by Gina Ardito
"Greyhound. A rescue dog. Sleek and sweet. Her name is Ginger and she's an absolute doll. She just needs to be exercised a lot. You okay to keep up with her?"
"To have a safe place to hide, I'd run a three-minute mile right now."
April laughed. "Good girl. Okay, the front door has a combination lock, so write the numbers down and keep all this info someplace safe. Ready?"
"Ready." Quickly, she jotted down the combination. "Got it."
"Don't call me again, because we don't want to tip anyone off to where you are. Once you get to the house, make yourself at home. Tomorrow morning, call Brenda at the office. Tell her you're Mrs. Snow and you wanted to thank her for the service our company provided. That way I'll know you're there and safe. Good with that?"
"Uh-huh."
"If you need anything at all, call Brenda as Mrs. Snow. She'll get the message to me. Okay?"
"Okay." She gripped the receiver tighter and whispered, "April? Thanks. I owe you."
"No, you don't. It's my fault you're being hounded right now. You warned me this might happen. I didn't listen, and I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Really. It'll all be okay."
But only if her heart could repair itself.
The sanctuary April had arranged sat in a gated community, completely secure and miles from anyone she knew. Apparently April had taken care of all the details, because when Lyn pulled up outside the guard's house in Aaron Bascomb's car, ready to stutter out some lame excuse about visiting a friend, the man simply tipped his cap and held out a cardboard tag.
"Good evening, Mrs. Snow. This is your parking permit. Please make sure it's hanging from your rearview mirror at all times, as our security patrol does random checks throughout the neighborhood day and night. The house you're looking for is twenty-three Clay Court. Follow this road to the first stop sign, make a left, then a quick right. The house will be directly facing you in the center of the circle. Red door with a big white sparkly Christmas wreath."
She took the parking permit and offered him a tired smile. "Thank you ... ?" She paused. Despite the halogen lights from the guardhouse behind him, she couldn't read the name printed on his badge in the darkness of night.
"George," he supplied. "I wish you a pleasant stay with us, Mrs. Snow. If we can be of service to you while you're here, please let us know. You can reach us twenty-four hours a day by dialing nine-zero on your house phone."
"Thank you, George." Rolling up the window, she drove through the raised gate and followed the road to the first stop sign as directed. Hours after midnight, the neighborhood of cookie-cutter townhouses on the fringe of an eighteen-hole golf course slumbered under cloudy skies. She spotted the door with its glittery wreath easily and pulled into the short driveway, then put the car in park and turned off the engine. With her purse in hand, she grabbed her emergency suitcase from the backseat and hurried to the front door.
When she punched in the door code, the locks clicked, and she slipped inside. On the left wall beside the door, as promised, she found the light switch and flipped it up. Instantly the house burst into illuminated life, but exhaustion finally claimed Lyn, leaving her too drained to check out her surroundings. She dropped her bags on the floor, then slumped against the wall. Sliding to a squatting position, she covered her face with her hands.
The click-click of toenails on terra-cotta tile caused her to look up. A giant dog raced toward her, its whiplike tail wagging furiously. Thank God April had warned her that Ginger was friendly and eager to please. She hadn't mentioned how adorable the dog was with her long nose, bright eyes, and mouth almost shaped like she smiled in welcome.
"So you're my new roommate," she said with a sigh.
The brown and white dog swiped a cold, wet nose over her cheek, which, to her surprise, was just the cure for her moment of self-pity. Renewed, she stood, threw her shoulders back, and inhaled deeply to give her spirits a lift.
"How about you give me Le Grande Tour?" she said as she scratched her new best friend's head.
After double-checking that she'd locked the front door, she strode through the house, Ginger as her escort. First stop, the kitchen, where she found glass cabinetry, marble countertops, and stainless steel appliances. On the center butcher block sat a frosted glass vase filled with red and white roses and evergreen branches. Instantly, her mind kicked back to the flowers Doug had sent her after their first date.
How long had he planned to string her along with dinners and flowers? And once he'd reeled her in enough to get the story he wanted, how quickly would he have skipped town? Certainly before any other reporters learned what he knew. Joke's on you, Doug. Ace's foolish interest in Becky totally screwed up your plan to be the one who revealed my true identity in the public arena.
When exactly had he known who she really was? Had Ace confided her secret, and Doug had purposely used his injury to get accepted into Ski-Hab in the hopes of getting close to her? Maybe the prosthesis was a fake. Could he have pretended to be an amputee, all the while hiding a fully functioning arm inside his clothes?
She snorted. Get a grip, babe. No man would chop off a limb just to find out about you.
God, she was so tired. Her brain couldn't play these games any longer.
Averting her eyes from the roses and all they represented, she picked up the notepad beside the vase.
Welcome to The Links was written in precise script. I stocked the kitchen for you so you'll find basic staples, prepared meals, and cleaning supplies. If you need anything else, there's a prepaid cell phone on the dining room table. My name and number are already programmed in.
Think of yourself as part of a witness protection program. Use nothing that can identify you. No bank cards or checks. Pay any expenses with cash only. If you run low on funds, call me. April's taking care of all your finances until this is over. And she said to tell you, "You bet your curvy butt you'll pay me back."
That comment, so perfectly April, drew a smile from Lyn when she needed it most.
The letter continued, detailing names and directions to stores in the area, delivery services for everything from dry cleaning to pizza, and emergency contact information. As she read through the pages and finally reached Brenda's signature, her eyelids grew heavier and she began to yawn.
"Well, Ginger, my girl," she told the greyhound. "I think it's time for us to call it a night. We'll have plenty of time to get acquainted tomorrow. How about you show me to my room?"
The following morning when Lyn went downstairs for breakfast, she found the kitchen stocked with everything that Brenda had promised in her note, and more. Coffee, half-andhalf, fresh fruit, and all her favorite low-carb foods. Only one person knew enough about her habits to mastermind this minimiracle.
Thank you, April.
Ginger, who'd spent the night on a large sheepskin pet mattress at the foot of Lyn's bed, nudged her hand, then sprinted for the door.
"Okay, girl." She reached for the folded bit of paper with the door combination, tucked it into her jeans pocket, and headed for the foyer's utility closet. Sure enough, the dog's leash hung on a hook within easy reach. Lyn also noticed the unit's washer/dryer combo, detergent, fabric softener, dryer sheets, a broom and dustpan, and a box of tall kitchen garbage bags. Her organized little heart went pitter-pat.
The townhouse's owner, Michael Berman, was a veterinarian, divorced, with two school-age daughters and a passion for greyhound rescue. Judging by the photos she'd seen in the family room, he was a fairly good-looking guy. Since he'd opened his home to her no questions asked, she surmised he was also generous and compassionate. So why couldn't she have fallen for Michael Berman, DVM, instead of Douglas Sawyer, RAT?
Don't go there, she scolded herself.
Yeah, sure. Great advice. Too bad her heart refused to lis ten. At least a thousand times over the last twelve hours, she'd relived that one magic moment underneath the ice angel wings. Doug had leaned close to her, his warm breath caressing the scrap of her neck between her s
carf and her jacket collar. He'd told her about his teenage crush, let her know that he knew she was really Brooklyn Raine, and before she could make any excuses, he'd kissed her. And for that one perfect instant, she'd known bliss.
Aaaargh! Enough! She had to stop daydreaming and get on with life AD: after Doug.
Ginger concurred by scraping a paw over the steel front door.
"Okay, okay," Lyn told the impatient greyhound as she grabbed the leash. "Let's go for a walk, sweetie."
She slipped into her jacket, then clamped the leash to Ginger's collar. The dog did the rest. With a quick yank, Ginger dragged Lyn out the door and into a sunny, crisp December day. Even if Lyn wanted to check out the scenery or meet any neighbors who strolled by on their way to the golf course, the greyhound had other plans.
Ginger pulled her in a perfect circle around the outskirts of the community at a runner's pace. When they passed the guard's station where she'd arrived last night, a different man in uniform bobbed his flat cap. "Morning, Mrs. Snow. I see Ginger's in high spirits today."
"I guess so," Lyn managed to say through exhausted panting. She didn't even blink at his use of her alias. Apparently, April had covered all the bases for her. And Lyn had tried to lecture her about handling the media? No wonder she and Jeff had looked at Lyn like she'd suddenly sprouted snakes for hair that night. April not only knew how to keep the press at bay, she'd also come up with an amazing contingency plan to keep Lyn safe and hidden.
Ginger tugged again, nearly upending Lyn. She stumbled, slamming her toe against the curb. "Is she always like this?"
"She's a greyhound, ma'am." The guard shrugged as if that enigmatic reply covered a multitude of explanations.
Maybe it did. Lyn knew next to nothing about greyhounds.
"So she is," Lyn said to the guard, just before Ginger hurried her out of earshot.
Twenty minutes later, they were back in front of the red door with the white wreath. Ginger galloped up the two cement steps and sat, waiting, while Lyn fumbled with the paper in her pocket and tried to catch her breath.
"The least you could do is pant," she grumbled at the dog.
But Ginger simply stared with those soft, melted chocolate eyes and flashed that greyhound grin.
Shaking her head, Lyn punched in the code and opened the front door. A digital version of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony emitted from the kitchen.
The cell phone! Dagnabbit. She'd forgotten to call Brenda this morning. She unclipped the leash from Ginger's collar, then expended her last spurt of adrenaline in a race to the butcher block, where she'd left the stupid phone.
She lunged, pushed the ON button, and placed the phone to her ear. "Hello?"
"Lyn?" a voice full of concern said. "It's Brenda. Are you all right?"
She let out a long breath. "Yes. I'm sorry. I completely forgot to call you this morning."
"You sound out of breath. What's wrong?"
Explaining would take too long and take too much out of her. So she opted for the one-word reply. "Ginger."
Brenda laughed. "Oh, right. She's a huge ball of energy, isn't she? Cute as can be, though, and a real love. Everything's okay with you then?"
"As okay as it can be."
"You're sure?"
"Yes." Her pounding heart rocketed up her throat. "Why? Have you heard something?"
"No," Brenda replied. "All's quiet on the western front, which bothers me more than when there's a buzz. But that's just the mom in me, looking for chaos in the heart of calm. So for now, sit tight. If there's news, I'll be in touch. Go relax and catch your breath. If you need anything, call me."
Brenda hung up, and Lyn placed the phone back on the counter. Ginger, all smiles and wagging tail, looked up adoringly at her.
Now what? An endless day stretched before her with nothing to do but think. A dangerous pastime.
For three days, Lyn managed to pass hours with Ginger, an endless stream of idiotic television shows, and the occasional peek-and-run with Monty the Python. As day turned to night, night to day, and back again, Lyn had a fairly good idea how a prisoner felt in solitary confinement.
But by day four, her mind could no longer avoid reliving her last few hours at home. How an evening of fun and laughter had become a hurried escape from all that she held dear. At first, she fought against her pitching emotions with banal distractions. In the family room, she pulled out a photo album. Curled up on the couch, she flipped through pictures of Dr. Berman and his kids. Two pretty dark-haired girls with pixie faces and matching pink bikinis squeezed the stuffing out of Dad at a water park. The same two girls cuddled with him in an enormous rope hammock on a white sandy beach. Another snapshot had the trio huddled around a birthday cake in the townhouse's kitchen, half a dozen candles glowing in the twilit room. Page after page of happy memories, of precious family moments. Just like Richie and Phyllis.
The one thrill Lyn would never know: a family of her own. She glanced down at the glossy images again and traced a finger over Dr. Berman's indulgent smile. Doug would have made a wonderful father.
No. Not Doug.
Actually, yes. Doug. Or, at least, the Doug she'd built up in her heart. Unfortunately, the real man fell far too short of her fantasy version.
By afternoon, the tears finally started. And refused to stop. Ginger tried to help with a nudge here and a lick there. But being a dog, she really had little or no opinion on the perfidy of human men. Lyn needed more than a cold, wet nose and a run around the neighborhood. She needed reasons, an explanation, an apology. No more accusations or excuses. Just some straight dirt.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she headed for the kitchen. Cell phone in hand, she dialed a phone number as familiar to her as her own at Snowed Inn.
Richie picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"
"Richie?" she rasped through a throat scraped raw from excessive tears.
"Lyn? Where are you? Are you okay?"
Despite a sudden quake in her knees, she remained standing in the hope that a stiffer posture would make her sound more forceful, more in control. "I'm not telling you where I am, and I'm not okay. I need an explanation from you, Rich."
"Aw, come on, Lynnie. You know me. Come home and we'll talk."
"No. Talk now. From the hip, Richie."
"Where do you want me to start?"
"Start with your selection process. Why Doug Sawyer?"
"Because he's a decent guy who needed our help. Ace Riordan vouched for him, and I reviewed his medical records as well as his personal info. He was a perfect candidate on a multitude of levels. He was in decent physical shape, with ski experience prior to his amputation. And even though he's technically a civilian, he sustained his injuries in combat. You wanted to start taking on civilians, and I set the plan in motion with a patient who ideally fit the criteria. Accepting Doug Sawyer provided a smooth transition from military to civilian for the Ski-Hab staff."
Yeah, sure. A smooth transition for everyone but her.
Good thing Richie wasn't in the same room with her right now. She might have been tempted to strangle him with Ginger's leash. Instead, she gripped the phone tight enough to make her knuckles ache. "Except that he's not just a civilian with an ideal record. He's a reporter. A sports reporter."
"Do you even know Doug Sawyer, the sports reporter?" he snapped. "Ever read anything he's written?"
"No, but..." She hesitated, but on the next breath added, "What difference does that make? He's a reporter. You know how I feel about-"
"What I know is that you're lumping him in with Lorenzo Akers and all his cockroach pals. And that's not fair to Doug or to you. Maybe once you've read some of his work, you'll understand why I had no qualms about giving him the green light. That's all it took for Kerri-Sue to get onboard."
Ah, yes. Kerri-Sue. Another co-conspirator. "I don't even want to talk about Kerri-Sue except to fire her."
"No one's firing anyone. Not over this. The fact of the matter is, you liked Doug just fin
e till you found out what he does for a living. Or maybe you just needed the excuse to keep hiding from life."
Her spine snapped to rigid. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Do your research, Lynnie. We did." He hung up before she could form a credible argument.
Never before had she heard that kind of animosity from Richie. Which meant he felt pretty strongly that Doug Sawyer posed no threat to her. Why?
Her shaky legs refused to support her any longer, and she finally had to sink into a cushioned wrought-iron chair near the kitchen's bistro table. She buried her head in her folded arms. After all these years, did Richie really need to be reminded how much she feared the media? Hadn't her flight shown him anything? Or had she run away, not from fear of the media coverage, but as Richie had intimated, from fear of her growing attraction to someone other than Marc? Had she really used Doug's profession as an excuse to flee the man she'd become so fond of?
She sighed. Perhaps Richie was right. She needed more information.
There was a desktop computer in the family room and included in her instructions from Brenda was the password to access the Internet on that machine. Time to find out what Richie knew that she didn't.
Once the computer powered on, she typed "Douglas Sawyer The Sportsman" into the search engine. A long list of entries appeared, including a bibliography of articles written by Douglas Sawyer, sports reporter.
She chose an article at random, "The Trouble with Head Games," and clicked on the related link. The story focused on the proliferation of head injuries and concussions in high school football. Doug had included several case studies from neurologists and trauma doctors, as well as interviews with players, parents, and coaches. The details were thought-provoking. She immediately found herself drawn in to his concerns for the youths who hit the gridiron looking for fun and competition but left injured, sometimes permanently.
She clicked on another article. Thin Ice focused on the lives of teenage Olympic skaters in foreign countries, their hardships and sacrifices for their homelands. Memories flooded back to her from her own years on the circuit. As close as her father had kept her, she still had known more freedom than her compatriots from some Eastern European and Asian countries. She and Marc had often wondered what happened to athletes from those places if they failed to bring home a medal. According to what Doug had written about repercussions, their concerns back then were probably well founded.
