Fatal Exposure

by Gail Barrett

  “For God’s sake, Brynn, why haven’t you called me? Have you seen the newspapers? I need to talk to you right away.”

  The papers? Brynn paused, unable to ignore the urgency in Haley’s tone. Had there been something about Haley’s shelter in the newspaper, something that might have exposed her friend’s identity—a danger they all had to avoid?

  Worried now, she dumped the rest of the advertisements in the trash, then started flipping through various newspapers, not sure what she was supposed to find. But whatever it was had to be important. Haley wasn’t the type to panic. She dealt with high drama daily in her shelter for runaway, pregnant teens. And if she was worried enough to call...

  Her sense of anxiety growing, Brynn riffled quickly through the papers, scanning political columns and crime reports to no avail. Then a front-page photo caught her attention, and everything inside her froze.

  It was a photo of her.

  The room swayed. She gripped the table for balance, a dull roar battering her ears. Someone had photographed her leaving the art gallery—and splashed it across the front page. But how had they figured out who she was? She hadn’t spoken to a soul. She hadn’t even greeted the clerk. She’d simply strolled through the exhibit, discreetly checking the status of the photos, then left.

  Praying she was somehow mistaken, she unfolded the newspaper, but there wasn’t any doubt. The headline screamed “Mystery solved!”

  Reeling, she sank into a chair. How could this have happened? She’d been so blasted careful. She’d lived off the grid for years—always on the move, constantly changing her identity with her friends’ help. Even later, when her career had taken off, her agent had stepped in, doing all the promotional work, accepting awards on her behalf, never revealing what she looked like or where she lived. Now a momentary lapse—a quick visit to the gallery to estimate her earnings—had destroyed everything. And all because she’d needed to upgrade the plumbing in Haley’s shelter before she left on her New York trip.

  Staggered by the scope of the disaster, she pressed her fingers to her forehead and tried to think. A reporter had connected her to her work. Exactly how he’d done that, she didn’t have a clue. But the media would come out in droves. Her stepfather would hunt her down. So would Tommy’s killer, assuming he was still around.

  Panic bubbled inside her. She was in danger. Terrible danger. So were Haley and Nadine.

  No, Nadine would be all right. She’d called a few weeks back to let Brynn know she was heading to Peru, journeying to the remote mountain villages to do her charity medical work. No one would find her there.

  But Haley... She was in D.C., running her shelter for pregnant teens—an open target for their enemies.

  If she wasn’t already dead.

  Horrified, Brynn leaped to her feet, knocking over her chair as she lunged across the kitchen and grabbed the phone. Punching in Haley’s number, she prayed that she’d pick up.

  The doorbell buzzed.

  Her heart slammed to a halt. She snapped her gaze to the door. The microwave dinged, but she didn’t move, didn’t breathe, her attention riveted on the front door.

  She’d never met her neighbors. No one knew she lived here except for her agent and two close friends. And the media couldn’t have found her this fast. She’d bought the historic row house under a fictitious name.

  The doorbell sounded again.

  She silently disconnected the phone. All her senses hyperalert, she tiptoed across the kitchen to the door, careful not to make any noise. She stopped and held her breath, afraid that even the tiniest hitch would give her away. Then she put her eye to the peephole and peeked out.

  A man scowled back. She took in his black, slashing brows, the harsh angles of his chiseled face, the dark beard scruff shadowing his jaw. He was tall, in his late thirties with a strong neck roped with tendons, shoulders as thick as planks. His midnight hair was short, his mouth drawn flat. Authority radiated from him in waves.

  A siren went off in her head. A cop. After a lifetime spent on the streets, she could detect one from a mile away. And even wearing a leather jacket and jeans, everything about this man screamed police.

  Her thoughts whirling wildly, she backed away from the door. He must have seen her come home. He’d probably staked out her house and lain in wait. It was too late to pretend she wasn’t here.

  Struggling not to succumb to panic, she fled back into the kitchen, jerked her coat off the chair, and pulled it on. Then she threw her backpack over her shoulder—just as the doorbell sounded again.

  “Be right there,” she called out, hoping to buy some time.

  Knowing she only had seconds to escape him, she sprinted into her small home office, grabbed her laptop from the desk and shoved it into her bag. Then she knelt at the fake outlet beside the bookcase and pried the cover off. She pulled out her stash of emergency cash and added it to her bag, then took out her semiautomatic handgun and slammed a magazine home. She stuck the weapon into an outside pocket of the backpack and rose.

  She spared a glance at the basement but instantly ruled it out. A cop wouldn’t come alone. He probably had a partner watching her backyard—including the tool shed, which hid the cellar door. But she’d prepared for this day, planning for this very emergency. She’d even bought an end-unit row house with this disaster in mind.

  Moving faster now, she raced up her stairs to the guest bathroom, which faced the open side. Then she quietly pushed open the window and peered out into the night. The crisp autumn air chilled her face. The rumble of traffic from the D.C. beltway hummed its usual background noise. A car sped down the street, its headlights sweeping over the ancient oak tree growing beside the house and illuminating the edge of her fenced backyard.

  No sign of a partner. Maybe the cop really had come alone.

  Unwilling to take that gamble, she scrambled onto the windowsill and grabbed hold of the nearest branch, the cold bark rough on her palms. But then she paused, her throat tightening with a stab of regret. She was so damned tired of this. She’d spent more than half her life on the run, always looking over her shoulder, always terrified she’d be found. This row house was her first-ever attempt to set down roots, to lead something even remotely resembling a stable life. To have a garden, a home. To put an end to the utter loneliness that plagued her in the dead of night.

  But she knew the futility of dreams. Predators ruled this brutal world, a lesson she’d learned at an early age. And unless she wanted to end up a victim, she had to go on the run again.

  Jerking herself back to reality, she adjusted her grip on the tree branch and swung onto the sprawling limb. She crept to the trunk, inched over the huge, gnarled branch that stretched across the neighbor’s fence, then dropped onto their patio, landing with a muffled thud. Her heart racing, she darted into the bushes and hid.

  For several seconds, she didn’t move. She held her breath, listening for signs that she’d been seen. But no one looked out the neighbor’s window; no one raised an alarm. Praying her luck would hold—and the cop would keep ringing her doorbell instead of circling around to the back—she snuck through the shadows to the gate and pressed her ear to the wood.

  Silence.

  Now came the risky part.

  She had to exit through the alley. There wasn’t another way out. And she couldn’t wait; once that cop realized she’d fled the house, he would search the entire block—including the neighbor’s yard. She just hoped that if he did have backup, his partner would be watching her back door instead of the neighbor’s gate. Her pulse quickening, she cracked it open and peeked out.

  She swept her gaze down the dark alley, over hulking, tomblike cars, past trash cans looming like phantoms in the quiet night. The cold wind gusted, ruffling the bushes lining the fence, but she seemed to be alone.

  Now or never.

  She sucked in a breath, swung the gate open wider and stepped through.

  Just as the shadows leaped.

  Chapter 2

 
; Parker lunged at the woman fleeing the alley, a hot rush of fury fueling his steps. There was no way she was going to escape him, not after all this time.

  “Stop! Police!” he ordered, grabbing hold of her shoulder. But she whipped around, catching him off guard, and rammed her elbow into his head. He staggered back at the sharp jolt of pain.

  Damn. The woman could fight. But she still wasn’t getting away.

  Shaking off the pain, he surged forward as she took off running again. His feet jackhammered the pavement. Shadows zipped past in the night. He put on a burst of speed, catching up to her in a few long strides. Then he went in low, locking his arms around her waist, and lifted her off her feet.

  She twisted and thrashed like a hellcat, but he gritted his teeth and held on. She dropped her pack, snapped her arm back in another attempt to hit his head, but he ducked and dodged the blow. Then she reached down and grabbed his leg, jerking it up hard between hers. Thrown abruptly off balance, he fell.

  Hell. He’d underestimated her. Again.

  But this time he didn’t let go. He dragged her down to the pavement with him, his arms encircling her waist. She landed atop him a split second later, knocking the breath from his lungs. Grunting, he rolled over and pinned her down.

  “Stop fighting,” he rasped between gasps for air. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m a cop. I only want to talk.”

  But she wriggled and squirmed, managing to pin his arms to his sides with her legs before he anticipated her intent. Then she jabbed her finger beneath his ear, sending excruciating shocks sizzling through his nerves. White spots danced behind his eyes.

  So she wants to fight dirty. He could accommodate that.

  Furious now, he wedged his elbow around her knee and swung his leg over hers. Then he flipped her over, reversing their positions, and trapped her between his legs.

  For a moment she went stone-still, her uneven gasps filling the night. Then she shoved against his chest, struggling to gain enough space to break free. But he bore down even harder, using his strength to make her stop.

  Sweat trickled down his jaw. His breath seesawed in time to his careening pulse. After several futile attempts to get loose, she stopped.

  “Let me go,” she cried, her voice muffled.

  “Why should I?”

  “I can’t breathe.”

  He didn’t doubt it. He probably had seventy pounds of muscle on her.

  “Please.” She sounded desperate now. “I...can’t...breathe.”

  Unable to dredge up any sympathy, he steeled his jaw. “You going to talk to me this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Somehow I’m not convinced.”

  “I said I would.” Despite her predicament, temper flared into her voice.

  “You’d better,” he warned. “You try running again, and I’ll hurt you for real this time.”

  Too ticked off to trust her, he rolled over, positioning himself on top. Then he lumbered to his feet, every sense alert in case she tried to bolt. When she didn’t make a move to join him, he reached down and pulled her up. Still breathing heavily, he pulled out his badge and held it up.

  “Put your hands behind your back and face the fence,” he ordered, taking out his handcuffs.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” He wasn’t taking the chance that she’d run again.

  “You have no right—”

  “You ran from the police. You assaulted an officer. I don’t need another reason than that. Now turn around—unless you’d rather I haul you in.”

  Her gaze flicked to his shield again. Even in the dim light trickling from a nearby row house, he could see her jaw go tight. But she turned and held out her hands.

  Wary of another trick, he slapped on the handcuffs, the delicate feel of her wrist bones causing a startling burst of heat in his blood. Forget that she’s a woman, he reminded himself as she whirled around. She was a possible suspect in his brother’s death, the last one to see him alive, not a potential date.

  He picked up the backpack she’d dropped and searched it, unearthing the small, semiautomatic pistol she’d hidden inside. Still keeping one eye on her, he removed the magazine. “You have a permit for this?”

  Her gaze skidded away.

  “Right.” Stupid question. He stuffed the gun in his jacket pocket and shouldered the bag.

  Her eyes returned to his. “So what do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “You always tackle people you want to question?”

  “You always climb out the window when someone knocks on your door?”

  Her mouth pressed into a line.

  “I’m here about Tommy McCall,” he added.

  “Never heard of him.”

  He ignored that blatant lie. “I suggest you remember fast, or I’ll haul you in for questioning.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that you have information about his death.”

  “I told you. I don’t—”

  “Your choice.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number, calling her bluff.

  She held his gaze. Several tense seconds ticked past. “Fine,” she bit out at last. “You want to waste your time on useless questions, ask away.”

  He pocketed the phone with a nod. “Let’s take this inside.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You expect me to let you into my house?”

  “You expect me to believe you won’t run if we stay out here?”

  “How can I? You’ve got me in cuffs.”

  “I’ll take them off inside.”

  Her lips tightened again, distrust flickering in her shadowed eyes. Then she huffed out an angry breath. “All right, but I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time.”

  Her staccato steps rapping the pavement, she led the way up the alley and back through her garden gate. Parker hugged her heels, unwilling to give her an inch of space. He wouldn’t put it past her to try to escape again, even wearing the cuffs. They crossed a tidy, fenced-in patio and entered her house through a mudroom door. Once inside, he snapped on the overhead light.

  He continued trailing her into the kitchen, his gaze still glued on her rigid spine. They came to a stop, and he spared a glance around, noting the empty soup can on the granite counter, the time flashing on the microwave. A wrought iron table occupied one corner, one of its chairs overturned. A stack of newspapers covered the glass.

  The top one showed the photo of her.

  “All right,” she said. “Undo my hands.”

  “You promise to answer my questions?”

  “I said I would.”

  He tossed her backpack onto the pile of papers and pulled out the handcuff key. He reached for her wrists and unlocked the cuffs, trying to ignore the alluring fragrance of her skin and hair. Then he stepped back, his impatience mounting as he waited for her to do her part.

  But she took her time, righting the chair, taking off her peacoat and draping it over her bag. At last she turned to face him, and for the first time, he got a close look at her in the light. She was even more attractive than he’d expected with her wary green eyes and delicately winged brows, that long tumble of auburn hair. Her mouth was evocative and full, her high, sculpted cheekbones tinged with pink. A smattering of freckles dusted her small nose.

  He raked his gaze down the rest of her—over her small, high breasts and slender waist, slim hips clad in low-slung jeans—and his heart began to thud. She looked amazingly like the computerized image, but softer, far sexier. More vulnerable.

  Vulnerable? He stifled a snort. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  He returned his gaze to hers. And without warning, a sense of awareness arrowed between them, a deep tug of sexual attraction that caught him unprepared. His belly went taut, a rush of adrenaline accelerating his pulse.

  He bit back hard on a curse. Wrong time. Wrong place. Definitely the wrong woman, considering she was a potential suspect in his brother’s death. And her reaction didn�
��t help—her eyes going wide and dark, her breath catching on a quiet gasp, impacting him even more.

  “I need a drink,” she muttered, spinning around.

  That made two of them.

  “You want one?” she asked, as if reading his mind. “Whiskey?”

  “Sure.”

  Disgusted by his reaction, he looked away, but the sudden memory of her silky skin prompted another swarm of heat in his blood. So she appealed to him. So she attracted him in a gut-deep, visceral way. He had to nip his reaction fast.

  Needing some mental distance, he took stock of her kitchen, the pile of junk mail spilling out of her trash can evidence of a recent trip. Then he shifted his gaze to her front room. This room was messier, more lived-in with magazines scattered about and a red sweater tossed over a chair.

  But what really snagged his interest were the photographs arranged in groups on the walls. He eyed the nearest group—half a dozen shots of abandoned buildings in various stages of ruin—and couldn’t help but be impressed. She used shadow and light to bring out subtle details—peeling paint, ripples in the weathered wood—to stunning effect. The photos pulled at something inside him, managing to churn up his emotions somehow. The buildings seemed alive, forlorn, haunting in their decay.

  Even more intrigued now, he slid another glance her way, watching as she fixed their drinks. Then he edged farther into the room, lured to a series of photos of street kids this time. The mix of innocence and betrayal in their faces slammed through him like a kick to the solar plexus, impossible to ignore. She’d captured the shocked dullness in their eyes, the weary cynicism made more poignant by their startling youth.

  This woman didn’t hold back. She didn’t soften the brutal truth. She depicted these traumatized children with an intimacy born of experience, demanding a response.

  Making him wonder who had betrayed her.

  That rogue thought stopped him cold. He didn’t care about her past. He didn’t care why she’d run away from home. Somehow, this woman held the key to Tommy’s death—and he couldn’t forget that fact.