Twisted Shadows Read online

  “Actually,” she said, “I do.” She stuck her chin out. “I also look like my brother,” she said.

  Paul Merritta grimaced at that, or perhaps it was his attempt at a smile. He had limped in on the arm of Reggie, each step obviously painful. His face was pale from the effort, his eyes glazed over, probably by painkillers.

  “I understand you have a little shop,” George said. She kept reminding herself that he was a half brother, but he had none of Nick’s charm.

  “It’s more than a little shop,” she said with forced calm. “We have customers throughout the world.”

  “Western art,” someone said contemptuously. “That’s not art at all.”

  She looked around the table at the hostile faces and paused first on Nick, then on Paul Merritta, still watchful. To see what she was made of?

  She shrugged. “We make a good living.”

  “You can always use more money,” one of the aunts said. Her meaning was clear. Everyone at the table thought she was a scavenger.

  “That depends on how and where it comes from,” she replied evenly.

  Her father chuckled. “There’s no doubt that she’s my daughter and your niece,” he said. “She’s a member of this family and nothing more will be said about it.”

  Silence fell around the table.

  Her gaze lowered to the glass of wine that was continually refilled even if she’d taken only a few sips.

  “We seem to like many of the same things,” Nick said, unexpectedly coming to her defense. “Skiing, for instance. And business.”

  The latter provoked alarmed expressions. It was, she decided, akin to a shot across the bow. One of the games Nick had mentioned? Did he participate in those? She had thought not earlier, but now she wondered.

  What was he playing at?

  She felt like an alien in a world she didn’t understand, a world where every word had a different meaning than the ones she understood, where danger lurked behind every shadow. The room was filled with twisted shadows.

  Except for meeting Nick, the visit was a disaster, and even reuniting with her brother had not been very promising. Despite Paul Merritta’s words, she’d felt no affection from him, and there was hostility from everyone else.

  But she would never regret coming.

  Perhaps now she could return home, to her own life. The image of her mother’s pale face crept into her consciousness. Sam was beginning to understand just a small piece of her mother’s fear. Why she had tried to escape this family. But how could she have left her son? Sam knew if she were a mother, nothing short of death would convince her to relinquish her son.

  Had that been the choice her mother faced all those years ago—to leave or to die?

  Paul Merritta suddenly stiffened—just as he had earlier—and clutched the table. Anna was the first up. She whispered in his ear, then held out her arm as he struggled to his feet.

  He resisted for a moment and turned to Sam. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow we will have a long talk.”

  “I planned to go home tomorrow,” she said.

  “I want to talk to you further,” he insisted. “There are things…” Agony crossed his face, then he stumbled from the room, leaving an emptiness and silence behind him.

  Giving up on any pretense of having an appetite for the rich dessert in front of her, she put down her spoon. “I should go. Nick, are you ready?”

  He stood. “Always at your command.”

  It was stylishly said, though he didn’t smile. The others became visibly anxious, as if worried about a possible new alliance.

  Nick seemed to enjoy their collective concern. He walked over to her, pulled out the chair as she rose.

  George stood and blocked their way. George, as impeccably groomed as the gardens, glared at her. “I don’t know what you want or what you’re doing here, but I’m warning you: You won’t get what we worked so hard for.”

  She stared at her half brother, seeing only contempt in his face. She was angry, angrier than she had been with her mother. It was as if a gaping wound had been tom open, one she hadn’t known existed until a week ago. “I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want anything from this family. I wouldn’t take it if it were gift-wrapped. I came because I was asked. I wanted the truth about my… heritage. Now I know and I wish to hell I didn’t. I don’t like it. I don’t like you. And I’m going home.”

  Tears of frustration, maybe even regret, threatened.

  Her brother didn’t want her here. Her biological father was obviously playing one family member against the other.

  The instrument of her mother’s destruction. Was that what she was?

  All she was?

  eleven

  “Good girl,” Nicholas said as he gunned the car and drove toward the gate. For a moment, she thought it wouldn’t open and she would be trapped here forever. But then the gates slowly yielded, and she relaxed.

  “Why?”

  “You held your own with them. My father respects guts. He may say otherwise and rant and rave, but it is the only thing he really does respect.”

  “I don’t care if he does or not,” she retorted. “I loved my father. At least he was my father in every important way. Paul Merritta doesn’t compare with David Carroll. Not in any way—”

  She caught herself. She was talking about his father. The only one he knew.

  Nicholas shrugged. “Then forget the Merrittas. You seemed to have had a television-family childhood. Why spoil it?”

  “I’m sorry, Nick.”

  “Don’t be.” His voice was hard.

  She tried to change the subject. “He must respect you. You have a successful business…”

  Nick looked at her quickly, then shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Do you care?”

  “I stopped caring a long time ago,” he said.

  “But you still keep contact.”

  “He’s still my father, whether or not I approve of him.” He turned his gaze from the road and looked at her for a split second before turning back.

  Sam looked ahead at the four lane road that wound through a neighborhood of fine homes. Dusk was falling. Traffic was light and everyone was moving fast, probably all exceeding the posted forty-five mile per hour speed limit. Nick was going fifty to fifty-five, and other cars were passing them.

  She tried not to worry. Her law-and-order compulsion was working overtime. All she needed was to be arrested in a car belonging to a member of a crime family. Then she realized she was a member of the family, too.

  He turned on the headlights, and she sat back and relaxed. Oddly enough she was comfortable with him. She didn’t feel the need to chatter any longer, or even ask questions.

  She wondered if he felt the same.

  Then she became aware of his glancing into the rearview mirror. More, she thought, than necessary. She looked over her shoulder.

  There seemed to be nothing other than the normal traffic.

  For a moment, her mind went back to the burglary of her house.

  She decided to mention it. “I told you I was burglarized before coming here.”

  He nodded, his eyes intent on the road ahead.

  “I thought it might be a coincidence.”

  “There are damned few coincidences in this family,” he said. “What did they take?”

  “Nothing valuable. I came home from a run and apparently surprised whomever it was.”

  His gaze left the road again. It was only for an instant but she saw surprise, and something else there. “You said nothing valuable was taken? Was anything taken?”

  “An address book.”

  She heard him swear softly.

  “Do you know something I should?” she asked.

  “Only that I’m not surprised.”

  “Why would my father…?”

  “Your father now,” he asked. “How quickly we come to accept.”

  “I’ve had more time.”

  “And no evidence.”

  “My
mother’s word.”

  “Oh, yes, your mother’s word. Sorry, I can’t place much faith in that.” He looked in the rearview minor again. His face tensed. Then he turned onto another road, one lined with commercial activity.

  “You still don’t believe?”

  “Oh, I believe all right, though I wouldn’t believe my father if he swore on a stack of Bibles. He uses people, Samantha. And people who believe him die. Remember that.”

  “He said my mother’s not in danger. Can I believe that?”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  Even as he issued the damning word, Sam saw him look at the rearview minor again. She turned and squinted at the headlights behind them. They were close. Too close. No more than two or three feet from their car.

  Nick made one left turn and then another onto an overpass. The car lights behind them receded, then closed the distance again. Instinctively she grasped the armrest.

  The other car bumped them from behind.

  Her gaze shot to Nick as he sped up, his gaze glued to the road, his mouth tight. She looked at the speedometer. Eighty miles an hour, and still the needle moved forward. She looked back at the car gaining on them, its headlights looking like the eyes of a predator intent on making a kill.

  The vehicle hit their car again, harder. If she had not fastened her seat belt, her head would have struck the window.

  “What are they doing?” she asked through suddenly dry lips.

  Nicholas’s face tensed as he struggled with the wheel. They were being pushed headlong into oncoming traffic.

  She braced for impact as he twisted the wheel to the far right.

  Their wheels caught the shoulder. The car that had trailed them hit the left rear of their car, knocking it toward the edge of the road and the forbidding blackness of a drop.

  She couldn’t scream, couldn’t stop lurching against the seat belt. She heard a loud whooshing sound as the airbag exploded, and suddenly she could see nothing as her body was shoved backward, all her breath pushed out of her lungs.

  She couldn’t move her arms or legs as she struggled for air. Her chest hurt as if an anvil had been thrown against it.

  Pain spread from one part of her body to another as she tried to see Nick through the darkness. The horn on the car was blaring, pressed down by his weight once the airbag deflated.

  Then she saw him move.

  “Are you all right?” Nick asked. His voice was thick.

  She turned to look through shattered windows, aware of tiny cuts caused by pieces of glass now scattered over her clothing and seat. “I think—” Her voice abruptly left her at the sight of a figure next to the window. For a split second, she felt relief, then she saw a ski mask and a gun raised and aimed at her.

  Nick leaned in front of her. A soft burst of sound, like a wheezing gasp, seemed to fill every comer of her awareness.

  Nick slammed backward and slumped.

  She cried out, wanting to reach for him, yet unable to move for the shock, paralyzing her. All she could do was stare at the figure… at the gun.

  Then both were gone, the figure fading into darkness.

  “Nick,” she said.

  “It’s… all right,” he said. “Just…” His voice turned into a groan.

  A plume of smoke rose from the smashed front of the car. Heart jumping in her chest, she fumbled with her seat belt. The nylon webbing released her suddenly and she all but fell to the side, reaching for Nick.

  She forced her fingers to probe gently The wound was not his chest… not his stomach. He groaned again when she touched his arm. She felt something warm and wet on her hands.

  “Nick? Can you move?”

  “I think so.”

  Despite the pain in her chest from the airbag that had now disintegrated, she managed to unbuckle his seat belt.

  “We have to get out,” Nick said, his voice hoarse.

  Smoke was creeping inside the car through the shattered windows and the fresh air vent near the floor. She leaned forward over him to open the door on his side. Her own was pinned against a culvert. His door was stuck fast. He tried to help her force open the door. It wouldn’t budge.

  “Get out,” he said. “Go over me.”

  Ignoring the pain stabbing at her ribs, she wriggled over him, trying to avoid his arm that hung at an odd angle. She tumbled out the smashed window, sprawling on the ground.

  A flicker of flame became visible. Nicholas. Dear God, she hadn’t just met him to lose him.

  “Run,” Nick said, pushing against the door.

  Instead she started pulling at the door, even as she saw the flame move toward the gas tank.

  “The window,” she said. “Climb out.”

  He tried, angling his body as blood poured from his wound. “Go,” he ordered again.

  She grabbed his shoulders, pulling as he tried to push. He fell out, taking her down with him.

  She felt the heat from the car. In seconds it would explode.

  She tried to lift him up, but he fell back. “Nick, help me.”

  But he was dead weight. Unconscious.

  Her heart pounded till it almost burst from her chest. She knew she couldn’t move him alone.

  Not in time.

  Still, she grabbed one of his arms.

  And prayed.

  twelve

  Nate cursed as the car ahead of him sped up and bumped Merritt’s car.

  He’d known the second car was tailing Merritt. It hadn’t occurred to him that actual harm was the intent.

  It should have. Samantha Carroll was a threat to virtually every branch of the Merritta family as well as to opposing factions. Organized crime was just that— organized and carefully controlled. Unknown elements rarely were controllable and therefore were to be eliminated.

  The car following Merritt accelerated, and Nate realized he wouldn’t be able to close the distance between them in time. Not if the driver of the second car was serious about doing damage.

  It was. The car rammed into Merritt’s again, this time leaving no room for doubt that this was more than a friendly little warning.

  Neither Merritt nor the driver of the car following him seemed to notice that Nate was gaining on them. He was in his personal car—a 1990 BMW he’d bought cheap in a government sale—which he’d thought would be less obvious in this neighborhood. Now he regretted the fact he didn’t have a radio.

  He’d known from the phone tap on Merritt’s home that she would be at Paul Merritta’s. He’d lost her earlier, and that had irritated him no end. He didn’t intend to lose her again.

  Merritt took a turn leading to the Boston Post Road, obviously hoping to outrun whoever was following him.

  Nate checked the road ahead and behind, and floored the gas pedal, his gut twisting at the thought of Samantha Carroll in the car ahead.

  He thought of everything they’d discovered about her in the past few days. Samantha Carroll of Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Model citizen, pillar of the business community of her town, excellent credit rating, member in the local Better Business Bureau and active in the Chamber of Commerce. Master’s degree in business from Stanford. One speeding ticket that he could find.

  And then there was Samantha Carroll—daughter of crime boss, twin sister of suspected accomplice, if not mastermind, of money laundering operations and heir to the reins of the “family.” Samantha Carroll—obvious target of opposing factions.

  And someone was after her. But who? Opposing families? Or members of her own newly discovered family?

  Maybe both.

  She’d looked more promising than he’d ever imagined. She was a respected member of the community, a role she would probably like to keep both for herself and for her mother.

  If she didn’t cooperate voluntarily, he might have a weapon there.

  He pushed away the twinge of guilt he felt. Putting away the Merrittas justified a hell of a lot of personal reservations about his methods. Paul Merritta had never had any reservations about murder. N
ate’s stomach tightened at the thought, at the memory that never left him.

  But now her life was in jeopardy and he found he didn’t give a damn about using her.

  The car ahead was closing in on Merritt’s car again. Merritt, he knew, had a sports car, but tonight he drove a dark sedan that was no match for the large car on its tail.

  Nate noted the make, model and license number of the tailing car. Like his own, the car was expensive. Unlike his, the windows were tinted.

  Nate saw a stop sign and a car turning into the road. He hit the brakes to avoid striking it. His car skidded several feet, almost hitting a fence. He backed up, but then another car had cut in front.

  He swore as he tried to maneuver around the two cars that blocked him. He leaned on the horn but that only got him a finger in the air from the car ahead. The traffic in the other lane was steady and he couldn’t get around them. Then they hit a light, and he was neatly pinned in. Blocked.

  Merritt’s car and the one following it disappeared.

  Hell with this. He edged onto the shoulder that was far too close to a fence. Hearing the crunch as the side of his car hit the fence, he managed to get around one car, then the other. He speeded up and turned onto the main road.

  He almost passed it. Would have if he hadn’t seen the car parked on the edge of the road, its lights off. He slowed, stopped, just as he saw a man dressed in black slip inside the car. The car screeched off, leaving a trail of gravel and dust behind it.

  He wanted to go after it. Instead he looked down and saw the passenger side of a car smashed against a culvert.

  He parked his car, called 911 on his cell phone, then left the BMW, half sliding, half running down the hill.

  Samantha Carroll was trying to tug a large body away from the wrecked vehicle. He saw the smoke, smelled the gas.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “He’s unconscious.”

  “Damm it, I’ll get him.” He leaned down and put an arm under Merritt’s. He half lifted him. Samantha disobeyed and put her arm under the other one. Together they dragged, half carried him. A loud whoosh followed by an explosion filled the air as they stumbled away from the car.