Hot Rocks

to the Maryland mountains, but the foolish weasel Willy.
    He shouldn’t have let the little bastard see him, Crew thought now. But goddamn small towns. He hadn’t expected to all but run into the man on the street. Any more than he’d expected Willy to bolt and run, a scared rabbit hopping right out and under the wheels of an oncoming car.
    He’d been tempted to march through the rain, up to the bleeding mess and kick it. Millions of dollars at stake, and the idiot doesn’t remember to look both ways before rushing into the street.
    Then she’d come running out of that store. The pretty redhead with the shocked face. He’d seen that face before. Oh, he’d never met her, but he’d seen that face. Big Jack had photographs, and he’d loved to take them out and show them off once he had a couple of beers under his belt.
    My daughter. Isn’t she a beauty? Smart as a whip, too. College-educated, my Lainie.
    Smart enough, Crew thought, to tuck herself into the straight life in a small town so she could fence goods, transport them, turn them over. It was a damn good con.
    If Jack thought he could pass what belonged to Alex Crew to his daughter, and retire rich to Rio as he often liked to talk of doing, he was going to be surprised.
    He was going to get back what belonged to him. Everything that belonged to him. And father and daughter were going to pay a heavy price.
    He stepped into the lobby of the Wayfarer and had to force himself to suppress a shudder. He considered the accommodations barely tolerable. He took the stairs to his suite, put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign as he wanted to sit in the quiet while he planned his next move.
    He needed to make contact with Laine Tavish, and should probably do so as Miles Alexander, estate jewelry broker. He studied himself in the mirror and nodded. Alexander was a fresh alias, as was the silver hair and mustache. O’Hara knew him as Martin Lyle or Gerald Benson, and would have described him as clean-shaven, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.
    A flirtation might be an entrée, and he did enjoy female companionship. The mutual interest in estate jewelry had been a good touch. Better to take a few days, get a feel for her before he made another move.
    She hadn’t hidden the cache at her house, nor had there been any safe-deposit or locker key to be found. Otherwise he and the two thugs he’d hired for the job would have found them.
    It might’ve been rash to burgle her place in such a messy fashion, but he’d been angry and so sure she had what belonged to him. He still believed she did, or knew where to find it. The best approach was to keep it friendly, perhaps romantic.
    She was here, Willy was here—even if he was dead. Could Jack O’Hara be far behind?
    Satisfied with the simplicity of the plan, Crew sat in front of his laptop. He brought up several sites on estate jewelry and began to study.
     
     
     
    Laine woke in lamplight and stared blankly around her bedroom.
    What time was it? What day was it? She scooped her hair back as she pushed herself up to peer at the clock. Eight-fifteen. It couldn’t be A.M. because it was dark, so what was she doing in bed at eight at night?
    On the bed, she corrected, with her chenille throw tucked around her. And Henry snoring on the floor beside the bed.
    She yawned, stretched, then snapped back.
    Max!
    Oh my God. He’d been helping her clear out the worst of the guest room, and they’d talked about going out to dinner. Or ordering in.
    What had happened then? She searched her bleary brain. He’d taken the trash downstairs—outside—and she’d come into her bedroom to freshen up and change.
    She’d just sat down on the bed for a minute.
    All right, she’d stretched out on the bed for a minute. Shut her eyes. Just trying to regroup.
    And now she was waking up nearly three hours later. Alone.
    He’d covered her up, she thought with a sappy smile as she brushed a hand over the throw. And had turned on the light so she wouldn’t wake in the dark.
    She started to toss the throw aside and get up, and saw the note lying on the pillow beside her.
     
You looked too pretty and too tired for me to play Prince Charming to your Sleeping Beauty. I locked up, and your fierce hound is guarding you. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow. Better, I’ll come by and see you.
    Max
     
    “Could he be more perfect?” she asked the still snoring Henry. Lying back, she pressed the note to her breast. “You should