Free Chasing a Dream by Beth Cornelison Page B

in the leather-upholstered armchair behind his desk. “But?”
    Morelli cleared his throat. Sinclair’s calm unnerved him more than if he yelled. Unseen, unheard dangers were always the most deadly, he’d learned.
    “I really hate the word ‘but,’ Morelli.” Sinclair drew a slow, measured breath and glanced away before returning his dark, placid gaze. “It’s usually followed by all sorts of lame excuses why someone’s not obeying a direct order.”
    Morelli straightened his back. “We’ve covered all the bases. We’ll have her soon enough.”
    “I’ll decide what is soon enough.” Sinclair leaned forward and narrowed a feral glare on Morelli. “I want my wife back. Expand your search. Up the reward for information. It’s not like I’m really going to part with any cash once we have the info we need. She could be out of the state by now. Even out of the country. You realize that, don’t you?”
    “Yes, sir. Though it’s not likely. If she’d gone to an airport, my men—”
    “Your men let her get away once already. Your men had better come up with something, or I’m going to hold you personally responsible.”
    Swallowing the acid that rose in his throat, Morelli nodded. “Yes, boss.”
    “It seems to me you don’t appreciate how upsetting it can be for your wife to go missing. I’d hate for you to find out the hard way, Tony. Maria is such a pretty thing.”
    Morelli’s eyes widened at the implied threat.
    “You have until tomorrow morning.”
    Morelli nodded and turned to leave the office. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, how Sinclair worked. Ever since Sinclair had helped pay off his gambling debt to a loan shark with a mean streak, Morelli had worked for the business tycoon. His methods were more subtle than the loan shark’s, but no less lethal. But Morelli had always been on the trigger end of the gun, meting out Sinclair’s version of debt repayment. Morelli knew Sinclair’s cold-hearted capacity to bend people to his will, and the extent of the danger Maria was in, if he couldn’t produce Tess Sinclair by morning.
     
    ***
    “Tess?” Justin propped on one elbow and peered through the blackness to the second bed.
    “Angie,” Tess whimpered. Her head tossed restlessly from side to side. “Not Angie.”
    “Tess, wake up.”
    “Don’t!” Her voice sounded tense, tormented by the nightmare that haunted her. “No . . . no!” She thrashed her arms as if fighting someone off.
    Justin debated shaking her. His heart wrenched for her anguish, but she might be more frightened if he woke her.
    She kicked at the sheets that trapped her legs, and sweat popped out on her brow, despite the chill from the powerful motel air conditioner. She whimpered then became still except for the near-convulsive shivers that wracked her body.
    He watched her sleep. Sympathy knotted his gut. Her hair, an unusual shade of light brown, spread in a tangle on the starched white pillowcase. Her long dark eyelashes fanned in a similar fashion on her dewy, ivory skin. Having kicked off her sheets, a generous amount of her slender thighs was exposed. The wind suit pants that she’d removed, once under her sheet, lay crumpled near the foot of the bed.
    His gaze slid over her feminine curves and the smooth skin of her legs. He swallowed hard when his groin tightened.
    Again, he suppressed the urge to touch her he’d fought all day. She was off limits. She’d made that clear when she’d rebuffed his kiss. He wouldn’t test her. At least, not until she gave her consent. Instead, he settled for watching her sleep, pondering how in a matter of hours he’d become so enthralled by her beauty, so involved in her plight, so captivated by her lovely smile.
    In her, he recognized the skittishness and self-doubt that the counselors he’d consulted after Becca’s death had described as common for a victim of abuse. A survivor of abuse, he corrected. The counselors emphatically referred to women like Tess