by Desiree Holt
“Jason, you’d be a better guide than I would.” Micki forced a smile. “You go ahead. I’m going upstairs to unpack.”
And get away from this man who makes me feel things I didn’t know were possible.
Her brother studied her for a brief moment before nodding. “No problem.”
“I just need to get the lay of the land fixed in my mind,” the sheriff said. “Especially the layout of the house itself.”
Of course. In case someone brings their teenaged daughter and the rapist decides to pounce.
Although there was no real reason for that to happen. There were no teenagers living here any longer, so there were no suitable playmates being dragged along. And if whoever was doing this had half a brain, he’d forget about trying anything while the recent murder and circumstances were still the hot topic of conversation. Suddenly, she realized that Alex was speaking to her.
“Excuse me? Sorry. I must have been taking a mental vacation.
“I said I’m sorry you won’t be joining us, Miss Schroeder. I look forward to seeing you at the party.”
His deep voice vibrated through her. What? Vibrated through her? She hadn’t known that was even possible. The look he gave her before heading off with Jason made her feel as if he’d stripped her naked with his eyes, but not in a way that frightened her. There was an entire world of sensuality out there she’d never even dipped her toe into. She certainly couldn’t call the few pitiful experiences she’d had sexy or satisfying. Suddenly, at the age of thirty, for the first time in her life, she wanted a man. A man who, as a matter of fact, she knew nothing about except he had impeccable references and made her body hum with unfamiliar need.
And one other thing, something that shocked the hell out of her. Sheriff Alex Rossi was the first man she’d felt safe with since she was fourteen years old.
Oh god. How was she going to handle this? A cauldron of conflicting emotions bubbled deep inside her as she climbed the stairs to her room.
Chapter 3
Two nights later, as Alex dressed for the party, he still couldn’t get the image of Micki Schroeder out of his mind. She stood about five foot eight, with nice curves that could make a man’s mouth water. She wore her rich-brown hair pulled back and gathered in a clip at her neck. Darker lashes curtained the rich green of her eyes, and her delicate jawline gave her face an almost vulnerable look. Her body language said something else, however. She carried herself with t an air of defiance. As if she were saying, Too bad if you like what you see. Just get the hell away from me.
He wondered if as a young teenager she’d been one of the victims of what Hank Patterson called the gang of privileged rapists. Although no one discussed it openly, after the arrest of Jeff Bartell, no one had come up with a better description. The chairman of the board of county commissioners had requested someone from the Montana Department of Justice, and an investigator had arrived from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.
He’d asked and been granted permission to go through Bartell’s house, which had been standing empty since the man’s arrest. No one had claimed it, so the county was still trying to decide what to do with it. But Alex had a feeling there were things squirreled away there that had either been overlooked or ’not found. And bingo! He found a hidden panel in the master bedroom closet. Inside was a lockbox that he made quick work of opening and found all the reports filed by the young girls over a period of years. Unfortunately, because of the way the rapes had occurred, the girls had not been able to provide any of the rapists’ names, but the descriptions of the attack were all the same. Alex’s gut told him it had to be a small group of the uber wealthy ranchers convinced they could do whatever they wanted and get away with it because of their money and position. It just fit the mold.
That meant, based on the period of time covered, that these men had begun their frightening pattern in their forties and continued it well into their sixties. Men who sat on the boards of organizations both statewide and nationally. Who had amassed great fortunes that gave them a sense of invincibility. And, apparently, they’d been right, because all these years later their identities were still secret.
Holly Martino’s parents were devastated when he told them she’d been murdered and why. He knew she hadn’t even told them about the attack. She’d been shaking in her shoes the night she came to his house to report it to him, explaining why she came there and not his office. And why she did it at after dark. They were consumed by guilt that she hadn’t felt she could come to them, and that they had somehow not discerned that she was struggling with such a devastating event. Miranda had called two of their closest friends, so they wouldn’t be alone, and then driven them home. Alex had delivered news like this more times than he liked to remember, but it never got any easier, especially when someone so young was concerned. If he did nothing else, he was going to find these bastards and nail their asses to the wall.
Hank had provided him with a list of the key figures in both this county and the adjacent ones, men who socialized with each other for both business and pleasure. Tonight, at the Schroeder party, he’d make it his business to meet and assess those men. One of the traits that had made him so successful as a SEAL was his ability to do exactly that. He was sure his bullshit meter was still in working order.
Thinking of bullshit meters made the image of Micki Schroeder pop into his head. There was a woman with secrets, ones she’d buried so deep that only in times of stress did they fight their way to the surface. It was obvious being back at the ranch and this party were doing just that. When he’d returned to his office after the meeting at the ranch, he’d called Hank to check out his assumptions.
“Yeah, I’d say you’re on target,” his friend agreed. “I think she’s thirty now, so if she was one of the victims, it happened long before we set up Brotherhood Protectors. And damn!” Hank sighed. “These pieces of shit are so good they leave no trace of anything and know exactly what to do to make sure the girls have no idea who they are.”
“I do have that one item,” Alex reminded him. “Holly Martino brought her torn panties that she used to clean up the tiny trace of semen her rapist left. The condom must have sprung a leak as he pulled out.”
“Better keep it under lock and key,” Hank warned him. “We still don’t know who all is involved or who might have access to stuff.”
“It’s in an evidence bag, but, as a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you if I could bring it out to your place and have you lock it up out there.”
“You aren’t worried about chain of custody?”
“No, we’ll sign the appropriate documents, and I’ll attach an affidavit as to why I’m doing it.” He sighed. “Not that I have reason to suspect anyone on my staff, but I don’t have a reason to trust them, either. Yet. Except for Miranda.”
“Yeah.” Hank chuckled. “Her last name says it all. Golden. She’s the best.”
All of this ran through his mind as he finished getting ready. He had chosen not to wear his uniform tonight, even though the Schroeders said they’d be using this as an opportunity to introduce him to people. He just thought his official garb would be a little too in your face. Besides, this way he cloud blend in a little better to assess people and eavesdrop on conversations. Not that he expected anyone to up and confess in the middle of the party, but still, he never knew what he might pick up.
He had just tucked his gun into the small of his back—he never went anywhere without his sidearm—and slipped on the jacket to his suit when his cell rang.
“All set for tonight?” Hank Patterson asked.
“As much as I can be. Are you calling to give me a pep talk?”
Hank chuckled. “Hardly. Calling to ask you to keep an eye on Micki Schroeder tonight.”
Alex’s detect-o-meter went on full alert. “Did something happened I should know about? Or is there something you forgot to tell me?”
“No, nothing like that.” “He paused a moment. “Remember when you came to the office that
first time after Scot Nolan steered you my way?”
“Yeah. What about it.”
“Yup. No one discusses it and he said they hadn’t told you, but his fiancée was a victim years ago, probably about the same time Micki Schroeder was. But with Holly Martino’s death they asked me to tell you about it. Clue you in that being home for this party could be traumatic for Micki. Also, if her rapist is a guest, which he very well might be, there could be some little thing that triggers a memory, and that could be dangerous for her.”
“Okay. I’ll keep an eye on her. Which, by the way,” he added, “won’t be hard at all. I’m surprised she’s not married by now.” He paused. “Of course…”
“Yes,” Hank agreed. “Of course. Like Jenna Donovan, she’s probably still so traumatized she can’t be part of a healthy relationship. I’ll tell you, Scot has worked miracles with Jenna.”
Could he do the same with Micki?
What the fuck? Do what with Micki? He’d met the woman two days ago, and already he was in a relationship with her? A woman who probably ran from relationships like a long-distance runner? A woman who made his cock harder than a steel pike every time he thought of her? Maybe his body was telling him he needed a woman, but he sure as shit was too much of a gentleman to go after a woman who looked as if sex gave her a heart attack. And with good reason. That wasn’t him, thank god.
But he would keep a close eye on her tonight. If indeed she had been one of the victims when she was a young teenager, this event would be difficult for her to get through. He wondered how many other parties she’d attended in all these years and if any of them had triggered a panic attack. If she had one tonight, he’d be right there with her, sliding her out of the room so she could deal with it in private.
In the few minutes he’d spent with her, he found he liked her. Well. What about that? He’d better lock that in a closet because getting close to her would take a long time and according to her mother, she was leaving in two more days. Besides, hadn’t he told himself he was going to focus on the job?
“Alex?” Hanks’s voice broke into his mental wanderings. “You there?”
“No worries,” he assured Hank. “And I’ll give you a full report after the event.”
“I know you can always reach out to your deputies if necessary,” Hank added. “But just in case, don’t hesitate to call if you need us.”
“Thanks for that. Appreciate it. Hopefully I won’t need either my people or yours.”
Ten minutes later, he was in his big pickup truck, heading for the Schroeder ranch. He had planned to get there early, but not so early he’d stick out like a sore thumb. He was damn sure anyone spotting him would know he wasn’t on the regular guest list, even if he did know how to eat and drink without getting anything on his clothes and not to talk with his mouth full.
That was okay. Dana Schroeder had been insistent that he be there, for whatever reason so he’d sip club soda and keep his eyes and ears open.
There were already several cars in the area marked off for parking when he pulled up to the ranch house. An earnest young man in a white shirt and black pants appeared at his door. He was surprised not to see him in Western gear. Maybe it wasn’t formal enough for the ultra-wealthy Schroeders.
“Park your car, sir?”
Alex shook his head. “No, thanks. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll park it myself and keep the keys. You know, in case I have to leave in a hurry.” He opened his jacket to display his badge clipped to his shirt pocket. He never went anywhere without it or his gun.
“Oh. Sorry, sir. I mean, uh, Sheriff. Sure, um, park wherever you want.”
“Thanks.” He grinned, hoping to put the kid at ease.
“Oh, and I’m supposed to tell you to follow that path on the right of the house to the back yard.”
He pulled off to the side opposite where all the other vehicles were—a short gravel extension of the driveway—locked the truck and headed where the kid had pointed. This must be a hell of a crowd if they moved it out of a house he figured could hold better than a hundred people. The din of voices grew louder as he rounded the corner and walked into one of the largest if not the largest tents he’d ever seen. Even at this early hour, it was more than a third full with people dressed in clothes he was sure didn’t come off any rack.
“Good evening, Sheriff.”
He turned his head to see Dana Schroeder smiling up at him, a glass in her hand.
“Evening, ma’am.”
“I’m so glad you could make it.” She wet her lower lip in what he was sure was a nervous habit. “As I said the other day, I don’t expect any trouble, but with everything going on…”
“Not a problem. I’ll just blend into the crowd.”
“Be sure to get a drink.” She waved at the three bars set up. “Oh, and if you could keep an eye on Micki, I’d appreciate it.”
“Oh?” he lifted an eyebrow. “Is she having a problem?”
“She seems nervous, and she asked a lot of questions about that poor young girl who was killed. I tried to assure her that had nothing to do with her. With us. But I don’t think she believes me.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand…Well, anyway, please make sure she’s comfortable, would you? I’d do it, but we have so many guests…”
Again, her voice trailed off, and she was already looking toward the entrance to the tent where more people were arriving.
“Not a problem,” he assured her. “You go on and be a hostess.”
She looked at him as if trying to decide if he was assuring her or insulting her then gave him one of her fake smiles and headed off. He wondered what it was like to have as much money as the Schroeders and have to live your entire life acting a part.
He wandered around the tent, smiling and nodding at people who he was sure were trying to figure out who he was. He finally spotted Micki in one corner, standing slightly apart from the crowd and trying not to look like she’d rather be anywhere else.
“You look like you wish a transporter would take you into outer space.”
“Oh!”
He’d obviously startled her, and liquid splashed over the rim of her glass. He grabbed some paper napkins from the bar next to them and blotted her hand.
“Sorry about that.” He did his best to make his voice warm and reassuring. “If you dislike these things so much,” he said, “why do you even go to them? I mean, you came all the way from Florida for this one, right?”
“Believe me, if it wasn’t my father’s sixtieth birthday, I wouldn’t be here. I promise you that.” She took a healthy swallow of her drink.
“You might want to go easy on that,” he told her in what he hoped was a friendly tone. “You’ve got a long night ahead of you.”
“And this is what I need to get through it. How about you, Sheriff? You don’t have a drink of any kind.”
“As a matter of fact, I was about to get one.” He ordered his usual on-the-job drink, club soda.
Micki gave him a questioning look. “No alcohol for you, Sheriff?”
“Not when I’m on duty.” He lifted the glass to her in a toast.
“And are you? On duty?” Her face tightened with tension.
“Just doing a favor for your parents.” He studied her expression, her body language. “Does that bother you?”
“No, of course not.” She looked down at the drink in her hand. “Maybe they should have had someone all along for all the other parties.”
He wanted to ask if she was thinking about the one where she’d been attacked, but this was neither the time nor the place. She looked so fragile he was hit with a desire to pull her against him and wrap his arms around her.
Yeah, jackass. Because intimacy probably scares the hell out of her, so why not make it worse?
And why was he hit with all of these feelings for a woman he’d just met? Feelings, by the way, he’d never had for any of the females he ever dated at any age. He reminded himself he was here on official business, so to spe
ak, not to act on his attraction for this woman who carried such a load of emotional baggage.
Then she waved a hand in the air. “Forget I said that, okay? My parents would freak if they heard that.” She pasted on a smile. “I guess I’d better circulate and let people know how glad I am to be home for Dad’s birthday.”
But to Alex’s practiced eye she looked anything but. He wished he had a way to ask her what she meant without upsetting her but instead, he moved slowly through the crowd, stopping to chat with the few people he’d come to know. They looked at him the same way Micki had—what was he doing there? Thankfully, no one asked.
The tent was pretty close to full by now. Two long buffet tables stretched on opposite sides of the covered space, all three bars were busy, and the band hired for the evening continued to play loud enough for dancing but not enough to be intrusive or obliterate conversation. For three hours he went through the motions of socializing, all the while studying each man in the crowd. Most of them shared the same characteristics—wealthy, arrogant, obnoxiously self-assured, egotistical. Oh, he could go on. He’d met men like that before, some of them top brass in the military. They also reminded him of the social environment of his almost-fiancée, a situation that contributed in large part to their breakup.
Were some of the vicious rapists in attendance? Based on what he’d gleaned from the reports Bartell had hidden and the information from the articles Jenna Donovan had written, they were all part of this rarified crowd. All men of enormous wealth and power, with egos as large as their bank accounts. He thought of the torn panties Holly Martino had brought him, evidence he had under double lock and key, hoping for a break where he had something to use as comparison for the drops of DNA on the material.
Somehow, he had to catch a break and end this nightmare.
At a little after ten, Jason Schroeder took the microphone at the bandstand.
“Everyone, if I could have your attention?” He had to repeat it twice before the large crowd quieted enough for him to speak. “Most of you know me. I’m Jason Schroeder, Dana and Bill’s son. I’m home this weekend for a special occasion, along with my sister, Micki. Hey, girl, come on up here.”
