Free Relative Strangers by Joyce Lamb Page B

her professionally. She knew it was wrong, even though she liked it. Sometimes, she was ashamed that she was a professional thief. Yet it all somehow seemed justified. Slater's targets were carefully chosen. Not one of them, until Beau Kama, seemed undeserving of the crimes she committed against them. They were the kind of men who would have treated her like trash if they had happened upon her hitchhiking rather than Slater.
    For twelve years, she enjoyed the thrill, the danger, the perks. Then Slater had sent her after Beau, and everything had changed.
    Realizing she'd lingered in the shower too long, Margot shut off the water and swept aside the shower curtain. At the same moment, the door burst open and one of Slater Nielsen's most vicious hit men grabbed her by the throat and slammed her back against a wet tile wall.
    Jake "The Bloodhound" Calhoun's lips parted in a wide grin, showing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth, his breath reeking of cigarettes. "Hey, Mags. Long time no see."
    Ryan sat in his car and stared at the Illinois license plate on the practical, silver Honda Civic. It was parked in front of a small house on stilts, on Fort Myers Beach. It seemed like days since he had followed her and her friend here from the airport.
    In his hand, he clutched the keys he had demanded she give him the night before to keep her from using them as a weapon. The first key he tried admitted him into a sparsely decorated living room that looked as if it had been left in a hurry. Luggage and a purse lay just inside the door, mail and another purse cluttering a desk nearby.
    He circled the room, taking it in. The sofa was new and looked comfortable. Several newspapers and magazines were stacked next to the desk, as if saved for later reading.
    A Victorian dollhouse sat on an antique table in one corner. On the floor under the table was a wooden crate, MOMS KRAFT BOCKS stenciled in black letters on its side. It contained small cans of paint, miniature furniture, and tiny rolls of carpeting and wallpaper. The dollhouse was evidently a work in progress.
    A bookcase packed with books and pictures demanded a closer look, and in some of the pictures he recognized the woman who had his stomach in knots. In one, she wore scuba gear and stood next to the woman she had called Dayle. In another, she was younger and grinning, an arm propped on the shoulder of the same friend.
    Ryan picked up the frame and stared hard at the image. In the background was an older-model Jaguar. Taupe, she had called it.
    "Damn," he said under his breath.
    Putting the picture back, he turned to survey the room. His gaze landed on the purse by the baggage. Feeling like a thief, he opened it and withdrew the wallet. The driver's license inside identified Dayle Richmond of Arlington Heights, Illinois. Further inspection turned up a lawyer's ID.
    The other purse yielded another driver's license and a Fort Myers newspaper ID, both showing pictures of a woman identified as Meg Grant.
    Pulling out his cell phone, Ryan punched in some numbers. When he got an answer, he said, "Special Agent Sam Loomis, please."
    Jake Calhoun gentled his grip, and Margot gulped air into her starved lungs as his gaze dropped down her naked body. She was wet from her shower and shivering, and he nodded in appreciation. "Nice, Mags. Real nice."
    She tried to jerk away from him, but his fingers tightened on her throat like a vice. She bit back the urge to scream, thinking of Holly sleeping in the next room. Please, still be sleeping. But she'd known Jake for years, knew how he worked. He would have scoured the apartment before cornering her, would have eliminated any potential witnesses.
    But maybe there was a chance. Maybe Jake had gone straight for her, bypassing her friend.
    Still grinning, Jake said, "Got something to show you."
    He dragged her forward out of the tub, and she winced as her shins knocked hard against the porcelain lip. He pushed her out into the hall, one arm locked around her