Bureau had used the Florida address a couple of times to contact him since he had been working the boat thefts up and down the lower east coast.
Now that the DEA had rounded up the smugglers who had been appropriating private craft for their runs, Damien was taking six weeks’ leave on his rented sloop to wind down.
When he’d gone into the small post office branch to cancel the box this morning, the mail clerk had given him the envelope.
Michael Duvek, the regional director in Memphis, must have given Molly Jensen the address. Other than her brother, Duvek was the only person they really knew in common.
But Damien hardly knew her at all. They had met only twice while he was in the hospital in Memphis after that Nashville fiasco. The acquaintance was memorable for him, despite its brevity. A bright ray of sun on one of his darkest days there six months ago.
She had been visiting her brother, Ford Devereaux, the agent he had shared the semiprivate room with after they’d both been wounded. Absently, he ran a finger over the puckered red scar on his right side, just below his ribs.
Strange that she should remember him. Damien had just come from surgery and recovery and was barely conscious when Devereaux introduced his sister. What a smile to wake up to. Unforgettable.
The next time she had visited, they had gone down the hall together for coffee—no fun task in his barely ambulatory condition—to give Devereaux and his fiancée a little privacy.
So that was the extent of their acquaintance, his and Molly Jensen’s, a drugged-out how-do-you-do, terrible coffee, and a quarter hour of conversation.
But Damien could never forget a woman like Devereaux’s sister, no matter how short the association. Just thinking about her made him smile with remembered pleasure.
She was tall, a few inches shy of six feet. Lithe and graceful, but too energetic for a model. She’d moved more like an athlete. Perfect skin, auburn hair that shone like polished copper and a laugh that made her green eyes sparkle like gems. Such expressive eyes, he remembered.
Damien recalled how much he had wanted to touch her. Not sexually, exactly, though the idea certainly had merit. But just to see whether her joie de vivre was tangible, maybe even contagious. It had been.
As luck would have it, she had touched him first, just an arm beneath his to lend support. He’d been infinitely glad to be alive in that moment.
He looked at the card one more time and got up, sliding his bare feet into his shoes. What would she need him for so urgently? Though this certainly stirred his curiosity, answering her summons might not be a wise move.
She hadn’t mentioned a husband, but she was most likely married. He knew she had a very young child because she had whipped out pictures and bragged that day.
A baby girl who was not especially photogenic. A smile tugged at his lips. In the photos it had worn one of those ruffled garter-looking things around its bald head and a fancy dress to match. He clearly remembered the poor thing only had two teeth shining in that wide grin.
Now why had he wasted brain cells storing inconsequential details such as that?
Damien didn’t care much for children. At least, he didn’t think he did. As it happened, he’d never had the opportunity to know any close at hand. Judging solely on what others had said about them, they were messy little creatures, noisy and wildly unpredictable.
No, it definitely would not be smart to reply to this message of Molly Jensen’s, given that she was married and a mother and he had felt a definite attraction. Forbidden fruit always tempted him and Damien had learned the hard way to steer a wide course around it.
This time he wouldn’t. He wanted to see her again. If she happened to be off limits, so be it. Nothing said he had to pursue her.
Ignoring his better judgment, Damien slipped on a shirt and headed out to the phone booth by the marina. She’d stirred his curiosity. He would find out just why she thought she did need him.
The skills he possessed might be in demand in some quarters of the world, but surely not in that of a wholesome young wife and mother like Molly Jensen.
Molly wrapped her arms tighter around the sleeping toddler and pressed her lips against the silky curls on her crown. “Oh, Syd, what’s Mama gonna do?”
The phone rang for the fourth time and the answering machine kicked on. She listened to her own voice on the recorded message and waited for the beep. Molly dreaded hearing the laugh, that menacing, deep-throated chuckle. She had endured three of these calls already since noon. Their frequency was increasing.
If she answered, he might talk to her, offering more of those snide, oily questions of concern for her and Sydney that only she recognized as threats. That would be worse than these wordless messages, yet just knowing who it was on the line in no way lessened the terror.
“Hello, Mrs. Jensen,” a deep voice said. “Damien Perry here. I received your card. If you would like—”
She snatched up the receiver. “Wait! Don’t hang up! Hold on a minute, I have to put the baby down.”
She ran to the playpen, carefully laid the sleeping toddler next to her teddy bear, and hurried back. “Sorry. I would have answered right away, but I thought… Well, never mind that now. Are you here? In Nashville?”
“No, I’m not. I’m just responding to your—”
“How soon can you come? You can, can’t you? I mean, I’m at my wit’s end here, and I thought since you were a good friend of Ford’s and he’s not in country, and Mr. Duvek couldn’t—”
“Calm down, Mrs. Jensen. You’re speaking too rapidly for me to understand you. Are you in trouble?”
“It’s Ms. not Mrs. No, it’s Molly to you, but that’s not important. I really need your help—and right away if you can come. Please! It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Whose death?” he demanded, his words curt.
“Mine,” she said, swallowing hard to stifle a moan. “And maybe Sydney’s, too.”
“Sydney?”
“My baby. Remember? Please, will you come? I honestly don’t have anyone else I can turn to. It’s too much to ask, I know, but I can pay you for this. Whatever you charge, I can pay you. Maybe not all at once, but we can work something out.”
“Wait. Before you go any further, tell me exactly what it is that you want me to do.”
“Help me make him stop. I can’t stand this anymore. He’s called three times today and—”
“Do you know who it is?” he interrupted.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, shuddering. “My ex-husband.”
“Molly, listen to me,” the voice ordered. “Calm down. I want you to make certain all of your doors and windows are locked, and after that—”
“They are locked!”
“Fine. Now, have you informed the police?
