Mad, Bad and Blonde - Cathie Linz [86]
He really didn’t need her pulling this kind of crap right now. He was messed up enough as it was, torn between love and loyalty. Wait a second. Love? He loved Faith? How the hell did that happen? He’d been so damn careful not to fall in love with her. Just because he’d had sex with her didn’t mean he was in love with her. Just because her giggle made him smile didn’t mean he was in love with her. And just because the thought of her not in his life made his gut clench didn’t mean he was in love with her.
It meant he was an idiot.
Who was he kidding here? He frigging was in love with her. And he was going to kiss her senseless for taking a risk, going rogue this way on her own.
The sound of a gunshot from inside Nolan’s house froze Caine’s heart and instantly threw him into Marine mode. He pulled a knife from its sheath in his boot and headed up the stairs to the front door. It was unlocked.
He heard Faith talking. Thank God. She was alive. For now.
“I don’t like to brag, Fred, but I’m a crack shot, so I wouldn’t recommend pissing me off right now. Do not move!”
“You’re lying. You wouldn’t shoot me.”
“She probably would,” Caine said as he entered the room. “And even if she wouldn’t, I sure as hell would.”
“She and her father were trying to kill me,” Fred Jr. said. “They didn’t want me telling anyone about the money. They wanted it for themselves.”
“That’s a lie,” Faith said.
“Why don’t you give me the gun, Sunshine, and you take my phone to call the police,” Caine said.
Faith readily made the switch. She was afraid she might be tempted to shoot Fred Jr. after what he’d just put her through. Her plan had worked as she’d hoped. Fred Jr. stood at her feet with the gun in one hand, the duct tape in the other. She’d kicked up, landing a direct hit on Fred Jr.’s family jewels with her pointy-toed polka-dot shoes. He’d squeezed off a wild shot that hit the ceiling before dropping the gun and bending over in pain. She’d scrambled to get the weapon before he did. She’d succeeded. Barely.
“Your dad didn’t commit suicide,” Faith told Caine in a rush. “It was his father, Fred Belkin. He killed your father and staged it to look like a suicide. Fred was the one who sold the information to the rival company. He was angry with ARC for giving him a brain tumor.”
Caine was having a hard time processing this news as Faith spoke to the 911 dispatcher while using a Swiss Army knife from her bag to free her dad. But one thing came through loud and clear. His father had been murdered.
Seeing the dangerous look on Caine’s face, Fred Jr. dissolved in hysterical tears. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t kill him. My father did. Don’t shoot me!”
Buddy arrived with the police minutes later. “Picked it up on the scanner,” he told Faith. “Been busy, buttercup?”
Unable to speak, Faith dashed for the bathroom, vowing to never leave her home or office again without first emptying her bladder. A better daughter would have stayed by her father’s side, but the EMTs said he was fine as she raced past them. At this point she was just so relieved that no one had been killed that she could hardly see straight.
An hour later, seated beside her father in the ER, her relief doubled with the news that her father had suffered a mild concussion from being hit on the head with a blunt object but otherwise was okay. Faith had yet to reach the okay level, especially when Caine walked in.
He’d driven her to the hospital in his Mustang, bombarding her with questions she wasn’t always sure how to answer. “Why were you there?”
That one had been easy. “My father texted me to come.”
“Does he usually text you?”
“Not often, no.”
“That should have been your first clue something was wrong,” he’d said. “Next time someone texts you like that, phone them to verify it.”
The last time someone had texted her, it had been Alan, and she could hardly have phoned him to verify that he’d sent the message. Besides, he’d texted her several times after that about his belongings