by Nika Rhone
“Yeah, and thanks for getting him to leave.” Lillian saluted Nick with her glass. “He would have ruined the rest of the evening if he’d stuck around.” She shook her head at Thea. “What were you thinking bringing him over here?”
“I was just being polite,” Thea replied. It was those damned manners again. They got her into trouble every time.
Of course, if she hadn’t asked him over, they wouldn’t have found out about Charles’s ulterior motives. Not that there was much they could do with that information. If they told Mellie, she’d be heartbroken. Worse, she’d probably just make some excuse for Charles that cast his actions in a better light, just like she always did. But if they didn’t tell her, she wouldn’t know what Charles had been up to, and he’d be free to pull the same high-handed crap on her in the future.
It really was a no-win situation.
As if sensing her inner turmoil, Nick leaned his head next to hers and whispered, “Do you want to go?”
She shook her head and dredged up a smile that was only partially false. “No, I’m fine. Besides, if we leave now, we’ll miss the best part. Des usually closes the show.”
“Riiiight. Your friend Des.” He sounded so bemused as he finally put it all together that Thea couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the last of the tension from the unpleasant scene with Oliver fade away. She patted Nick’s arm and grinned.
“Trust me. You’re going to love it.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Son of a bitch.”
Tossing Daryl Raintree’s report down on his desk, Doyle leaned back and scrubbed his hands over his face, fighting down the urge to growl like the damn dog in the manger he clearly was. Nick Hastings. The son of a bitch had turned up again. Twice in one day. Although, to be fair, he’d accompanied Thea to the club only after she’d called and asked for Doyle’s approval. Which he’d given. Reluctantly. But what the hell else could he have done?
It had been the first time she’d spoken to him since the infamous “friendship” incident, and what had she called to talk about? If he had finished the background check on Hastings because she wanted to go out with him again.
He’d been so off balance by the out-of-the-blue question that he’d given her the go-ahead before he could come up with a good reason to not. It was only after he hung up that the questions crowded his mind.
Like, why the hell was Hastings back in Boulder? Hadn’t Thea said he finished his business and gone home to Chicago? Why had he sought out Thea again after she’d cancelled their dinner arrangements the last time he was here? And how had he found her? He hadn’t contacted her at the house, of that he was positive. That meant he either called her cell to arrange a meeting at Pot and Kettle or else he just happened to run into her there.
Doyle’s gut burned. He didn’t like coincidences. The fact that the last letter showed up after Hastings had left town and now he was mysteriously back, he liked even less.
Red said his travel itinerary didn’t match their postmarks. Fine. He didn’t doubt Red’s thoroughness. But he just couldn’t let the possibility go that maybe, just maybe, this bastard had worked out a system to get his letters mailed by someone else, someone they hadn’t connected to him yet, to throw them off the trail. Someone who didn’t have a clue that they were aiding and abetting a budding psychopath.
Hell, who was he kidding? Deep down he wanted Hastings to be their perp not because it would be the easiest answer, but because he didn’t like the fact that Thea was suddenly interested in spending time in his company. And enjoying it.
He let out a weary groan, shoving back his chair and reaching for his jacket. He was a sad, sorry bastard. God forbid Thea should have some fun. She rarely dated, and other than that jackass kid back in college she hadn’t formed a lasting attachment to any man.
Except him.
Up until now, he’d been too blind—no, too damned chickenshit—to do anything about that important fact. He’d kept Thea firmly in the little box marked “off-limits.” But now…now the box was open and, just like Pandora, he couldn’t possibly put everything back inside and close the lid again, even if he wanted to.
And if he was finally honest with himself, he knew he didn’t.
He was still scared as hell that things wouldn’t work out the way he planned. But now that he’d decided he wanted her, he wouldn’t give up. If she was still pissed at him—and by the way she’d been avoiding him lately, he had to think she was—he’d just have to convince her to give him another chance.
The timing sucked, though. Her father’s edict meant he had to keep lying to her, and Thea had a deep, abiding hatred of liars. Once she knew the truth, she’d be pissed for a whole different reason than the one she was avoiding him for now. That meant two heavy strikes against him before he even got well and truly in the game. That was okay, though. Now that he’d decided to play, he meant to play to win.
The other problem he was having was Margo.
He’d tried to get ahold of her several times in the past few days, but she’d been ignoring his calls as neatly as he previously ignored hers. He had a feeling she knew what was coming and was avoiding the inevitable.
Pulling out his phone, he gave it another try. As with all of his previous calls, it rang five times and then rolled over to voice mail. He almost hung up and then hesitated. Normally, leaving a breakup message on someone’s voice mail regardless of the circumstances was a pretty shitty thing to do, but with Margo continuing to duck him, he really didn’t have much choice. He refused to play her game any longer.
“Margo, I wanted to do this face-to-face, but you’re making that impossible, so here it is. What we had was nice, but it’s time for us both to move on. We both knew it was only casual between us, so I don’t think you should be too surprised by what I’m saying, but I also don’t want you to have any hard feelings, so please call me back after you listen to this so we can talk about it.” He thumbed the phone off and tossed it on the desk with a sigh. He waited a few minutes, certain that Margo would have listened to the message as soon as he hung up, but the return call didn’t come.
With Margo avoiding him, he couldn’t resolve that situation.
Thea was still avoiding him, too, so he couldn’t do anything about that situation, either.
That left the puzzle of the stalker.
Calling Red and Kirsten into his office, Doyle pulled out the copy of the latest letter that arrived four days ago, and forced himself to read it again. Twisted obsession, sick words of love mixed with frightening promises of pain and punishment if he was disappointed. It was just as disturbing now as it had been the first time he’d read it.
“Where are we on analysis?” he asked Red as they took their seats.
“We just got the preliminary report from the Feds.”
“Let me guess. Nothing.”
“No fingerprints, no watermarks, no obvious DNA on either the letter, or the stamp or envelope.” Red sighed. “Damn, I miss the days when people had to lick the friggin’ things.”
“There was one anomaly, though,” Kirsten said.
Doyle straightened in his seat, his senses on alert. Up until now, there hadn’t been a single thing out of the ordinary about the letters that could help them narrow down their search for the sender. If there was something, anything, that broke the established pattern, it could mean that their perp had made his first mistake. A mistake meant he was one step closer to being caught.
Referring back to her tablet, Kirsten continued. “There was a tiny smear of some foreign substance on the bottom edge of the paper. We’re still waiting to hear back on the analysis, though.”
Feeling his bubble of excitement deflate again, Doyle asked, “That’s it?”
Kirsten scowled, tapping her stylus against her leg in an annoyed staccato. “So far. The Feebies aren’t exactly thrilled about having to deal with us. When I pushed, I was reminded that they’re sharing information, not the investigation, and they’ll do so at the agent-in-cha
rge’s discretion.”
“Wonderful.” Doyle pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn. The last thing they needed was some rod-up-his-ass Feeb withholding something important just to prove a point. Frank Fordham’s connections might have gotten the FBI involved, but even he couldn’t force them to play nice. “Do the best you can,” he told Kirsten. He grinned slightly. “Dazzle them with your charm.”
She curled her lip in distaste. “I’d rather shoot them with my gun.”
“Whatever works.” Doyle looked to Red. “Have we heard back from the head of Davenport’s security detail? What was his name? Rogers?”
They’d dealt well with Paul Kent, the head of William Westlake’s security, over the years due to—or perhaps in spite of—the close friendship of the daughters of the two households. The fact that Frederick Davenport’s security team was in charge of the upcoming engagement party rather than Kent and his people was an annoyance he’d gladly pawned off on his second-in-command.
“Don Rogers, yeah. Real horse’s ass.” The look Red shot Doyle promised retribution for being made liaison with said ass. “He’s still giving us grief about how many of our people we can have inside the venue, and whether or not they can be armed.”
“What the hell does he want us to do if there’s an incident,” Kirsten asked, “throw shrimp at the bad guys?”
“Evidently Rogers is getting his own grief from the Secret Service about how many armed people are going to be on the premises.”
“And he’s passing it along,” Doyle said.
“Ayup.”
“Guess that means Mrs. Westlake really did get the vice president to attend.” Kirsten sounded less than awed. In fact, she sounded downright grumpy. High-end politicians meant a lot more grief for their security details all around. They were already dealing with several senators and congressmen, both sitting and retired. Adding one of the White House crowd to the mix would make everyone’s life that much more miserable.
“He did have one valid point, though,” Red said. “The venue is huge, but it still only holds so many people comfortably. Even if everyone who attends only brings one asset for security inside with them, that already doubles the attendance. More than that, and…” He spread his hands.
“And it gets ridiculous.” Doyle could see the logic in it. Two hundred guests outnumbered by four hundred security people…Yeah, that had clusterfuck written all over it.
“And probably unnecessary,” Red continued. “With the VP and all the other high mucketies attending, there won’t be anyone who steps foot inside that building that hasn’t been searched, background checked, and vetted back to his forefathers. There won’t be a single busboy or janitor who hasn’t had Secret Service crawling up his ass to take a peek. Outside of the panic room at the main house, that catering hall could very well be the safest place on the planet for our Thea to be.”
No, the safest place for her to be was somewhere far away from Boulder, but since there was no chance in hell of that happening, Doyle had to accept that the security measures put in place for the party would be enough. But he would damn well be that one asset they had on the inside.
“Fine. Tell Rogers we’ll stick to his inside plan for now, but the rest of our people will be staged outside and everyone will be armed.” There was no compromise on that as far as Doyle was concerned. “I’m sure Paul told him the same thing.”
“I wonder if he wet himself before or after he tried to tell Hans he couldn’t bring his guns to the party,” Kirsten said with a malicious glint in her eyes. Doyle let out a bark of laughter, which was echoed by Red.
Hans Gruber was the head of Rupert Beaumont’s security. At six-five and two-hundred-sixty pounds the man was not only built like a tank, he had the personality of one as well. The fact that he shared the name of the terrorist from the first Die Hard movie did not amuse him at all, and grown men had been known to flee from his wrath if they made the mistake of uttering anything that even sounded remotely like “yippee-ki-yay.”
Thea swore that she had once seen him crack what might have been a smile, but Doyle wasn’t sure it was even possible. As far as he knew, the man had only two expressions: don’t-piss-me-off and you’ve-pissed-me-off-and-now-you-must-die.
Yeah, he could bet that Rogers had wet himself, just a little.
“You know the Washington elite won’t be settling for just one asset,” Kirsten said.
“When it’s their show, they don’t have to,” Red replied and then asked Doyle, “Want me to explain to Rogers what’s going on? It might help change his mind if he knows why we wanted more assets on site for such low-risk—his words—clients?”
“I’d prefer not to if it can be helped.” They’d managed to keep the existence of the letters from all but a select few. Only the chief of police, his deputy chief, and the detectives directly involved in the case knew their content. The city was far too small and gossip far too rampant to do otherwise.
Especially with Peter Beaumont on the force. If he caught one whiff of the actual story, he wouldn’t last ten minutes before his sister ferreted it out of him.
“But,” Doyle said after a moment’s thought, “if things escalate between now and the party, give him what you think he needs to know to get him to change his mind.”
Even with background checks and insane amounts of security in place all around the catering hall, Doyle still wasn’t convinced it was enough. Because if anything happened to Thea on his watch, he wasn’t certain he would ever survive the guilt of having failed her when it counted most.
Chapter Eighteen
Tell Amelia or not tell her?
That was the question that chased around Thea’s mind like a spastic hamster as she circled the track at Fit. Thanks to Lil’s intervention, the headache she woke with that morning had more to do with the moral dilemma poking at her conscience than from any residual hangover effects.
After popping a few aspirin and taking a long, restorative shower, she’d decided to do what she usually did when she was faced with a problem she couldn’t solve. Go for a run. The soothing repetitive motion usually freed her mind to ponder other things. In the past, she’d worked through a room design that wasn’t coming together, or how she could convince a client that the really horrid choices they were making weren’t wrong so much as not exactly right.
But today…today she would figure out whether or not she would help or hurt Amelia by telling her what they learned from Oliver the previous evening. Was it her place to explain to Amelia that her fiancé was a manipulative, self-serving bastard?
But was it her place to keep the truth from her? Thea already knew what Lillian would say when she asked what she thought they should do. Painful or not, she’d want to sit Amelia down and give her the facts. And maybe that was the best choice.
But maybe it wasn’t.
With a frustrated sigh, Thea started her cool-down several laps early, drawing a surprised glance from Sam, who slowed his own pace to match Thea’s. She shook her head and motioned with her hand for him to continue. There was no need for him to cut his run short just because she was feeling edgy and unsettled.
When she indicated she wasn’t leaving the gym, he nodded and picked his pace back up to his usual long-legged lope. Thea moved over to the weight equipment where Kirsten was making use of the free weights. It was the one benefit to using the club’s track rather than the more peaceful and private trails on the estate that she usually preferred. Well, that and the fact that it was miles away from Doyle. She was determined to finally let that ship sail without diving off the dock after it like a lovesick idiot.
It was hard. Really, really hard. But she was trying. All she had to do was get through one day at a time. One hour. One minute without thinking about Doyle, without craving his affection, his smile, his kiss.
And didn’t she just sound like a freaking addict working her way through withdrawal?
Settling on her back on the padded bench, Thea hefted the five-pound free weights
and started a series of butterfly curls. If she was going to end up being photographed and seen by half the country at Mellie’s wedding, she would be darn sure there wasn’t an ounce of arm flab visible in that horrid bridesmaid gown.
Thea grimaced. God, she hated that dress. But she and Lillian hadn’t put up a fight, hoping that by letting Mrs. Westlake have her way on that, she might be more inclined to give Mellie more input on her own gown. So far, that hadn’t worked out so well, but there was still time for a miracle.
“Well, well, if it isn’t little Cynthia.”
Crap.
It was difficult, but Thea managed to hold back the groan that wanted to escape at the syrupy voice. She ignored Margo’s snide greeting, keeping her eyes focused on the ceiling as her arms curled in smooth, unhurried arcs, hoping, praying, the woman would just walk away. She so wasn’t in the mood to deal with her bitchiness this morning.
“Slumming with the regular folks again today, huh? Letting everyone see that you’re just like us?”
Thea could almost hear the air quotes around those last words. Really, the woman was poking at the wrong place if she was looking to get a rise out of her. She’d spent the first half of her life as one of the regular folks. She’d grown up in a two-bedroom ranch with a postage-stamp-sized yard and a roof that leaked when the wind blew from the west.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a private gym up in that mansion of yours. It’s not like you can’t afford it.”
There would have been if her father hadn’t decided to turn the space into a solarium for her mother instead. Since her father’s idea of a good workout consisted of taking the stairs down one floor from his office to the conference room rather than using the elevator, the space had been put to the best use. Still, right now she wished he hadn’t been quite so altruistic.
“It doesn’t matter how often you come out of your castle and play at being normal. He’ll never want you, you know.”
