Ruthless Cross Read online

  It wasn't one-sided, either. Callie had unlocked something inside him, something he'd put away a very long time ago. It was probably after Olivia died. The pain of losing her coming so closely after his father's betrayal had been too much for him to shoulder. He'd put up a wall and he had never let anyone get past that wall. Until now…

  Callie had found her way into his heart without him even realizing it. The off-the-charts chemistry and sex was amazing, but it was the emotional connection that was surprising and, if he was honest, a little terrifying.

  Callie shifted in his arms, giving a sleepy smile. "Are you awake? What time is it?"

  "Almost seven."

  "Too early to get up," she said, snuggling in closer to him, her arm moving around his waist. "I like this, Flynn."

  "So do I."

  "Last night was pretty spectacular."

  "That's a good way to describe it."

  "What are you thinking about?" she asked, giving him a thoughtful look.

  "Not much."

  "We're being honest with each other, remember?"

  "Fine. I was thinking about you."

  "That's good, because I was dreaming about you," she said. "You were doing things to me that were really amazing."

  He laughed. "No need to dream, babe. I'm right here. And I am ready to fulfill every fantasy."

  "That might take a long time."

  "Who cares?"

  She smiled. "I wish I could say not me. I wish we could stay right here and not have to deal with anything else today."

  "We have a little time before we have to get up."

  "But then we have to get up," she said with a sigh. "And deal with my mom, Arthur's estate, the search for his killer, keeping ourselves alive. At some point, I need to go back to work, too."

  "You're making me tired, Callie. Let's go back to your fantasies." As he finished speaking, his stomach gave a noisy rumble.

  She laughed. "I think you need food, not fantasy."

  "Maybe I could have both. You and a little maple syrup…"

  Her cheeks flushed. "That sounds…sticky."

  He grinned. "It could be worth it."

  "Why don't I make you breakfast instead? It's my turn."

  "I don't want you to have to cook."

  "Have to cook? I love to cook." She slipped out of his arms, and he felt an instant chill. "Hey, you don't have to get up right now."

  She rolled out of bed, taking the top sheet with her, as she draped it around her beautiful naked body. "I'm hungry, too."

  "You don't need to cover up," he told her. "I've already seen everything."

  "I know, but it's cold."

  "My robe is hanging on the back of the bathroom door."

  She moved into the bathroom, returning a moment later wearing his gray fleece robe that hung down to her ankles.

  "Do you want some help with breakfast?" he asked, loving the look of her well-kissed lips, her sparkling brown eyes and her tangled, silky brown hair. "Or a better idea—come back to bed."

  "It's so tempting, Flynn, but I'm going to make you a meal. You rest. You've earned it."

  He laughed. "I wouldn't mind earning it again."

  "We'll see," she said with a saucy smile as she left the bedroom.

  Despite the fact that she'd told him to rest, he knew he wasn't going back to sleep. Instead, he headed into the bathroom to shower and shave. Afterward, he threw on black jeans and a blue knit shirt and moved into the kitchen.

  Callie was at the stove, and he immediately crossed the room to kiss her as well as to sneak a peek at what she was cooking.

  "What have we got here?" he asked.

  "Scrambled egg burritos. I found eggs, tortillas, cheese, salsa, and avocado in your fridge. I assume you like Mexican food."

  "I could eat it every day of the week."

  "It's almost ready. You smell good," she said, as he moved behind her, putting his arms around her. "I feel a little underdressed."

  "In my opinion, you have too many clothes on," he told her.

  "You're distracting me," she said, as he nuzzled her neck.

  "And you don't like it?"

  "I love it, but I also don't want to burn the eggs."

  "Got it." As he stepped back and moved around the counter, his gaze came to rest on a large white envelope on the coffee table in front of the couch. "Did you put that envelope there?"

  "What?"

  He walked over to the table and picked up the envelope. He knew he had never seen it before.

  "Flynn, is something wrong?"

  "I think so. Someone has been in the house."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Yes." He just didn't know how it had happened. His alarm system was still on. There had been no breaches during the night. Had this envelope been here when they'd come back from the museum? He'd been so caught up in Callie, maybe he hadn't seen it.

  He stared at the envelope for a long minute and then slipped his finger under the flap and opened it. Inside were two pieces of paper. One was a photographic copy of a painting and not just any painting—the belladonna, the deadly nightshade, the calling card of death.

  "What is it?" Callie asked, a worried expression on her face as she joined him.

  He handed her the picture. "Someone left this in the apartment."

  "Is this supposed to be a warning that you're next?"

  "I don't think so," he said tightly as he read the scribbled words on the second piece of paper. He couldn't believe it.

  "Flynn?" Callie put a hand on his arm. "What does it say?"

  He shook his head, unable to say the words.

  Callie grabbed the paper out of his hand and read it aloud. "You need my help, Flynn. Meet me this morning at our spot. Dad." She gave him a look filled with both worry and compassion. "Is this really from your father? How did it get here?"

  "He must have broken in."

  "But how? You have tight security."

  "My dad is a master burglar." He blew out a breath, shocked to think his father was not only in town but had been in his apartment, maybe while they'd slept.

  "Are you going to meet him?"

  "I don’t know."

  She stared back at him. "You have to, don't you?"

  "This could be a trick."

  "Or he wants to help you. He's trying to tell you he knows something about the painting. Maybe he knows who painted it."

  "That would be my guess, but I don't know if I can trust my father. Let me reword that. I'm sure I can't trust my father, if this is even from him. Maybe it's a setup."

  "If it was a setup, the note would not have mentioned a specific place known only to you and your father."

  "Damn. You're right." He sat down on the couch. "I was not expecting this."

  She sat next to him, putting her hand on his leg. "I'll go with you, Flynn."

  "No. I can't put you in danger again, Callie."

  "Your father isn't a danger to me."

  "You don't know that. You don't know anything about him, what he's done, what he's capable of." He pressed his hands against his temples. "I have thought about seeing him a million times. For years, I tried like hell to find him. I used every resource I had to do that, and I never succeeded. Now, he somehow finds a way to break into my home and leave me this note. Why?"

  "He said he wants to help you."

  "Why would he want to do that? He has ignored me for seventeen years."

  "Maybe he hasn't been as far away as you might think."

  He looked into her eyes. "You think he's been watching me?"

  "He knows where you live. He knows the case you're investigating."

  "Because that case is in his world."

  "But you've investigated cases in his world before. You said you did it for two years. But this case is about you. You've almost been killed twice."

  "I've been in danger many times, almost killed many times."

  She frowned. "I really don't like to think about that, but maybe it's also the Arthur conn
ection. Could Arthur have been in touch with your father?"

  "At this point, I have no idea. Maybe. Victoria said Arthur had mentioned his name to her."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I shouldn't meet him alone. I should set up the meet with at least a few members of my team. I should arrest him, bring him in."

  She stared back at him with no judgment but a lot of doubt.

  "To do otherwise would be going against everything I stand for," he added.

  "Which is why I should go—not with you, by myself," she suggested.

  "No way."

  "Think about it. I could meet him. I could find out what he has, what he wants. If he came here, he probably knows we're together. You don't think he came in while we were…"

  "Who knows? I was more than a little caught up in you, Callie."

  "Likewise."

  "But he also could have entered earlier, when we were at the museum. I didn't look around this room when we came home. I checked for intruders, not for envelopes sitting on my coffee table."

  "He probably came in earlier. I could do this for you, Flynn. I want to do it. I want to help you. This way, you're not put into an impossible position. You don't have to make a moral choice. You just have to tell me where to go."

  "I can't let you do that, Callie," he said, incredibly touched by her offer. She had a very big heart and a generous spirit. "It's too much."

  "I care about you, Flynn. I think you might know that."

  "I care about you, too. That's why you're not going. I'll do it. I'll meet him. There was never really a decision to make. I have to see him. I have to face him. I just don't know who he'll be—the dad I remember from when I was a kid, or the man who packed his bag in the middle of the night and thought no one would see him leave."

  "You saw him leave?" she asked with surprise.

  "And he saw me. I was asleep, but I heard something. I got up and went into the living room. He was halfway out the door. He paused for one second. Our eyes met. And then the door shut in my face."

  "What did you do?"

  "I stood there for about five minutes and then I went and opened it. His car was there, but he was gone. I didn't know what all was going on at that moment. I knew he'd been taking a lot of calls. He'd been traveling. And he'd had a big fight with my mother earlier that evening. I found out later that he'd told her he'd done some bad things and the only way to protect her and me was to leave. She'd begged him to stay, to let her help him, but he said there was nothing she could do."

  "Oh, Flynn. I'm so sorry. You must have been devastated."

  "He could have said something in that one second, but he didn't. He just looked at me, like he was memorizing my face. Maybe I was doing the same thing." He shook his head. "Now, I'm supposed to do what? Forgive him? Accept his help? Arrest him?"

  "I don't know. What I do know is that there's a bond between you and your dad. No matter what happened, he's still your father. You still have those memories of him teaching you to surf." She paused. "It's the beach, isn't it? That's where he wants you to go. Can I at least come with you? I can be your backup."

  Her eager words brought a smile to his lips. "You're amazing, Callie. But, no, I can't take you there."

  "Then maybe you should take Savannah or Wyatt. If this isn't your father, if it's a trap, I don't want you to be alone."

  "No. It's him. I have to go on my own. I can't put anyone else on my team in a position where they have to do something that could cost them their job. It's my risk to take."

  Disappointment entered her eyes, but she gave him an agreeable nod. "All right. I get it. I can't go, but I can feed you. And I'm not letting you do this on an empty stomach, so come on." She got to her feet and moved into the kitchen.

  He took one last look at the note and then took everything over to the kitchen table. As he sat down, his gaze returned to the photo of the painting. If his father knew the artist, then he knew the killer. He could provide the missing clue.

  His father had baited the hook with a piece of information that Flynn desperately needed to find Arthur's killer. His dad had always been smart.

  Callie brought two plates to the table and sat down. "Eat, Flynn. I think it's going to be a big day."

  He set down the picture of the painting and picked up his fork. "I think you're right."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Flynn drove to Zuma Beach a little before nine on Tuesday morning, feeling as if each mile was taking him back in time. That feeling got worse after he parked in the lot. Because it was midweek, there weren't many cars. Most of the early morning surfers had already gone home, although there were two teenage boys changing out of their wetsuits next to a gray minivan.

  Those boys reminded him of himself, of all the days he'd cut school or gone in late with some imaginary excuse because he'd ridden one wave too many. Of course, that had gotten worse after his father left. He'd barely been able to stand being in a classroom, too filled with rage and grief to be able to learn something.

  He walked along a small cement wall that edged the parking lot, scanning the wide stretch of sand for any sign of his dad. There were a couple of surfers in the water, but he doubted his father would be one of them. His dad would want this meeting to be on land. It would be easier for him to get away.

  He left the parking lot, taking a narrow path toward the fishing pier. As he came up the ramp, he saw there were two fishermen on the pier: one nearby wearing a big canvas sunhat, the other standing at the far end of the pier, wearing a baseball cap with the LA Dodgers insignia.

  His gut twisted.

  That was his dad. Thirty feet away, his back turned toward him, but he still knew it was him.

  He had a second to leave. His father hadn't yet seen him arrive.

  Or maybe he had.

  From his vantage point, his father would have been able to see him drive into the lot and walk along the beach. Perhaps his dad was giving him the chance to run.

  But he wasn't his father. He didn’t run. He stood his ground. He faced his problems head-on.

  He walked purposefully and deliberately to the end of the pier.

  His dad turned around when he was only a few feet away.

  As their eyes met, he took off his sunglasses. His father did the same.

  His heart pounded against his chest. Sam Beringer looked much as he had the last time Flynn had seen him. His blond hair was mostly covered by his cap, so he couldn't see if it had grayed or thinned, but his blue eyes were as sharp as ever.

  "Flynn," his father said, stopping there, as if he didn't know what words should come next.

  He didn't know, either. He also didn't even know if he could call him Dad. "How did you get into my house?" He wasn't sure why those were the first words to come out of his mouth, but there they were.

  "Does it matter? What's important is that you came. I wasn't sure you would."

  "Nor was I. What do you want?"

  "I want to help you."

  "Why?" he asked harshly. "You left me and Mom to fend for ourselves a very long time ago. You know I can arrest you, don't you? If you had my address, I'm sure you're aware that I'm a federal agent."

  "And that you spent years trying to find me and put me away. I'm aware," his father returned.

  "But I was unsuccessful. You stayed out of sight, out of my reach, until now. Why?"

  "Someone wants to kill you, and I don't want that to happen."

  "Other people have tried to kill me; I didn't see you around then"

  "This is different, Flynn. I can help you now. I can show you how to find Arthur Corbyn's killer."

  He sucked in a breath at the mention of Arthur. "How do you know Arthur?"

  "I met him years ago, before I ever left Laguna Beach."

  He shook his head at that impossible idea. "No way. Arthur didn't know you."

  "He did. He came into the gallery several times. I sold him a painting by Veritas, and I helped him hang it in his living room."
r />   He stared at his father in shock. He'd seen that painting a thousand times. He'd sat on the couch right beneath it. Arthur had never admitted to knowing his father, to having bought art from him or his gallery. And Arthur had had plenty of chances to mention that encounter. Why had he hidden it?

  "Was the painting stolen?" he asked. "Is that why Arthur never told me that he knew you?"

  "I told him not to tell you shortly after I realized you were dating his daughter. You were happy, and I thought if you knew that Arthur and I had had dealings together, you would be crushed again."

  "So he kept your secret. And you kept his." He felt incredibly disappointed.

  "Yes."

  "Where did you go after you left Laguna? Where have you been?"

  "A lot of places, but I never stopped keeping an eye on you. I've always known where you were, Flynn—what you were doing. I admit I was shocked when you joined the FBI. And when you started searching for me, I realized the depth of the hatred you had for me."

  "You're right. I do hate you," he said flatly. "Why am I here? What is this all about?"

  His father's jaw tightened, as if he hadn't been expecting such hard honesty. "It's about wanting to do right by Arthur and by you. You're involved with his stepdaughter now."

  "Leave Callie out of this."

  "She's a beautiful young woman. She makes you smile."

  His skin crawled. "You've been watching us?"

  "Only from afar. I wasn't in the house last night, if you're worrying about that. I left the envelope for you earlier in the day, but I did see you come home together."

  "Cut to the chase. Why did you send me a photo of that painting?"

  "Because I realized after you pulled it out of the house in Palm Springs exactly who had killed Arthur."

  "How would you know that?"

  "I know who the artist is, Flynn."

  His breath caught in his chest. "How? No one else in the art world knows—unless, it's you."

  "It's not me. I only discovered the information six weeks ago. I've been debating what to do with it."