by Cherry Adair
On the screen, she was wearing her black raincoat and boots. So it wasn’t as if her clothing changed along the way and the manipulation could be easily spotted. She could just as easily have been wearing jeans or a cocktail dress under that coat. She always wore that raincoat because it was Seattle. It always rained that time of the year.
Her hairstyle changed slightly as she walked down the corridor, though. When she was working, she always wore it in some form of a braid to keep it out of her face. For a good minute, she had a French braid. As she unlocked the door to the main lab, it changed to a fishtail braid for an instant, and right back to a French braid. When the cameras picked her up again as she sat at the desk and booted the computer, it was in the fishtail again.
“Look at my hair, Rand. My braid changes.”
“Looks the same to me,” Rand said, totally focused as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the screen.
“This wasn’t all taken on the same day, or even at the same time of day,” she said impatiently. “Not only is my hair different, look at the neckline of my coat.” She pointed. “Right there, you can see I was wearing a cream sweater!” A sliver of lighter fabric showed occasionally when she moved. But it was enough as far as she was concerned. “When I walked into the lobby earlier, I was wearing a gray blouse. You’re the security expert. Surely you can see this has been manipulated?”
He put up a hand to silence her. “Hold that thought. Let’s see the other one,” he told the lawyer, his voice grim.
Mancini rose and popped out the disc, replacing it with the other one. He resumed his seat and swiveled to watch the scene, not saying a word, his face a mask. Rand didn’t speak either as he saw her car pull up in front of his parents’ Seattle home, all decorated for Christmas. She remembered thinking at the time how odd it was, going to all that trouble, when the couple wouldn’t even be there for the holidays.
Seeing the image now, Dakota’s heart sank as she saw her arrival had been recorded.
Of course Catherine and Paul had surveillance cameras at their big, expensive estate. It had never occurred to her to try to avoid them. She’d been to the house twice, the first time for Rand’s and her engagement party.
She prayed like hell this wasn’t the video from that night. She’d had a little too much champagne, and although she hadn’t danced on the tables or run through the neighborhood naked, she had taken a little nap on Rand’s childhood bed for an hour while the party had been in full swing downstairs. Rand had teased her awake, but she was embarrassed to have conked out on one of the most magical nights of her life. Worse, at her future in-law’s home.
The second time had been when Rand’s mother invited her to come over for a cocktail and a girls’ chat prior to her and Rand’s February wedding. She hadn’t really looked forward to the social interaction one-on-one. She knew Catherine Maguire was clinically depressed, and according to Rand, her behavior was frequently erratic, and unpredictable, especially when she was under stress. The holidays, an extended vacation, and her son’s imminent wedding, were all high-stress situations.
Now that Dakota thought about it, she realized that she’d had the same sense of uneasiness with Catherine that she’d had with Paul at the lab, the feeling that at any moment something could go seriously wrong.
Dakota had gone anyway. She hadn’t seen Rand in weeks; he’d been on a two-week-long job in Vancouver, immediately followed by a security gig for another client in Brunei, and wouldn’t be back for weeks. She’d missed him, and spending time with his mother was a way to keep him close. Besides, Catherine was about to become her mother-in-law; it would be a good bonding experience.
For reasons Dakota couldn’t explain, as she watched herself walking up the driveway and crossing the lawn to the front porch, her heart started to hammer. God. Look at her. So happy, so in love, so filled with the joy of the season because she’d be sharing it with Rand.
Catherine came out onto the deep porch to greet her. Dakota remembered every second of the evening. It had been just before six, dark and icy cold. It hadn’t rained all day, but as she approached the garland-swirled front porch, her breath preceded her, and her hands were jammed into the pockets of her coat.
The camera was at an odd angle, showing the back of Catherine’s head, but Dakota was easily recognizable because the Christmas lights that twined around the pillars and along the gutters shone directly on her face.
She heard Catherine’s cool, measured voice saying, “I know you’re only marrying my son for the money. You aren’t in any way good enough for him. Rand deserves someone on the same economic and social level as he is. How much money will it take to make you disappear into the sunset and find a nice rich old man to take care of you?”
“You’re insane.”
“That’s a dangerous thing to say to my face, Dr. North. How much?”
“I love Rand. I don’t give a damn about how much or little money he has.”
“I’ll give you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to walk away.”
Smiling, she said, “Not nearly enough.”
Dakota frowned. What had Rand’s mother really said before she’d answered that way? She couldn’t remember. Yes, oh God. Yes she did. Implying that she and Rand couldn’t possibly know each other well enough to marry with them living so far apart, Catherine Maguire had asked her how much time she and Rand had actually spent together in their courtship.
Not nearly enough.
“Now that we’ve established what you are, let’s negotiate a price. You tell Rand that you’ve changed your mind when he returns. And do it with utmost sincerity,” Catherine said coldly, her back to the camera. “I’ll give you half a million dollars right now. Cash.”
Catherine hadn’t invited her inside, nor had this been the exchange out on the freezing-cold Christmas-wrapped damned porch. On the screen, Dakota saw herself shiver as she waited to be invited inside. She remembered that Rand’s mother had been rambling about the wedding, the honeymoon. Paint chips and flowers. Dakota’s mind had drifted down a similar and more concise path. She just wanted to go back to her condo, take a hot bubble bath, and curl up to wait for Rand to call.
Somehow the entire exchange had been transformed into something else altogether.
Rand’s mother had handed her a thick envelope, which Dakota had smilingly accepted. In reality, it had contained an early wedding gift of tickets to Paris. Since that was exactly where she and Rand planned on going for their honeymoon, she’d graciously accepted and had given Catherine a grateful smile. Unfortunately, it had been absolutely freezing outside that evening, and on the video, Dakota’s smile looked more like a rictus of contempt than a smile of thanks.
Dakota saw herself start to walk away, then turn back and say just loudly enough for the tape to pick it up, “I’ll do whatever it takes to marry your son. Nothing can stop me.”
The implication, Dakota knew, seeing Rand’s expression as he watched her interaction with his mother, was that she’d do anything to marry him, up to and including taking half a million dollars and then telling his own mother that even Catherine wouldn’t stand in her way.
Or worse, she realized with dawning horror, giving Paul Maguire a drug guaranteed to kill the very woman who stood in the way of Dakota’s nefarious plans.
DAKOTA DIDN’T SAY A word after they left Octavio Mancini’s office. Not even to ask where they were going as they drove through the bustling streets of the city. There were people everywhere, tourists and locals alike. Walking, riding bikes, and zipping through the traffic on scooters. Cars vied with pedestrians, and people crowded into the myriad of outdoor cafés, enjoying the balmy evening. The streets of Rome were alive and frenetic.
Rand expected her to blow up, to give him ninety–nine reasons why he shouldn’t believe what he’d seen on those tapes. Instead, she’d settled back in her seat and not said a word in her own defense. The evidence was pretty fucking damning.
He drove to a small, out
-of-the-way hotel he’d stayed at the last time he’d been to Rome. Dakota glanced around like a sleepwalker as he pulled up under the portico.
“What are we doing here?”
“We need a decent night’s sleep before we catch up with Rebik and Ligg.”
“I … sure.” She popped her door and got out, standing beside the car as if lost, the warm breeze teasing strands of hair across her face.
And Jesus, after seeing those two incriminating tapes with his own eyes, he understood why. He smelled a setup. Even though it made no fucking sense at all.
Using cash, Rand made short work of checking them in. One room this time. He was afraid if he left her alone she’d fall apart or, worse, bolt. The elevator was minute, barely large enough to hold both of them, so he had to crowd her into the corner. Her respiration increased and she paled, but she remained mute.
“Breathe,” he told her, concerned about her claustrophobia kicking in on top of everything else she’d gone through that day.
“I’m not sure I can,” she admitted, voice flat. Her pale face was dewy with perspiration, her light eyes dull and lifeless.
The metal concertina-style elevator doors slid open on the third floor, and he put his hand on the small of her back as they proceeded down a narrow corridor. Her body stiffened, but she didn’t shift out of his reach as he propelled her forward. Their room was at the end of the corridor. Rand unlocked the door and went in first to turn on the lights.
The bed took up most of the space.
“Where are you sleeping?” she asked dully, standing just inside the door.
“Right there.” He pointed to the bed, then unhooked her heavy bag off her shoulder, tossing it onto the foot of the bed. “Go run a bath. I’ll order room service.”
She turned her head slowly, somber eyes flickering to his face. “I’m not h—”
“I’ll order anyway.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the open bathroom door, flipping on the light for her. Reaching out, he gently tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear.
For a moment, she simply looked at him, her pale eyes unguarded and stark with pain. Then she stepped back, out of reach.
“Take as long as you need,” he said smoothly, not reacting to her withdrawal. “Food’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”
She went into the bathroom and shut the door. Rand stood just outside, waiting for her to turn on the water. Finally the pipes rattled and he heard the gush of water on porcelain.
He cursed.
For years, he’d believed in her guilt. Now everything he thought he knew about her was taking a one-eighty turn.
Every step they took added yet another layer of complications. There was something he was missing, but what that was, he had no fucking idea. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw as he walked over to the window. They were both running on adrenaline. They needed rest and a decent meal. Then they’d have a no-holds-barred conversation and lay everything out on the table so he could make some kind of sense out of all this.
This time, he’d demand the truth.
Even if it was Dakota’s version of the truth. It was obvious from her reaction that she doubted herself after seeing the tapes, and yet she’d been so certain before she saw them. What was real?
Pulling aside the drapes, he saw that their room was at the back of the hotel, facing a blank wall of the building behind it. Below was a narrow alley between the buildings, just wide enough to walk through. A fire escape right outside the window. Convenient. With a glance at the bathroom, where he still heard water running to fill the tub, he slid the window open and doubled over to step outside.
The flight of metal stairs had clearly been there for a very long time. Rand gave a fleeting thought to its maintenance as he went down. While he hadn’t seen anyone following them since they’d left France, he wasn’t taking any chances. It hadn’t been Interpol or the local police shooting at them. Whoever those guys were, they’d meant business. Maybe they’d presumed he and Dakota had been killed in the crash. Maybe. But whoever wanted him—them—dead would eventually figure out that they hadn’t been in the burning car. Then their pursuers would be back on the trail.
It surprised Rand that they hadn’t been apprehended at the prison. By the cops, by Interpol, by the guys who’d tried to ram them off the road in France. In their place, that’s what he would’ve done. Anyone who knew him must know that he’d show up to see his father eventually. It was just a matter of waiting, and he wondered why nobody had appeared yet. There’d been nothing on the news. Not anything he’d seen, anyway. Dakota had used her iPad to search the news online. Nothing.
He got to the bottom of the fire escape without incident. It had a tendency to shudder with every step he took, but it didn’t pull away from the wall of the hotel with his weight.
He dropped into the alley and went left. At the end was a quiet street. Not many parked cars, but enough should they need to make a speedy getaway. He slipped back into the alley and walked through it to the other end. The street on this end was filled with people, lights, noise, and vehicles. A crowded outdoor trattoria buzzed with activity.
Left would get them quiet and the option of boosting a car undetected. Right would get them bustling streets and noise to get lost in.
Satisfied, Rand retraced his steps and scaled the stairs back to the room. The water was no longer running, and he didn’t hear splashing. Concerned, he went to the door, tried the handle. The door was locked. There’d been a time when the door would’ve stood wide open in welcome; the bath had been one of his favorite places to make love to Dakota. “All right in there?”
“Terrific.” She splashed. “Go away.”
He went to look for a menu. She sounded more like herself. He put the image of her in the bathtub out of his mind. Wet skin, soft mouth. Pink nipples. Yeah, he didn’t have that picture indelibly imprinted on his synapses.
After ordering a light meal, he requested they bring a computer to the room. Just to torture himself, he’d asked Mancini for copies of the two videos. He wanted to see them again. Frame by fucking frame.
The computer arrived a good thirty minutes before she came out of the bathroom wrapped in a white hotel towel that bared her long legs and hugged her like a lover. Her skin glowed from the too-hot water she was so fond of.
Seeing her damp and dewy, flushed and relaxed from her bath, made his blood race pleasantly through his veins. His gaze traveled over the curve of her slender shoulders, dotted with pale freckles, the clearly defined muscles in her slender arms, and the plump swell of her breasts confined by the towel.
She was his wet dream come to life. While there were only a few feet between them physically, Rand knew there was a chasm and two years’ worth of pitfalls to trip them up.
Her hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head, long loose tendrils clinging to the water on her shoulders. “Where did that come from?” She jerked her head at the laptop on the desk in front of him as she secured the towel between her breasts.
She had gorgeous legs. Long, slender, and those too had well-defined muscles. His body burned. It took everything in him not to scoop her up, toss her on the bed, and say to hell with all of this.
“Hotel,” he told her shortly, sounding pissed as his frustration mounted.
Rand had never felt such urgent, unrelenting lust for a woman. But there was no way to ignore what was going on. Where they were and why. The questions kept coming like fucking speeding bullets, with no letup.
Sex right now would allow them to forget, but after the sweat on their skin dried, they’d still be at an impasse. Rand realized there was no way around, over, or under this one. The only thing they could do was go through it. He sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to the process.
She started rummaging around inside her bag on the foot of the bed. “See anything interesting?” she asked without inflection.
“Interesting viewing.” Sound on and sound off.
“Are
you going to just send me straight to the gallows, or will you hear me out?”
“I think I have a pretty good idea of what’s been going on.”
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. She might’ve been dressed from head to toe in armor instead of a skimpy towel tucked over her breasts. Her eyes were level, her tone cool as she said, “Then that’s that, isn’t it?”
FIFTEEN
He was impossible to read, with his arm slung casually over the back of the boudoir chair he’d pulled up to the small writing desk. Dakota couldn’t gauge his emotion at all. Why had he been so nice to her after he’d witnessed the videos? She knew she was innocent, but damn if she hadn’t second-guessed herself after watching that crap.
His gaze was steady, his lips unsmiling. He got to his feet, leaving the video of her at his parents’ house running.
“I’ll grab a quick shower. Get dressed, put your shoes on.”
“Why?” She cocked her head. “Am I going somewhere?”
“We don’t know who’s after us. I want to be ready to haul ass should anyone show up.” He walked toward the bathroom. Four steps was all it took, bringing him a foot away from where she stood.
Dakota braced herself as he reached out. Before he touched her face, he dropped his hand. “We’re going to untangle this damned Gordian knot. Together.” His voice was soft, but grim as he added, “One way or another.”
Her heart leaped. Did he not believe what the videos were telling him? “Rand—”
There was a knock at the door. He laid two fingers across her lips. “Save it. That’s room service.”
“Or cops or killers, or the paparazzi. Or all three.”
He smiled slightly. “Or spaghetti and meatballs.” He went to the door.
He let in the waiter with the cart, then tipped him and showed him out, turning off the computer as he passed the table. “This can wait until we’ve eaten.”
Dakota stood in the middle of the small room as the bathroom door closed behind him. God—she didn’t want to get her hopes up that for once someone believed what she’d been trying to tell anyone who’d listen for years.
