Deadly Secrets

by Ann Christopher

  What could Kerry do with that fucking student loan monkey off his back and a doubled salary?

  First thing? Pay off his grandmother’s uninsured medical expenses.

  Get her a decent car.

  Tell her she could finally retire from her cafeteria lady job.

  Then he could buy a great car. Like Kareem’s.

  Best of all, Kerry would no longer be the poor stepchild among his doctor colleagues, the one who held his breath every time it was his turn to buy a round of drinks and the server swiped his credit card. Back here in Cincinnati, where the cost of living was so much cheaper? With that kind of money?

  Kerry would be first among equals. Oh, yes, he certainly would.

  “I’m not trying to lose my license,” he told Kareem. “I worked too hard for it.”

  “Why don’t you have a little faith in me?” Kareem asked. “You think I’m about to do anything to get either of us in trouble? Don’t you know I’m smarter than that?”

  Kerry hesitated, staring at his grandmother’s face.

  Even with a new kidney, how much time did she have left? How many good years would she have to take little trips with her church group? Didn’t she deserve the money to be able to do that? Hadn’t she earned a couple years of fun and pleasure after a lifetime of backbreaking work?

  Wouldn’t it be nice if Kerry could give her something for once?

  “I’m a doctor, K.J. That’s my main job. Anything else would always be secondary.”

  If Kareem noticed that Kerry was now talking logistics rather than possibilities, he didn’t give anything away, but that was the thing about Kareem. He never gave anything away.

  Maybe the gleam in Kareem’s eyes was a little more intense than usual, his stance a little more watchful, but Kerry chose to ignore those details. The same way he let magical thinking convince him that it made perfect sense for a guy who ran an auto-detailing business to be making the kind of money Kareem made. The same way he wrestled his gut-level doubts about Kareem’s honesty into a trunk, locked it and ate the key.

  That voice was still there, though.

  Don’t do it, it said, a little angel on his shoulder.

  But in this one crucial moment, when Kerry’s life could have gone the right way, the moral way, or the way that would eat up his soul and steal his peace forever, Kerry demonstrated that he was book smart but otherwise every bit as stupid as his loser father.

  Instead of telling Kareem to go fuck himself and take his kidney with him, Kerry flicked that angel off his shoulder and mashed it beneath the foot that would soon be wearing thousand-dollar custom Italian loafers, just like Kareem’s.

  “I’ll think about it,” he told Kareem.

  Kareem dimpled, a flash of poorly disguised triumph in his eyes.

  “I don’t want you to worry,” he said. “Leave everything to me.”

  “Don’t do it, man,” Kerry muttered fretfully.

  “Kerry? You dreaming?”

  “Don’t do it. Don’t—”

  “Wake up, Kerry. You’re dreaming.”

  Kerry shifted restlessly, trying to get comfortable. The problem? His temple was pressed up against something hard and flat.

  “Kerry? We’re here.”

  Shit. Jayne. Her house.

  “I’m up.” The lingering resident in him, the one who’d survived years of grueling work on stolen catnaps, got his adrenalin pumping. “I’m up.”

  Wide awake now, he jerked away from the window. Unfortunately, the abrupt movement resulted in the addition of number eighty-nine to his body’s list of aches and pains: a savage pinched nerve in his neck. He winced.

  Kareem was gone, though. Thank God.

  And Kerry had a place to stay for the night.

  How he’d wound up here, as the guest of the woman who’d spent the last several months deciding whether or not to prosecute him, he still couldn’t understand.

  She’d offered. He’d declined. They’d argued.

  She’d won.

  Now here he was, rolling up to her place like an honored guest at the nearest Mandarin Oriental, and he’d sooner go another round with Kareem than endure a second bout with her razor-sharp temper and legal mind anytime soon.

  He’d discovered a couple interesting things about her. Namely that she didn’t mince words. Didn’t back down. And if someone in the crowd was going to take the easy way out of a dicey situation (his foolish younger self came to mind), it’d never be Jayne.

  Why was that so intriguing—and troubling? He looked out the window, dying to learn everything he could about where a woman like Jayne lived. He recognized the area, with its grand old houses, mature trees and lush lawns right away.

  “East Walnut Hills, eh?”

  “Yeah.” She parked in front of a stone house with a turret, awnings and flower boxes everywhere. “Home sweet home.”

  Kerry unbuckled and got out, his heart rate kicking pleasantly higher. Now that the ibuprofen had kicked in and dialed his pain back, he saw the world with new eyes.

  The neighborhood was in full summer day swing, with kids screeching somewhere down the street. A dog barked. Sprinklers sprinkled. The smell of cut grass infused everything. It was hot, with the sun’s withering rays taking aim at his head. He smoothed the bottom of his T-shirt, appreciating its cottony softness.

  Thanks to his near-death experience, he appreciated everything.

  Jayne’s hospitality most of all.

  Catching himself gaping like an Oklahoma tourist visiting Times Square for the first time, he tried to pull it together before Jayne noticed. Too late. He glanced across the top of the car to find her watching him with a smile.

  “Nice neighborhood,” he said.

  “Pretty day, huh?”

  He thought back to where he’d been two nights ago…to the rain, the agony and the terror.

  “It’s a great day.”

  They gathered their plastic bags and headed for the side door.

  “I didn’t mean to pass out on you,” he said.

  “You’re allowed.”

  He came up behind her as she opened the screen door and hesitated, just for a second, with her key poised at the lock. He was going to ask if she was okay when she shot him a troubled glance over her shoulder.

  He stiffened because he got it.

  She was an assistant U.S. attorney who’d probably be in a shitload of trouble if anyone knew that her houseguest was a criminal and a criminal informant. A woman who’d invited a man she didn’t know very well to spend the night alone with her in her apartment.

  Vulnerable much?

  She was taking a huge leap of faith by trusting him.

  This chance—this audition to be a worthy guy—meant the world to him. Did she get that? Would she understand if he told her that he’d never take her good will for granted and never abuse the privilege?

  “I’m not carrying,” he said.

  She turned to look him fully in the face. “I know.”

  Whoa.

  Her eyes, man.

  Dark brown and huge, with a heavy fringe of lashes and arched black brows. Those eyes were sharp, intelligent and kind. They always sparkled, and usually, but not always—not now—shone with amusement.

  Those eyes demanded attention.

  He blinked and focused, rewinding her response. “How do you know I’m not carrying?”

  “It’d be hard for you to carry when you were unconscious and the EMTs cut your clothes off.”

  “And your stuff is safe with me. I would never—”

  She looked aghast. “Of course it is. You’re not a thief.”

  Her outrage made his head spin and nearly knocked him flat. And while her faith in his gentlemanly instincts was deeply gratifying—a fine money launderer such as himself would never stoop to the common criminality of, say, stealing someone’s financial information from their file cabinet—it raised the question. What had he ever done to deserve this benefit of the doubt from her?

  He c
ouldn’t begin to hide his bewilderment. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

  Ah, there it was again. That hint of amusement that made the corners of her eyes turn up and all his nerve endings stand at attention.

  “Should I be?”

  “No,” he said, unable to keep the fervency from his voice. “I never hurt anyone. Ever.”

  “Well. There you go.”

  She turned back to the lock.

  He still wasn’t satisfied. If anything, he was more curious than ever. More determined to hear her answers. How did she know he wasn’t lying? How did she know he wasn’t as good a liar as Kareem?

  “I could be just like Kareem for all you know, Jayne.”

  That stopped her cold. She glanced back over her shoulder, a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

  “You’re not like Kareem. That much I do know. He was Michael Corleone. He lost his soul and killed people. You’re Tom Hagen. You were just the consigliere.”

  He gaped at her. “You’re putting me in The Godfather now?”

  “It’s appropriate,” she said, shrugging.

  “Maybe Kareem and I were both Michael Corleone. Did you ever think of that? Maybe we both lost our souls.”

  Why he was so determined to open the eyes of the one person, other than Kira, who’d had faith in him in the last, oh, ten years, was anybody’s guess.

  She stared at him. Tipped her head, considering.

  “Maybe you’re right. But if you lost your soul, you got it back when you almost died.” Her gaze was direct. Unwavering. Untroubled. “Didn’t you?”

  Damn straight he did.

  His throat tightened, locking his words behind a wall of emotion that he’d need a harness, some rope and a pickax to climb over. She couldn’t know that she was gifting him with something more precious than platinum or diamonds, and he had no way of telling her.

  “How do you know I’m not like Kareem?”

  The entire balance of his life seemed to hang on her answer.

  “I wish I knew,” she said helplessly, turning away to unlock the door.

  20

  “Okay, so here’s the nickel tour.” Jayne let him in and set a brisk pace through the foyer and down the hallway. She felt the sudden, pressing need to put some distance between them. Probably because the unexpected convergence of her professional and private lives was throwing her for a loop, and because Kerry had read her mind just now.

  What the hell was she doing, letting a complete stranger stay here? She only grudgingly let her mother and sister stay when they came to town (she liked her space, let’s face it), so what was up with this sudden charitable impulse toward a man who made her pulse skitter?

  A man who, if she’d had her way a few days ago, would be facing federal felony charges?

  Long years in the criminal trenches had taught her to be suspicious of everyone. Especially the criminals. Which he was. So why weren’t alarm bells shrieking in her head? Why wasn’t she warier? Wasn’t the absence of alarm a reason to be alarmed?

  But she wasn’t alarmed.

  She was…intrigued.

  Unwillingly and unhappily intrigued, but still intrigued.

  Insane, right?

  She needed to shake off the rising agitation and the persistent prickle of awareness between her shoulder blades. Kerry Randolph spending a night in her apartment wasn’t a whole big thing, and it didn’t have to get weird unless she made it weird.

  “Guest bedroom-office-home gym.” She pointed into the large room where he’d be staying. The bed actually looked nice, with the duvet fluffed and the decorator pillows nicely placed. The treadmill, on the other hand, served as a clothes rack for her dry cleaning (it had no other role in her life, to be honest), so she’d have to take care of that. “I’ll get rid of those clothes later.”

  “It’s fine.” He peeked into the room with avid interest.

  “Oh, and it has its own bathroom through there.”

  “Great.” He went in, set his bags on the bed and approvingly smoothed one of the pillows before rejoining her in the hall.

  She led him to the next doorway. “My bedroom.”

  He looked, noting the king-sized Shaker bed, comfy reading chairs and antique TV cabinet. She, meanwhile, noted the way something in his expression tightened up as he studied the room.

  “Nice,” he said, a faint frown marring his forehead.

  “Right.” She hesitated, never knowing what to make of his sudden stillnesses, frowns or thoughtful glances. If he wanted another big moneymaking enterprise of questionable legality, he should head to Vegas for some poker tournaments. He’d be a natural. “And here’s the kitchen and living room.”

  He looked around and up, absorbing the tall windows, ceilings and general airiness of the huge, open space. The kitchen was new and high end. In the living room, she had a Pottery Barn sectional sofa with a bunch of side tables and lamps to go with it.

  “Beautiful, Jayne.”

  “Thanks,” she said, feeling an unwarranted surge of pleasure.

  “My old apartment was dark. Very severe and modern.”

  “Right. A bachelor’s man cave.”

  “Exactly. This is better. I like the light. I feel like I can relax.”

  “That’s exactly what you need to do,” she said, setting the groceries down and washing her hands. “You have time to go lie down if you— What’re you doing?”

  He’d already kicked off his shoes, gingerly stretched out on the sofa and pulled down the cashmere throw. He heaved a contented sigh loud enough to rattle the windows.

  “I’m lying down. You told me to put my feet up.”

  “In the bed. You should be in bed.”

  “Nah. This is better. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “What’s to miss? Me shucking corn for dinner?”

  He shrugged, eyes alight with amusement.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “You’ll pass out from boredom in two minutes. Mark my words. Do you want something to drink? Iced tea? Lemonade? Orange juice?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Water? Don’t want you to get dehydrated.”

  “Don’t fuss.”

  “How’s the pain?”

  “I reiterate: don’t fuss.”

  “I’m supposed to be the nurse here,” she grumbled, reaching into the bag for the corn.

  “You should boil it,” he said.

  “I’m going to grill it.”

  “Boil it, then shuck it. The silk comes off easier.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Aren’t you full of surprises?”

  “That’s nothing. I can work miracles with a Crock-Pot.”

  Her ears perked up.

  While other girls went nuts for diamonds, she lost her head over home cooking every time.

  “No way,” she said. “I was planning to make Crock-Pot oatmeal for breakfast.”

  “Make sure you add cinnamon and apples.”

  She grinned. “Well, if you’re such a great cook, maybe you should make dinner.”

  “Ah, but I’m the honored guest.”

  “I never said honored.”

  “The honored was implied.”

  She burst into unexpected laughter, and that was when it happened.

  He laughed.

  It didn’t last long, but what it lacked in length it more than made up for in beauty. Throaty and unabashed, it caused his eyes to turn up at the corners, dimples to appear and white teeth to flash. Best of all, it came with the kind of addictive smile that lit up a room.

  She stopped laughing and tried to ignore the way that smile made her heart thud. Because she hadn’t signed up for this. Helping someone who’d earned a second chance at life? Yeah, sure, fine. Feeling this…this…thing in the dead center of her chest when she looked at Kerry Randolph?

  Not cool, God. Not cool at all.

  That must be what was going on here. Some sort of cosmic joke on the foolish girl who’d already spent yea
rs trying to break free of a male criminal—namely, her father. Because Kerry, in addition to being a pardoned felon (and wasn’t that bad enough?), was a mess. No job. No apartment. Few prospects, although he’d kept his medical license by the skin of his teeth. He was bruised and stitched, just this side of dead, with hollowed-out eyes, a five o’clock shadow that was heading into werewolf territory with each passing hour and probably an incubating case of PTSD after his years spent with Kareem and the other night’s ordeal.

  He was, in short, the sort of disastrous bad boy that should send any sane woman (and Jayne was nothing if not sane) screaming and running in the opposite direction.

  And yet…

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he said, that glorious smile swallowed up by the shadows that overtook his face again. “I’ll cook next time.”

  The implication that there’d be a next time did not help her shaky equilibrium. So she nodded and turned away, making a production about setting the water to boil.

  “I’m good for peeling potatoes or something,” Kerry said.

  “What?”

  “Are we having potatoes?”

  Distracted as she was, Jayne didn’t think to filter her words. “We’re having grilled veggies. I’m trying to stay away from white starches right now. Too many points.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Brilliant, moron.

  “I’m trying to lose weight,” she admitted, embarrassed.

  She ducked her head as she reached for the cutting board.

  He didn’t answer, which she felt was rather rude.

  The thing to do when a woman said she was dieting, as any fool could tell you, was to express astonishment and swear that the woman didn’t need to lose much or any weight. Both parties involved would know it was a lie, but what about all the precious egos that could be saved if people just stuck to this simple guideline?

  She opened her mouth to tell him so, and was struck dumb to discover him staring at her face.

  Not looking.

  Staring.

  That intent gaze locked on to her eyes. Touched her lips. Skimmed her body.

  A ruddy flush crept over his face just as a wave of awareness prickled over her skin.

  The silence became lengthy…pregnant…charged.

  “Not a fan of diets?” she asked, her voice unexpectedly hoarse.