The sun was hanging just above the horizon when he stepped out of the shadows. The warmth of his breath puffed white on the cold air. “Rick Stein?”
The manager of the office supply had just finished locking up. He turned from the glass door, peering uncertainly at the stranger. The man was only a silhouette against the dying sun. He fumbled with putting his keys into his coat pocket. “Yeah, that’s me. Who’s asking?”
“Not a friend.” Michael stepped closer, emerging out of the shadows. He curled his lips into his cold-bastard’s smile. Deliberately, he raised his fists. “This is for Winter.”
The man’s eyes widened fractionally. He threw up defensive hands, backpedaling. “You’ve got the wrong guy! I don’t know any—”
Michael threw a short jab into the man’s face. He felt cartilage give under his knuckles. Rick Stein howled and doubled over, his hands flying to his face. His voice was muffled. “My nose! You’ve broken my nose!”
Michael hit him again, a hard blow to the body followed by a wicked hook to the jaw. The man’s head whipped to the side, blood spraying from his mouth. He crashed down to the hard pavement. The ex-husband lay still, his limbs flung out at awkward angles.
Michael waited for a moment, but the man didn’t get up. He felt a flicker of concern. Shit. He squatted down to lay two fingers against the man’s neck. There was a pulse. Good. The asshole was breathing.
Michael stood up. His breath came easy. “That was for Chloe, you sorry slimeball.” He stared down at the man’s supine form, feeling a distinct sense of satisfaction. It was too bad that he couldn’t expiate his own guilt so easily, he thought.
He turned, quickly walking away. The parking lot was almost deserted. A few of the overhead lights were on, making isolated pools on the black pavement. The car was parked in a darkened area not penetrated by any of the lights.
Muffled in a coat and wearing a red ski cap, Darryl leaned against the side of the sleek BMW 328I. His arms were crossed casually over his broad chest as though he wasn’t in any particular hurry. He straightened as Michael approached at a rapid pace and reached the car.
Without a word spoken, they got into the black BMW. With a deft twist, Darryl started the ignition. Before shifting into gear, he looked across the center console. “Feel better?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do.” Michael flexed his bruised fingers and shook out the hand. “Damn, that hurt like a son of a bitch.”
Darryl laughed. He shifted gears and gunned the V6 engine.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Two months later, Michael and Darryl were finalizing business plans for the week. When his cell rang, Michael glanced with irritation at the caller ID. With the divorce proceedings, he had talked to his ex-wife more in the last few weeks than he had in years.
But the call wasn’t from his ex-wife. Winter. His mind over-circuited, and everything was crowded out of his mind. “Hold on, Darryl. I’ve got to take this.”
Darryl nodded and returned his attention back to the figures for the bid on their newest job.
“Michael?” It was not Winter’s voice. Thick, raspy, it wasn’t a voice that Michael recognized. He felt the swift let-down. Yet the call had come in on Winter’s number. He frowned. “This is Michael. Who is this?”
“Michael, it’s Vicky Sotero. We met—”
“I remember,” he said quickly. “I don’t understand. Why are you calling me from this number?”
“It’s Cathy. I–I’m sorry.”
Michael straightened, his whole body tensing. Dread knotted his stomach. “Is she in some kind of trouble?” he asked tersely.
Darryl looked up, his expression alert. “Mike, what’s going on?”
Michael waved his friend silent. His whole concentration was riveted. “Vicky?”