The Bride’s Secrets

by Debra Webb

  She paused, as if considering the question. “I’ll take the couch,” she offered. “No problem.”

  He had to be out of his mind.

  “Tomorrow morning we go see whoever survived Paula Jamison.” He would be in charge of where they went from here. No negotiations.

  “Absolutely. As soon as I learned that detail, I checked into who her beneficiary was. Leonard Jamison. A brother. He’s her only surviving family.”

  “We’ll do this my way,” he spelled out, just to be sure she understood him.

  She held her hands up. “I have no problem with that.”

  He knew that one thing about her if he knew nothing else—no way would she play the loyal soldier. She liked having input far too much.

  “As long,” she added, “as we play by my rules.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to work that out as we go.”

  Oh, yeah. He was definitely off his rocker.

  Here he was with the woman who’d vanished on their wedding day. In the very place they had been scheduled to spend their honeymoon night.

  And he hadn’t a clue who she really was.

  Chapter Seven

  6:15 a.m.

  J.T. awoke with a jerk.

  For a moment he felt disoriented.

  Sunlight bled through the narrowed slits of the blinds. The sights and sounds around him were unfamiliar. He blinked and reality crowded in on his chest.

  Eve.

  He was with Eve. At the cabin.

  Sitting upright, he glanced around the room, listening intently. Movement in the next room. Barely audible. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted into the room even as he struggled to gain his bearings.

  She was up already.

  His attention shifted to the telephone on the bedside table. She’d disabled the three phones in the cabin before they’d arrived. Though she’d slept on the couch, as offered, he’d sensed her presence at the bedroom door at regular intervals throughout the morning hours. Checking on him. He would have done the same if their situations were reversed.

  The residue of the drug she’d given him had ensured he slept, albeit fitfully. He doubted she’d slept at all. More likely to assure he didn’t go anywhere than because she was worried about him.

  He threw the cover back and dropped his socked feet to the floor. He’d slept in his clothes. Part of him had considered making a run for it. He wasn’t concerned that she would actually use the Glock.

  But, his need to understand what was really going down had kept him here.

  That decision could prove another mistake, but he’d made the choice. There was no need for second thoughts now.

  He made a pit stop in the bathroom, ran his fingers through his hair and then went in search of his host, or captor, depending on how one looked at the situation. His need to check in with the Colby Agency nagged at him, but he pushed it aside for the moment.

  When this was done, Victoria would understand his choice.

  He hoped she and her granddaughter were still safe. By now, Victoria may have been forced to contact her son and daughter-in-law—if they were reachable. Vacationing in the wilds of Africa made one unreachable to some degree. The idea that gunfire had been exchanged in the confrontation Friday night meant the situation had escalated to one of a lethal nature. No amount of security would protect Victoria or her grandchild if the enemy persisted. Mistakes, oversights and mere off days were had by all. The elite staff of the Colby Agency was no different.

  And it took only one mistake, one oversight…one distracted moment.

  The child’s parents would need to be informed—if possible.

  J.T. followed the luring scent of coffee into the main room. Evidently Eve had decided he was in a deep enough sleep to risk taking a shower. Her long hair was damp. His mind instantly conjured images of her naked body in that massive shower. Just as quickly flashes of him joining her, pulling her body to his in a frantic sex session, inserted themselves into the mix.

  He gritted his teeth and banished the images.

  Never again.

  They might be wary allies for the moment, but he would never again trust her.

  Or be vulnerable to her.

  They were done.

  “There’s cereal,” she announced. “And coffee. I’m sure you’re hungry by now.”

  A long pause elapsed while he went momentarily stupid. She’d turned to face him and those big blue eyes had captured him as surely as if she’d shoved that Glock of hers in his face.

  Stupid, J.T. Really stupid.

  “I’m fine.” He wasn’t—his stomach grumbled in protest. But he wasn’t eating anything she prepared, not after she’d drugged him once already.

  Still, his gaze lingered on the carafe. She poured herself a cup and took a cautious sip.

  “Hmm.” She lifted her cup to him. “I might not be much of a cook, but I can make coffee.”

  He snagged a cup and filled it with the hot brew. The smell alone had his mouth watering. He couldn’t deny that the woman knew how to make coffee.

  When he’d downed enough caffeine to make him feel remotely human, he reluctantly made himself a bowl of cereal, then got down to business. “We should get moving.” Staying in one place under the circumstances wouldn’t be a good idea.

  “I’m ready.” She set her cup aside and hit the off button on the coffeemaker.

  He finished his cereal and coffee, then went in search of his shoes. Unfortunately they were still wet, but they’d have to do. Though she’d had the foresight to stock clothes and food, shoes hadn’t been on her list. But then again, he doubted that taking a swim in the harbor had been on her original agenda.

  “Ready?”

  The question brought him up short. How many times had she asked him that when they were living together? She always managed to be prepared before him for work or a leisurely outing.

  He had to stop getting distracted by flashes from the past. Eve Mattson was not the woman he’d thought he knew. She was a stranger.

  Right now had nothing to do with last month.

  They were strangers attempting to survive…and to get the bad guy.

  Nothing more.

  EVE LET HIM DRIVE. She figured it would be easier to keep an eye on him if she wasn’t preoccupied with maneuvering from point A to point B.

  On some level that had been a bad decision, she decided as they reached the rural community of Green Oaks, twenty or so miles outside of Chicago. Since she wasn’t distracted by traffic or road signs, she was left with the irresistible chore of analyzing every visible inch of J.T. She’d tried to avoid giving in, but the feat had been impossible.

  She’d loved looking at his profile when they were together. Classic square jaw, perfectly symmetrical nose. And his hair. He had the greatest hair. Dark, dark brown—almost black. Just like his eyes. But, she had to admit, that his lips were his best asset by far. Full for a man’s. Amazingly talented in the art of kissing.

  When she wasn’t able to bear studying that handsome profile any longer, she got lost just looking at his hands. Square hands, long fingers—blunt tipped like a guitar player’s. The memory of feeling those hands on her body all those nights they’d made love warmed her skin even now…even knowing that he despised her for what she’d done…for who she was.

  She blinked, told herself to look away but couldn’t resist, following the hand to the wrist…along the muscular forearm and biceps.

  He was staring straight at her.

  She jumped. Gasped.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  He’d stopped at an intersection. She was supposed to be providing directions.

  “Sorry. Right. Take a right here.”

  Incredibly, her cheeks were flaming with embarrassment.

  She straightened in her seat and stared at the road. The next turn would be coming up soon. Mr. Jamison lived on a small farm he and his sister had inherited from their parents.

  “The next left,” she said, this time givin
g J.T. ample warning.

  Okay, pull it together, girl. Focus on the task at hand. Nothing else was real.

  Never had been. J.T. slowed for the turn.

  “Mr. Jamison is sixty-eight and physically disabled. He rarely leaves home.”

  “You’ve met him?” J.T. glanced at her as he made that final turn.

  She shook her head. “No. That was in the background search.”

  The gravel road leading to the farm was rutted and in need of attention. As the house came into view, Eve wondered what would make a woman who’d gotten a multimillion dollar insurance payout for her husband’s death stay in a place like this.

  J.T. parked in front of the house. “You’re sure this is the place?”

  He’d likely had the same thought she had. “This is it.”

  The place looked deserted. No vehicles around. The white farmhouse wasn’t in such bad shape. It had been painted fairly recently and looked in good repair. Two stories. Picket fence around the yard. The woods surrounding the property came right up to the backyard, providing privacy and atmosphere.

  She opened the car door and climbed out. Quiet. Really quiet.

  Too quiet.

  The possibility that the enemy had gotten here first rammed her in the gut.

  Scanning the property, she made her way to the porch. J.T. stayed close behind her. The silence was unnerving. Jamison lived alone. It was early on a Sunday morning. He could still be in bed.

  The screen door creaked as she opened it. She pounded hard on the wood door. If he was in there, she wanted him to hear her.

  The warmth of J.T.’s body so close behind hers temporarily distracted her from the silence radiating all around them.

  She banged on the door again. Focus. Thinking about him or his body was a bad idea.

  Labored footsteps approaching the door drew her back to full attention. Someone was home. Good. Hopefully it would be the man they sought.

  The door opened with the same kind of aged creak as the screen door had. A small, rotund man with a crown of gray hair peered out at her.

  “You from the church?” he asked, his tone something less than pleased.

  “Mr. Jamison?” she inquired. “Leonard Jamison?”

  “That’s right.” He scratched his head. “I told them folks that stopped by the other day that I don’t usually get up and around early enough on Sunday morning to go to no services.”

  “We’re not from the church, Mr. Jamison,” Eve explained. “May we come in? We’d like to speak to you regarding your sister, Paula.”

  His bushy gray eyebrows knitted in confusion. “She passed away a few months ago, you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eve said patiently. “That’s one of the things we wanted to discuss with you.”

  She felt herself holding her breath as he considered her request.

  “Well, all right. I guess.” He shuffled back from the door.

  Eve opened the screen door wider and stepped inside, careful to keep her movements unhurried and unthreatening.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jamison.” She covertly surveyed the room. Cluttered. Old furnishings. Not ragged or dirty, just old. “We appreciate your time.”

  “What’d you say your name was?” he asked as he shuffled to a well-worn chair.

  “I’m Christina Allison.” She crossed to where he sat and offered her hand. “And this is my colleague Charles Wentz.” The man shook her hand; his was cool and frail. “We’re from the review board. We’re here about your sister’s accident.”

  Jamison gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat, then. I don’t know why you’re back here. You said there wasn’t nothing wrong with the car. The mechanic said otherwise.”

  Eve exchanged a look with J.T.

  “Mr. Jamison,” J.T. offered, “we don’t represent the auto manufacturer. Why don’t we review what you’ve been told so far regarding the accident?”

  Jamison shrugged his rounded shoulders. “Police said her brakes failed. The mechanic said it was some kind of defect. The manufacturer sent their own mechanic, and he said that wasn’t so. The part that failed wasn’t original to the car. Said whoever worked on it last messed something up.”

  “Did your mechanic work on the car prior to the accident?” Eve prodded.

  Jamison shook his head. “Never had it worked on. It was too new to need working on.”

  The sister had a new car. So maybe she had spent some of the settlement money.

  “Killed her instantly, they said,” Jamison went on. “Roads was slick. She hit a tree.” He waved a hand. “She wasn’t no fast driver. Didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, but I’m just an old man.”

  Eve moistened her lips. So far the old gentleman didn’t seem to mind talking about his deceased sister, but they were about to broach sensitive territory.

  “You’re the only beneficiary of your sister’s estate?” That was the gentlest way she knew to ask.

  He nodded. “Wasn’t that much to it.” He looked around the room. “This old farm our folks left. The insurance money from the wrecked car. Enough to give her a decent burial.”

  Another of those looks passed between J.T. and Eve. That didn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense.

  “Mr. Jamison,” J.T. began, “I know these questions are of a sensitive nature. But it’s very important that we understand every aspect of the final year and a half of your sister’s life.”

  Jamison’s gaze held J.T.’s long enough for Eve to get antsy. If he clammed up now, they might not get the answers they needed most.

  “Ask what you come here to ask, Mr. Wentz. I don’t imagine I’ve got a whole lot more living to do, but what I got left would be a good bit more peaceful if I knew what really happened to my sister.”

  “Were you aware of any dealings your sister might have had with Terrence Arenas from Gold Coast Life?”

  Mr. Jamison harrumphed. “She had some dealings with him, all right. Him and that company beat her out of what she was entitled to.”

  J.T. glanced at Eve before continuing. “According to the company’s records, your sister received a payment of two million dollars for her husband’s death.”

  Jamison shook his head, his face scrunched with what looked like anger. “That’s what she was supposed to get, rightly enough. But she didn’t get it. That thief Arenas said that the autopsy showed that Paula’s husband smoked. His policy listed him as a nonsmoker. Paula was offered a settlement of fifty thousand dollars. Arenas said that was coming from the goodness of his heart.”

  “You’re certain—” Eve jumped in “—that her dealings on the matter were with Mr. Arenas?”

  Jamison nodded. “She cursed him enough times. I don’t think I’ll be forgetting that name anytime soon.”

  “Did you ever meet him?” J.T. asked. “Perhaps he visited your sister here?”

  Another shake of his gray head. “If he’d come here, I might’ve been tempted to shoot him.”

  “Is there any way,” J.T. pressed, “that your sister may have gotten the two million dollars and you didn’t know?”

  Jamison leaned forward. “Listen here,” he growled, “I watched my sister cry over her dead husband. Who didn’t smoke, by the way. Then I watched her lose her home and have to come back here and live with me because she couldn’t pay the mortgage payments without her husband’s income or the insurance. What little insurance she got was spent on his medical expenses and burying him. I think I know what happened.”

  When J.T. didn’t argue, the old man added, “She was cheated by that bastard Arenas. Don’t you doubt it for a second. That man and his company killed my sister.”

  “You believe,” Eve ventured, “that the stress of all that happened caused her death?”

  A weary hazel-eyed gaze settled on hers. “No, ma’am, that’s not what I believe at all. My sister told ’em she was getting herself a lawyer. It took me nearly a year, but I finally talked her into it. She called up Arenas and told him what she was gonna do. And then she was
dead. They killed her as sure as I live and breathe.”

  Eve stood. She’d heard enough to be convinced. “Thank you, Mr. Jamison. We’ll let you know the results as soon as we’ve completed our investigation.”

  “Just make sure Arenas pays,” the old man insisted. “That’s all I care about now.”

  J.T. made similar assurances to the man as he and Eve departed. He made no comments as to his thoughts until they were in the car and driving away.

  “There’s one way to verify Jamison’s story.”

  That he needed verification told Eve that J.T. wasn’t completely convinced of his former colleague’s guilt. He needed tangible evidence.

  “How’s that?” Might as well go with the flow. She needed him to see this for what it was—a threat to his survival.

  “We have someone inside the company dig around until they find the record of the actual payments. What I approved was the order for the payments but not the actual checks.”

  “If that person’s still alive,” Eve countered. J.T. sent her a questioning look.

  “This is a cleanup detail,” she explained to the man who clearly wanted to believe the best of his former employer. “The killing won’t stop until anyone who’s a threat is eliminated.”

  “You can’t be certain,” J.T. argued. “This could be an isolated situation. Besides, Arenas is already dead. He may have been the only threat—assuming he was guilty.”

  “All that means is that he had a partner,” Eve insisted. Why didn’t he just admit that his former employer was dirty?

  “Those guys last night may have been about my work at the Colby Agency or a previous job of yours. We don’t know that any of this is related.”

  Eve wanted to laugh, but it wasn’t funny at all. “What I know is,” she said instead, “that the sooner you accept the truth, the greater your odds of staying alive.”

  She wanted this done so she could blow this town.

  She’d thought this part wouldn’t be a problem.

  But she’d been wrong.

  She didn’t want to spend any more time than was necessary with J.T.

  Looking at him, drawing in his scent with every breath, was harder than she’d expected.