Dear Mary,
I can’t imagine what my death did.
I’d undo it if I could.
Do you remember our honeymoon?
I’ll live there. Always
Love you forever,
Randall
As she recalled the words again, a renewed trickle of fear made Alessandra shiver, and anxiety sent her heart rate spiking.
She questioned once more if the note held any underlying meaning. A secret message of some kind. It seemed like such an odd thing to write, then destroy. Had father done it himself because he never intended her mother to see the letter? Or had her mother been the one to do it? And if so...why?
From the moment Alessandra read the letter, things had only gone downhill. There was a police report that resulted in a friend’s supposedly accidental death. Then a fire at the surf shop Alessandra called home. And finally, an unexpected invitation to meet with an old family friend. Jesse Garibaldi. Who’d informed her that he now called the small tourist town of Whispering Woods home. The very place her dad referred to in his letter. Where her parents had spent the weeks after their private ceremony, and where they’d joked that Alessandra had been conceived. What were that chances that it was a coincidence?
She shivered yet again, a chill running through her in spite of the sun overhead.
“Don’t think about any of that,” she ordered aloud to herself. “Focus on getting out of this moment, then think about the rest.”
But it was a little hard to maintain a cheerful outlook with her car hanging half in a ditch. She couldn’t even tell herself that it was half out, and somehow put a good spin on it. Especially when she was unable to call for help. The first thing she’d done when she realized she was lost was to go for cell phone. But at the exact moment she pulled it from her purse, she’d hit a bump. The phone went flying. As she’d tried to grab it, she’d knocked over her coffee. And of course, the coffee spilled directly onto the phone. By the time Alessandra pulled off the road—which she should’ve done in the first place—the phone was nothing but a dismal black screen of death. And it still showed no sign of magically self-repairing.
Okay. Deep breath. Then make a list. What are the positives?
For a second, she couldn’t think of a single one.
“Well,” she finally said. “I’m not dead. So there’s that.”
But the thought was a little too dark to be truly humorous.
Alessandra looked down at her car again. She vaguely recalled things about ropes and pulleys and levers from high school science. But she had a feeling that trying to hoist a car out of a ditch was slightly more complicated than moving a paper airplane with a drinking straw and elastic band. A bit of a different scale.
“Okay, then,” she muttered. “I guess the only thing to do is to walk until I find some help.”
Wincing at the generally sorry state of her car, she climbed back into the ditch and leaned through the driver’s side door to grab her oversize patchwork bag from the front seat. She eyed her suitcase in the back seat, but decided to leave it. There was no way of knowing exactly how long she’d have to walk, and she didn’t want to weigh herself down too badly.
And besides that, she told herself, you’re going to be able to get help, and you’re going to get back here just fine. It’s not like a wild animal’s likely to come along and steal your clothes and toothbrush.
Feeling slightly more positive, she made her way out of the ditch back to the dirt road. She lifted her hand to shield eyes, glanced in the general direction of the sun and tried to gauge the time. Noon, maybe? And she thought she could tell which way was west. With a determined spin, she took a few steps. Then stopped almost immediately as a growl filled the air. Her eyes widened. She swallowed nervously and started to turn back to her car, half expecting to see that a bear or a wolf had taken an interest in her belongings. But aside from her familiar car, the ditch was as empty as it had been a moment earlier.
Then she clued in.
She closed her eyes and listened. The growl became a rumble, which grew louder and closer. And more familiar.
Slowly—not wanting to let herself give in to false hope—Alessandra opened her eyes and focused her attention toward the end of the road. Not really aware that she was doing it, she squeezed her fingers into fists and bounced a little on the balls of her feet.
Please, please, let it be him.
And suddenly, there he was. Or there his truck was, anyway. Barreling toward her at full, furious speed. Almost as if the fact that he was headed her way made the driver angry.
For a second, Alessandra’s feet stayed rooted to the spot, puzzlement outweighing worry. Why would he come back if it was just going to make him mad? As the truck got closer, dirt flying up hard, Alessandra’s brain gave her a little tap, and she realized that if she didn’t move, there was a good chance she might be mowed down. But she no sooner started to jump out of the way than the blue truck came to a grinding halt, and the driver’s-side door came flying open with a force that matched the speed at which the vehicle had approached. Quick and fired up. It was enough to freeze her again. It was also enough to send a sharp zap of curiosity through her. And the curiosity only deepened as the driver jumped out.
Alessandra watched as he planted his steel-toe boots firmly in the dirt and spread his dark-denim-clad legs hip distance apart, then just stood there, unmoving. She had the impression that he was assessing the situation. And maybe her, too. It was disconcerting, and an inexplicable sweat broke out on her upper lip. But she couldn’t seem to speak. So she just took advantage of the silent, still moment to look him over as thoroughly as he was looking over her.
He was lean, but not skinny. In fact, he had corded muscles on the lower half of his inked arms—just visible because he had his long-sleeved charcoal-gray T-shirt pushed halfway to his elbows. As she stared at the bit of exposed ink, a prickling heat built just under the surface of Alessandra’s skin. For a moment, the warmth threw her off. But it didn’t take long to realize the source. She—or her body, anyway—found him attractive.
She sucked in a breath, tried to calm her suddenly racing heart and forced her eyes to his face. He still wore the dark reflective glasses, and he had a ball cap emblazoned with a truck logo pulled down over his forehead. Even though his cheeks and chin were dusted with a salt-and-pepper beard, what she could see of his skin was smooth and at least as young as her own. The contrast, which created a slightly enigmatic look, did nothing to ease the quick thrum of her Alessandra’s pulse.
But then she spotted something that flew straight at her like a bucket of icy water.
One of the truck driver’s hands hung loosely at his thigh, fingers flexing. The other hand was poised over—but not quite touching—a shiny metal gun.
Chapter 2
Rush saw the pretty redhead catch sight of his weapon. He noted the way her eyes widened nervously, and how—when she tipped her gaze back up—they stayed that way. Not like a deer in headlights. She was startled, but there was no hint in naivete in her gaze. There was intelligence. Some kind of understanding. And an undercurrent of fear, which made Rush feel surprisingly guilty. Though even acknowledging all of that still didn’t prepare him for what happened next.
She jumped at him. So quickly and so unexpectedly that he didn’t have a chance to react the way he should have. The way he was trained to. Instead, he kind of stumbled backward, flailing his arms a little. He actually had to catch himself on the still-open door of his Lada.
The whole thing only stunned him more. No one ever got the drop on him. Not the police coming up against him when he was undercover, and not the guys he turned in at the end of each case. For the sun-kissed redhead to do it now...it was almost unfathomable.
He expected her to continue with her leap. To knock him to the ground and disarm him. So it was another surprise when she simply used her advant
age to turn and run. Her flip-flops smacked against the ground in an almost comical way. She cast a final, heartbeat-long look over her shoulder, then leaped over the ditch and darted into the woods.
“What the hell just happened?” Rush growled, staring at the space where the redhead had just disappeared.
Before he could come up with a logical explanation for the way she’d run off rather than taking the clear advantage, a distinctly feminine, distinctly terrified scream carried out of the foliage. The scream did for Rush what seeing the woman waving at him from the side the road hadn’t; it sent his protective instincts into overdrive.
Without a second thought, he set off at a run. His long legs brought him to the ditch, then over it. They carried him through the low brush, then into the trees. There, just inside the first patch of shade, he paused and whipped his head back and forth.
“Hey!” he called, then paused as he realized he didn’t have a name to call. “Uh. Red? You out here?”
He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to scream again, or not. On the one hand, it would sure as hell help him locate her. Let him know she was alive as well. On the other hand, he didn’t have much desire to hear the ear-piercing shriek a second time, and he didn’t want her to have to go through whatever it was that caused it again, either.
“Red!” he yelled a little louder.
A faint reply—words, but not ones he could hear enough to understand—floated up from somewhere just ahead. They had a strange, echoey quality he couldn’t quite place. So he took a few steps forward, then paused again.
“You there, Red?”
There was a few seconds of silence before he heard her voice again, a mutter that made Rush wonder if she was really answering him at all.
“I don’t know if—” She cut herself off, then added another string of incomplete sentences. “God. What if...no. I just—no.”
“Red?” he replied, puzzled this time. “You okay?”
“You know...” said her disembodied voice. “Some of us gingers find that nickname offensive.”
For no good reason at all, Rush felt the need to ask, “Are you one of those gingers?”
She didn’t reply immediately, and he could perfectly picture her face—a face he didn’t even know, for crying out loud—puckering up as she thought about what to say. He could easily imagine her arched brows buckling together in a frown. Even though it was completely impossible in reality, he swore he could practically hear a sigh escaping from her full lips.
“No,” she finally called.
“Okay, then, Red,” Rush replied. “Keep talking so I can get to you.”
The request was met with more silence.
“Now would be good,” he prodded.
She did answer this time, but her tone was somehow muted. “Are you going to shoot me?”
“Shoot you?” he echoed before recalling the reason he was chasing her in the first place.
He nearly laughed. Just a few minutes earlier, he’d been furious at himself for leaving her on the side of the road. Then more furious at himself for being weak enough to go back. He knew damned well it wasn’t because he needed to know why she followed him. Although that would’ve made perfect sense. The real reason was far more basic. Far more base.
From the moment he pulled away, Rush couldn’t stop seeing flashes of her tanned skin. Her throat. Her shoulder. The thin line between her tied-up T-shirt and the waistband of her pants.
If she’d been a sixty-five-year-old man with a bushy beard and dirty old jogging pants, he wouldn’t have turned around. Or maybe he would’ve just stuck around in the first place. At the very least, he would’ve saved himself the trouble of the ridiculous inner argument. Yet there he was, standing in the middle of the woods, searching for his stalker and worrying more about her well-being than he was worrying about his own.
And you forgot all of that?
“Um. Mr...Sunglasses?” The redhead’s voice—a little clearer but still hesitant—dragged him back to the fact that he was supposed to be doing something.
“Mr. Sunglasses?” he repeated, tipping his head to listen for her reply.
“Well,” she said, “it was a toss-up between that and Mr. Blue Truck.”
“It’s a Lada,” he corrected as he took a few steps in what he thought was the right direction.
“A what?”
“The ‘truck’ is actually a Lada.”
“Oh. Does that matter?”
“Well, it’s not really a truck. It’s more of an off-road vehicle.”
“It looks like a truck.” The statement had a stubborn note that made Rush smile.
“It’s not, though,” he said. “Technically.”
“Technicalities are that important?” she asked.
Rush’s smile slipped away. The flippant way she said it made him sure it wasn’t a dig of some kind. She wasn’t aware of his past. She couldn’t possibly have a clue about just how much weight a technicality could have in someone’s life. In his life. But it was still a damned good reminder that he wasn’t in Whispering Woods to make friends. He was there to right a decade-and-a-half-old wrong.
“Is there a particular reason you were following me?” he asked. “Or is stalking something you do for fun on Wednesdays?”
“I wasn’t following you,” she replied.
Her voice sounded impossibly close. Like she should be standing just in front of him.
Rush stopped walking, his eyes narrowing as he searched the dense trees for a sign of her. “You expect me to believe it was a coincidence that you made every turn I made while keeping a few hundred feet behind me?”
“That’s...well. Okay. Yeah. I can see how that could seem like stalking,” she said. “I mean. I was following you. But I wasn’t following you. If that makes sense.”
Weirdly...it did.
“Are you telling me all of this is because you took a damned wrong turn?” he asked.
“I was lost. It happens.” She said it like a shrug.
He considered it. He supposed she could be telling a story to cover up her true intentions. He had plenty of experience with liars, though, and if the redhead was one, she had to be damned near perfect at it. The thing that really tipped him in favor of believing her was her scream. He was damned sure it’d been genuine.
“Are you still there?” she called.
“Yeah. I’m still here. And I’m pretty sure you’re still lost.” He took two more steps.
“I’m not lost,” she told him. “I’m right down—”
Whatever else she said was swept away as Rush took another step, then fell.
Not over.
Not in a tumble or a trip.
Down.
An undignified holler and a stream of curses escaped his mouth. His back bumped painfully over dirt and roots and God knew what else and he scraped his way—down, down, down—into what appeared to be a pit in the middle of the forest floor. At the bottom, he hit the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth and cut away his breath. Remarkably, he was sure he wasn’t otherwise hurt.
He tried to inhale. To regain some sense of control. Instead, when he opened his eyes, the oxygen whipped out of his lungs again. The redhead sat in front of him, and her hair had ripped out of its bun, her lips were parted in surprise, and her gaze—the biggest, bluest one he’d ever seen—was fixed on him. Drawing him in. Holding him there. It gave Rush the strangest conflict of emotion he’d ever experienced.
Part of him was angry all over again. This woman, whose name he didn’t even know, had ruined his whole day. More than ruined it. She’d sent him barreling needlessly through the back roads that surrounded Whispering Woods. Then somehow got him to set aside reason and self-preservation in the name of coming back for her. Both of which stopped him from meeting with Jesse Garibaldi and pared down his chances of making the headway he’d b
een hoping to make. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she now had him stuck in a literal hole. Probably eight feet down.
But in spite of it all, another, surprisingly forceful part of him wondered if being lost in her eyes might actually be worth it.
* * *
The small space was suddenly much smaller. And for a several moments, the forced intimacy was almost overwhelming. Crouched down the way they were, there was only room for a few scant inches between Alessandra and the man who’d slid to a stop just in front of her. In fact, the space between their knees was nearly nonexistent. Alessandra could feel the heat of his body, the air a conduit from the denim of his jeans to the cotton of her pants. She was sure that the slightest shift would result in a touch. And for some reason, the idea sent her heart thumping.
You should be scared, a small voice in her head pointed out. The man has a gun. And he’s probably even less impressed now than he was when he pulled up in the truck.
Unconsciously, she dropped her gaze to the holster at his hip. The weapon was still there. But it didn’t worry her. Mostly because she spied something that was a greater concern. Something that should probably have been the first thing she realized. Something that seemed impossible to have missed, even in the wild, dirt-flying moment.
The man’s fall had caused an automatic reaction on her part. She’d shot out a hand, maybe to steady him, maybe to reassure him, it was hard to say. Either way, the result was the same. Her fingers were wrapped around his wrist. And for the life of her, Alessandra couldn’t get her brain to make them unfurl to release him.
She drew in a sharp breath as she tried to make her hand cooperate. The inhale was a mistake. Her nose immediately filled with a woodsy, masculine scent. It mingled with the smell of damp, loose dirt. And even though Alessandra had been an ocean girl her whole life—raised on the beaches of the Washington coast—and loved the salt-tinged ocean air, the pleasant, earthy aroma struck a chord somewhere inside her.
Startled by the sensation, she jerked her head up, which earned her the first full view of the truck driver’s face. He was no less attractive up close, either. And there was something about his appearance that perfectly matched his scent.
Undercover Refuge Page 2
