by Adrianne Lee
His pulse skittered. She looked done in, but despite that, there was something about her that was so damned appealing it surprised him. Women in distress didn’t usually awaken his desire. But this woman did, every time he glanced at her.
Curtailing the need, he released her hands and gently gripped her upper arms. “You look shaken. But I’d say that was understandable. Come on, sit down.”
He guided her to the sofa and they sat side by side, turned toward each other. He wanted to take her hands in his again, but settled for stroking a finger over her clenched knuckles.
She didn’t pull away from him, or insist that he stop touching her, but panic shone in her eyes and he knew a portion of that fear was his doing. He’d scared her with his story about Marshall and Kayleen; and right now, she had little or no reason to trust anything he said to her.
“What are we going to tell the police?” Her voice quavered.
“As little as possible.” He brushed her hair back from her eyes, gingerly caressing her temple. “Just answer their questions honestly, and don’t volunteer anything. All we know about this man is that he was apparently a prowler who tried to break in and fell to his death.”
“He tried breaking in?”
“Yes, he jimmied the window and his boots scarred the sill.”
Again she wanted to ask why. Why this man had come to her apartment, to her daughter’s bedroom window. But she didn’t want to hear Chad’s conjectures. “What if the police ask if we know who he is?”
Chad looked hopeful. “Do you know who he is?”
“I told you.” She made a face and waved her hands. “He was the man at the cabin.”
“But do you know who he is?” he asked again and his meaning finally sank in.
She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No.”
“Exactly.”
She nodded in understanding. “And telling the police I’ve seen him once before would mean explaining where and when.”
“And—” Chad grinned wryly “—would land your shapely rear in the can.”
“Yours, too.”
“I didn’t realize you’d noticed my rear.” His grin widened as a small smile toyed with her luscious mouth and pink tinted her cheeks. “So, we’ll deny knowing him, ever seeing him, and so on.”
She grimaced. “I’m a lousy liar.”
“Just stick to the facts. I was leaving when we heard a scream in your daughter’s room and went to investigate.”
The thought of that man invading her daughter’s room churned her stomach. “Will the police believe us?”
Chad rubbed his crooked pinkie. “No doubt of that. Forensics will match his boots with the marks on the sill. Perverts these days are everywhere. The papers are full of stories about them. There shouldn’t be too much fuss that one of them fell to his much-deserved death.”
Barbara shuddered at the images that his words roused in her mind, and once again she struggled with her returning distrust of Chad. Would there be much fuss? From reporters? Would he use this for another story? Somehow find a way to use this in Marshall Emerson’s favor?
A knock sounded at the door.
“Don’t worry.” Chad patted her arm and lowered his voice. “This should be pretty routine. Oh, and remember your name is still Jane Dolan. All your identification says so. It will simplify things.”
As if anything could simplify things, Barbara thought, bracing for the onslaught ahead. But it wasn’t as bad as she’d anticipated. The police were efficient, sympathetic, and kept their voices low while investigating the evidence in Missy’s room. The worst offenders in the noise department were her neighbors, who, disturbed by and curious about the sirens, had gathered in the hallway and hovered in small groups, gossiping.
The embarrassment unsettled Barbara all the more. But rattled nerves were entirely appropriate for the circumstances; even she could see they lent credibility to the story she and Chad had told.
Chad, on the other hand, was as cool and smooth as one of the icicles dangling from the eaves outside, obviously a veteran of police investigations. What was his life like on a daily basis? she wondered, watching him hover at the edges of Missy’s room as the forensics people gathered their evidence.
His expression was solemn as if he were weighing a heavy problem. Was he pondering which angle he would take on this story? Or some new method to use against her in Marshall Emerson’s name?
Disappointment wove its way through her heart. She carried her coffee cup to the kitchen and dumped the remains into the sink. Why was she so attracted to a man who was bent on destroying her?
“Ms. Dolan?” The officer in charge of the investigation, a lanky, former cowboy with sunken cheeks and a big nose, stood in her living room.
Barbara gathered the dish towel from the refrigerator handle, then joined the policeman in time to see the forensics team leaving.
Chad strode to her side.
The officer said, “It appears the frost on the window ledge caused the man’s fall. His body’s been removed and we’ll be getting out of your way now. I just had one more question.”
She twisted the towel through her hands. “What?”
From inside his jacket, the cop produced an evidence bag and held it between thumb and forefinger. It contained a silver flask, the kind used to carry liquor. “Does this belong to either of you?”
“It’s not mine,” Chad said, leaning to peer at it.
Barbara stepped closer for a better look and caught a whiff of something pungent and familiar. The initials W.T.B. were etched in the shiny metal. She shook her head. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Did it belong to him?” Chad asked.
“Most likely.” The cop raised his wiry eyebrows. “We’ll know more when we find out who he was.”
“Where’d you find it?” Chad narrowed his eyes.
“In the little girl’s room. Under the chest of drawers.”
Chad wrinkled his nose and pointed to the flask. “What’s in it? Smells like gasoline.”
The cop was silent for a moment. “That’s purely speculation on your part, Mr. Ryker. The lab would have to confirm that, and even then it might not be for publication.”
“What would he be doing with gasoline?” The butterflies in Barbara’s stomach took flight, colliding into one another until she thought she would be ill.
The look the men exchanged was all the answer she needed. “Arson?” She choked on the word, twisted the towel tighter. “He was an arsonist?”
“They don’t know that,” Chad cautioned. “You don’t want to jump to that conclusion.”
“Why not?” she railed at him, feeling smothered by the protective vibes issuing from both men. “Isn’t that the conclusion you jumped to?”
“Ma’am, there’s no telling what that man was up to. But you no longer have anything to fear from him.”
Barbara shuddered, hugging herself.
Chad put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his side. She swayed against him like one wind-whipped tree pressing against another—unintentionally, unavoidably. Her anxiety, her fears, scattered and dissipated in his support, his succor.
Oddly, it set off an ache deep in her core that she could neither specify nor name.
Chad asked, “Is that all you need from us, Officer?”
“Well, you’ll have to come in and sign your statements tomorrow, but I expect that will be the end of your involvement.”
They thanked the man and he left.
As the door closed behind him, Barbara felt as if the air had been let out of her. Every muscle and bone melted like so much slushy snow. If Chad hadn’t been holding her up, she would have dropped to the floor. He led her back to the sofa. “You need to sleep.”
She didn’t argue, just stretched out full length on the cushions, and even as he covered her with the comforter Edie had crocheted for her last Christmas, she was falling into a lethargy so heavy and deep, she couldn’t fight it. It seized her cons
ciousness, spun her around and around—as if she’d fallen into a whirlpool—and sucked her into black oblivion.
BEFORE HER, AN OLD BRICK building loomed out of the dark abyss. She stood still, silent, the ground beneath her feet solid. The sounds of heavy traffic filled her ears. The air reeked of harbor smells, creosote and salt water. It was a place she knew, but did not know.
The door of the building opened, beckoning her. Fear sliced through Barbara. Her pulse skittered and her eyes blurred. She wanted to run in the opposite direction, but her legs disobeyed her pleas, propelling her forward and across the threshold.
A thick haze enveloped the interior. She could see nothing. But the rank smells of unwashed bodies, unwashed clothing rushed over her. Repulsed, she stumbled back.
The haze lightened and through the semi-fog, she saw that the room was filled with cots, lined up like headstones in a graveyard. On every cot, a body lay. Were all these people dead? She shrank farther back into the doorway. Was this some gigantic morgue?
As she watched in horror, the corpses rose, first one, then another and another, stretching their hands out to her, reaching for her as if to touch her. Recoiling, she tried to turn and run, but her limbs ignored her screamed commands.
A lone figure stepped from the crowd. Her ripe smell burned Barbara’s nasal passages as she moved ever closer. Her tattered coat of indiscriminate color hung open over a stained, garish-pink sweater and orange-striped wool skirt. Grungy men’s slacks peeked from beneath the skirt like cuffed bloomers, and grazed the tops of her army boots.
She stretched a bony finger toward Barbara and spoke in an eerie voice. “Help me. Only you can help me, B.J.”
Barbara shook her head, her heart clambering against her chest, bile climbing into her throat. “I can’t. I don’t know how.”
“You do.” The woman’s toothless mouth twisted. Without warning, she collapsed onto her back and stared up at Barbara with dead, accusing eyes.
Barbara turned and ran back through the door, but it no longer led outside.
She was in the lounge of the Buckin’ Bronc and she was serving the man with the pale blue eyes. He grinned his nasty, secret smile and called her name. Not Jane. Not Barbara. But.B.J. Like the dead woman.
Barbara jerked awake. Cold sweat flushed her body. The room was pitch-dark. Where was she? This wasn’t her bedroom. Soft snores punctured the darkness. She reared back and realized she was on her own sofa. Her chest heaved, and she drew several deep breaths before she was breathing normally again. She switched on the table lamp.
The light flowed over Chad. He startled awake. The second he focused on her, his eyes flew wide open. “What?”
“Elvis,” she said. “Elvis Emerson was in the Buckin’ Bronc tonight.”
“I know.” Chad stretched and ran his hand through his mussed hair, then sat straighter. “Hey, you remembered.”
Her blood felt icy. “He knew who I was.”
Chad nodded. “That’s why I took off.”
Barbara considered this. Elvis hadn’t acted as though he’d known who Chad was. It slowly occurred to her exactly what that meant. If Chad were working with Marshall, Elvis would have known him, would have kept away from him. “He doesn’t know you?”
“Most people don’t recognize me from the photo the paper runs next to my column.”
“You’re not working with Marshall?”
“Never.” A look of distaste entered his gray-blue eyes, as though even the thought of working with Marshall made him ill. “Kayleen had something on the man, something she thought could ruin him.”
If he was speaking the truth, then there was only one reason he kept turning up on her doorstep. “And you think I know what it was.”
“That’s the size of it.”
She shuddered at the possibility that he might be right. “Do you think he sent Scarface?”
“Not Elvis, but I wouldn’t put it past Marshall to send them both, just to hedge his bets.”
“He’s after Missy, isn’t he?”
Chad studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Id say that was a sound conclusion.”
Barbara didn’t say another word. She rose, went to the coat closet and pulled Missy’s and her gym bags out. Then she headed into her daughter’s room and began tossing Missy’s things into the first bag.
Chapter Eight
Chad hurried after Barbara, but stopped as he reached the child’s doorway. The sight of her throwing Missy’s clothes into the bag pitched him back in time to a chilly winter night when he was seven years old. Like this room now, his bedroom had been filled with glaring artificial light as he’d watched his mother cramming his belongings into a similar bag—shushing his questions, warning him to keep quiet, to hurry and dress.
An old dread dragged Chad’s heart into his stomach. He stepped into the room and asked Barbara the question he’d asked his mother all those years ago. “What are you doing?”
Barbara continued packing. “I’m taking my daughter away. Right now. As far and as fast as I can.”
“No,” he said—the one word he hadn’t been able to say to his mother.
“No.” He went over to Barbara and caught her arm. “I can’t let you do that.”
She shook him off. “You can’t stop me, Ryker.”
“I can and I will. Don’t make me.”
“Why would you?” She glared at him. “You despise Marshall Emerson. I saw it in your eyes. Why would you help him take my child from me?”
Tonight had roused memories of events he hadn’t known he’d witnessed all those years ago. They were as vivid now as if he’d seen them as an adult. His mother had also been afraid when she’d packed, but her fear had been for herself. Barbara’s fear was for her child, so why did he feel he had to stop her?
Because Kayleen hadn’t run away from just Marshall when she’d left; she’d also run from Chad and the life he’d wanted to build with her. Was he afraid that Barbara’s taking Missy away would be like Kayleen leaving him again? That Missy was all he had left of Kayleen?
Or was it simply that Missy deserved to know and form her own opinions of her father—a privilege Chad’s mother had denied him? He couldn’t sort it out, nor could he shake the conviction that running away was wrong. “No child deserves to have a parent snatched away from her.”
Barbara’s body tensed, reminding him of a mama jaguar poised for attack. “Marshall Emerson isn’t Missy’s parent. I am.”
“You can’t be certain of that.”
“I am certain of that.” She shook a fistful of cotton socks at him. “Where is this coming from, Ryker?”
“It’s Chad. And it’s coming straight from my heart. Look, I don’t want to destroy your life. Even if Missy is your daughter—”
“She is!’ Barbara growled.
Chad raised his hands as though wanting a truce. “That doesn’t give you the right to keep her from knowing her father.” As his mother had denied him knowing his father.
“I haven’t kept her from knowing her father on purpose, you know.” Or had she? A flush of guilt heated her cheeks.
He seemed not to notice. “I’m not saying you did it on purpose, but if you run away now, that’s exactly what you’ll be doing.”
She sank onto the bed, the socks pressed to her rapidly beating heart. Frustration welled inside her. Why couldn’t she remember the man who’d fathered Missy? There had to be some way to resolve this issue. Fear rose at the edges of her mind, warning her off the subject. She fought against it, asking herself a hard question: Which would be worse—remembering, or spending the rest of her life as a criminal on the run?
Her ascending gaze collided with Chad’s. He was expecting some response, but she couldn’t promise she wouldn’t take off at another time. Once all the facts were in. “If I promise to stay for now, would you have that assistant of yours do some checking into my background this morning? Find out who I married, and whatever he can about my husband?”
“Of cour
se.” Chad ran his hand through his hair and his body relaxed as if he’d won something more important than a moral victory.
Wondering why, she lurched off the bed and put the socks back in the drawer. Chad watched as, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, she unpacked. She peered up from her chore. “Why are you so protective of the rights of a father Missy has never known?”
Color climbed his neck. His eyes evaded hers. She thought he looked taken aback and disconcerted and uncomfortable—as if she’d invaded some private sanctuary and were about to steal his most prized possession. “Nothing, I—”
He stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
She would have sworn nothing rattled this man, and yet he was rattled. Offering him a gentle smile, she kept her tone light. “Don’t go all uptight on me, Ryker. I’ve bared my soul to you. What’s the matter, your wife run off with your kids?”
He jerked, feeling as if she’d touched an exposed nerve. Marriage. Ha. He’d only come close once. With Kayleen. In one short week, she’d changed his life. Made him long to settle down and raise a family. Then, abruptly and without explanation, she’d returned to her marriage, leaving him angry and bewildered, his heart filleted like the catch of the day. “Never been married.”
Exasperated by his evasiveness, she sighed. “Significant other, then?”
“Nope. I like living alone.” Regret swam through his eyes. Regret and something sadder. “No kids, either.”
He stepped closer to her. His aftershave teased her senses. Her mouth dried. “The love-’em-and-leave-’em type, huh?”
“That’s right.” He directed a smoldering gaze slowly over her face. “A good old-fashioned confirmed bachelor.”
She backed up and bumped against the wall. Trapped. She tilted her head, willing her thudding heart to slow, wishing she could hide the desire he had to see in her eyes. “So many women, so little time?”
He levered his palms on the wall on either side of her head. “Something like that.”
A few hours ago, that was exactly how she would have sized him up. But she knew him better now. Beneath his playful attitude, a deep-seated hurt endured. She lifted her hair off her neck. “What’s the real reason?”
