Wyoming Christmas Ransom Page 17

  “Is someone inside?”

  “Will,” Laurel said, eyebrows drawing together. “He said you offered to let him stay at your house. I gave him your key.”

  “Oh. I don’t remember. Maybe when I was out of it I did, but I’m glad I did. He doesn’t have anywhere to go.” She yawned and tried not to wince as Laurel helped her up the walk. The wound still hurt, and she imagined it would for quite a while, but she’d been lucky the bullet had passed through her side and not hit any important organs.

  Her recovery had been stellar and now she was home just in time for Christmas tomorrow. And Will was inside. She smiled at that.

  Laurel turned the knob and pushed the door open, helping Gracie with that last step. She was too exhausted to fight all the help she was getting, though she imagined she’d be done with it in a few days.

  For today, she was glad to be home. Her Christmas tree twinkled from the corner and Will stepped out of the kitchen with a big grin on his face.

  This was exactly what she wanted for Christmas. Maybe without the gunshot wound and his broken arm, but they’d get through those things all the same. Heal. Move on and forward.

  “Welcome home,” he offered with a smile.

  Home. Will in her home. It felt infinitely, perfectly right. She stepped toward him and when she reached him she simply leaned right into him, gingerly to protect her side and his arm, but he wrapped his good arm around her and this was right where she wanted to be for a very long time.

  “I guess I’ll leave you two alone, huh?” Laurel smiled warmly. “Take care of each other, and for the love of God stay out of trouble.”

  “Merry Christmas, Laurel,” Will offered.

  “Merry Christmas, guys.” She left, pulling the door closed behind her.

  “Christmas,” Gracie murmured, looking up at Will. “How did it get to be Christmas Eve?”

  “I wish I knew.” He used his good hand to brush some hair out of her face. “Oh, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me, too,” she replied emphatically.

  “And I have a Christmas gift.”

  “But it isn’t Christmas.”

  “It’s our Christmas. You’re home, which is my gift, and what I’d made for you survived my shop’s destruction, so Christmas miracle or something.”

  “You made something for me before?”

  “I did. I’d convinced myself I was going to sell it to the antique store while I made it, but it was always for you.” He released her then bent under the tree and pulled a terribly wrapped lump that might contain a box somewhere under crumpled edges and too much paper. He cleared his throat. “It was hard to wrap with only one workable arm.”

  She swallowed, feeling teary as she carefully pulled the wrapping paper away from the box inside. She pulled the lid open to find an iron door knocker in the shape of a flowering rose.

  “You were always talking about how much you liked my door knocker. I’ll install it for you, too, once I’ve got two good arms.”

  “Will. It looks just like the rose bushes I planted in front of your cabin.”

  “That was kind of the point.” He smiled, and she realized a tear had escaped only when he reached out to brush it away.

  She waved a hand in front of her face. “I’m blaming this emotional response on the meds.”

  “I don’t mind an emotional response,” he said, still touching her face.

  The gift was thoughtful and gorgeous and proved Will had been paying attention even when he hadn’t wanted to. It was too perfect, really. She didn’t deserve it or him or this seemingly happy beginning.

  Which reminded her of something she’d completely let fall into that fog that still clouded some of what had happened that night.

  “Gracie, I lo—”

  Oh God. No. “Wait.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh God. I haven’t told you, all the things I pieced together. I didn’t tell you.” She turned away from him, panic bubbling through her. She hadn’t told Will and it changed everything. Everything.

  “Tell me what?” he insisted, moving so that he was in front of her again.

  It was going to end things. How could it not? “I...” She didn’t want to lose him, but how could she keep that secret? It was too big, too awful and likely to come out in Jesse’s trial anyway. “Will, I know who Paula was having an affair with,” she whispered.

  He didn’t say anything, just gave her a quizzical look.

  “It was my uncle,” she forced herself to say. “That’s why Jesse was going to hurt me. That’s what prompted Jesse to try to punish Paula—a relationship with a Delaney. I...” She shook her head, feeling tears well in her eyes as she looked down at his perfect gift.

  She thrust it back at him. He wouldn’t want her now. Not when she was connected to the man his wife had slept with.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You can’t possibly want...” She forced herself to look at him and he only looked confused. Not shocked or angry or anything other than slightly concerned. “You don’t want me now,” she said firmly. “I’m related to the man who—”

  “Gracie, I knew all that. Kayleigh told the police everything, and Laurel explained it all to me. Why Jesse was there, how he was involved with killing Paula. I knew it was your uncle days ago.” He took her by the shoulders, ignoring the gift she still held out to him. “I don’t care who you’re related to. I love you.”

  She could only stare at him for a few awful seconds. But he was still touching her. He knew and he’d given her this and said that. “But...”

  “No buts. I love you no matter what. I’m not saying I want to have Christmas dinner with the guy, but that’s also because he treats you like crap from what I can tell. But I love you, and I’ll make sacrifices for you, Gracie. You’ve been there no matter how little I deserved it, and you infinitely deserve the same from me. Why would any of that stuff you had nothing to do with change my mind?”

  No one had ever said that to her before. Not so certainly. Not without equivocations. But Will just loved her. No matter what.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  He grinned. “I kind of knew that.”

  Which earned him a laugh, but then she winced and placed a hand over her side. “Oh, don’t make me do that for another few weeks.”

  “We should get you to bed,” Will said, taking the present from her finally and putting it on the table next to the couch. “I’d carry you if I had two arms.”

  “Man, we really are a pair.”

  “A pair of survivors.”

  She smiled at that, walking with him down her hallway toward her bedroom. Survivors. Yes, they’d both survived a lot, and now they had each other to lean on to survive the rest.

  And what could be a better Christmas gift than that?

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Undercover Connection by Heather Graham.

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  Undercover Connection

  by Heather Graham

  Chapter One

  The woman on the runway was truly one of the most stunning creatures Jacob Wolff had ever seen. Her skin was pure bronze, as sleek and as dazzling as the deepest sun ray.

  When she turned, he could see—even from his distance at the club’s bar—that her eyes were light. Green, he thought, and a sharp contrast to her skin. She had amazing hair, long and so shimmering that it was as close to pure black as it was possible to be; so dark it almost had a gleam of violet. She was long-legged, lean and yet exquisitely shaped as she moved in the creation she modeled—a mix of pastel colors that was perfectly enhanced by her skin—the dress was bare at the shoulder and throat with a plunging neckline, and back, and then swept to the floor.

  She moved like a woman accustomed to such a haughty strut: proud, confident, arrogant and perhaps even amused by the awe of the onlookers.

  “That one—she will rule the place one day.”

  Jacob turned.

  Ivan Petrov leaned on one elbow across the bar from Jacob. Ivan bartended and—so Jacob believed thus far—ran all things that had to do with the on-the-ground-management of the Gold Sun Club. The burning-hot new establishment was having its grand opening tonight.

  “I’d imagine,” Jacob said. He leaned closer over the bar and smiled. “And I imagine that she might perhaps be...available?”

  Ivan smiled, clearly glad that Jacob had asked him; Ivan was a proud man, appreciative that Jacob had noted his position of power within the club.

  “Not...immediately,” Ivan said. “She is fairly new. But all things come in good time, my friend, eh? Now you,” he said, pouring a shot of vodka for Jacob, “you are fairly new, too. New to Miami Beach—new to our ways. We have our...social...rules, you know.”

  Jacob knew all too well.

  And he knew what happened to those who didn’t follow the rules—or who dared to make their own. He’d been south of I-75 that morning, off part of the highway still known as Alligator Alley, and for good reason. He’d been deep in the Everglades where a Seminole ranger had recently discovered a bizarre cache of oil drums, inside of which had been several bodies in various stages of decomposition.

  “I have my reputation,” Jacob said softly.

  Ivan caught Jacob’s meaning. Yes, Jacob would follow the rules. But he was his own man—very much a made man from the underbelly of New York City. Now, he’d bought a gallery on South Beach; but he’d been doing his other business for years.

  At least, that was the information that had been fed to what had become known as the Deco Gang—so called because of the beautifully preserved architecture on South Beach.

  Jacob was for all intents and purposes a new major player in the area. And it was important, of course, that he appear to be a team player—but a very powerful team player who respected another man’s turf while also keeping a strict hold on his own.

  “A man’s reputation must be upheld,” Ivan said, nodding approvingly.

  “While, of course, he gives heed to all that belongs to another man, as well,” Jacob assured him.

  A loud clash of drums drew Jacob’s attention for a moment. The Dissidents were playing that night; they were supposedly one of the hottest up-and-coming bands, not just in the state, but worldwide.

  The grand opening to the Gold Sun Club had been invitation only; tomorrow night, others would flow in, awed by the publicity generated by this celebrity-studded evening. The rich and the beautiful—and the not-so-rich but very beautiful—were all on the ground floor, listening to the popular new band and watching the fashion show.

  Jacob took in the place as a whole, noting a balcony level that ran the perimeter, with a bar above the stage. But that night all the guests were downstairs, and Ivan Petrov was manning the main bar himself.

  The elegant model on the runway swirled with perfect timing, walking toward the crowd again, pausing to seductively steal a delicious-looking apple from the hands of a pretty boy—a young male model, dressed as Adonis—standing like a statue at the bottom of the steps to the runway.

  “I believe,” Jacob told Ivan, turning to look at him gravely again, “that my business will be an asset to your business, and that we will work in perfect harmony together.”

  “Yes,” Ivan said. “Mr. Smirnoff invited you, right?”

  Jacob nodded. “Josef brought me in.”

  Ivan said, “He is an important man.”

  “Yes, I know,” Jacob assured him.

  If Ivan only knew how.

  * * *

  JASMINE ADAIR—JASMINE ALAMEIN, as far as this group was concerned—was glad that she had managed to learn the art of walking a runway, without tripping, and observing at the same time. It wasn’t as if she’d had training or gone to cotillion classes—did they still have cotillion classes?—but she’d been graced with the most wonderful parents in the world.

  Her mother had been with the Peace Corps—maybe a natural course for her, having somewhat global roots. Her mom’s parents had come from Jordan and Kenya, met and married in Morocco and moved to the United States. Jasmine’s mom, Liliana, had been born and grown up in Miami, but had traveled the world to help people before she’d finally settled down. Liliana had been a great mom, always all about kindness to others and passionate that everyone must be careful with others. She had believed that words could make or break a person’s day, and truly seeing people was one of the most important talents anyone could have in life.

  Declan Adair, Jasmine’s dad, was mostly Irish-American. He’d been a cop and had taught Jasmine what that meant to him—serving his community.

  They had both taught her about absolute equality for every color, race, creed, sex and sexual orientation, and they had both taught her that good people were good people and, all in all, most of the people in the world were good, longing for the same things, especially in America—life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

  They sounded like a sweet pair of hippies; they had been anything but. Her father had also taught her that those who appeared to be the nicest people in the world often were not—and that lip service didn’t mean a hell of a lot and could hide an ocean of lies and misdeeds.

  “Judging people—hardest call you’ll ever make,” he’d told her once. “Especially when you have to do so quickly.”

  He’d shaken his head in disgust over the result of a trial often enough, and her mother had always reminded him, “There are things that just aren’t allowed before a jury, Declan. Things that the jury just doesn’t see and doesn’t know.”

  “Not to worry—we’ll get them next time,” he would assure her.

  Jasmine scanned the crowd. Members of this group, the so-called Deco Gang, hadn’t been gotten yet. And they needed to be—no one really knew the full extent of their crimes because they were good. Damned good at knowing how to game the justice system.

  Fanatics came in all kinds—and fanatics were dangerous. Just as criminals came in all kinds, and they ruined the lives of those who wanted to live in peace, raising their children, working...enjoying their liberty and pursuing their happiness.

  That’s why cops were so important—something she had learned when sometimes her dad, the detective, hadn’t made it to a birthday party.

  Because of him, she’d always wanted to be a cop. And she wa
s a damned good one, if she did say so herself.

  At the moment, it was her mother’s training that was paying off. As a child, Jasmine had accompanied her mom to all kinds of fund-raisers—and once she was a teenager, she’d started modeling at fashion shows in order to attract large donations for her mom’s various charities. She had worked with a few top designers who were equally passionate about feeding children or raising awareness when natural disasters devastated various regions in the States and around the world.

  So as Jasmine strutted and played it up for the audience, she also watched.

  The event had attracted the who’s who of the city. She could see two television stars who were acting in current hit series. Alphonse Mangiulli—renowned Italian artist—was there, along with Cam Li, the Chinese businessman who had just built two of the largest hotels in the world, one in Dubai and one on Miami Beach. Mathilda Glen—old, old Miami society and money—had made it, along with the famed English film director, Eric Summer.

  And amid this gathering of the rich and famous was also a meeting of the loosely organized group of South Beach criminals that the Miami-Dade police called the Deco Gang.

  They had come together under the control of a Russian-born kingpin, Josef Smirnoff, and they were an equal-opportunity group of very dangerous criminals. They weren’t connected to the Italian Mafia or Cosa Nostra, and they weren’t the Asian mob or a cartel from any South American or island country. And they were hard to pin down, using legitimate business for money laundering and for their forays into drug smuggling and dealing and prostitution.

  Crimes had been committed; the bodies of victims had been found, but for the most part, those who got in the way of the gang were eliminated. Because of their connections with one another, alibis were abundant, evidence disappeared, and pinning anything on any one individual had been an elusive goal for the police.

  Jasmine had used every favor she had saved up to get assigned to this case. It helped that her looks gave her a good cover for infiltration.