met Tucker. The way he’d meditatively rubbed Callie’s red-gold hair between his fingers and wrapped his arms around her like he never wanted to let go, a behavior she’d unabashedly encouraged. If she accepted what he was saying, then it seemed probably that Aimee was not Tucker’s mother, that this mysterious Teresa was, and that Callie wasn’t the only one using someone as an emotional surrogate. Tucker was using her for the same purpose.
Chapter Four
Teresa feigned sleep beneath the weight of Andre’s arm—Lord knew she was tired enough to crash for a week—but her mind was racing. It kept traveling in circles around the events of the night before—her date and the meager amount of money he’d given her, and then her hours of driving, thinking, and planning—to the bank account with its four zeroes, an account Andre didn’t know about, an account where she deposited the bounty of her nights of stealing. She’d become adept at pretending, lying, and thieving; she’d pulled a lot more jobs than he knew and had pocketed the money herself. She’d even managed some burglary and the adrenaline high was just as good as the cash she walked away with. She had close to twenty thousand dollars stuffed into a secret account, and though she suspected Andre sensed something was up, she’d been so good, so constant, that he hadn’t been able to figure out her intent completely.
And that intent was to leave. Soon . . . now. To run back to Tucker and take him far away. She had a U.S. passport and one for him as well. All she had to do was find the right opportunity, steal away from her “home” with Andre and the handmaidens, and beeline for her little boy. It had been years since she’d seen him, and it practically killed her to think of the many terrible things she’d done since to keep him safe and off Andre’s radar.
If Andre knew about him, he would kill Tucker.
Her heart started pounding from the direction of her thoughts, and she studiously and firmly shut her mind down. She’d learned to compartmentalize with greater and greater efficiency over the years and could almost make herself believe she lived a different life. If called upon, she could give one helluva performance, Oscar-winning, really, because it was less about acting and more about believing.
But how had she so foolishly believed in Andre? At one time he’d filled her thoughts, her heart, all her needs. If he’d been lost to her then, she might have killed herself like some tragic Juliet. She knew this to be true. She just couldn’t believe it any longer. Couldn’t feel it.
Tucker had done that to her. Her love for him was bigger than anything else. Had changed her. And it was such a fluke, the pregnancy. Not part of the plan, not part of her aim, her job. As soon as he was born there was a shift inside her. Afterward, even though she’d kept doing Andre’s bidding, playing her part, she’d kept the fact that she’d borne a child a secret from him. Even after Stephen’s death—especially after Stephen’s death—she’d had to come up with a plan for the future, one that didn’t include Andre. She’d done the only thing she could think of: she’d entrusted her son to the care of someone she believed in.
But she was going back for him soon. Tonight, maybe.
Cracking open an eye, she slid a look toward Andre. Her heart clutched and she gave a little gasp to see he was wide awake as well and staring at her speculatively. Lifting the arm he’d held possessively around her, he ran his index finger down her arm, sending an arctic chill through her that it took her considerable skill as a con artist to hide.
“You’re going to have to start being more honest with me, Teresa,” he said with that faint smile that spelled trouble for her in the future.
“About what?” When in doubt, pretend ignorance.
“About last night, for starters.”
“I went to the Boathouse to meet him and he came in, but he brought his wife with
Chapter Four
Teresa feigned sleep beneath the weight of Andre’s arm—Lord knew she was tired enough to crash for a week—but her mind was racing. It kept traveling in circles around the events of the night before—her date and the meager amount of money he’d given her, and then her hours of driving, thinking, and planning—to the bank account with its four zeroes, an account Andre didn’t know about, an account where she deposited the bounty of her nights of stealing. She’d become adept at pretending, lying, and thieving; she’d pulled a lot more jobs than he knew and had pocketed the money herself. She’d even managed some burglary and the adrenaline high was just as good as the cash she walked away with. She had close to twenty thousand dollars stuffed into a secret account, and though she suspected Andre sensed something was up, she’d been so good, so constant, that he hadn’t been able to figure out her intent completely.
And that intent was to leave. Soon . . . now. To run back to Tucker and take him far away. She had a U.S. passport and one for him as well. All she had to do was find the right opportunity, steal away from her “home” with Andre and the handmaidens, and beeline for her little boy. It had been years since she’d seen him, and it practically killed her to think of the many terrible things she’d done since to keep him safe and off Andre’s radar.
If Andre knew about him, he would kill Tucker.
Her heart started pounding from the direction of her thoughts, and she studiously and firmly shut her mind down. She’d learned to compartmentalize with greater and greater efficiency over the years and could almost make herself believe she lived a different life. If called upon, she could give one helluva performance, Oscar-winning, really, because it was less about acting and more about believing.
But how had she so foolishly believed in Andre? At one time he’d filled her thoughts, her heart, all her needs. If he’d been lost to her then, she might have killed herself like some tragic Juliet. She knew this to be true. She just couldn’t believe it any longer. Couldn’t feel it.
Tucker had done that to her. Her love for him was bigger than anything else. Had changed her. And it was such a fluke, the pregnancy. Not part of the plan, not part of her aim, her job. As soon as he was born there was a shift inside her. Afterward, even though she’d kept doing Andre’s bidding, playing her part, she’d kept the fact that she’d borne a child a secret from him. Even after Stephen’s death—especially after Stephen’s death—she’d had to come up with a plan for the future, one that didn’t include Andre. She’d done the only thing she could think of: she’d entrusted her son to the care of someone she believed in.
But she was going back for him soon. Tonight, maybe.
Cracking open an eye, she slid a look toward Andre. Her heart clutched and she gave a little gasp to see he was wide awake as well and staring at her speculatively. Lifting the arm he’d held possessively around her, he ran his index finger down her arm, sending an arctic chill through her that it took her considerable skill as a con artist to hide.
“You’re going to have to start being more honest with me, Teresa,” he said with that faint smile that spelled trouble for her in the future.
“About what?” When in doubt, pretend ignorance.
“About last night, for starters.”
“I went to the Boathouse to meet him and he came in, but he brought his wife with
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