Best-Kept Lies

by Lisa Jackson

  “Listen, Striker, we’ve got to nail this creep and soon,” Randi said as the wipers slapped away the rain. “I need my life back.”

  The look he sent her sliced into her soul. “So do I.”

  The bitch wouldn’t get away with it.

  Three cars behind Striker’s truck, gloved hands tight over the steering wheel, the would-be killer drove carefully, coming close to the pickup, then backing off, listening to a CD from the eighties as red taillights blurred. Jon Bon Jovi’s voice wailed through the speakers and the stalker licked dry lips as the pickup cut across the floating bridge, over the steely waters of Lake Washington. Who knew where they were headed? To the suburbs of upscale Bellevue? Or somewhere around Lake Sammamish? Maybe farther into the forested hills. Even the Cascade Mountains.

  Whatever.

  It didn’t matter.

  Sweet vengeance brought a smile to the stalker’s lips.

  Randi McCafferty’s destination was about to become her final resting place.

  Nine

  “Get the baby ready,” Kurt said as he took an exit off the freeway. Glancing in the rearview mirror to be certain he wasn’t followed, he doubled back, heading west, only to get off at the previous stop and drive along a frontage heading toward Seattle again.

  “What are we doing?” Randi asked.

  “Changing vehicles.” Carefully he timed the stoplights, making certain he was the last vehicle through the two intersections before turning down one street and pulling into a gas station.

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m not taking any chances that we’re being followed.”

  “You saw someone?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Just make it fast and jump into that brown SUV.” He nodded toward the back of the station to a banged-up vehicle with tinted windows and zero chrome. The SUV was completely nondescript, the fenders and tires splattered with mud. “It belongs to a friend of mine,” Striker said. “He’s waiting. He’ll drive the truck.”

  “This is nuts,” Randi muttered, but she unstrapped the baby seat and pulled it, along with Joshua, from the truck.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Quickly, as Randi did as she was told, Striker topped off his tank.

  Eric was waiting for them. He’d been talking on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette, but spying Striker, tossed the cigarette into a puddle and gave a quick wave. Ending his call, he helped Randi load up, then traded places with Kurt. The entire exchange had taken less than a minute. Seconds after that, Kurt was in the driver’s seat of the Jeep, heading east again.

  “I don’t think I can stand all of this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” Randi complained, and even in the darkness he saw the outline of her jaw, the slope of her cheek, the purse of those incredible lips. Good Lord, she was one helluva woman. Intriguingly beautiful, sexy as hell, smarter than she needed to be and endowed with a tongue sharp enough to cut through a strong man’s ego.

  “Sure you can.”

  “Whatever my brothers are paying you, it’s not enough.”

  “That’s probably true.” He glanced at her once more, then turned his attention to the road. Night had fallen, but the rain had let up a bit. His tires sang on the wet pavement and the rumble of the SUV’s engine was smooth and steady. The baby was quiet in the back seat, and for the first time in years Kurt felt a little sensation of being with family. Which was ridiculous. The woman was a client, the child just part of the package. He told himself to remember that. No matter what else. He was her bodyguard. His job was to keep her alive and find out who was trying to kill her.

  Nothing more.

  What about the other night at the ranch? his damning mind taunted. Remember how much you wanted her, how you went about seducing her? How can you forget the thrill of slipping her robe off her shoulders and unveiling those incredible breasts. What about the look of surprise and wonder in her eyes, or the soft, inviting curve of her lips as you kissed the hollow of her throat. Think about the raw need that drove you to untie the belt at her waist. The robe gave way, the nightgown followed and she was naked aside from a slim gold chain and locket at her throat. You didn’t waste any time kicking off your jeans. You wanted her, Striker. More than you’ve ever wanted a woman in your life. You would have died to have her and you did, didn’t you? Over and over again. Feeling her heat surround you, listening to the pounding of your heart and feeling your blood sing through your veins. You were so hot and hard, nothing could have stopped you. What about then, when you gave in to temptation?

  The back of his neck tightened as he remembered and his inner voice continued to taunt him.

  If you can convince yourself that Randi McCafferty is just another client, then you’re a bigger fool than you know.

  It was late by the time the Jeep bounced along the rocky, mossy ruts that constituted the driveway to what could only be loosely called a cabin. Set deep in the forest and barricaded by a locked gate to which Kurt had miraculously had the key, the place was obviously deserted and had been for a long time. Randi shuddered inwardly as the Jeep’s headlights illuminated the sorry little bungalow. Tattered shades were drawn over the windows, rust was evident in the few downspouts that were still connected to the gutters, and the moss-covered roof sagged pitifully.

  “You sure you don’t want to look for a Motel 6?” she asked. “Even a Motel 2 would be an improvement over this.”

  “Not yet.” Kurt had already pulled on the emergency brake and cut the engine. “Think of it as rustic.”

  “Right. Rustic. And quaint.” She shook her head.

  “This used to be the gatekeeper’s house when this area was actively being logged,” he explained.

  “And now?” She stepped out of the Jeep and her boots sank in the soggy loam of the forest floor.

  “It’s been a while since the cabin’s been inhabited.”

  “A long while, I’d guess. Come on, baby, it’s time to check out our new digs.” She hauled Joshua in his carrier up creaky porch steps as Kurt, with the aid of a flashlight and another key, opened a door that creaked as it swung inward.

  Kurt tried a light switch. Nothing. Just a loud click. “Juice isn’t turned on, I guess.”

  “Fabulous.”

  He found a lantern and struck a match. Immediately the room was flooded with a soft golden glow that couldn’t hide the dust, cobwebs and general malaise of the place. The floor was scarred fir, the ceiling pine was stained where rainwater had seeped inside and it smelled of must and years of neglect.

  “Home sweet home,” she cracked.

  “For the time being.” But Kurt was already stalking through the small rooms, running his flashlight along the floor and ceiling. “We won’t have electricity, but we’ll manage.”

  “So no hot water, light or heat.”

  “But a woodstove and lanterns. We’ll be okay.”

  “What about a bathroom?”

  He shook his head. “There’s an old pump on the porch and, if you’ll give me a minute—” he looked in a few cupboards and closets before coming up with a bucket “—voila! An old fashioned Porta Potti.”

  “Give me a break,” she muttered.

  “Come on, you’re a McCafferty. Rustic living should be a piece of cake.”

  “Let me give you a clue, Striker. This is waaaay beyond rustic.”

  “I heard you were a tomboy growing up.”

  “Slade talks too much.”

  “Probably. But you used to camp all the time.”

  “In the summers. I was twelve or thirteen.”

  “It’s like riding a bike. You never forget how.”

  “We’ll see.” But she didn’t complain as they hauled in equipment that had been loaded into the Jeep. Sleeping bags, canned goods, a cooler for fresh food, cooking equipment, paper plates, propane stove, towels and toilet paper. “You thought this through.”

  “I just told Eric to pack the essentials.”

  “What about a phone?”r />
  “Our cells should work.”

  Scrounging in her purse, she found her phone, yanked it out and turned it on. The back-lit message wasn’t encouraging. “Looking for service,” she read aloud, and watched as the cell failed to find a signal. “Hopefully yours is stronger.”

  He flashed her a grin that seemed to sizzle in the dim light. “I already checked. It works.”

  “So what about a phone jack to link up my laptop?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Looks like you’re out of luck unless you’ve got one of those wireless hookups.”

  “Not a prayer.”

  “Then you’ll have to be out of touch for a while.”

  “Great,” she muttered. “I don’t suppose it matters that I could lose my job over this.”

  “Better than your life.”

  She was about to reply, when the baby began to cry. Quickly, Randi mixed formula with some of the bottled water she’d brought, then pulled off dust cloths from furniture that looked as if it was in style around the end of World War II. Joshua was really cranking it up by the time Randi plopped herself into a rocking chair and braced herself for the sound of scurrying feet as mice skittered out from the old cushions. Fortunately, as she settled into the chair, no protesting squeaks erupted, nor did any little scurrying rodent make a mad dash to the darker corners. With the baby’s blanket wrapped around him, she fed her son and felt a few seconds’ relaxation as his wails subsided and he ate hungrily from the bottle. There was a peace to holding her baby, a calm that kept her fears and worries at bay. He looked up at her as he ate, and in those precious, bonding moments, she never once doubted that her affair with Sam Donahue was worth every second of her later regrets.

  Kurt was busy checking the flue, starting a fire in an antique-looking woodstove. Once the fire was crackling, he rocked back on his heels and dusted his hands. She tried not to notice how his jacket stretched at the shoulders or the way his jeans fit snug around his hips and buttocks. Nor did she want to observe that his hair fell in an unruly lock over his forehead, or that his cheekbones were strong enough to hint at some long-forgotten Native American heritage.

  He was too damn sexy for his own good.

  As if sensing her watching him, he straightened slowly and she was given a bird’s-eye view of his long back as he stretched, then walked to a black beat-up leather case and unzipped it. Out came a laptop computer complete with wireless connection device.

  He glanced over his shoulder, his green eyes glinting in amusement.

  “You could have said something,” she charged.

  “And miss seeing you get ticked off? No way. But this isn’t the be-all and end-all. I have one extra battery. No more. Since there’s no electricity here, the juice won’t last forever.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, lifting her baby to her shoulder and gently rubbing his back.

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  “Can I use it?”

  “For a small fee,” he said as the corners of his mouth twitched.

  “You are so full of it.”

  “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

  “You never do, Striker.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Joshua gave a loud burp. “There we go, big guy,” she whispered as she spread his blanket on a pad and changed his diaper. The baby kicked and gurgled, his eyes bright in the firelight. “Oh, you’re full of the devil, aren’t you?” She played with him a few more minutes until he yawned and sighed. Randi held him and swayed a little as he nodded off. She couldn’t imagine what life would have been like without this precious little boy. She kissed his soft crown, and as his breathing became regular and his head heavy, she placed him upon the makeshift crib of blankets and pillows, then glanced around the stark, near-empty cabin. “We really are in the middle of no-darned-where.”

  “That was the general idea.”

  She ran a finger through the dust on an old scarred table. “No electricity, no indoor plumbing, no television, radio or even any good books lying around.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to make do and find some way to amuse ourselves.” His expression was positively wicked, his eyes glittering with amusement. That he could find even the tiniest bit of humor in this vile situation was something, she thought, though she didn’t like the way her throat caught when he stared at her, nor the way blood went rushing through her veins as he cocked an arrogant eyebrow.

  “I think we’ll do just fine,” she said, hoping to sound frosty when, in fact, her voice was more than a tad breathless. Damn it all, she didn’t like the idea of being trapped here with him in the middle of God-only-knew-where, didn’t like feeling vulnerable not only to whoever was stalking her, but also to the warring emotions she felt whenever she was around Striker. Don’t even go there, she told herself. All you have to do is get through the next few days. By then, if he does his job the way he’s supposed to, he’ll catch the bad guy and you can reclaim your life. Then, you’ll be safe. You and your baby can start over.

  Unless something goes wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

  She glanced again at Striker.

  Whether she liked it or not, she was stuck with him.

  Things could be worse.

  Less than two hours later, Striker’s phone jangled.

  He jumped and snapped it open. “Striker.”

  “It’s Kelly. I’ve got information.”

  Finally! He leaned a hip against an old windowsill and watched as Randi, glasses perched on the end of her nose, looked up from his laptop. “News?”

  He nodded. “Go on,” he said into the phone and listened as Matt McCafferty’s wife began to explain.

  “I think I’ve located the vehicle that forced Randi off the road in Glacier Park. A maroon Ford truck, a few years old, had some dents banged out of it in a chop shop in Idaho. All under-the-table stuff. Got the lead from a disgruntled employee who swears the chop shop owner owes him back wages.”

  Striker’s jaw hardened. “Let me guess. The truck was registered to Sam Donahue.”

  “Close. Actually was once owned by Marv Bates, or, precisely, a girlfriend of his.”

  “Have you located Bates?”

  Randi visibly stiffened. She set aside the laptop and crossed the few feet separating them. “We’re working on it. I’ve got the police involved. My old boss, Espinoza, is doing what he can.” Roberto Espinoza was a senior detective who was working on Randi’s case. Kelly Dillinger had once worked for him, but turned in her badge about the time she married Matt McCafferty. “But so far, we haven’t been able to locate Mr. Bates.”

  “He had an alibi.”

  “Yeah,” Kelly said. “Airtight. Good ol’ boys Sam Donahue and Charlie Caldwell swore they were all over at Marv’s house when Randi was forced off the road. Charlie’s girlfriend at the time, Trina Spencer, verified the story, but now Charlie and Trina have split, so we’re looking for her. Maybe she’ll change her tune now that Charlie’s no longer the love of her life and the truck she owned has been linked to the crime. We’re talking to the employees of the chop shop. I figure it’s just a matter of time before one of ’em cracks.”

  “Good. It’s a start.”

  “Finally,” Kelly agreed. “I’ll keep working on it.”

  “Want to talk to Randi?”

  “Absolutely.” Striker handed the phone to Randi and listened to her end of the conversation as she asked about what Kelly had discovered, then turned the conversation to her family. A few minutes later, she hung up.

  “This is the break you’ve been waiting for,” she said, and he heard the hope in her voice.

  God, he hated to burst her bubble. “It’s a start, Randi. Time will tell if it pans out, but yeah, it’s something.”

  He only hoped it was enough.

  “Why don’t you turn in.” He unrolled a sleeping bag, placing it between the baby’s makeshift crib and the fire.

  “Where will you be?”

  “Here.” He shove
d a chair close to the door.

  She eyed the old wingback. “Aren’t you going to sleep?”

  “Maybe doze.”

  “You’re still afraid,” she charged.

  “Not afraid. Just vigilant.”

  She shook her head, unaware that the fire’s glow brought out the red streaks in her hair. Sighing, she started working off one boot with the toe of another. “I really can’t believe this is my life.” The first boot came off, followed quickly by the second. Plopping down on the sleeping bag, she sat cross-legged and stared at the fire. “I just wanted to write a book, you know. Show my dad, my boss, even my brothers that I was capable of doing something really newsworthy. My family thought I was nuts when I went into journalism in college—my dad in particular. He couldn’t see any use in it. Not for his daughter, anyway. And then I landed the job with the paper in Seattle and it became a joke. Advice to single people. My brothers thought it was just a lot of fluff, even when the column took off and was syndicated.” She glanced at Striker. “You know my brothers. They’re pretty much straight-shooter, feet-on-the-ground types. I don’t think Matt or Slade or Thorne would ever be ones to write in for advice on their love lives.”

  Kurt laughed.

  “Nor you, I suppose?”

  He arched an eyebrow in her direction. “Not likely.”

  “And the articles I did for magazines under R. J. McKay, it was all woman stuff, too. So the book—” she looked up at the ceiling as if she could find an answer in the cobwebby beams and rafters “—it was an attempt to legitimatize my career. Unfortunately Dad died before it was finished and then all the trouble started.” She rubbed her knees and cocked her head. Her locket slipped over the collar of her shirt and he noticed it winking in the firelight. His mouth turned dry at the sight of her slim throat and the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. A tightening in his groin forced him to look away.

  “Maybe the trouble’s about to end.”

  “That would be heaven,” she said. “You know, I always liked living on the edge, being a part of the action, whatever it was, never set my roots down too deep.”