Full Speed

  "I'm still working on it. Have you and Dave finalized your plans?"

  "Yeah, but then Jamie showed up and that changed everything."

  "You have to admire her spunk."

  "Yeah, I guess. I just hope she doesn't get us all killed."

  Chapter Six

  Jamie shivered as something wet and moist nuzzled her ear. "Cut it out, Max." She pulled the bed pillow over her head and sank farther into the feather mattress. The pillow shifted. She was jolted fully awake, this time by a wet tongue at the back of her neck. Her scalp tingled and she could feel the goose pimples on her arm. She shouted in irritation, "Max, I said stop it!" She yanked the pillow aside as Fleas skittered beneath the tall bed, toenails clicking across the old plank floors.

  "Oh, damn," she muttered. "I must've had another X-rated dream about Max."

  Coming off the bed, Jamie dropped to her knees and peered beneath it. "I'm sorry, boy. I thought you were this pervert I know." She offered her hand. Fleas sniffed once and thumped his tail in response.

  "Come on out. I won't hurt you."

  The dog hesitated and then crawled from beneath the bed. Jamie regarded him. His folds seemed more prominent this morning. "Jeez, pal, a little collagen in those wrinkles would work wonders, you know."

  The dog cocked his head to one side. His skin seemed to slide with the motion. Jamie shook her head sadly and glanced about the small bedroom. She was still tired. After her visit with Muffin she'd lain awake for a good two hours, finally falling asleep around 2:00 a.m. She gave a wide unladylike yawn.

  "Have you seen Max?" she asked Fleas. "You remember him, the guy with the hard stomach? The one who kinda looks like something you'd find in a Calvin Klein ad? Like someone you'd want to share a hot tub with?"

  Jamie sighed. First she'd had a sexy dream; now she was thinking about Max's body. And she hadn't even had her first cup of coffee. Well, it was all his fault; he'd started it by lifting up his shirt.

  "Watch yourself, kiddo," she told herself, "or you'll end up falling for him all over again."

  Falling for him? Uh-oh. The thought shocked her. No, no, she wasn't falling for him; she was simply attracted to him, that's all. What woman wouldn't be? Looking into those sexy eyes of his was almost like having fore-play with him, for Pete's sake! Damn him for making her think things she had no right thinking.

  The dog made a sound. "What is it?" Jamie asked. Finally, it hit her. "Oh, I'll bet you have to go to the bathroom. Oh, hell, Fleas, I knew I'd make a terrible pet owner. And you know it, too, don't you? That's why you look so sad."

  Jamie sighed and walked from the room in her nightshirt, the lanky bloodhound on her heels. She let him out the front door. "How about sniffing out the nearest Dunkin' Donuts while you're at it?"

  She checked her wristwatch while she waited for him to do his business. Six o'clock. No wonder she was so tired. She was the kind of person who needed eight hours of sleep or she became disagreeable, as Max sometimes accused.

  Fleas returned and Jamie closed the door behind them. She wondered what Max was up to. She glanced toward the loft, which she assumed held another bed. "Max, are you up?"

  No answer.

  "He's probably in his car talking to his computer," she told the dog. "You don't know about Max's computer. Her name is Muffin, and she's capable of doing just about anything. Maybe she can find you a nice plastic surgeon."

  The dog thumped his tail against the floor.

  "Maybe she can find me a shrink. I talk to computers; I talk to dogs." Fleas looked at his bowl. "Oh, yeah, it's time to feed you. See, I'm not very reliable; you have to remind me of these things." She grabbed the sack of dry food and shook some into his dish. "Breakfast is served," she announced.

  Fleas simply blinked back at her. "Listen to me, pal: This is primo dog food. It's supposed to keep you fit and trim and give you all the vitamins you need." He responded by slumping to the floor. "OK, so you're not a breakfast dog. I usually like to have a couple of cups of coffee myself before I eat. Sometimes I don't even bother with breakfast. Saves calories. That way I can pile up on junk food later. I shouldn't be telling you this on account I need to set a good example for you."

  Jamie found the automatic coffeemaker and filled a cup. She sat down at the old pine table and looked about. She felt lost and disoriented, and she suspected it was due to lack of sleep mixed with anxiety mixed with wondering how she and Max would live under the same roof for the next few days.

  She forced the thought aside, turning her attention to the appointment she had with Harlan Rawlins in less than six hours. She had to admit she was worried; indeed, she could find herself in a compromising position if she weren't careful. She would have to stay one step ahead of him at all times.

  Jamie hurried into her bedroom for the notepad she'd purchased on her shopping trip. As she sipped her coffee, she jotted down her first impressions of Harlan.

  "Handsome and charismatic," she wrote. "A man who knows how to work a crowd," she added, scribbling quickly. She'd devised her own form of shorthand long ago from interviewing people. She continued writing. Harlan Rawlins seemed sincere when it came to the less fortunate, but his weakness for women and his ties to the mob told a different story.

  Jamie paused and clicked the pen against her bottom teeth, something Vera often got on her for doing. Lord, Vera was going to skin her alive when she got back to Beaumont. She thought of the woman who had been the next best thing to a mother when Jamie's biological mother had left while she was still in diapers. Vera, who had always been there for her.

  Vera had taught her to be strong and to meet challenges head-on. As a result, she had refused to give up on the newspaper. She had sold almost everything she owned in order to keep it afloat, and she had swallowed her pride when an investor had offered to help her out. That investor had been Max Holt, of course. Max bailed her out and put a large chunk of change in an account so Jamie would never have to struggle again.

  Jamie looked forward to the day she could pay him back. It might sound like a grand plan at this point, but she was determined.

  Guilt hit her as soon as she thought of Vera. She had no right to cause the woman to worry. With a heavy sigh, Jamie put down her pen and grabbed the portable phone from the kitchen counter. She had a choice. She could call Vera at home and listen to the woman rant and rave or she could call the newspaper office, knowing Vera wouldn't be in at this hour, and leave a message.

  Jamie dialed the office. "Hello, Vera, it's me," she said, trying to make her voice light and airy, as though she were having the time of her life. "Just wanted to let you know I'm enjoying my little vacation and I'm resting. I'm going to have a great story when I get back. I'll call again soon, please don't worry about me." She hung up and regarded Fleas.

  "See that? Here I am, a grown woman, and I still have to check in. That's because I've always done the responsible thing until I met Max. I was a lot more stable and hardly ever thought about sex before he came into my life and turned it topsy-turvy.

  "See, I like predictability. I like having a routine." Like drinking her coffee in her favorite mug with the big smiley face on it, she thought. And sitting in her favorite chair when she watched the news on TV. Simple things that brought her pleasure. She preferred Dove soap to the store brand because one of her earliest memories made her think of that smell.

  Could it have been her mother? she'd asked herself a hundred times. She doubted it, since her mother, as best Jamie could determine, had left when Jamie was about two years old. Perhaps she had dreamed it. What she did remember, as though it had been yesterday, was snooping through a box in the attic that had held her mother's few belongings and finding a bar of Dove soap inside. She'd hidden it in her underwear drawer, taking it out occasionally so she could sniff its clean scent.

  Even now, she kept a bar on her night table because she liked turning over in the middle of the night and smelling its fragrance, and it was all she ever bathed in. She still had the old bar
tucked inside her lingerie drawer. And as silly as it sounded, she was annoyed that she had forgotten to buy it at the store the previous day.

  Jamie's stomach growled. She crossed the kitchen and grabbed a cookie from a jar that had been painted with roosters and matched the set of canisters nearby. The coffee was not doing what it was supposed to do, namely, wake her up. Where the heck was Max? She climbed the narrow steps that led to the loft area.

  The bed was empty and unmade. Jamie slid her hand across the smooth sheet. The pillow bore the imprint of Max's head and the subtle scent of his aftershave. She plucked a dark hair from it and tried not to imagine Max warm and naked beneath the old quilt.

  Here we go again, she thought.

  What was wrong with her? She was lusting after a man, that's what. Her hormones must be out of whack. Or maybe her defenses were down due to fatigue.

  She stared at the empty bed. It looked so inviting. Perhaps if she just closed her eyes for fifteen minutes. She lay down on the soft mattress, nuzzled her face into Max's pillow, and drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Harlan Rawlins smoothed his hand over his perfect blonde hair and re-adjusted his tie. His white dress shirt was European-cut. It fit nicely against his well-toned body and brought out his tan, both of which he worked hard to keep, even when he was on the road. One of the eighteen-wheeler trucks that carried Love Ministry's tents and other equipment also contained a gym, complete with a portable hot tub and tanning bed.

  His entourage included a personal trainer and masseuse, a chef who saw that Harlan maintained a healthy but delicious eating regimen, and a publicist and PR person who purchased licenses and permits for the ministry, contacted the newspapers and TV and radio stations, and set up news conferences.

  Harlan's administrative assistant saw that Harlan stayed on schedule and had exactly what he needed at all times, and even wrote some of Harlan's speeches and sermons. A personal valet saw to Harlan's extensive wardrobe, shaved him, trimmed his hair, gave him manicures, pedicures, and facials, and made sure the minister's personal belongings were laid out upon his arrival. A bodyguard traveled with Harlan and was responsible for arranging for the female "guests" who visited Harlan's hotel rooms from time to time.

  Now, sitting at his desk in his private office, Harlan spoke to the woman on the other end of the line, using the voice that inspired confidence and had brought many to salvation. Only this morning it was marked with fatigue and had a certain edge to it. He cradled the phone between his shoulder and jaw, freeing his hands so that he could massage his temples where a headache had been brewing for the last hour. His forehead was damp.

  "Honey, I've only been back three days. Of course I was going to call you, but my little boy has a nasty summer cold and I've been spending time with him. You know I can't count on his mama to see to his care, what with her emotional problems." Suddenly he lost his connection. The lights flickered in his office, not for the first time. He looked up and frowned.

  Someone knocked on his door. "Yes?" he called out.

  His bodyguard, Ward Reed, peeked inside. He was a tall, angular man with hard eyes and thin lips. Not only did he accompany Harlan wherever the minister went; he saw to home security as well. "Mr. Santoni is here."

  Harlan froze. "Here? What's he doing here?"

  "I know we've discouraged him from coming to your home in the past, but I suggest we go ahead and let him in this time. I want to know what's so important that he decided to show up at your front door so early in the day."

  Harlan sighed. "Greed, what else? I don't like this, Ward." He wiped his brow. "What's wrong with the power? The lights are flashing on and off and the phone just died on me."

  "We've got electrical problems. I've already reported it, but it'll take a while for the men to get here. May lose power for a while; the generator will eventually kick in." As if acting on cue, the lights flickered, and the office went dark.

  "Just what I need," Harlan said. "I want to meet with a man like Santoni in a dark office."

  Ward pulled a cord and the drapes whispered open. July sunlight filled the room. "I'll be here the whole time." He studied the man. "You don't look so good."

  "I didn't sleep last night. My mind was racing ninety miles an hour."

  "You can't keep this up, Harlan. You look strung out, man."

  "You know what touring does to me."

  "Yeah, but you're taking way too much medication. You have to take something to make you sleep, something to keep you awake. You need to see a doctor."

  "Let Santoni in," Harlan interrupted.

  Ward gave the man a long, hard look. Finally, he shrugged. "Whatever you say."

  Nick Santoni stepped through the door a moment later with Ward Reed on his heels. Santoni wore a soft dove gray suit that had been shipped directly from Milan, the likes of which could not be purchased in a town like Sweet Pea or Knoxville for any amount. His black hair was perfect.

  "Well, well, the lamb of God has returned to his holy mansion on the mountain." He glanced around the dark room. "Did you forget to pay your electric bill?"

  Harlan offered him a tight smile. "We're having problems with the power. Were we supposed to meet today, Mr. Santoni? I don't have you listed in my appointment book."

  Nick smiled and held out his arms in greeting. "What's this 'Mr. Santoni' business?" he asked. "How many times have I asked you to call me Nick? I like to think we're not only business associates but friends as well. Surely you can spare a few minutes of your time."

  "Of course." Harlan's voice trembled.

  "By the way, your home is lovely. I had no idea ministers lived so well. You've even got marble pillars in the foyer. I thought you Christians were supposed to store your treasures in heaven." He paused and winked. "Looks like you couldn't wait, buddy."

  "What can I do for you?" Harlan asked. He reached for a tissue, mopped his upper lip.

  Nick took a chair across from Harlan's desk. Reed sat on the sofa against the wall. "I wish I had good news, my friend," Nick began, "but the family has been putting pressure on me to up your percentage, despite my best efforts to convince them otherwise."

  Harlan looked confused. "But we agreed on a cap. We have a gentlemen's agreement."

  "Yes, and the Santoni family has always been honorable people, but your situation has changed. Your celebrity status has grown by leaps and bounds in the past few years." He paused. "I'd like to think I am somewhat responsible for your success."

  Harlan remained quiet.

  "Unfortunately, your fame puts you at a higher risk, and at your current installment, I can't guarantee your protection outside of this state. You could be in serious danger."

  Harlan and Reed exchanged looks. "My expenses are already sky-high," Harlan said.

  "We're only talking another five percent. I know it sounds like a lot, and I'm very sympathetic to your situation, but my uncle feels strongly about this. There's no changing his mind," Nick added softly.

  Harlan pressed his fingertips against his temples but still said nothing.

  Nick waited, absently stroking the thin scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his cheekbone, one he'd earned as a wet-behind-the-ears thug who'd gone up against a Jersey gang leader. The surgeon hadn't finished stitching Nick's cut before a jogger found the other man's body in a ditch on the side of a road.

  Nevertheless, the scar, while it added a slightly harder edge to Nick's good looks, did not detract from them, and he turned his share of women's heads. Having been groomed for years to be the head of the Santoni family, Nick was polished and carried himself well. He'd lost most of the Jersey accent; he spoke slowly and deliberately and made each word count. He had the look of a banker or corporate attorney.

  "You don't look well, Harlan," Nick said.

  Harlan rolled his shoulders. "It was a long trip. I ran out of medicine."

  Nick reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a small plastic bottle of pills. "Catch." He tossed the bottle, and Ha
rlan lunged at it.

  "It'll take the edge off," Nick said, "until I send over the other. I've told you before there is no reason for you to suffer needlessly when I'm only too happy to help."

  The lights came on. Harlan straightened in his chair. "I have cooperated with the Santoni family in the past, but this, er, request is unreasonable."

  "Now, Harlan," Nick said gently. "The last thing we want to do is create hard feelings between us. The family has always had your best interests at heart."

  "We lost the TV network deal," Harlan said. "That was inexcusable."

  Nick looked surprised. "Inexcusable? That's a harsh word to use between friends, but then, I know you're not yourself today. The deal simply didn't pan out."

  "My portion of the money has not been returned," Harlan said.

  Nick looked thoughtful. "Has it not occurred to you that we may have even greater aspirations for you?" he asked. "It would benefit you greatly if you'd learn to become more patient with us. Take the pill, Harlan."

  Reed stood and walked over to a cabinet where he poured water into a glass. He handed it to Harlan before facing Nick. "Maybe we could discuss this another time."

  "What is there to discuss?" Harlan said. "I can't afford to run a ministry at this rate." He looked at Nick. "Don't you people realize that every time you up your share you take food or medicine away from those who desperately need it? Should I close down all of my outreach programs so the Santoni family can keep getting richer?"

  Nick smiled, but it didn't reach his dark eyes. "This coming from a man who lives like he has already passed through heaven's gate?"

  Harlan wiped one hand down his face. Finally, he uncapped the bottle, pulled out the tiny pill, and popped it into his mouth. He didn't bother with the water. "I may as well fold up my tents and retire."

  The smile on Nick's face faded. "That would be a mistake, Harlan. You're only talking like that because you don't feel well."

  "Is there anything else, Mr. Santoni?" Reed said.

  Nick nodded. "Yes, and this should be of concern to all of us. Vito Puccini is dead. He did not do the job for which he was hired. Maximillian Holt is still alive."