon. I was given a juicy tidbit late last night, and I need to confirm the details this morning.”

  “That’s cutting it a little close, Mulvaney.”

  “Believe me, it’ll be worth a late night.”

  “All right. I want to see it by four o’clock. And I’m faxing you both our brief contract. Sign it, fax it, then over-night-mail the original. First North American rights, and as far as the money goes—”

  “I want twice the original figure you quoted,” Ryan said without blinking:

  “Ryan!” Fran scolded, an edge of panic in her voice.

  “It’s a much more valuable story than the one we first discussed,” Ryan continued calmly. “And there are expenses. Hotel rooms, gas, not to mention a new lock for my back door after the terrorist broke in.” That ought to whet ol’ Garlock’s appetite.

  “If I can get that amount approved,” Garlock said, slightly more cool than before, “you’ll both have contracts within the hour.” He hung up.

  “Damn, Mulvaney!” Fran called to him from the other room. “You trying to put the kibosh on the whole deal, or not?”

  “I’ll get what I asked for,” he called back. And at least he had some good news to tell Chrissy. He opened the kitchen door. She was leaning against the balcony railing, her face to the morning sun. For a moment, he just drank in her beauty, hesitant to disturb her:

  Fran came up behind Ryan and opened the door wider. “Hey, Princess,” she called, jarring Chrissy from her reverie. “We got semigood news.”

  “What?”

  Instead of calling her inside, Ryan went out to stand with her in her patch of sunlight. “Primus isn’t going to run the kiss picture.”

  She brightened slightly. “That’s something, at least, though I suppose at this point the fact that I kissed some guy at the zoo is the least of my worries.”

  Ryan inwardly bristled at being referred to as “some guy.” Was that all it meant to her? “I have a deadline of four o’clock for the story, but I’ll be done before then, and we can leave for Raleigh,” he said coolly.

  “Okay.” She looked over at Fran. “Will you come with me to buy some bagels?”

  “No,” Ryan said. He looked at Fran. “I don’t think she should leave the apartment.”

  “No problem,” Fran said. “The grocery store down the block delivers. I’ll call and order us some provisions, including bagels.”

  Chrissy smiled at Fran, a little sadly. “Thanks, Fran. I’ll pay for the groceries. I have a little money now.”

  Fran waved away the offer. “Keep it. You might need it.”

  As Ryan made his calls and put the finishing touches on his masterpiece, Christine sat in the living room and pondered her fate. First she would take shelter with Michelle; then, she decided, her first priority would be to force her father into treatment for his drug addiction. Now would be her best chance to get him to agree, when he no longer had a reputation to protect, and thus had nothing to lose.

  She would have to deal with Robert, too, but that could be accomplished with a succinct phone call. He didn’t even deserve a face-to-face meeting.

  Then would come the really hard part—deciding what to do with her life. She would like to finish school but had no idea where she would get the tuition. Realistically, she supposed, she would have to find a job and save money for college.

  “Hey, maybe I could join the army,” she said to Ryan as he walked by her, toward the kitchen, with his empty coffee cup. “I could learn a useful skill, and they’d give me money for college, just like it says on the TV ads.”

  Ryan gave her an indulgent smile. “You wouldn’t look good in camouflage.”

  She frowned back at him. This princess image of hers had to go. She was not some delicate hothouse flower. She was strong and brave and intelligent and capable, and soon she would also be self-sufficient. Then she would show Ryan that she wasn’t so different from him, other than in the obvious male-female ways.

  She realized, then, that she was contemplating some kind of future in Washington, a future that included Ryan. And why not? Once this nasty business was over and people had stopped talking about it, both of their lives would have to resume some sort of normalcy. They could start over, pretend none of this had ever happened.

  Except it had, and it would forever mark them.

  “I’m done,” Ryan announced.

  “Hmm?” Christine had been so deep in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized how much time had passed. It was early afternoon.

  “I just faxed the story off. We can start out for Raleigh now.”

  “Oh. Oh, good.” Should she congratulate him or something? She decided that wasn’t necessary. “My things are packed. We can leave whenever.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “You’re not curious about the story? I’ll let you read it now, if you want, as long as you promise
not to call Primus and threaten to sue or anything.”

  She shook her head. She was sick to death of thinking about this story, and now she was simply relieved that it was done. She could move on to something else. “Let’s just go, okay?”

  Chrissy made yet another call to her half sister. Ryan didn’t even bother to listen in this time. Then he and Chrissy said their goodbyes to Fran and thanked her for her hospitality:

  “You’re easy houseguests,” she said. “And, Christine, despite all my teasing, I think you’re a pretty good sport. Don’t hold a grudge, okay? Come back and visit any time. You can show me how you do that funky braid.”

  Christine reached up and touched her hair self-consciously. While she was sitting around with nothing to do, she’d done a four-stranded French braid to her hair—something she’d learned in the dorm at college.

  “Okay, I will,” Christine replied, lifting her chin a notch. She didn’t think Fran was making fun of her this time. “As soon as I get settled someplace, I’ll give you a call.”

  Ryan, she noticed, did not issue any similar invitation. She decided she might have to work a little harder where he was concerned.

  “Oh, Ryan, the contract from Primus,” Fran said. “You haven’t faxed yours in yet. Want me to do it for you? I can fax it, then overnight it with mine.”

  “Um, no, that’s okay,” he said. “It’s mixed up here with my notes and stuff. I’ll stop at the first post office I see and overnight it.”

  She shrugged. “Okay. If you say so.” She closed the door, giving Ryan one last, speculative stare.

  “I talked to your father again this morning,” Ryan said to Christine as they walked to the car.

  “Really? Did you confront him with the kickback stuff?”

  “Yeah. I had to at least attempt to get his side.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Ryan sighed. “He denied it, of course. Threatened all kinds of ugly things, but no threats I haven’t faced before.”

  “Oh, dear.” She wondered again whether she ought to give in to her father’s manipulation and go home. Someone would need to be with him when the manure hit the fan. She could always leave later. Before, she’d worried about whether she would have the strength to leave when she was facing him head-on. Now she was sure she would. She’d grown stronger in the past few days, more confident.

  “Maybe I should see him,” she ventured.

  “Um, I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

  “Really?” Earlier, he’d been all for Christine and her father making a reconciliation. “Why not?”

  “He’s looking for a scapegoat to blame his problems on. Right now, it’s you.”

  “Really?” she said again.

  “He’s very angry at you for cooperating with the police, with the press. He’s still convinced you somehow orchestrated this whole series of events. But if it’s any consolation, there’s no doubt in my mind that he still doesn’t believe you were really kidnapped. He thinks it was a hoax, one you instigated. So he wasn’t willing to risk your life for the sake of protecting his secrets.”

  That was something, at least. But having her own father believe she would do something this hurtful was painful enough.

  “To Raleigh, then.”

  Soon they were on I-95, heading south out of town, and a heady sense of anticipation overtook Christine. The state of turgidity she’d been in for the past three days was giving way to action, and it felt good. The miles flew by with incredible speed. They would reach Raleigh before dark.

  And then she would say goodbye to Ryan.

  She tried not to be depressed by the thought. She still had some things to look forward to, even if the next few days would not be very pretty.

  “When does Primus come out?” she asked Ryan.

  “Friday.”

  She had two days before all hell broke loose. “What are you going to do?” she couldn’t help asking.

  He shrugged. “I think I’ll visit my sister. We’ve been sort of out of touch lately. Then, I don’t know, I’ll do what I always do. Try to hustle some work.”

  “What will you do with the money you get from Pri-mus?”

  “Mmm... Live on it. Pay bills. Buy some new hubcaps.”

  “You’ll let me know how my blood test came out? I gave you Michelle’s phone number, right?”

  “Yes, on both counts. Garlock has said he’ll publish the results as an addendum. You getting hungry?”

  “Always,” she said, smiling. Her appetite was their private joke.

  “We’re not too far from Emporia, where Josette lives. I know this really good café—it’s called Southern Fried Hospitality. Great catfish, hush puppies. It’s a little bit out of our way. You game?”

  “Sure.” She’d vote for anything that would give her a few more minutes with him. Oh, Lord, was she really that besotted? She was afraid she was.

  They’d already come through Richmond, nearing the North Carolina border. Ryan took an exit off the interstate, onto a much smaller highway. The countryside was more accessible, and Christine drank in the soothing sights of grazing sheep on rolling green hills. The traffic had disappeared.

  All except for one car, behind them.

  Christine turned around to have a better look. “Ryan?” That was all the warning she was able to get out before the Corvette’s back window shattered in an explosion of broken glass.

  “Get down!” Ryan’s first instinct was to protect Chrissy. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pushed her down with one hand, desperately trying to keep his car on the road and slain down on the accelerator all at the same time.

  He could see the car clearly now through the gaping hole that used to be his back window. It was the red Firebird, nearly bumper-to-bumper with him, an assault rifle aimed out the driver’s window.

  He wasn’t sure how Denny had found them. Maybe he’d been following them all along, waiting for an opportunity to get them isolated. At any rate, he’d raised the odds in his favor considerably with the big gun. Either he planned to take out Ryan and grab Chrissy, or he meant to kill them both. Maybe he was a total loose cannon, and the frustration of his failure to recapture Chrissy had sent him off the deep end.

  Ryan began to widen the gap between the two cars by virtue of the Vette’s superior horsepower. Another shot rang out. By the sound of it, the bullet had struck metal.

  “Let go! You’re about to break my neck!” Chrissy yelled, though her words were muffled, Her face was pressed against his thigh, his hand clamped on the back of her neck and pressing far too hard.

  He loosened his grip, though he didn’t release her. “Stay down.”

  She turned her head to the side. “Is someone shooting at us?”

  “Yes.” He swerved from side to side as he drove at close to a hundred miles per hour down the country road, giving Denny a more randomly moving target to aim at. Since he was doing both the driving and the shooting, Ryan suspected he was alone. And his aim probably wouldn’t be too good with his left hand.

  “What are you doing?” Cold wind roared in from the back window, almost drowning out her words.

  “Trying to keep us alive.”

  “Is there something I can do to help?”

  He had to admire her. Any lesser woman would have dissolved into hysterics by now. He wished there was something handy she could do to help the situation—like throwing a box full of tacks out the window. It worked in old movies.

  “Get the map,” he said. “It’s to the left of my seat. Do it without raising your head.”

  “What about the cell phone?” she asked as she unfastened her seat belt and crawled over his lap to look for the map. Any other time, he might have enjoyed the experience.

  “I, um, left it at Fran’s.”

  She groaned. “What a time for you to get forgetful! Okay, I have the map.”

  “Find Highway 608 near Emporia, going due east, and find me the shortest route back to the interstate.” He fig
ured the big highway was his safest way to find civilization, or at least other cars. Out here in the country, they were sitting ducks.

  Another shot sounded. Chrissy squeaked. “He’s still there?”

  “He’s dropping back. This car can outrun his Firebird any day.”

  Still lying half in his lap, Chrissy studied the map. “Are we east or west of 619?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Six-nineteen south will take you right to the Interstate. Otherwise you’ll have to go through a town called Callaville—”

  “There’s something up ahead.” It wasn’t much of a road. It wasn’t even marked. But since Ryan had left the Firebird on the backside of a hill, he decided to risk it. He slammed on the brakes, sending a screaming Chrissy rolling onto the floor, and made a left turn on two wheels.

  The road wound through a copse of trees, seeming vaguely familiar. At any rate, Ryan hoped, his car would be out of sight before the Firebird topped the hill and Denny realized the Vette had made a turn. If they were lucky, Denny would scream right on by the turnoff.

  The car hesitated, and Ryan punched the accelerator again. Nothing happened. From reflex, he glanced at the gas gauge, then did a double take. It was flat-out empty, and they’d filled up in Richmond.

  “What’s happening?” Chrissy said, peering up at him from the floor, where she’d fallen. The car was sputtering, gradually losing speed.

  “A bullet must’ve hit the gas tank,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’re out of juice.”

  “Oh, my God!” Chrissy was showing the first signs of true panic, and he didn’t blame her. If Denny was behind them, they were doomed, or at least he was. She might yet survive to draw a ransom, though he didn’t hold out a lot of hope for that.

  She raised up and peered between the bucket seats, out the back window. “Where is he?”