Brian was instantly alert. “Who was he?”
“I didn’t talk to him. The receptionist told me about it. And she’s on vacation.”
After a few more lighthearted comments, Brian hung up the phone, frowning. No one had any reason to be asking about him at work. He didn’t like the way things were stacking up.
Abandoning the conjecture, he began leafing through the newspapers Mrs. Lindsay had saved for him. He was well into the second, when the item leaped right out at him. Pulse racing, he read the item once, then carefully reread it.
Woman Victim of Hit-and-Run Accident Miss Malinche Adams was taken to. University Hospital yesterday evening, the victim of a hit-and-run accident on Muldoon Street. She was treated for shock and bruises and released. Police are looking for a dark, late-model sedan with tinted windows.
The paper dropped from his nerveless hand. The poor girl. All alone, no friends, and probably scared to death. The paper didn’t give an address, and it wasn’t likely the hospital would release it. Brian, however, rarely worried about official sources. A quick call to an acquaintance who worked in hospital administration, and within twenty minutes, he had shaved, showered, put on a clean shirt and jeans, and was in his loaner Jeep.
As he sped along the street, rueful knowledge of his own motives vied with his anxiety. He’d been waiting for something, any excuse, to see her. A woman he didn’t trust as far as he could throw her.
AT THE SOUND of the doorbell, Malinche’s heart raced. The doorbell triggered fear—fear that was always lurking in the shadows of her mind since her accident. Her encounter with the speeding vehicle had left her downright paranoid. She had lived all her life without encountering malice or danger, and their obvious presence in the form of a car bent on harming her had changed her view of life.
Adding to her fear was her sense that someone was watching her. There was nothing specific, but she thought a car had been parked outside today longer than it should have been; it left when she opened the door and stared at it. And there had been footsteps in the night. Once she had answered the phone to hear only a buzzing tone.
With the chain still in place, she opened the door a few inches.
A jolt of pure pleasure and relief coursed through her. Although she had certainly thought about him, she hadn’t expected to see Brian Kennedy again—at least not standing at her door looking fit and competent and totally in command. He had been so adamant in refusing to help her, had made it so clear that he couldn’t wait to get rid of her, that he was the last person she expected to see.
She hesitated a fraction of a second. What reason had she to trust Brian? She had been on her way home from his apartment when the automobile had run her down. And she still thought he knew more about Dimitri’s death than he was telling. But just a look into those wide-spaced, intelligent gray eyes made her suspicions seem insane.
On the other hand, she wasn’t overlooking the fact that he had refused to help her, had even said she was snooping into things that were none of her affair. He had ordered her to stop, believing he could tell her what to do. He needn’t think she would forget that just because he showed up at her door.
“Hello, Mr. Kennedy: What can I do for you?” Ice tinkled in her voice. She was ridiculously glad to see him, but he didn’t have to know it.
“It was Brian before,” he said. “May I come in?” After a moment, she stepped aside and let him in. His presence seemed to fill the living room with masculine energy, overpowering the slim lines of the Edwardian couch, making the glass-topped coffee table with the delicate brass legs appear fragile, almost ephemeral. When he sat down on the wingback chair he seemed completely composed, although he seemed to have trouble with where to put his hands. Was he just a little nervous himself?
Good.
She glanced around the room, trying to see it through his eyes. Even in decorating a room she was torn, with antiques juxtaposed with modern pieces, an abstract painting against peach-colored walls, the stiff couch resting on the plush off-white, wall-to-wall carpeting. She wasn’t at all sure of her taste. It all came together in pleasing harmony, but she couldn’t quite see how.
“I read about your accident,” Brian said. “I came as soon as I heard. Were you badly hurt?”
“Not really—just shaken up a bit.” In spite of her determination to keep him at arm’s length, she was touched by his concern. “It’s been a few days, and I’m over the worst of it.”
He grinned at her obvious reference to the fact that he hadn’t come as immediately as he’d said. “I’ve been out of town. I’m glad it wasn’t serious. Do you have someone to stay with you?”
“I wasn’t badly hurt. I don’t need anyone.”
His smile challenged her statement. “So, you’re a woman who can take care of herself. I’m impressed.”
“I’ve always taken care of myself, made my own decisions.” Not true, not when Buck was around. But she would make it true now.
“That’s a shame. No candidates for the job?”
“Are you applying?” Damn him. Now he had her flirting.
“I’m not much for full-time employment,” he said, grinning. “But you could certainly make me consider it, if anyone could.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
“Malinche,” he mused. “That’s a very unusual name.”
She shrugged. “Blame my father. He’s a romantic. Malinche was the name of Cortez’s Native wife. Since my mother was part Aleut, I guess he thought it appropriate.”
“I think he was right. It has an exotic, mysterious flavor, like you. Isn’t she the one who betrayed her people for love of Cortez?”
“So some people say,” she said coldly. “I wouldn’t know. If she did, I suspect she had little choice. I can only assure you that I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“Of course not.” His curious glance told her she had spoken too emphatically. “It was just an observation.”
Again she regretted her hasty words. He had no way of knowing her inner turmoil about her heritage, how she longed to find her roots, know who she was. And he, macho and always in command, would never know the feeling.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Of course.” With an unconscious gesture, she fingered the bruise on her forehead, and a soft wince escaped her lips.
Brian sprang to his feet. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he moved her directly into the light flooding in the bank of windows. She closed her eyes, feeling her anxiety slip away. This was dangerous, but she basked in his concern.
Scowling, he examined the bruise, brushing her hair back from her forehead, moving his fingers over her temple. She caught his scent, musky, masculine. To her chagrin, her aches faded into the background, and she was aware of feelings much more pleasurable.
He must have felt it, too. He stepped back quickly, almost as though he had been stung. “That’s a nasty bruise.” His voice was low and warm. “Exactly what happened? A drunk driver?”
“That’s what the police believe.”
“But you don’t?” Brian’s gaze held hers as firmly as his hands had done a moment ago. It provoked an equally unsettling feeling.
She took a deep breath and turned to stare out the window, considering her reply. Brian already thought she imagined things, he had implied that when she had asked his help in finding out who had killed Dimitri. But she might as well try.
“I told you what I think,” she said coolly. “I think I may be getting close to stepping on someone’s toes.”
“You connect this attack on you with the death of your brother?” He didn’t sound as disbelieving as she’d expected.
“It’s possible.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions.” He frowned. “Did you stop to think that if you’re right, it could be dangerous?”
“It already is dangerous!”
To her surprise, he didn’t dispute her. He hesitated, then said slowly, “Maybe I shoul
d find out a little more…”
Was there actually a chance he might take her concerns seriously? “I think,” she said slowly, “that whoever ran me down meant it. He wasn’t a random drunk. I think he followed me from your apartment. What’s more, I think he meant to do more than frighten me—I think he meant to kill me. It was just luck that I managed to jump out of the way.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged her chest, hearing again the roar of the engine, seeing the horror of the vehicle speeding directly toward her. She couldn’t repress a shiver.
Brian placed his hand on her arm, and ushered her gently to the couch. She was acutely aware of his warm hand on her bare flesh.
“Let me fix you a cup of tea,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”
Brian headed toward the kitchen before she could protest. In a few minutes he was back with a teapot and two fragile porcelain cups that looked impossibly delicate in his strong hands.
“I couldn’t find any real tea. Just herbal.”
She smiled, feeling much better. She could no more picture Brian drinking herbal tea by preference than she could envision him in a velvet smoking jacket.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “That’s all I drink.”
He seated himself across from her and waited until she took a steadying sip. He left his own cup untouched on the table.
“Well,” he finally said, “it sounds like you’ve been real busy. Stirring up a lot of trouble for yourself. How about telling me everything that’s been going on—in detail.”
When she finished her recital, he gave a low whistle. “So, you’ve been to the cops, the FBI, and everybody else with your suspicions. What did they tell you?”
“Not much. They’re all very sympathetic, but they just keep insisting there’s nothing to show he didn’t freeze to death. They all sound like they’re reading from the same script. You agree then, that there may be a connection with my digging, and the man who tried to run me down?”
“It’s beginning to look that way.” He admitted it reluctantly and she wondered if there was something he wasn’t telling her.
“You said we should ask some more questions,” she reminded him.
“I said I should.” He picked up the phone from the table beside the chair and punched in some numbers. “I have a friend in the police department who owes me a couple of favors.”
For several minutes Malinche listened to one side of a terse conversation. Then Brian slowly replaced the instrument, a perplexed frown on his face.
“My friend works in the homicide division. He’s usually forthcoming with me, but today he’d give a clam a run for his money, but I got a little out of him. You were right about some things.”
“What was that?”
“They identified the body, but they’re keeping it as quiet as they can. Your brother didn’t freeze to death. Not when someone attacked him with a sharp, thin instrument.”
She sucked in her breath, feeling her brother’s pain deep inside herself. From what she’d heard of Dimitri she felt she would have loved him, treasured him. And to die so horribly. Someone would pay.
“But why wouldn’t they tell me?” She forced the words out through her tight throat. “Have they found out anything about who did it?”
Brian stretched out his long legs and contemplated the tips of his boots. “They’re keeping everything hushed up. The official story is that Dimitri froze to death—I had to pry out the rest. Because they haven’t released the body, I believe they know a lot more than they’re saying. From what my friend hinted, I suspect they’re under a lot of pressure to keep the lid on. Dimitri must have been involved in something pretty big.”
“But involved in what? He was an artist, not a politician—although I did hear he was opposed to drilling for oil on Native lands. But that would hardly justify murder.”
“And I don’t see my employers as murderers, although I suspect if he was an activist, they aren’t sorry he’s out of action.” Brian paced a few steps across the carpet, hands in his pockets, head down. “It’s true the oil companies and the environmentalists are going head-to-head over drilling, and it would help if someone as influential as Dimitri was out of the way. But they wouldn’t go this far.”
“Wouldn’t they?” She couldn’t suppress her suspicion. Brian worked for Universal Oil. How far would he go to protect them?
“No,” he said shortly. She thought from his expression he wasn’t too sure of that. “How about the Natives? Dimitri must have been a thorn in the side of those who wanted the drilling. Everyone isn’t committed to a survival life-style.”
He turned and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to check out a few things. Don’t leave the house. Call me if anything unusual happens.”
Very slowly, as though he hadn’t at all meant to do it, he lowered his head and placed his lips gently on hers. She felt the contact down to her toes, the warm, sweet rush of desire she didn’t want to feel for him, a man who seemed to have everything under control, including her. A man whom she suspected was keeping a secret from her. With a supreme effort, she broke the contact.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t have done that. There are a few things I need to check on—I’ll be in touch.”
At the door he hesitated, as though about to say something. What he said wasn’t what she expected. “Be sure to keep your doors locked.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
She watched him vault into the Jeep and drive off, tires spitting gravel. She felt bereft, more shaken than she could admit. At least he was on her side, and he would help her. But why? What wasn’t he telling her? Why the sudden change of heart?
His kiss had been more than unsettling. She had wanted him, with a hard desperate desire she’d never felt before. And she wouldn’t give in to it. Even when he was leaving he’d given her an order, expected that she’d follow it, as though she had no reasoning ability of her own. She wouldn’t go from one man who treated her as a child directly to another. She had to find her own identity.
BRIAN, driving distractedly down the road, still felt the imprint of the kiss Her lips were so soft, so giving. What had got into him? He’d been burned before. Of course he wasn’t silly enough to believe all women were alike—but there were types. Rich, beautiful young women who’d never been denied anything, full of romantic ideas that faded when faced with harsh reality. He didn’t need another heartbreak.
He should stay away, but it looked like he had no choice but to dig into this Dimitri thing. Someone had seen to that. Even if he stopped now, there was no assurance the incidents would stop. He wished he knew what they wanted from him, but so far it appeared they just wanted him dead.
And he had to admit he was curious. Why had his friend in the police department been so evasive? And did his boss, Joe Pasco, really know so little? Pasco must have made inquiries about who was asking for Brian. There might be a connection between whoever was snooping around at work and the trashing of his apartment.
And there must have been talk. Universal Oil officials had been in Prudhoe Bay when he’d brought Dimitri’s body in.
It seemed someone was doing more than trying to frighten both him and Malinche. These people were serious. They wanted them dead.
Brian believed in the preemptive strike. He wasn’t going to sit around and wait for someone to kill him. He had to get to the bottom of this—and quickly.
Chapter Three
Completely frustrated, Brian sat on his couch and ran his fingers through his hair. He’d made a few calls after he got home and was certain now that everyone was covering up, but he was no closer to finding out why. And he couldn’t help wondering if Malinche was covering up, too. Her story, if true, was certainly strange.
His apartment seemed quiet, much quieter than the endless slopes of the tundra, because the silence inside was accentuated by the sound of cars outside, the shouts of kids in the park…he could even hear the tick of the clock, his heart thuddi
ng.
Damn, he was lonely, and it was all her fault. He reached for the newspaper, and settled back.
Suddenly the door burst open, slammed violently against the wall.
Brian froze. He hadn’t heard a thing, had no warning at all. He could do nothing but stare. Then, his paralysis left him as quickly as it had come.
“What the hell!” He sprang to his feet, half into a crouch, fists clenched, muscles coiled to attack.
A man stood outlined in the doorway. At first glance, he didn’t seem too intimidating—close-cropped gray hair, a lined face. Brian thought he might be in his late sixties, perhaps even seventy. Although certainly a well preserved seventy—there were muscles on this man. He gave the impression of strength in the arrogant way he stood: legs spread as though he owned the world, meaty hands clenched. He fixed Brian with a cold stare.
Brian balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, poised to explode toward the intruder. He wished his gun was in his hand instead of on the stand in his bedroom.
“Relax.” The man moved into the room, his eyes cataloguing it in one glance. Brian moved forward. This was no ordinary thief; he was much too sure of himself, much too focused. But damned if Brian was going to be ordered around in his own apartment.
“Hold it.” The voice was deep, authoritative, a voice used to barking commands.
In spite of himself, Brian paused.
“You should lock your door,” the man said, crossing to a chair and seating himself. “You never know who might come in.”
“Most people would knock.”
Now that the man was seated, Brian’s adrenaline was seeping away. He was still angry, but also curious. There was purpose behind the stranger’s cold eyes.
He took his time scrutinizing the intruder who lounged so casually in his chair. Or appeared to lounge. Brian was aware that the man’s every muscle was rigid under his carefully relaxed pose. The guy was a loaded gun, cocked and ready.
Under The Midnight Sun Page 3
