The Hideaway

by Meryl Sawyer

  “Who is it?” she called, wishing for a peephole in the thick plank door that dated back to the Spanish Inquisition.

  “Zachary Coulter,” came the gruff reply. “Open the door.” His voice said he expected to be obeyed—immediately.

  Zach Coulter. Twice in one day. Too much. At her side, Lucy was wagging her tail, her head cocked to the side. At least one of us is glad to see him, she thought as she punched the code into the security system’s keypad.

  She swung the heavy door open and Zach strode into the entry wall, Lobo at his side. This time he wore no hat, but he still seemed unusually tall. He overwhelmed her with his height, his size. His physical presence made her nerves pulse just as he always had. Anger, directed at herself, surged through her. Hadn’t the past taught her anything?

  He stood far too close, his eyes filled with ruthless determination. Her time was up. She would have to answer some very embarrassing questions. She tilted her head back, squarely facing him, not allowing him to detect how intimidated she felt.

  She told herself she didn’t care about not having a stitch of makeup on or having wavy hair curled even more than usual by the steamy tub. But she did care about not having anything on under the thick robe. His gaze sharpened, an even harder glint brightening his eyes as he stared at the deep V of her robe.

  Zach sniffed, his nostrils flaring. “Smells like a French whorehouse in here.”

  “Magnolia, vanilla, and wild ginger—the finest ingredients for aromatherapy.”

  “That so?” He inhaled deeply, a grin spreading over his face. “What in hell’s aromatherapy?”

  “It’s a way to relax, take the tension out of life by lighting scented candles and soaking in a tub filled special herbs and oils.”

  “Works for me.” His eyelids became heavier, his gaze more intent. He had a disturbingly sensual way of looking at her, or maybe it was just her imagination.

  She knew exactly why he’d come, but she decided to bluff. “You want to talk to me? Is it one quick question I can answer, or should I put on some clothes?”

  He contemplated her question a few seconds too long, letting his eyes drift from her tousled hair down … down a scant inch at a time until he was staring at her bare feet. She knew he was deliberately trying to provoke her, to make her say something sarcastic, but she didn’t take the bait.

  He finally said, “Put on some clothes.”

  She mumbled something about having a seat in the living room, then rushed down the hall to the master bedroom at the rear of the house. She pulled on jeans and an oversized cotton sweater in a deep shade of lavender. Oh, God, what am I going to do? The question kept repeating like an echo in a tomb.

  The only answer was to tell the sheriff the truth about spending the night in The Hideaway. A man had been murdered. Her escapade, though embarrassing, was nothing compared to having a killer on the loose. And on some level, it served her right. She should never have allowed that stranger to kiss her.

  Coyote comes out of the darkness. Beware the coyote. Tohono’s words came back to her. Like most Native Americans, the old man laughed at the tourists who bought the T-shirts and posters with howling coyotes on them. While the wolf was noble, fierce and respected, the coyote was the symbol of cunning and deviousness. And evil, above all, evil.

  As Tohono had warned, that dark force was now directed at her. She had no choice but to rely on Zach Coulter to find Duncan Morrell’s killer. She had to tell the truth—even if it meant discussing what had happened last night with a man she despised.

  She walked into the living room a few minutes later and found Zach asleep on the sofa, his booted feet up on the glass top coffee table. He’d taken the latest issue of Architectural Digest and placed it under his feet. His closed eyes revealed the long sweep of his eyelashes, and the angular planes of his face. A rasp of hair shadowed his jawline, proof his fast-growing beard was as dark as his black hair.

  While some men appeared younger and gentler when sleeping, Zach did not. His expression was taut as if his guard was always up, yet there was a cold, intriguing dignity to his face. She realized he was a lone wolf, a man who allowed very few people to get close to him. A man with his own secrets.

  His body was rock-hard, a mature masculine body well-honed by a tough life. Since this morning he’d unbuttoned another button on the chambray shirt. A wedge of dense, curly hair peeked out. His legs were impossibly long, every muscle defined beneath the soft denim that also emphasized the masculine ridge behind his fly.

  She forced herself to look at his boots, which were buffed to a mirror shine. An unwelcome memory from the past intruded on the present with startling clarity. Even when Zach had been penniless, he’d taken pride in the way he’d dressed. True, he’d had little except well-worn jeans, but his boots had always been shined to a high gloss even when he hadn’t had enough money to resole them.

  Now, of course, he had money. He’d spent it on black sharkskin boots that were hand-made, the distinctive swirling insets of white sharkskin indicated they were expensive Tres Outlaws. His belt was black lizard with a unique hand-tooled silver buckle. Neither the boots nor belt were new, but they must be prized possessions because both were meticulously maintained.

  She turned, thinking she should make coffee before awakening him. It would give her time to carefully plan what to say. She moved away; his hand whipped out and grabbed her wrist, just as his eyes opened. Caught off balance, she bumped into the arm of the sofa. A split second later she was sprawled across his lap.

  Nose to nose, they stared at each other. The intensity of his gaze was enough to take most women’s breath away. She tried to yank her hand free, but he effortlessly restrained her. She glared at him, her instincts telling her to scramble off his lap, but the angle of her body and his tight grip made it impossible.

  “Let go, you jerk.”

  He let out a low whistle, his breath lifting a strand of her hair. “Jerk? Am I supposed to be insulted? That’s about the nicest thing you’ve ever called me.”

  “I could say something worse, but I won’t lower myself.”

  “Temper. Temper,” he responded, obviously enjoying baiting her.

  She wiggled, pulling her arm, trying to twist free. Lurching sideways did no good either. He merely anchored her more firmly to his chest until her breasts were nestled against him. She tried again, squirming in his lap. A slow, sensual grin spread over his face as she struggled, getting nowhere.

  “Honey, didn’t anybody ever tell you not to move around like that unless you’re looking for action?”

  Shock arced through her like an electric current, and she froze, embarrassingly aware of the masculine contours of his body as it pressed against hers. Without thinking, she swung her free arm, intending to slap him. He blocked the blow, manacling her wrist in his large hand.

  They stared at each other; the gleam of desire in his deep blue eyes was impossible to miss. Dammit, she wasn’t some easy piece.

  “I swear, I could kill you.” She put as much bite into her words as possible considering the strange but exciting feeling feathering up through her chest.

  “I live in fear.” He grinned, but didn’t move.

  No doubt about it. Zach Coulter had a rugged cowboy sexiness that appealed to most women. But not Claire; she knew better. She blistered him with one of her meanest stares.

  “You’re hurting me,” she fibbed, trying to pull her hand away.

  His mouth twisted, but it wasn’t a smile. It was more of a grimace, then his expression changed from sensual to threatening, so quickly she might have imagined the charge of sexual energy that had arced between them a second ago. He effortlessly lifted her off his lap and plopped her down on the sofa beside him.

  “I want the truth about last night,” Zach said, “and I want it now.”

  Claire scrambled away from him, putting as much space between them as the small sofa allowed.

  “I’ve busted my ass all day, tracking down leads. You lied to
me.”

  She shook her head. “I never told an outright lie. I just saw no reason to go into the details of my private life unless absolutely necessary.”

  He glared at her with a look that said he didn’t see the difference. A minute ago he’d been interested in sex, but he’d managed to channel that energy into a raw anger that frightened her.

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  He studied her with a steadfast gaze that assured her that he could detect anything she might omit. “Start with the bear. Khadafi may be the key to this murder. What do you know about his disappearance?”

  “No one could do anything about the bear baiting,” she said without hesitation. “I mentioned it to someone—”

  “Cut the bullshit. I’m dead tired. Who did you tell?”

  Claire held her ground. “I don’t want to get anyone else in trouble.”

  “It’ll remain confidential unless it figures into the killing. I’m the last person who wants Stegner to get back that bear.”

  “I asked Tohono what we should do about the bear. He said to spread the word. Putting money in the Maria Martinez vase in the Taos Inn and saying prayers to San Geronimo would help the bear.”

  “You’re kidding? You actually got people to put money in that old pot?”

  “It’s a priceless piece. Since Maria’s death—” she stopped, knowing Zach wanted facts, not a lesson in art. “I have no idea how much money was in the vase, but I contributed all I could spare, three thousand dollars. Angela, Vanessa Trent, Seth, and many others put money in the vase to rescue the bear.”

  Eyes that never missed a thing narrowed. “What did you think the money was going to be used for?”

  “To pay someone to steal the bear. Then to keep Bam from finding it, the bear would have to be taken out of the United States, or something. I suppose it might have been taken to Canada. That’s where there’s a refuge for the bears taken from bear baiters in Oklahoma. Since the bears don’t have any teeth, they need special diets, special care.”

  Zach nodded thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving hers. “Did you know the bear was being taken last night?”

  “I received an anonymous phone call saying he would be gone before midnight.”

  “And you couldn’t resist going to Hogs and Heifers to piss-off Stegner.”

  “Seth insisted he wanted to hear Flash and the Rusty Roots,” she said, unwilling to admit Zach was right. She had wanted to taunt Stegner. “I decided that it might not be a bad idea to let everyone see me. How could I take Khadafi if I was in plain sight the whole time?”

  “That was stupid. That bear weighs hundreds of pounds. No one would believe you physically stole him, but they sure as hell think you know who did.”

  “Going there wasn’t smart,” she conceded. “But I honestly have no idea who took Khadafi, and I don’t know where he is. I’d still do it all over again. Someone had to save that bear.”

  For a moment the intense expression in his eyes softened. “The way you saved Lucy?”

  Claire didn’t respond. Lucy had been used as a live target by a man raising attack dogs. Claire had arrived with the authorities just in time to see the man turn a vicious attack dog on Lucy. While the police stood there, deciding which law he was breaking, she grabbed a gun from the man and shot the attack dog. Lucy would never be the same, her leg had been broken in three places, but at least she was alive. And out of that monster’s hands.

  Thinking about Lucy reminded Claire that she hadn’t noticed either dog. “Where is Lucy?”

  “They wanted to go out, so I let them go.”

  “No!” Claire vaulted to her feet. “The coyotes could get Lucy. Last week a pack dragged off Mrs. Sanchez’s dog.”

  “Do you seriously think a pack of coyotes would take on Lobo?”

  “No,” Claire admitted, sinking back to her place on the sofa.

  Zach’s understanding expression faded, replaced by a world-weary frown. “Okay, so let’s forget the bear for now. Tell me about your relationship with Seth Ramsey.”

  Under his inquisitive gaze, she bristled. “That’s a little personal, isn’t it?”

  “Not when you lie, saying you were with him when you weren’t.”

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t want to go into it, so I was a little evasive,” she admitted, reminding herself not to sound guilty when she wasn’t. “I’ve been dating Seth for the past few months.”

  “Do you usually spend the night with him after a date?”

  The question seemed far too personal, but considering the fact that she hadn’t stayed with Seth last night and that this might suggest a deviation from a normal pattern, she answered. “No. I’ve never been … intimate with Seth.”

  “Intimate?” Zach chuckled. “First you call me a jerk when you mean asshole. Now you say intimate. Can’t you just say you aren’t screwing him?”

  She glared at him. “Obviously the women you hang around with talk like truck drivers. I answered your question. That’s all I have to do.”

  Zach waited for a moment before saying, “Seth brought you but you didn’t go home with him. He told me you disappeared a little after midnight. He waited outside the rest room for you, but you never came out. What happened?”

  Claire drew in a calming breath, deciding to back up and give him the whole picture. Zach’s brains were behind the buttons on his 501s, but he was all she had to work with. If he didn’t find the killer, she was in real trouble. “We came to the club at about ten, and Seth immediately ordered drinks.”

  “They had a table waiting for you even though they had a line out the door to hear Flash and the Rusty Roots?”

  “Yes. Seth had greased Bam’s bouncer. We had a table near Angela Whitmore and her—ah—friend.”

  “Come on, Claire. I know Angela is your best client, but call a spade a spade. Carleton Cole is a young stud—young enough to be Angela’s son.” She shrugged, reluctant to concede the point, and he continued. “Okay, so what about Nevada?”

  “He was near our table with two women. I didn’t talk to him.” She could hardly say the name of the artist she’d discovered without thinking how hurt she’d been when Nevada Murphy had left her for Duncan Morrell. “I felt fine until I finished my first drink, then—”

  A mournful howl pierced the night, cutting off her explanation. The sound echoed though the silent hacienda, suspended in the air, reverberating long after the cry ceased.

  Five

  A second deeper howl filled the room with its haunting, soulful sound.

  Zach rose. “It’s just Lobo. He wants to be let in.”

  Grateful for the interruption, Claire followed Zach across the immense living room and into the foyer decorated in hand-painted Mexican tiles. The floor itself was Saltillo tile, and the red clay squares were cool under her bare feet. “I’d like to hear what Lobo sounds like when he’s angry.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Zach swung open the antique door, its wide, thick planks hinged with hand-forged wrought iron.

  Lobo trotted in with Lucy at his heels, wagging her tail. Once again, Claire was amazed. Lucy shied away from most dogs, but seemed to know Lobo would protect her, not harm her.

  “Coffee?” Claire asked, stalling. It wasn’t her style to prevaricate, but she’d found Zach’s questions intensely personal, and she wondered how little she could tell him and still help him find the killer.

  She led him down the hall and through the wide, arched doorway into the spacious kitchen. She flicked on the lights, which brightened the gourmet’s paradise and artfully accented the ceiling of hand-hewn vigas, making the exposed wooden beams stand out against the whitewashed walls. Latillas, stripped wood saplings in a herringbone pattern, filled the spaces between the vigas. The decorator had accessorized the home with the finest examples of Native American arts and crafts available, pieces Claire would have been thrilled to have in her own gallery.

  Harvest baskets hung from the high ceiling, their meticulously hand-wov
en designs formed by various grasses that had been dyed with bark and plants to duplicate the rich earth tones of the Painted Desert. Above the range a specially lighted, arched cove in the wall, a nicho, featured a folk-art carving of San Pasqual, patron saint of kitchens.

  No doubt the decorator believed the Frederic Remington bronze sculpture in the living room was the showpiece in the home. But Claire secretly coveted the Navajo Yei blanket that hung on the wall in the breakfast area, its crisp red and black diamond pattern spotlighted by beams of light hidden in the ceiling.

  Zach leaned against the island counter, and she wondered what he thought of the house. It was a world away from the Golden Palms, the trailer park across town where he’d been raised. She recalled sneaking him into her home when they’d been in high school. He had tried to be nonchalant, but she could tell he was awed.

  This historic hacienda that she was leasing was much more impressive than her father’s home, yet if Zach noticed, he didn’t show it. His eyes flicked to one side for a moment, distracted by both dogs slurping from Lucy’s water bowl. Once he spotted the source of the noise, his gaze returned to her. She self-consciously filled the Brewmatic with her favorite coffee, vanilla hazelnut.

  Zach probably thought she had something to hide. Well, she did, but it had nothing to do with the murder. He had more testosterone than brains, but he was the sheriff. No matter how embarrassing it would be to tell him about last night, she had no choice.

  She handed him a mug of coffee and stood nearby, reaching for her own cup. Not a word had been said since they’d come into the kitchen and the silence enveloped the room.

  Zach spoke first. “You claimed your first drink hit you hard.”

  “I felt woozy as if I’d had half a dozen drinks,” she said, bristling at the word claimed, but silently conceding that he did have a good reason to doubt her. She hadn’t been totally honest about her whereabouts the night of the murder. “My head was buzzing.”

  “What were you drinking?”

  She hesitated a moment. “Tarantula juice.”

  “Oh, that’s kick-ass smart. Stegner’s house specialty—tequila, rum, and lime juice. Who the hell knows what else is in it? No wonder you were in the bag.”