She wondered if they'd been murdered for the knowledge they'd possessed. "You've done your homework," she said.
"Crash course on the Internet." He paused. "Did your father know Jim Bernstein back then?"
''They went to college together.” The connection tightened, solidified in her mind. "You think Jim handled the adoption?"
"I'll bet the farm he did."
"There's got to be a paper trail."
"If there is, we'll find it."
Addison stared at him, fear and outrage taking turns punching her. "I hate this. I hate not knowing who or why. I need to know who's behind this. And I need to know why. I want them to pay."
"Don't get impatient on me, Ace."
A sudden gust of wind hammered against the windows, driving the snow against the glass so hard it sounded like tiny stones. She started, looked uneasily over her shoulder.
"We're safe here,” Randall said.
Embarrassed by her reaction, she turned back to him.
He held her gaze, his eyes dark with concern. “I won't let anything happen to you.”
"I know," she said, trying to ignore the fear and frustration pumping through her. "What do we do next?"
"Our first priority is to keep you safe." He slid the first aid kit onto the table between them and opened it. ''That means you're going to have to listen to me." When she started to protest, he raised a silencing hand. "You're going to have to trust me. If I tell you to pack your bags and check into a hotel for a few days, you're going to do it without question. If I tell you to stay with Jack or me for a few days, you're going to do it. No arguments. No questions."
''That's not going to help us find the person responsible."
"It'll keep you alive."
"You're hedging. You haven't told me our game plan. What we do next. How I can help."
His eyes hardened to cold steel, telling her in no uncertain terms that he was the one in charge. ''Trust runs both ways, Addison. I have to be able to trust you. I have to know you're not going to do something stupid in an attempt to nail this guy."
"Oh, for Pete's sake, I'm not going to do anything to jeopardize—”
"You're letting your emotions do your thinking."
Frustrated and angry, she started to rise, but he reached out and stopped her. "Getting to the bottom of this is going to take some time. Don't get impatient on me."
She glared at him. "Don't hold out on me."
"That works both ways."
She sank back to the floor.
Randall withdrew a tube of antibiotic ointment from the kit and came around the coffee table to kneel in front of her. "Jack's working on gaining access to your adoption records."
He squeezed a small amount onto his finger. "If we can get the file Bernstein was holding on you released without going through the courts, that might help. In the meantime, you're going to have to lie low."
"What about my shop?" she asked, a sudden, wrenching jolt of despair spearing through her.
"Hold still." Leaning close to her, he spread the ointment gently over the cut on her cheek. ''That branch cut you pretty good. Does it hurt?"
She made a sound of frustration. "I need to be at the shop. It's my livelihood. It's not like I'm independently wealthy."
"Someone has declared open season on you," he snapped. "You're a sitting duck at the shop and you know it."
Dread lay heavy in the pit of her stomach at the thought of how drastically her life was going to change. The worst of it was that it wall out of her control, and she was powerless to stop it.
Needing to move, to expel some of the negative energy winding up inside her, Addison rose and began to pace. Her shoulder was beginning to ache dully, its intensity matched only by the ointment stinging the side of her face. "Damn," she said as much from the pain as from the frustration billowing through her. "I can't stand not being in control of my own life. I can't stand it that somebody else is calling all the shots."
Randall rose and crossed to her. "The coming days aren't going to be easy. But if we play our cards smart, we'll win this. We'll finish it."
"How can you have so much faith?" she said angrily. "Someone could simply run us off the road tomorrow and no one would ever know it wasn't an accident. Just like my parents."
"That's not going to happen," he said fiercely.
"If someone wants me dead, how can you—"
"They're going to have to go through me to get to you."
In that instant, something shifted between them. No longer was he the indifferent private detective. No longer was she merely a paying client. In the span of a second, he'd transformed into a man and she into a woman with emotions and needs they had recognized and unwittingly acknowledged in each other's presence.
"I believe you," she whispered.
The flickering yellow light from the fire softened the hard angles of his face, easing the rigid set of the mouth that had kissed her so thoroughly just a few hours earlier. The harshness in his eyes had been replaced with something more elusive and much more unnerving. It was desire she saw flaring, as bright and hot as the fire, and she silently cursed herself for acknowledging it.
Randall moved toward her, reaching out. She jumped when his fingers encircled her upper arms. She wanted to stop what was about to happen. A tiny voice in the back of her mind urged her to put a stop to the insanity, to back away and try to forget that he was the only man she'd ever met with the power to make her heart pound.
But Addison held her ground, all the while her body vibrated with anticipation. She sighed when he pulled her against him. Her arms went around his neck. A shiver swept the length of her when her breasts brushed against the hard planes of his chest. The heat of his breath whispered against her cheek. The scent of his aftershave titillated her senses. Tilting her head, she searched out his gaze, found it locked on hers with an intensity that made her knees go weak.
She murmured his name, wondering in the back of her mind where all of this was going to lead. She wanted to close her eyes, to give herself over to this man who besieged her senses and shattered her resolve.
Before she could take a breath, his mouth swooped down and covered hers. One of his hands went to the back of her head and he deepened the kiss. His teeth clicked against hers. She opened to him, tasted male heat and desire, felt it intoxicate her like a drug. She accepted his tongue, offering her own. Arousal trembled through her. She closed her eyes, shaken by its fierce power, and kissed him back with an urgency that came from a place inside her she'd never dared to explore.
* * *
Randall could barely hear the storm outside over the blood pounding in his ears. It pooled in his groin, making him ache with an urgency that verged on insanity. He wanted this woman with an intensity he'd never experienced.
He wasn't exactly sure when it had happened, but he definitely wasn't in control of the situation any longer. Perhaps he'd only been fooling himself to think he'd ever been.
He marveled at the way her body fit so perfectly against his. He was aware of her arms around his neck, her breasts against his chest, her ragged breaths in his ear. He wanted her closer, wanted her beneath him. He wanted to get inside her. The need drove into him like the sharply honed tip of a sword. And he knew he would sell his soul for the opportunity to lose himself inside that pretty body of hers.
But the timing couldn't have been worse. She was his responsibility now whether he wanted it or not. Until he figured out who was trying to kill her, he couldn't risk letting his guard down. Neither of them could afford to become personally involved at a time when they were both at their most vulnerable. That she had no idea just how screwed up his life was didn't help matters. He hadn't told her about his post-traumatic stress disorder. He hadn't told her he would be leaving for D.C. in a few weeks. Or that he was pretty sure he was an alcoholic.
The impossibility of the situation struck him hard. He told himself it didn't matter. They had tonight. A few hours. He wanted sex, not a vow of love. B
ut something inside him didn't want to settle for that with Addison. With some surprise, he realized he respected her too much to use her.
Blowing out a sigh of frustration, Randall broke the kiss and held her at arm's length while his vision cleared. She stared at him, her dilated pupils and the color in her cheeks clearly revealing that the kiss had shaken her as thoroughly as it had him.
For a split second, he was tempted to scoop her into his arms and take her right there on the floor, his conscience be damned. Fleetingly, he imagined what she might feel like beneath him. Soft. Warm. He wondered how her nipples would feel against his palms. He wondered if the kiss had aroused her, if she was wet between her legs.
His body wanted sex, hungered for it. But his intellectual side knew he owed her more than just the release of an orgasm. He wasn't sure why he felt that way. His conscience had never bothered him before when it came to women. But he supposed he'd never met a woman like Addison Fox.
"We need to talk." His hands were shaking, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.
"That's funny coming from you at a moment like this."
He tried to smile, but the need hammering through him wouldn't allow it. Unsettled, he raised his hands and cupped her face. "You don't know me, Addison. I'm not the man you think I am."
"You're not going to make some kind of a bizarre confession, are you, Talbot?"
"I'm trying to talk you out of making a mistake."
Her eyes grew cautious. "Define mistake."
"Sleeping with me." The words made him grimace. "I'll only end up hurting you."
"I'm a grown woman. I know what I'm doing."
"You're vulnerable."
"Maybe I'm not the only one who's vulnerable," she said gently.
He wanted to laugh it off, but her words had hit close to home. He didn't want to want her. But, God help him, he wasn't a good enough man to walk away.
Sliding his hands through her hair, he marveled at the silky feel of it against his palms. He wanted to kiss her. The need was like a wild animal trapped inside him, clawing him, tearing him up inside. But the cold reality of his situation refused to leave him alone.
Goddammit, he didn't want to be in this position.
Placing his hands on either side of her face, he rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. "I've got something to tell you."
Addison pulled back slightly and gazed steadily at him, her expression perplexed and very serious. "Okay. I'm a good listener."
Randall had known this moment would come. He should have been prepared, but he wasn't. He told himself it didn't matter what she thought of him—he would be gone in a few weeks. But he knew better. Her opinion of him mattered. Mattered a hell of a lot more than he wanted it to.
"Sit down," he said.
Watching him, she sank to a sitting position and leaned against the front of the sofa. Randall sat down beside her and draped his arm around her shoulders. He hadn't realized how difficult this was going to be. The old pain was like a rock in his chest.
"Jack told you I worked for the National Transportation Safety Board, didn't he?"
She nodded.
"For the last twelve years, I've been a crash site investigator. I worked my way through the ranks. I was good at it. Damn good." He hesitated, uncertain, hating what he was about to say next, hating that the words made him feel so damn vulnerable. "Five months ago I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder."
She gazed at him, unfazed. "I know of the disorder. One of my regulars at the shop was in Afghanistan. He's the vice president of an architecture firm two blocks over."
"It's a common affliction for soldiers who've seen action."
"I can't imagine the horror of a plane crash.”
"I always thought I was immune." He let out a self-deprecating laugh. ''That's why I was so good at what I did. I didn't get shaken up like most people. I didn't puke on my shoes, or have nightmares. I was too damn arrogant to even consider the possibility that I wasn't strong enough to handle the job."
"The disorder doesn't have anything to do with strength."
"Maybe. Maybe you're right. I don't know." He paused, grimaced. "For five years I denied the symptoms. I refused to see them, even though deep down inside I knew something was wrong. I told myself I was just burned out. Tired. I took some time off. Came here, to the mountains, and went camping with Jack. I started drinking. But it didn't help. Then last year, I got assigned the Allegiance Air crash in Minneapolis."
"My god. I remember it," she said. "Over two hundred—"
''Two hundred and fourteen men, women, and children." He gazed into the fire, remembering. God, how he hated remembering. It never ceased to amaze him how his mind could conjure up smells and sights and sounds and terrify him all over again.
"My team and I worked the first twenty-four hours around the clock. Not unusual for a crash like that, but I was tired. It was cold as hell. Rain coming down in sheets. I was hung over. I just stood there looking at what was left of that jet, of people's lives. Bodies. Toys. Jesus Christ." He broke off, felt the cold sweat on his neck, his heart racing in his chest.
Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to continue. "After thirty-six hours, I fucking lost it. I broke down in front of my team. I sank down in the mud and cried like a goddamn baby."
"Oh, Randall—"
“That was the beginning of the end. After that, I merely went through the motions. I drank every day. I lost my integrity. My self-respect. My team lost respect for me. Eventually, I got reported." Humiliation burned like lava in his gut. "I got written up a dozen times before my superior did something about it.
"But I couldn't let go of that crash." Revulsion and nausea rushed over him as he remembered. "I started having flashbacks. I stopped sleeping to avoid the nightmares. I started hitting the bottle to forget. But the booze only led to blackouts. The blackouts led to lost days. I knew I was in trouble, but by then I didn't give a damn."
Raking an unsteady hand through his hair he faced her, looking for signs of pity, of disgust. To his surprise, he saw only compassion—and respect. The realization shook him so thoroughly that for a moment he didn't trust his voice to speak.
"When I stopped being effective in the field, my superiors sent me to the company shrink. Six weeks later, I was diagnosed and put on mandatory leave."
It had been the lack of control that bothered him most. Control over his career. Over the will of his own mind. It was that same lack of control that had eaten away at him every time he picked up a bottle and broke the seal.
"You came to Denver," she said.
"Jack and I grew up here."
"Has time away from the job helped?"
"I honestly don't know. The flashbacks have ceased. But I still have an occasional nightmare."
"It's not wrong or weak for someone to break under those kinds of conditions. There should be no shame in what happened to you."
"I'm probably an alcoholic." He watched her carefully as he spoke, trying to gauge her reaction, and keep his own in check. "I don't know."
"You didn't open that bottle of cognac today."
"I wanted to. Goddammit, I wanted to open that bottle so badly I could taste it."
"But you didn't. That's what's important."
"Alcoholism doesn't go away, Addison. Not ever."
"Have you considered going to AA?" she asked.
"I've thought about it."
"What about counseling? I mean, for the post-traumatic stress disorder?"
"I see a guy, a psychiatrist, at the university in Boulder once a month. He's a Vietnam vet. He knows what it's like."
He forced a smile that felt brittle on his face. "Didn't know you were hooking up with a nutcase, did you?"
Randall jolted when she reached out and brushed' her fingertips along his cheek. "You may not believe in yourself," she said softly. "But I do."
He stared at her, wondering if she'd heard what he'd just told her, if the warning to stay away f
rom him had registered in her brain. He wished she'd use her head and back off before his resistance caved.
"You've got some issues to deal with, Randall. But those issues do not change who you are. They don't change what kind of man you are. They don't change what's in your heart. And they certainly don't change the way I think of you."
Those were the last words he'd expected to hear. His chest tightened unexpectedly with the knowledge. that she still believed in him. "I drink too much," he said hoarsely. "I stay up for days at a time. I have a nasty temper. I have nightmares, goddammit."
The Perfect Victim Page 16
