by Marta Perry
“No.” She settled into the seat and stared down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “There isn’t one. I was wrong to think running away would help.”
“At least you had a chance to see your family. I’m guessing that helped you.”
“It did. And I had a chance to see you out of your own setting.” She sounded like a person deliberately steering the conversation away from a sensitive subject. “I don’t imagine you are often expected to hold baby chicks or dig out stumps.”
He smiled in response. The least he could do was go along with her, if it made this easier. And they’d have plenty of time to discuss the immediate future.
“Apparently it’s like riding a bike. You never forget how to do it.”
“Really? You mean you’ve actually spent time on a farm? That seems an odd background for someone in your line of work.”
“Not so strange. I grew up in a small town, and my grandfather had a farm, mainly just a big garden and a few chickens for the eggs. But some of my friends lived on working farms.” The memories always brought a smile. “I got pulled into quite a few chores in my day. Anything so my buddy could finish his work and we could go play baseball or football or whatever was on our agenda for the day.”
“Your parents are still there?” She almost sounded as if she envied him.
“My dad’s retired from the police force now, but they wouldn’t consider moving away. Their whole lives are bound up in that place.”
“It sounds nice,” she murmured.
Apparently her childhood hadn’t been so stable, from what she’d let drop and what her grandfather said. But if she wanted to hear about his family, he didn’t mind.
“My two sisters still live in the same town. You couldn’t catch the folks moving away from their grandkids.” He smiled again, thinking of the way they doted on those kids. Come to think of it, he was pretty good at that himself. “At least now that they’re supplied with two boys and two girls, I’m off the hook.”
“You don’t want children?”
Something in her voice hinted that might be a sensitive topic for her. Obviously she and her ex hadn’t started a family, but a man with a gambling addiction wasn’t a good bet in the fatherhood sweepstakes.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “But finding the right woman comes first. For a while there, every time I went to see my folks, my mother would introduce me to some single woman she thought might be a suitable mother for her potential grandkids. At least now she’s stopped doing that. I was tired of being embarrassed.”
Rachel turned toward him with a smile that seemed to ease the tension from her face. “It’s a shame. I’d like to have seen you showing embarrassment. I doubt that you can.”
“I’m not always on the job.” He returned the smile, and for a moment they were just two people feeling their way toward knowing each other without the background of guilt and danger.
All of a sudden he’d reached the point that he wanted to know what made her the woman she was. He’d gotten a piece of it through seeing the kind of environment where she’d spent her summers as a child, but it seemed clear that whatever her mother had done affected Rachel in ways she might not even recognize.
He’d like to ask, but he didn’t have the right to do that. Not when he still hid the black part of his own life—the moment that had robbed him of his career and left him with a burden of guilt for the person he hadn’t been able to save.
Right now Rachel seemed willing to trust her safety to him. He couldn’t kid himself about that—she was doing it only because she had no other choices. Circumstances had combined to wrap the two of them together, for good or ill.
But if she knew his story, all of it, how willing would she be to trust him to protect her?
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY DROVE ANOTHER fifty miles with very little said, and Clint began to think they’d reach Philadelphia without another word. Then Rachel spoke, so abruptly it startled him. “You must have been wondering about my mother. I suppose you realized that she had left the Amish.”
Careful. He had to be careful. He was torn between wanting to know everything there was to know about her and the fear that one day she’d hate herself for having told him.
“I figured that was the case. But obviously she still had a relationship with her family, since you went there every summer.”
“Yes and no.” Rachel was staring at the road ahead of them but probably not seeing it. “She ran away to marry my father. He left before I was born.”
The dry tone in which she said that didn’t invite sympathy. “She didn’t return to her family?”
“No. She liked the outside world too much. But she was happy to send me there for the summers. It gave her a little freedom, you see. Each time I went back, she’d embarked on a new romance, but they never seemed to last.”
He had to say something, even if she didn’t welcome it. “That must have been rough on you.”
She shrugged. “I had the summers to look forward to. No matter how often we moved, or how much our lives changed, the farm stayed the same. It was home.”
Obviously this was what her grandfather had meant about people letting her down. Small wonder if she found it hard to trust.
“Logan seemed to think she was settled in a retirement community now.” Logan had also said that she hadn’t seemed very interested in her daughter’s whereabouts, but he didn’t see a need to report that fact.
“She married again after I was on my own. He passed away after a couple of years, but he left her comfortably off, and she stayed where she is.” Her lips twisted a bit. “My grandmother says she was always looking for happiness, as if it were a treasure that could be found.”
He considered the words. “Is that what you think?”
“Grossmammi would say that happiness comes from doing what is right, not from looking.” She avoided answering the question about herself.
“I guess I never thought too much about whether I was happy or not. After I passed the age of expecting the perfect Christmas present under the tree on Christmas morning, that is.”
She smiled, seeming to relax a little. “Maybe that’s the key. Don’t be thinking about how you’re feeling all the time—taking your emotional temperature, a friend of mine calls it.”
“Lyn, by any chance?”
The tension had left her now, and he thought she was reassured by his light question.
“As a matter of fact, yes. How did you guess?”
“She seems like a woman with a practical approach to things.”
“She is.” Her voice sobered. “I wish I thought...” She stopped and shook her head. “I’ll have to resign from the school. She’ll try to talk me out of it, but I want to be clear of there before anything breaks in the newspaper.”
He was in no position to give her advice, but the urge was too strong to resist. “I wouldn’t jump into that too quickly. If Attwood has his way, there will never be anything in the newspaper. He’s dead set against any publicity. Anyway, there’s no rush.”
“Isn’t there?” Her tone was bleak. “Someone is still willing to attack me to find that flash drive. And Paul has vanished, presumably taking it with him. I don’t see any happy ending coming from all of this.”
He wanted to reassure her. To solve the problem in a way that didn’t harm her. But he couldn’t. All he could do was try to find answers to a lot of uncomfortable questions.
* * *
RACHEL MUST HAVE fallen asleep, because when she woke the car was approaching the Schuylkill Expressway just outside the city. Oddly enough, given how she’d felt earlier, she was more optimistic now. She’d get past this trouble—she had to. And she had a strong ally on her side.
A glance at Clint told her he was focused on the traffic, frowning.
“Sorry I’ve been such bad company. I
didn’t intend to fall asleep.”
“No problem. I didn’t need a navigator for this trip.”
The words were light, but not Clint’s expression. Not that it was ever easy to see past that stoic mask he wore on duty.
She straightened, hands smoothing her hair, and looked around her. Clint had taken the ramp into Center City. “Where are we going?”
“My office, to meet my partner, Logan. We need to make some decisions.”
If he’d been interested and sympathetic earlier, all that had vanished now. His face and his voice were businesslike.
Rachel’s brief sense of ease vanished, and the strain rushed back. She’d returned to face a situation that grew worse by the moment, at least from her perspective. Was that how Clint, as a professional, saw it, as well?
“How far is it to your office?”
Clint focused on turning a corner before he answered. “Maybe ten minutes. Logan will be waiting for us.”
An uneasy silence fell between them. Had she imagined that wave of warm sympathy earlier? Or was it a tool to be turned on and off?
“Logan may have something more definitive for us by now. We can hope, anyway.”
Soon enough for her Clint drove into an underground garage. The renovated building above must house offices, including that of Angelo and Mordan, Security Specialists. Clint parked, and in another moment they were gliding smoothly upward in an elevator.
Rachel read through the business listings on the wall. Clint’s firm was on the fourth floor. She was too jittery to stand there in silence while the elevator carried them toward the next phase of her troubles.
“Has your office always been here?”
Clint emerged from his distraction. “Since we started together, four years ago.” He was silent for a moment but then seemed to think he should be more forthcoming. “We’ve known each other for years. He left the military after a serious injury at about the same time I left the police. Same reason.” He grimaced. “I could have stayed on in a desk job, but that wasn’t for me.”
“I can see that.” She wanted to ask about his injury, but it seemed the No Trespassing sign was up on his face again. Anyway, they had arrived.
Clint hustled her through an outer office, past a middle-aged receptionist, who looked at her with curiosity, and on into his partner’s domain.
Logan Angelo rose to his feet when he saw her. Rangy, taller than Clint and not as solid, he eyed her for a moment before speaking.
“Ms. Hartline. Please, have a seat. You don’t look as if you’re too much the worse for your ordeal.”
Oddly enough, other than the pain when her body protested her movements, she hadn’t been reminded of those moments. Maybe that was for the best, although she didn’t think it would last. When she was away from Clint’s protective presence, she’d probably relive it again and again. “I’m fine. Is there anything new?”
“Nothing dramatic,” he said, settling back behind his computer.
“I hope there’s something.” Clint sounded like a man hanging by the last thread. “I’ve had enough of running around in the dark.”
Instead of answering, Logan posed a question. “Any reason for alarm at your end?”
“We weren’t followed back from the farm, if that’s what you mean. I’m sure of that.”
She hadn’t even realized he’d been watching for someone following them. Obviously she wasn’t well prepared for life on the run.
“Good. That means our opponents don’t have limitless resources,” Logan said. “I find that encouraging.”
“Glad it makes you happy.” Clint perched on the corner of the desk. “Let’s get to it. What have you found?”
“Nothing on Paul Hartline’s whereabouts, unfortunately,” Logan said. “As for the other members of the upper echelon at Attwood’s, aside from Robinson’s mysterious hotel stays, nothing. Ms. Gibson is apparently devoted to the business, lives well and dates casually. Attwood himself seems to have no social life at all or any interests outside the firm.”
“You’re investigating them?” Rachel said. Clint had mentioned the theory that someone else was involved, but... “They couldn’t be in on this—they have everything to lose. Besides, neither Ian nor Claire would double-cross Attwood.”
“Why not?” Clint asked. “Paul did.”
A probably irrational need to defend Paul swept over her. “I know it looks that way, but when he contacted me, Paul said this was not what it looked like.”
“He hasn’t given you any information to back that up, has he?” Clint seemed just as irrationally determined to think the worst of her ex.
“You might try keeping an open mind until the truth emerges,” she snapped.
Logan, who had been looking from Clint to her and back again as if watching a tennis match, intervened. “Nobody knows anything definite about your former husband’s motives yet, so let’s not jump the gun. All we can do is follow where the information leads us while we keep Ms. Hartline safe.”
Clint blew out a long breath and seemed to force himself to relax. “Right. Do you have a place for Ms. Hartline to sleep for a few nights? I don’t want her alone in her house until we get a lead on who’s behind this.”
“I booked a room at the Fairfield Hotel for the moment. It’s close to the office, and they had an upstairs room at the back.”
They were talking about her as if she weren’t there—another reason to feel annoyed. But there was little she could do about it unless she wanted to be off on her own again. Easy prey.
Nodding as if he were familiar with the place, Clint stood. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll run her over there now,” he said.
“My backpack is in the car, but I’ll need some other clothes from my house.” She made a small attempt to seize some control of her life.
“I’ll pick them up. Make a list.” Clint clasped her elbow, then released it when she winced. “Sorry.” Regret darkened his eyes as he piloted her to the door. “Just wait in the outside office for a few minutes, while I check a few things with my partner.” Then, apparently noticing her expression, he added. “If you will.”
Rachel marched out. He ought to be getting the message that he was overstepping the line if he had any sensitivity at all. But what was the chance of that? Those tender moments the previous night might never have been.
Or maybe that was the reason for this. He regretted what happened between them, and now he was busy drawing the line between investigator and witness again.
Clint joined her in less than five minutes, and if his expression was anything to go by, that conversation with his partner hadn’t softened his mood any. They didn’t exchange more than a word or two during the time it took to drive to the hotel, check her in and go to the room.
Rachel expected him to leave her at the door since he seemed eager to be rid of her, but he moved past her. “I’ll just have a look around.”
She nodded, not bothering to protest. He was trying to keep her safe, she knew. Clint checked the bedroom and bath thoroughly before nodding.
“Okay. Logan says that Attwood would like to see us this afternoon, and we think it might help if you come along. Can you grab a late lunch and be ready to leave around four?”
A chat with James Attwood was low on her list of things she’d like to do. “What can I do to help? There’s nothing helpful I can tell him. I assume you’re reporting everything to him. And the last time I saw him, he threatened to prosecute me for involvement.”
“He must know he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on in a case against you,” he snapped. “That wasn’t too clever on his part, assuming he is the genius everyone says.”
“A genius in his own field, but not when it comes to people. That’s why he needed the others, I think.”
“We’ve told him you urged Paul to bring back the information, so he shouldn�
�t be blaming you. We’d rather you’re there because something may come out when we have fresh eyes on the situation. Even some reaction from one of them to you might tell us something.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. But my eyes are anything but fresh.” Why was it so hard to convince people she didn’t know anything?
“Look, you know these people better than we do.” Clint sounded impatient, as if he had other things to do than debate the subject. “You may sense something off-kilter that we’d miss. If one of them was involved with Paul in what went on, we need to know.”
It was easier to agree than to keep arguing. “Very well. But I can’t go anywhere without a change of clothes.”
“Give me the list. I’ll stop by your house.” He extended his hand.
Somewhat reluctantly she held out the list she’d jotted down while she had been waiting for him. Another woman would have no trouble figuring out what she wanted from the list, but she had her doubts about Clint. Her fingers tightened on the paper.
“You’ll never figure out what to bring. I could ask Lyn to do it.”
“No!” He snatched the list from her. “Until we understand the danger better, no extraneous people should know where you are.”
“I can’t live like this!” She flared up as if he’d touched a match to dry tinder. “I’d rather take my chances than be unable to trust my closest friend.”
The effort Clint made to get hold of himself was almost visible. When he spoke, he clearly tried to sound, if not conciliatory, at least reasonable.
“It’s not a question of trusting your friend. Someone searched your classroom, remember? Whoever is looking for you knows about your friendship. You don’t want to do anything to put your friend in danger, do you?”
She spun away from him, fighting to control the emotions that kept ricocheting wildly from one extreme to the other. She pressed her fingers against her forehead, willing herself to calm.
Finally she was able to speak. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. We’ll do it your way.”
