"I don't like being lied to," she said.
He stared at her with such intensity that she wanted to look away. "I won't lie to you again."
She held his gaze a moment longer, wondering what secrets he kept and why, wondering if those secrets had anything to do with the haunted look in his eyes. Needing to get out from under his discerning gaze, she let out a long, pent up breath and headed for the fireplace.
"I was hoping you'd be more interested in my trip to Siloam Springs than a one-on-one interrogation," he said.
She halted, her heart kicking in her chest. How was it that he managed to knock her off balance every time he opened his mouth? Slowly, she turned to face him. "I didn't know you'd gone."
“I took a red-eye. Spent the morning with your buddy Sheriff McEvoy. The afternoon at a little bar called McNinch's with a woman who'd worked with Agnes Beckett. I got back about an hour ago."
"What did you find out?"
Curiosity had her pulse racing as she went to the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. She returned to the living room to find Randall lighting the gas logs. She set his cup on the coffee table, then took the armchair opposite the sofa. "I want to know everything."
He sat across from her. "McEvoy wasn't the most cooperative public servant I've had the misfortune of working with, but I managed to get a look at the file. The police report states Agnes Beckett was murdered in the commission of a robbery. I don't buy it."
"Why?" Addison leaned forward, anticipation warring with dread. A small part of her didn't want to hear what he had to say next. The stronger, more logical side of her knew she must if she wanted to get to the bottom of this.
"Whoever killed her was smart enough to make it look like a robbery," he began. "The sheriff's department took an inventory of her place and found some items no petty thief would leave behind."
"Like what?"
"They left a twelve-inch color television in the bedroom. TVs sell like hot cakes at just about any pawn shop. They also found a few pieces of gold jewelry and a mason jar with just under two-hundred dollars in it. The jar was out of sight, but not hidden well enough to keep a robber from finding it."
"What did the thief take?"
"Her purse and what little jewelry she was wearing."
"Whatever was convenient." Visions of the murder scene flashed in the back of her mind. Steeling herself against the images, she forced her thoughts back to the matter at hand. "If the motive wasn't robbery, then what?"
"Whoever went in there that night didn't go in to steal. They went in to kill. A vagrant or local thief isn't going to go to the trouble of cutting the phone line. Not for twenty bucks and a cheap gold necklace. The bolt lock on the front door was either left unlocked or picked by someone who knew what they were doing."
"My god."
He sipped his coffee, watching Addison over the top of the glass. "Her place had been ransacked, yet the intruder left most of the valuables. The entire scenario makes me suspicious as hell."
Addison felt as though she'd stepped out of the safety of her own life, and into someone else's—someone she didn't necessarily know or trust. "But why? Why would someone kill Agnes Beckett? She lived in a mobile home in a small town. She didn't have any valuables."
"From what I've been able to find out about Beckett, she was the kind of woman who kept her door locked."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He grimaced. "You're not going to like it."
Her heart began to pound. "Don't hold out on me just because I might not like what you've got to say."
"I went to the bar where she worked."
"McNinch's." She remembered passing the bar the day she'd driven through town. High, brown grass. Torn canopy. The kind of place she would never venture.
"Agnes Beckett worked there as a waitress and barmaid. I spoke with one of the waitresses she worked with. A woman by the name of Dixie McGriff claimed to have known her pretty well."
Addison braced. "What did she tell you?"
"Up until a few years ago, Agnes Beckett was a prostitute."
* * *
Randall watched the blood drain from her face. Her eyes filled with denial and shock. She sat quietly, her mouth partially open, staring at him as if she were waiting for him to admit the words were all part of a cruel joke. For her sake he wished he could.
"My god." She stood abruptly. "Jesus."
He'd expected the news to shock her, but hadn't foreseen how badly. It had been a long time since he'd cared enough about someone else to worry about what they might be feeling. "Hey, Addison ..."
Crossing her arms protectively at her chest, she turned away from him. "Are you sure?"
"There's no mistake." He'd never been good at cushioning the truth, he realized, except perhaps for himself.
"A prostitute. Oh, God."
Before he could stop himself, Randall was on his feet. He reached for her and made her face him. "It doesn't mean anything." It was suddenly very important to him to make her believe the news didn't change who she was or lessen his respect for her in any way.
She raised dark, shimmering eyes to his. "Where did I come from? Who am I?"
"You're the same person you've always been. Those two people who raised you are the ones who shaped your life and made you who you are." Though he believed the words, he realized he had ventured into an area where even the doctors disagreed on whether traits were inherited or learned.
"Nothing that happens today or tomorrow can change who you are, who you've always been."
Realizing he was gripping her wrists, he released her. The sudden loss of contact made him acutely aware of how warm her skin was, how badly he'd wanted to touch her. She was standing so close he could smell her hair, that exotic mix of citrus and musk that made him dizzy every time he was near her. It was a crazy thought, but he suddenly wanted to bury his hands in that dark, wild hair, draw her to him, and kiss away the pain in her eyes.
Unaware of the war raging inside him, Addison swept a trembling hand across her forehead and let out a shaky breath. "Where does this leave us, for God's sake? How does this tie in with what happened to her? With what happened to Jim?"
"Jim—this lawyer—do you know if he handled your adoption?" he asked.
"I don't know. There was no mention of an attorney on any of the documents I've seen."
"If he did, then his murder ties in with your adoption."
"But why would he keep something like that from me when he knew I was looking?"
"I think .the answer to that question is locked away in a file sealed by adoption and confidentiality laws. A file someone doesn't want you to find." Randall studied her face, liking what he saw, wanting badly to touch her, but knowing it would only lead to disaster. "A file that contains information someone is willing to go to great lengths to keep from coming to light."
"Information worth killing two innocent people for?" she asked.
"Maybe. It looks that way."
"Who?"
He shrugged. "That's what we need to find out."
She pressed her hand against her stomach, "My biological father?"
"That was my initial reaction. We have to take the possibility seriously." The thought of someone wanting to hurt her sent a quiver through his gut. For the first time, he wondered just how wise it was for her to continue this search. She was a decent person who still believed people were basically good. He didn't want to see that belief tarnished. He didn't want to see her hurt. He sure as hell didn't want anything to do with the lofty task of keeping her safe.
The notion that he was starting to care about what happened to her made him want to pull back and recoup. Even as he felt himself spiraling toward her, drawn by the most fundamental of needs, another side of him struggled for distance. Caring for a woman in Denver was dangerous business when he would be moving back to D.C. in a few short weeks. Especially when her eyes knocked him for a loop every time she looked at him.
Randall had always prid
ed himself .on his ability to keep his male instincts in check. So what if he was attracted to her? He could handle his hormones. He wasn't the kind of man a woman like Addison Fox would consider a relationship with, anyway. He didn't have relationships. He didn't get emotionally involved. Certainly not with a woman who did most of her thinking with her heart.
Unless, of course, it was just sex.
"Sit down," he said. “We need to talk."
Her eyes swept to his, and she studied him from beneath long lashes. "Look, Talbot, if you're trying to bow out gracefully, now is the time. I don't need you to finish this."
He guided her to the loveseat. "I hate to undermine that unscrupulous image you've drawn of me, but I'm not going anywhere until this is finished."
Lowering herself to the cushion, she drew her legs beneath her and curled like a cat. "I can't afford you indefinitely."
"I'll work for expenses." The words tumbled out before he could stop them. Damaging words his brother would probably kill him for later. But it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that money had absolutely nothing to do with his reasons for wanting to help her.
"Can you find the person responsible for this?" she asked.
"I can try. But I'll need your cooperation. Do you think you can handle that?"
"Coming from you, I'm sure that's a trick question."
"You'll have to agree to my terms."
"What terms?"
Randall liked the stubborn set of her mouth and the way she raised her chin every time he pissed her off. He wondered if she could kiss as well as she argued.
Forcing his mind back to the business at hand, he said, "Look, Addison, I'm not sure what you've stumbled into, but it's serious and apparently dangerous. Not only for you, but for the people around you and anyone involved in your adoption. I want you to understand that fully before we delve any more deeply into this."
She seemed to sink more deeply into the cushions. Reaching for a pillow, she hugged it against her. "What terms, Talbot?"
He studied the shadows of fatigue marring the porcelain skin beneath her eyes. She didn't look as though she'd slept much in the last couple of days. He wondered how well she would hold up if things got really rough. "Until I figure out what's going on, I don't want you to be alone. I don't want you staying here alone."
"You're serious?"
He'd expected an argument, and he was prepared. "You can stay with somebody until this is over."
"Just in case you need a reminder, I'm missing some vital components of the family structure. No siblings. No parents."
"What about friends?" Discomfort flickered in her eyes, and for the first time he realized how very alone she was—and how much that disturbed her.
"My best friend is sixty-two years old with a daughter about to give birth to twins," she said. "Albeit she keeps a double-barrel shotgun next to her bed, I can't ask her to baby-sit me."
"A shotgun?" Had-the situation not been so dire, he would have laughed.
"She's from Missouri,” she added, as if every grandmother from Missouri wielded enough lead and gunpowder to blast a man in half. "Besides, I plan on taking an active role in this investigation."
"Active role, huh?" His hackles rose. "We're not talking about a purse snatching. We're talking about murder. An active role might just get you killed.”
She met his glare in kind. "You're working for me, remember?"
"I guess that settles it."
''I guess it does."
"You'll have to stay with me."
Indignation flashed in her eyes. "You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"
"You have no idea." He admired her tenacity. It didn't help matters that she was so damn good to look at. He wondered if she had any idea what she was up against or how drastically this could change her life. "Jack and I can take rotating shifts. Those are my terms."
Ignoring the protest in her eyes, he looked around, taking in the room. The apartment possessed the bold character of the fifties modernized by clean, contemporary lines and a touch of feminine clutter. The red plaid loveseat and sofa were separated by an antique chest that served as a coffee table. Above the fireplace, a Matisse abstract flared in red and black and hues of gray. A slightly worn wool rug softened the hardwood floors and gave the entire room a sense of warmth and comfort.
The apartment spoke volumes about her. From the galley style kitchen with its incessant aromas of coffee and spices to the bathroom with its pink heart soaps and frilly hand towels. It was her home. Her refuge from the world.
A place where she was no longer safe.
"I don't want you at the coffee shop, either." He wondered how in the hell he was going to work the case and keep his eye on her at the same time. He and Jack would just have to work it out.
"I've got a business to run," she said levelly. "I can't just close the shop. I need to be at the shop."
"You'll be closed for the next couple of days, anyway."
"Look, I'm not going to put my life on hold for a suspicion that's unfounded at this point," she tossed back. "We don't even know for sure if this is all connected, much less that he's coming after me."
"He's already come after you at the shop. Beckett is dead. Bernstein is dead. Come on, Ace. You're smart enough to know when you're out of your league."
Her chin went up, but he knew she was about to concede. "I hate this."
"So do I. We've got to deal with it."
"Dammit." She released a frustrated breath. "I'll keep the shop closed for a few days."
"Good girl"
"But only until my equipment is replaced."
Randall shook his head. He wasn't sure if the reality of her situation—or the inherent dangers of it—had penetrated that stubborn brain of hers yet, but he knew it would. He wanted to make sure he was there for her when it did.
* * *
Over take-out fried ride and egg rolls, Addison and Randall sat at her dining room table and pored over the file of papers she’d accumulated while searching for her birth parents. There were legal adoption papers. A copy of her amended birth certificate. Correspondence from Jim Bernstein.
"If Bernstein had additional documents in his office, we'll need to get copies." Randall stretched, revealing his shoulder holster and pistol.
It was as if the gun was an extension of the man, Addison thought. Hard. Dangerous. Studying him, she realized she wasn't quite sure if she was relieved or dismayed that he'd decided to stick around. True, she needed his help. But on the other hand, she didn't like him telling her what to do. She didn't want him stepping into her life and telling her how to run it.
She'd called Gretchen and relayed the news of Jim Bernstein's death. Her efforts not to alarm her friend were in vain. Had it not been for Gretchen's baby-waiting assignment, combined with the fact that her son-in-law was out of town, she would have rushed over like a retired guard dog thrust back into the line of duty. The thought made Addison smile.
"How long will it be before Jack can tell us something?" she asked, shoving her plate aside.
Randall smiled, as if the thought of his brother tapping away on the keyboard amused him. "Computer crimes take time." A dimple appeared on his right cheek when his smile deepened. "He'll be at it all night."
Refusing to let herself be charmed, she rose and collected their plates. Now wasn't the time to start noticing dimples, for God's sake. It was bad enough that she was starting to like his smile.
He followed her to the kitchen, pausing at the door. "Addison."
She looked up from the sink. He was leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed at his chest, watching her.
Finishing the plate, she faced him, thankful she had the towel to keep her hands busy. What was it about Randall Talbot that had her acting like a nervous cat?
"You mentioned earlier that your parents were killed in a car accident," he said.
Apprehension danced in her chest. "That's right. It happened about ten months ago."
; "Did your father or mother know who your biological parents were?"
The implication sliced her like a blade. The thought that followed was unfathomable. She leaned against the counter. "You don't think ..."
He approached her, placing his hands gently on her upper arms. "We need to talk about that. I need to ask you some questions."
"About the accident?"
He nodded. "How much do you know?"
The Perfect Victim Page 11
