Stealing the Golden Dream Page 20

  Ann nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she said, “you were.”

  Something in her friend’s eyes—disappointment, maybe even hurt—dumped a load of guilt at Jordan’s feet. When your business partner and lover had a history with the mob, and your best friend was a cop, being straight with them both wasn’t always in the cards. Better if Ann never knew she was the biggest part of Jordan being able to deny knowledge of Vercelli’s actions.

  Chapter 37

  Monday morning at ten thirty sharp, Jordan pulled the Pilot up to the curb at the hospital’s main entrance.

  Eddie sat in a wheelchair on the sidewalk, scowling.

  Before she stopped the car, he was up and out of the chair, opening the door, and climbing in.

  “What the hell took you so long?”

  Oookay. “Sorry. Didn’t think it was ‘so long.’ ”

  “I felt like a chump sitting in the damn wheelchair. Nothing wrong with my legs.”

  She struggled to keep a straight face. “You’re right.”

  He offered a wave to the candy striper, who smiled and waved back before she turned the wheelchair and headed back into the hospital through the automatic sliding doors.

  “I’m right?” he asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Tough as beef jerky, her Eddie Marino, but he hadn’t been able to hide the wince as he stepped up into the car. No wonder he was grumpy. She went with it. “It means I took a long time getting here, there’s nothing wrong with your legs, and you felt like a chump sitting in the wheelchair.”

  He stared at her a long minute. Then he relaxed and smiled. “Yeah, sure. Let’s blow this joint.”

  Mama Rose and Diego met them in the parking garage of Eddie’s building.

  Rose ran to Eddie but the arms she circled around him were tender and soft. “My boy! I was so worried.”

  He looked at Diego over her head.

  Diego’s gaze met Eddie’s. “Couldn’t keep her from coming to meet you. She was crazy to see you, boss.”

  All four took the elevator up to Eddie’s place. He looked tired and shaky. Jordan hoped his family had the good sense not to plan a party. No matter what he said or pretended, he obviously wasn’t up to it.

  Theresa was waiting out in the hallway with Coop. When she saw him, she ran to Eddie and wrapped herself around him. He wasn’t quick enough to hold her off and winced. “T, sweetie, let go. You’re killing me.”

  “Oops. Sorry. Baby brother, oh man, was I ever worried about you. Me and Mama, we couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, and couldn’t think. It really sucked.”

  “Thanks for coming out to be with Mama.” He put his arm around her shoulder and guided her back into the condo. “I’m sure you were a great comfort to her.”

  The look he gave Jordan over Theresa’s head said he didn’t think anything of the sort.

  Once inside, Eddie excused himself to take a hot shower. Rose and Theresa headed to the kitchen—Italian women to the bone.

  Jordan waited a few minutes then went down the hall to Eddie’s bedroom.

  It was at least twenty minutes before the shower shut off, and Eddie walked from the bathroom naked.

  He was getting around better, almost like he always did—strong, athletic, feral, but slower than usual. His beautiful body was marred; his arms, legs, and torso were covered in purple and green bruises. There were scrapes on his knees and hands and a few round, angry-looking red marks that might even have been burns.

  Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t offer sympathy. He wouldn’t want it.

  She quickly stripped down to her bra and panties and crossed to the bed. Lifting one corner of the duvet, she threw it back before she lay down and rolled onto her side, patting the empty spot beside her.

  He smiled and started toward her.

  “Don’t get any funny ideas, Mr. Marino. This will strictly be resting.”

  “No?” He sat then swung his legs up under the covers. He couldn’t repress a soft grunt. “Not even a little cuddle time?” He lay down beside her. By the way he twisted to find a comfortable spot, she knew it would be some time before he was back to normal.

  Jordan rose up on one elbow and studied his poor bruised face. The swelling had gone down, but the remnants of the cruelty dealt him courtesy of Tony LaSalle were there in his eyes.

  “Cuddle time?” she said. “Well, maybe just a little.”

  “Anything you want to tell me?”

  The third degree was inevitable. Eddie always needed to know all the details. She told him everything, even about the date night with Danny Reilly.

  Eddie listened intently, and when she was finished, he let out a long sigh. “A drug dealer? You crossed a drug dealer? On your own? Jordan—”

  “I wasn’t on my own. Not really. The crew, they were with me.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, and I’ll deal with them later.” He took a good long look at her and shook his head. “Jesus, Jordan, you scare the crap out of me.”

  “Scared? Why? You know I can take care of myself.”

  He stared into her eyes for several minutes then his lids began to droop, and he drifted off.

  He slept for over an hour. She lay quietly beside him the entire time, watching him, still unable to believe that God had really answered her prayers and delivered him back to her.

  Vercelli’s new right hand man, Leon, answered the door and stood back while they entered. “It’ll just be a minute,” he said. “Good to see you, Eddie.”

  The door to Vercelli’s office opened, and two Hispanic men wearing silk cabana shirts and designer-label slacks came out. Leon led them back to the front door.

  They avoided eye contact with Eddie and Jordan.

  Anthony Vercelli sat behind his gorgeous antique desk, smoking a really smelly cigar. Jordan tried not to make a face. His silver hair was slicked back, not the way he usually wore it. His tanned face was smooth and clean-shaven. The light blue silk sport coat he wore over a tropical print shirt must have run him twelve or fifteen hundred dollars. Even Mary Welsh would have been impressed.

  Vercelli stood when they walked in, came around the desk and embraced Eddie.

  He acknowledged Jordan with a smile and a nod. They sat in large wingback chairs.

  “Eduardo,” Vercelli rounded behind his desk and sat. “You’re on the mend I see.”

  “I came to pay my respects and express my gratitude for what you did, Mr. Vercelli. I’m in your debt.”

  Vercelli shook his head and leaned back. “No, son. We’re even. I set the record straight with those two gentlemen from the cartel. Once Reilly was out of the picture,” he smiled at Jordan, “courtesy of some Machiavellian maneuvers by the lovely Miss Welsh, a couple of his guys looking for an employment opportunity revealed where he stashed the rest of his goods. I returned a fortune in black tar heroin to the cartel—a particularly substandard grade if I’m any judge. But thanks to you, I don’t have to worry about a drug war anymore. And you saved my life in the warehouse. It looks like I owe you.”

  Eddie looked relieved, and Jordan knew why. Owing a debt to a man like Vercelli could weigh heavily on a man.

  On Wednesday an upbeat article came out in the paper regarding the recovery of the Golden Dream Dahlonega Coin Collection and its return to the Arizona Heritage Museum. The article praised the Scottsdale Police Department, who had worked in concert with the Phoenix PD and Shea Investigations and Security of Scottsdale. Local TV news vans were parked outside the agency, soliciting Jordan and Eddie to appear on the nightly news on several of the local stations.

  The Abromowitz sisters and the Arizona Heritage Museum board planned to host a champagne reception at the museum in their honor.

  The phone was ringing off the hook with new business. Gina and Coop fielded all aspects of this activity like slick Hollywood agents.

  Eddie was back to working fulltime and growing stronger every day. He was healing on the inside as well.

  Chapter 38

  It was Saturday, al
most two weeks since Eddie came home from the hospital, the day of Mama Rose’s wedding.

  Ivory satin ribbons and white lilies and roses were everywhere in the chapel of St. Aidan’s Parish. The wedding decorations only served to enhance the graceful arches of the beautiful and serene, old Spanish style, white stucco building. Angels celebrating the Virgin birth exploded in rich color over the panels of stained glass behind the altar. As always, the chapel was cool and dim and comforting. Eddie could see why it was Jordan’s favorite place of worship.

  Mama Rose was lovely in a silky, beaded lilac gown with a long-sleeved jacket over it. Mary Welsh’s beautician had spent the morning with Mama, weaving baby’s breath and purple orchids through her hair.

  She stood with Eddie outside the double doors in the foyer, waiting for the string quartet Mary hired to strike up the song she and Mark chose as their own personal wedding march.

  “Look at all the people,” she said. “I can’t believe how many showed up. Where did they all come from?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Some are friends of mine and Gina’s, and Mary said a lot of her friends were excited to come. They’re all gaga over your celebrity author status, Mama.”

  Rose giggled. After a quiet moment, she said in a sly voice, “Did you see how beautiful Jordan looked?”

  Had he seen her? He could hardly take his eyes off her. She nearly knocked him out in a lapis blue, long-sleeved sheath that fit her like a second skin. She even dug out the four inch Jimmy Choos she loved so much. Every click of those stiletto heels drove him crazy. “She’s a beautiful woman.”

  “You think she looks gorgeous today, just imagine how beautiful she’d be in a wedding gown.” His mother’s expression was wily.

  “Really, Mama? This is supposed to be all about you today. You can nag me about marrying Jordan tomorrow.”

  But even he had to admit the idea of seeing Jordan in a wedding gown wasn’t as intimidating as it had been a few months ago.

  “I’m just sayin’, son. You and Jordan belong together. Any fool can see it. You can’t deny love, Eddie.”

  What could he say? Mama’s words of wisdom always rang true. But he didn’t have to think about it right now. The string quartet rang out the first chords of Pharrell Williams’ “Happy,” and Mama Rose took his hand and started to shake and shimmy up the center aisle to where Mark and Theresa danced in place, their smiles huge.

  Happy? Yes, he spun Mama Rose under his arm and pretended to catch the kiss Jordan blew him.

  * * *

  Jean Steffens and Sally J. Smith

  Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens are partners in crime—crime writing, that is. They live in Scottsdale, Arizona, an awesome place for eight months out of the year, an inferno the other four. They write bloody murder, flirty romance, and wicked humor all in one package. When they aren’t putting their heads together over a manuscript, they haunt movie theaters, malls, and great restaurants.

  For more information, go to www.smithandsteffens.com.