of Lucas, if Weber had had the chance to catch up with him before he was arrested for breaking and entering. Now that Weber had jumped his bail, the king’s only hope was that Max would catch up with him before Weber—or any of the Brothers—did.
“When you bring Weber back,” the king began, for the idea that Maximillian would fail to bring the man to Montebello never entered the king’s mind, “you and I and Tyler will meet. We need to talk. Extensively. But until then—well, I am afraid that these lines are not always secure.”
No, Max thought, remembering life in the palace, they were never that. And the lines were not the only things that weren’t secure. You never knew who might be listening in on a conversation. In Montebello, beneath its clear blue skies and inviting scenery, there was a state of almost constant intrigue, something he’d never gotten used to or appreciated. He liked his intrigue in small doses, wrapped in the cases he handled, not seeping into his personal life.
“I understand. But you have to give me more than that to work with.”
“I’ll have Albert send you a fax of the man’s photograph.”
Max laughed shortly, unable to picture the crusty old man operating anything more complex than a two-line telephone. “How long did it take someone to teach him how to fax?”
“Longer than most people would have been patient with, but the result is what matters. Now, along with the photograph, I can give you a more exact location on Weber, but nothing further right now.”
Max nodded to himself. “Give me what you can.”
Taos, New Mexico, One week later.
As unobtrusively as possible, she checked the small handgun she carried in the holster strapped to the inside of her thigh. Barely the size of a derringer, the weapon contained a clip with a surprising amount of ammunition. It was a specially made gift for her, courtesy of the gunsmith whose family she had once lived with.
There was certainly enough in the clip to bring the bail-jumping scumbag in the motel room just thirty feet away down to his knees. Except that she didn’t need him on his knees, she needed him on his feet. On his feet and walking toward the car she had parked out back.
Cara Rivers hadn’t had time to scope out the rundown motel where Kevin Weber was holed up, but there didn’t seem to be that much to it. There were two sets of stairs, one on either side of the second floor where his room was located.
She figured that if she rushed the front door, she could catch Weber before he had a chance to make his way out the back window. That he had a plan of escape she never doubted. A man on the run didn’t take a second-floor room without working out a way to get out of that room if he needed to. He wouldn’t simply leap down two stories without having some kind of contingency plan, a way to break his fall.
From everything both the bail bondsman she worked for and the sheriff of Shady Rock, who she unofficially worked with, had told her, she knew that Kevin Weber wasn’t stupid. Quite the contrary, the man was nothing if not crafty. So crafty that she wondered what he’d been doing in the likes of Shady Rock. Luckily, she thought as she made her way slowly up the stairs, she was just as crafty.
If she hadn’t been, Cara would have never chosen her present profession, would have never been able to make any sort of a living as a bounty hunter.
Bounty hunting was something she had begun doing shortly after she’d put herself through college and discovered that strict law enforcement, with its binding rules and regulations, just wasn’t for her.
Bounty hunting wasn’t exactly the kind of vocation most people associated with someone who looked the way she did, but that was the kind of advantage she made full use of. Blond, blue-eyed and delicate-boned at five-four, Cara looked as if her biggest concern in life was how to get her tan even and how long she wanted her bangs to be. Men told secrets to women who looked like her. They let their guards down because they thought her IQ was undoubtedly only slightly higher than her supple bust size. They were always unpleasantly surprised to find out otherwise.
Surprising, too, was the fact that she was as tough as she looked soft. But that had been dictated by not only the life she presently lived, but by the one she had lived through her adolescent years, when she was being passed around from one foster home to another. Being soft meant being hurt. Early on she had learned to depend on only herself. That way, there was never anyone to let her down.
Cautiously she made her way toward Weber’s door from the right stairway. She had tailed the man here after putting in more than two weeks of following clues and canvassing the various places he had been known to frequent recently within the Taos area. Weber had been a no-show in all but one of them, and even there, she’d been too late to get the drop on him. She was running out of time.
Wearing a wig with hair down to her waist and a skintight outfit, Cara had planned to proposition Weber and get him into the parking lot. Once there, she’d thought the weapon strapped to her thigh and the handcuffs she kept in her car would do the trick.
But Weber was nowhere to be seen in the seedy, smoky bar. The seat the bartender pointed out where her quarry had been sitting was still warm.
Defeated, she’d sat down at the bar herself and ordered a beer. It was only after she’d hoisted the glass that she noticed there was an empty matchbook carelessly left behind on the table. From the way its edges were bent, Cara figured Weber had used it to pick his teeth.
More important was the imprint on the back. It belonged to a popular, inexpensive chain of motels. Systematically, she’d gone to all of them in the region. As she’d discovered to be par for the course, the one farthest from the bar and the last on her list had turned out to be the right one.
Cara had flashed the photograph she’d gotten from the bail bondsman who signed her checks, showing it to the man at the office. She’d accompanied the photograph with a tearful story involving broken promises and a baby on the way. By the time she was finished, the manager had melted, volunteering that the man she was looking for was staying in Room 218.
A movement on the opposite stairway caught her attention. She saw a tall, somber-faced man walking up the stairs. Dark complexed with dark brown hair and broad shoulders, he could have been a male model in one of those pricey magazines that catered to the upper crust. But the way he had his hand in his pocket alerted her.
There was no doubt in her mind that his hand was covering a handgun.
It was another bounty hunter.
Incensed, Cara would have bet her well-earned reputation on it. She knew a professional when she saw one, even a handsome one. She thought she could make out the glint of steel handcuffs at his waist. Damn it, there was no way he was going to get her man, not after all the woman hours she’d put in tracking him down.
Cara cut the distance between herself and the door to Room 218 in less than a heartbeat. By the time the good-looking stranger approached, she was standing in front of the door in question, blocking his access to it. With a triumphant toss of her head, she knocked on the door.
A moment later, a deep voice from within the room growled “Yeah?”
“Housekeeping,” Cara chirped cheerfully, aware that the man at her side was giving her a very suspicious once-over. Probably because she had no uniform or any of the paraphernalia that would tie her to the profession she claimed.
There was movement behind the door. “They did not say anything about there being any housekeeping.”
Rather than answer, she announced, “I have fresh towels.” Cara saw the stranger look at her empty arms. “You horn in on this and I’ll cut your heart out,” she hissed.
The next moment, she heard the sound of a window being opened from within the room. She knew what that meant. Her quarry was escaping.
There were tools in her small bag for moments like this, but with no time to extract them and use them on the lock, Cara took the easier, albeit noisier, route. She pulled out her gun, flashing a long length of thigh as she secured her