Locked, Loaded, & Lying

by Sarah Andre

  The woman snorted, stepping into the skier’s arms. “Of course it’ll go quickly. I’m his alibi.”

  Jordan pivoted in shock and stared at the couple. Roberto made erotic shushing sounds in the woman’s ear. Over her head he eyed Jordan with irritated lust, but the woman’s revelation was so mind-blowing, his harassment no longer registered.

  “Excuse me?” she sputtered. “You were with Roberto the night of Tiffany’s murder?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “No, bella. No talking,” he muttered to the woman.

  Jordan stepped closer. “Are you Jennifer Johnson? I’d like a moment of your time.”

  “Didn’t you say you write for Sports Illustrated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means you’re not TMZ, so there’s nothing in it for me, is there? Come on, baby.” She pushed Roberto inside. “Let’s go fuck.”

  The door slammed in Jordan’s face.

  She stood dumbstruck in the safety of the quiet hallway, still trembling from Roberto’s assault. She bit her lip, torn between trying to persuade Jennifer to answer some questions and breathing a sigh of relief that the nightmare was over.

  But why had the woman ducked down in the passenger seat of his Lamborghini? Roberto said he hadn’t known her. What woman slipped into a perfect stranger’s car? Had she overheard Tiffany talking to him in the parking lot before Lock charged out?

  Jordan curled her shaking fingers into a fist and raised it. There was no way around it. She had to knock on the door and face Vannini again. A visceral flash of panic and helplessness pulsed through her. Right on its heels came the mental picture of those cold, reptilian eyes, the crush of his mouth.

  She lowered her fist. She couldn’t risk it. It’d be a hell of a lot safer to wait Jennifer Johnson out in the busy lobby than risk another encounter with Roberto.

  She brushed her fingertips across her bruised lips. It was hard not to compare those hostile kisses with the tender way Lock had seduced her mouth this morning. Why had she ended something she wanted so badly? Her reasons seemed so clear at the time. Her need to focus on her mom’s safety. Her fear of being just another faceless body he screwed. She liked Lock too much now to bear the aftermath of realizing she was no one special.

  And yet he never gave a sign he felt that way. Even told her there was zero probability he’d forget her, only she hadn’t believed him.

  Jordan sighed and limped down the hallway. More foolish mistakes to add to this week’s debacle of bad decisions.

  If only she could turn back time and relive this week again, this time without lying about her profession or keeping him at arm’s length.

  Maybe he already waited in the lobby. Maybe in the car she could get him to kiss her in that slow, languid way until she forgot the horror of Roberto’s relentless onslaught.

  Given the pathological hatred between the two, she must keep this incident a secret from Lock. He didn’t need to add any more charges to murder, and she knew him well enough now to envision him storming up here to defend her honor.

  Just as she pushed the button for the elevator, her cell rang. Starr News.

  “Jordan Sinclair,” she answered crisply. “I assume you’re calling about the article.”

  “Milton Grebe, editor-in-chief of Starr News. How are you, my dear?” His voice held no warmth, the raspy quality reminding her of a smoke inhalation victim.

  She ignored the pleasantry. “I require two hundred thousand dollars as payment for the photograph you ran this morning. I’ll text you the wire transfer instructions.”

  His chuckle extended into a wet, bronchial cough. How many cigarettes did this man inhale every day? She waited him out, lips pressed together in disgust. The elevator dinged, and the door opened. The mirrored interior revealed her tangled hair and swollen lips.

  “You must not have read the rules correctly,” Grebe choked out when he caught enough breath. “The cash is for proof and an article. I don’t negotiate deposits. Where’s the article, my dear? What did Roane say?”

  My dear. She smiled ruefully at her reflection, and the door slid closed. Even in his fury, Lock spoke the truth this morning. Starr News would never pay. There was no signed contract, no negotiating a small portion of the money, and they paid lawyers to drag civil suits out for months. She had only Saturday and Sunday to find a way to pay off her father and still keep both her integrity and Lock’s privacy intact.

  “There is no article, Mr. Grebe. He didn’t say a word to me.”

  She pressed end. Staring at her phone she waited for some part of her to shriek in horror at this stupidity, but all she felt was relief. She scrolled down to Rebecca’s cell phone number and called, rolling her tight shoulder muscles as it rang.

  “I saw the photo,” Rebecca exclaimed instead of a greeting. “Way to go, champ!”

  “I need your help.” She quickly relayed the day’s events as it pertained to Starr News and her mom. There was no need to gush about the way Lock kissed or his reaction to the tabloid betrayal. Rebecca would never understand because she, like all Americans, had already decided Lock was guilty of felony murder. “So what I need from you,” Jordan ended, “is an idea on how to keep Mom safe. I can write a generic article about my stay in Leo’s cabin without giving away Lock’s defense strategy; that ought to be worth something, but what if I can’t find a way to raise all the money? Or what if my father arrives earlier than Monday?”

  She paused to catch her breath. Roberto had really hurt her rib.

  “First of all,” Rebecca said in a lowered voice, meaning she was at the office and Jefferson was somewhere nearby, “I ignored your warning, and called the Alabama authorities, and they’re getting the US Marshals involved.”

  “Then the three of us are in huge danger.” Her voice wavered. She couldn’t handle any more body shocks today—literally and figuratively. “He’s got ‘people’ on the outside who will come and kill us.”

  “Doubtful. He’s broke, and he’s a mean SOB. Who would risk being arrested for a triple murder of women they don’t even know? Once again your father has you so frightened you can’t think straight.”

  Jordan bit her bruised lip. Her friend made sense, but she couldn’t shake her hunch that something awful was about to happen. “Is there any way you can lie to Jefferson about a break in and get him to stay in my room for a few days?”

  “Sweetie, I’m the one with the black belt. I’m offended you’d even ask such a thing.”

  “My father’s got a gun.”

  “Which I will promptly relieve him of. Now stop worrying, I’ve got your mom’s back. But since you’re not writing the article anymore, why not head home on the next flight?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “I can’t believe you kept talking to that reporter! And now you’re wandering around Aspen? If you’re recognized it’s going to be a mob scene, Lock. What the hell are you thinking?”

  “Don’t worry,” Lock assured his lawyer over the cell phone. “I’m parked down a residential street on the far side of town.” He adjusted the air conditioning to blow directly on him like it was a sweltering day in July. “I’m covered in a cap and scarf and mirrored shades like some gruesome burn victim. I figure if someone recognizes my nose they deserve an impromptu interview.” He adjusted the vent again, agitated at the hot layers and his growling stomach. “But hiding in my own hometown bites. I’d almost trade encountering the paparazzi just to walk into my favorite deli.”

  “No interviews!”

  “I’m yanking your chain, Parker.” He sighed and slumped in the car seat. “So anyway, those are the two suspects she’s checking out. I’ll let you know what happens with Vannini.”

  “For God sakes, you did see the tabloid picture, right?” Parker snapped. “You do understand she’s following it up with an article?”

  “Even if she does, so what? I’m off the team, the trial begins Monday, and you have to admit she’s come up with some interesting suspects and motives.
”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this web guy before?”

  “Before what? Jordan just showed me that sick bastard’s site last night. Those pictures were taken from inside her courtyard, Pierce. Have you brought it up yet?”

  “Yes. It’s beyond sick.”

  “Well, why didn’t the PI you hired do that facial recognition thing?”

  Parker paused, and Lock heard phone lines buzzing in the background. “I’m sure he did,” he said at last. “But Tiffany’s in hundreds of thousands of photos. Your friend must have happened upon the link by sheer luck.”

  “Or,” Lock countered, “she combed through hundreds of thousands of photos. The point is she’s done more in three days than your guy’s done in ten months. Fire the worthless idiot.”

  Another long silence.

  “Pierce?”

  He heard a resigned sigh on the other end. “He’s not a worthless idiot. He happens to be my brother-in-law.”

  Lock turned that stunning revelation over in his mind. “Isn’t that some kind of conflict of interest or something?”

  “No. And I assure you he’s top notch.”

  “He hasn’t come up with squat!”

  “I’ve used him very successfully on many ca—”

  “Then what did he uncover about a man named Russell Reeves?”

  He heard the click of a keyboard, and a minute later his lawyer huffed out a breath. “Reeves was interviewed three days after the murder. He works night security in her building complex. Said he heard and saw nothing that night.”

  Lock froze. “Night security at her condo?”

  “Yes. Our PI interviewed and cleared him. We’ve got your case covered. Stop screwing it up by hanging around that tabloid reporter.”

  Lock counted to ten but the red behind his vision didn’t clear. “Did your PI also find out that he’s a cyber-stalker who answered or ‘liked’ every single one of her status updates? Did he know Tiffany went out with Russell Reeves?” He waited a beat in the stunned silence. “Twice? Just two weeks before her murder?”

  “How…how do you—”

  “Fire him,” Lock said through clenched teeth.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Parker sounded stiff and formal, far from the comforting father figure of the past year. “Given that you have no memory of that night, there wasn’t much for my brother-in-law to go on.”

  And there it was. Just like Leo. Just like his own fears all these months. An icy calm settled deep in Lock’s bones. “Because in the end,” he said in resignation, “you think I killed Tiffany too.”

  “You’re not paying me to have an opinion,” Parker replied sharply. “You hired me to get a not-guilty verdict, and we’re ready to go with guns blazing on Monday.”

  The realization that even his lawyer thought he was guilty was too much. Before he did something stupid, like fire the bastard the Friday afternoon before trial, he said gruffly, “I’ll call back if Jordan comes up with anything we can use against Vannini.”

  He disconnected before he heard any more dire warnings from Parker. The whole beginning of the conversation had consisted of reprimands over their Nancy-Drew-Hardy-Boys stunt, as his lawyer had repeatedly called it.

  But little Nancy Drew was his only hope right now, and this security officer lead was huge. He remembered the man’s thug-like physique and that deadly challenge in those pale-blue eyes. It made sense now. Reeves had been staring down a rival, not just filming a sordid argument.

  He glanced at his watch. He couldn’t shake the sick sense he’d been gone too long. She had this cell number, why hadn’t she called? Unless she wasn’t through yet. Unless Vannini pulled some moves…

  Lock revved the engine, unable to complete the thought. He yanked the ancient gearshift and gripped the steering wheel in a chokehold, and not because of any media vans. Why had he left her there? People not associated with the competitive ski world couldn’t fathom what a slime-bucket Vannini was when it came to women. The more Lock recalled the disgusting stories that followed Vannini wherever he competed, the more he wanted to stomp on the gas and break a land-speed record back to the St. Regis. By the time he drove up to the entrance, his heart skittered with unease. Please be okay. Please be finished and waiting safely in the lobby.

  He hopped out while the car still rocked to a stop, yanking his scarf up past his lips. The wool smelled wet and stale, and he received an odd look from the valet approaching. “No need to park it far,” he called through the fabric, sprinting for the entrance. “I’m just picking someone up.”

  He passed the bored cops and hit the lobby, pausing as his vision adjusted to the dimness. Even here in the bustling crowd, curious looks at his sunglasses and scarf-covered mouth provided unwanted attention. But it was better than waltzing in here clean-shaven.

  He spotted Jordan sitting in a deep-red, high-backed armchair near the massive fireplace. Relief almost knocked him to his knees. She’d made it through the interview with that juiced-up dirtbag. She was safe.

  The roaring flames gave her usually pale cheeks a rosy glow and as always turned her curtain of hair a shiny blue-black. Her thin shoulders were hunched over her notes. Under the suffocating scarf, he broke into a protective smile. Yeah sure, in the last few days she’d demonstrated a healthy ability to take care of herself at all costs, but that petite body and outer fragility got him somewhere around the heart every time.

  He strode toward her, still aware of startled glances but no longer caring. He had a great lead on Reeves, and knowing her, she’d uncovered something substantial with Vannini. The day from hell fell away with each step. The brush off in Leo’s bedroom this morning, the tabloid picture… None of it mattered. She’d come into his life to prove him innocent, even when he didn’t wholly believe it himself. Parker would be satisfied with a not guilty. Although the legal outcome was the same, public opinion was not. Not guilty meant living life like O.J., branded forever no matter what the jury decided. Proving his innocence meant clearing his terrified conscience and regaining true freedom.

  Lock suddenly realized he trusted her forceful, in-your-face approach. He was sorry he ever called it annoying. As much as she lied, ironically, there was a deep honesty within her. She was still here helping him, just like she said she would. Even after collecting enough information to write a quarter-million-dollar article. Even after all the shit he’d thrown at her this week.

  He covered the final few feet in earnest, pulse picking up. A gooey warmth spread through him as he crouched down to eye level.

  “Hey,” he said, “I thought you were gonna call when you finished.”

  She glanced up, and the gooey stuff was sucker-punched right out of him.

  Her lips were kiss-swollen, and those storm-blue eyes blazed fever-bright. That prick had done it again. His hands clenched. “Jordan. Did he force himself on you?”

  Her eyes widened. “No. Absolutely not.”

  His mind couldn’t wrap itself around those three words. She’d clearly spent time lip-locked with the fucker, and Vannini hadn’t forced her? “Are you lying?” he asked. She was as good at that as he was skiing.

  “Give me a break,” she huffed. “Why would I lie?”

  “So,” he snarled, “is he a good kisser? Was it worth it to get the story?”

  A warning flashed across her face, a face changing from rosy to crimson by the second. “I interviewed him to get answers for you, Lo—” She stopped and glanced around. No one paid them attention, and she continued, quieter. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about his role in Tiffany’s life than accusing me?”

  He bit back the surly retort and steadied his breathing. She had a point—that actually should’ve been his first question. He needed his life back. Once again, he needed to remind himself that Jordan was a reporter who would go to the ends of the Earth, or crash into a ravine, to get a story. It had nothing to do with any attraction she felt for him.

  “What was his role in Tiffany’s life?�
� he mimicked woodenly through the thick scarf.

  “He claims he wasn’t having an affair. That she was too strung out to appeal to him.”

  “No kidding?” It took all his control to keep his voice conversational. “Well then, shit, one of us is lying. Could it be me, who heard it straight from my girlfriend’s mouth, or Vannini, who happened to fly to America and walk into a small bar in Aspen a few days after she got back from Milan?”

  “I’m not saying I believe him.”

  The cramping tightness in his shoulders eased a fraction. “What else?”

  “He’s left-handed.”

  “My attorney could have gotten that outta him during the first thirty seconds on the stand. What else?”

  Puzzlement etched along her brows, like she couldn’t understand his tone. How could she not know? Completely agitated, he yanked the scarf down, desperately inhaling a lungful of unrestricted air.

  She glanced at his mouth, and an expression flashed across her face, too fast for him to catch. She was obviously comparing his kisses this morning with the wild romp upstairs just now. In his gut, Lock knew he was on the losing end of that assessment.

  “What else?” he bit out.

  She gave a helpless, one-shoulder shrug. “He evaded the rest.”

  Since when did Jordan accept an evasive answer? He masked his fury with effort. “So you spent the rest of the time making out?”

  “Goddamn it. If you knew—”

  He stood abruptly, his stomach churning at the vision of them together. “Forget it. Let’s go.”

  “I did all I could—”

  “Forget it means I can’t handle one more lie, Jordan.”

  He tore his gaze from that stricken face to the mammoth flames three feet to the right. It looked and felt like the doorway to hell. He rubbed at the sweat dripping into his scarf, vaguely aware of his shirt clinging to his back under the heavy jacket. An elderly couple stood a few feet away, watching him as they whispered to each other. He eased his chin back into the thick wool and casually turned away.