Junior coughed and choked and breathed again, panting heavily. And seething with resentment as he eyed his father.
“I didn’t do a thing. I swear it,” he choked out. “You’re always on me, always believing any random stranger—all because of one mistake!”
“Nobody’s buying what you’re selling,” Nelson ground out through his clenched teeth.
“Damn straight,” Dylan put in. “You nearly took my head off with that wrench. Why?”
Junior pushed himself to a seated position but remained on the cold ground.
“Well?” his father answered.
“I just knew I was about to get blamed, that’s all,” Junior blurted. “’Cause I’m always the one blamed, always the one pulled over, always the one the cops bring in for questioning.”
Moisture sheened the furious brown eyes, and pain, too, if Dylan was reading him correctly. But that didn’t mean the kid wasn’t up to his neck in this mess.
“Me and my friends was only sixteen when we busted into that house,” Junior told him. “Just a punk kid stunt, that’s all. We didn’t even know it was the police chief’s. Doesn’t make me no career criminal.”
“Only the biggest idiots in Dead,” his father said.
“So you took a swing at me because...?” Dylan pressed.
“Because I’m done with takin’ the rap for stuff I never had a thing to do with.”
“Huh.” Nelson turned his gaze as if he couldn’t bear to look at his own flesh and blood another moment. Or as if he’d heard that same excuse once too often in the past.
“I could press charges for assault,” said Dylan. “Could wreck your father’s business with one word about this to the old man.”
“If you’re the one who was assaulted,” Junior said defiantly, “how come I’m the one down here with all the bruises.”
“Nobody ever said that you were good at it,” Dylan countered. “Which gives me hope for you. And your father’s business, too, if you tell me who conned you into handing over one of your company’s magnetic signs. And exactly who it was you told how to sabotage that electrical panel in the first place.”
At this point, Junior completely clammed up, refusing to say another word or look at either of them. While his father cursed him for a stubborn fool and threatened to tell the police to “throw the key away,” Dylan thought he saw something beyond belligerence in the younger man’s dark eyes.
Was it fear he read there? The fear that telling what he knew could have more serious consequences than jail time?
* * *
Dylan walked back inside still shaking his head, wondering if he had just made a deal with the devil by allowing Junior Nelson to leave with his father.
But Leon Nelson had sworn to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. If he failed, the man knew he would lose the business he’d spent decades building. And he would lose his only son as well, the young man who, for all his missteps, was all the father had left of his late wife.
Though Dylan didn’t like it, he liked his alternatives even less. If he had Junior arrested, word was likely to get back to the assassins, considering that someone who lived on or worked at the ranch must have also been in their pay. But who the hell had that been, and could this saboteur have anything to do with the “accident” that had led to Hope’s collapse? Certainly, it made more sense than the idea of the mastermind trying to kill a new employee.
At the thought of Hope, he shuddered, remembered her lying on the hallway floor and rasping the words “Tell him that I love him.”
Could she have really meant it? Could she still have feelings for the man she’d called a murderer, the man who had sent hired killers after her?
Dylan tried to shake it off, telling himself that he had no right to care how Hope felt about anything, that he was only looking out for her safety as a favor to Amanda, in spite of his lapse of judgment in the stable last night. With that in mind, he started up the stairs with the goal of solving at least one mystery.
Halfway up, he met Hilda Zimmerman and a younger brunette maid named Fiona, who was handling a cleaning cart with Hope’s name printed on it in black marker.
Eyeing the cart carefully, he saw no sign of the white spray bottle, but there was a trash bag tied to it. A trash bag that might well contain the evidence he was looking for.
“What are you two doing up here?” he asked, not wanting to alarm them by immediately demanding they turn the cart over to him.
“Cleaning up, of course,” said Hilda. “Mr. Lowden insisted we get everything picked up and aired out, for his safety.”
Of course he had. “Before anyone could come investigate what happened?”
“Investigate? It’s not—” Fiona’s eyes widened. “Please tell me Hope hasn’t—she hasn’t—”
Shaking his head, he answered, “She’s very much alive—no thanks to whoever told her to mix two reactive cleaning products.”
“So it was an accident?” Fiona was practically pleading, and he didn’t blame her, considering the number of homicides among the staff these past few months.
But Hilda’s face had gone red. “Surely, she didn’t— She wouldn’t be so foolish as to mix two fluids without checking the label?”
“Hard to do when someone’s torn it off,” he said.
Pulling out a handkerchief, Hilda dabbed at her damp eyes. “But Mrs. Perkins asked me to look out for her, to give Hope a hand since she was new to the work. I was only trying to help. She must have misunderstood me.”
She looked up at him, one corner of her mouth twitching. “I won’t— I’m not in any trouble, am I?”
Fiona wrapped a protective arm around the older woman’s shoulder. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it. Anyone who knows Hilda would know it had to be an accident.”
Not wanting to frighten the women, he patted Hilda’s arm and lied, “I’m sure that’s all it is.”
“So, will—will she be all right?” Hilda asked him.
“She’s holding her own now,” he said, “but Dr. Colton wants to keep her in isolation in the infirmary for a few days until the burns in her lungs and eyes begin to heal.”
“In isolation? It’s that serious?” Fiona interjected.
Dylan nodded, trying to think of a reason strong enough that the two would put the word out for everyone to stay away. “He says she’s extremely susceptible to infection right now, like Mr. Colton, with his leukemia.”
He felt a twinge of conscience, especially with poor Hilda looking so guilt stricken. But he reminded himself that what he’d said might actually be true—and that this way, Hope would remain much safer, not only from anyone who might note her jewel-bright blue eyes, but from whoever might have orchestrated this accident in the first place.
“Is there anything we can do for her? Anyone I need to inform?” Hilda managed.
“I’ll take care of it,” he told them, thinking that he’d have to fill in Amanda, “as soon as I run up and check to see if I can find Hope’s glasses for her.”
“I found them on the floor next to Miss Lowden’s bed,” Hilda volunteered. “I have them right here.” She pulled them from her pocket.
“Excellent,” Dylan said, collecting the glasses before adding, “and how about you let me take that cart down for you while I’m up here? I’m sure you two ladies are eager to get back to your other duties.”
Hilda’s and Fiona’s gazes met, confusion in their faces at his odd offer. But when he slapped on his most charming smile and grabbed the handle, Hilda responded, “You know where this goes?”
“I sure do,” he told her. “And I’ll be sure to put it in the right spot.”
As soon as I’ve checked the contents of that trash bag for that missing bottle.
Chapter 9
The following evening, the back wing lay silent as a tomb as a bright beam tunneled through the darkness. The soft pad of footsteps followed, the footsteps of a man well practiced in treading lightly.
Trip Lowden hesitat
ed for a moment, his heart pumping with anticipation, before he opened the door to his sister’s suite of rooms. If anyone were to confront and question him, he would claim that he was only making certain the housekeeping staff had gotten the place cleaned properly, no matter that the moment she returned, Tawny would blow through like a blizzard, blanketing the place with brand-new clothes and scarves and boots, half of which she’d end up donating unworn in a few months to make room for her next round of “retail therapy.”
But whether or not Tawny would notice the condition of her room on her return, Trip had other reasons to seek out evidence of laziness, incompetence or petty theft, evidence he wouldn’t hesitate to turn to his advantage—especially when it came to the younger and more attractive female housemaids. In the past, he’d used such proof to his considerable pleasure, learning in the process that he preferred his sexual encounters with a side order of coercion. Once a man had a woman sufficiently desperate—whether it was to keep the job that allowed her to support her children or to keep herself out of jail—he could do almost anything he could imagine, without the fuss and bother of having to leave the comfort of the mansion to hire a prostitute.
Tonight, however, as his flashlight’s beam skated one gleaming surface after the other, he found himself disappointed. Not only was the room perfectly clean and orderly, the maids who had come up after Hope Woods’s accident—as most seemed to believe it had indeed been—had even remembered to close the windows after leaving them open overnight to air out the last traces of the toxic fumes...
The fumes that had left Hope’s sweet and shapely body helpless, lying right here on the bedroom floor, where he might’ve stumbled upon her all alone. Might have put her into his debt by rescuing her himself, carrying her to the safety of, say, his own room, and his own bed, if that two-bit wrangler hadn’t shown up and ruined everything.
But what real fun would it be anyway, taking an unconscious woman? Not his style, Trip decided, thinking how much better it would be to have a beauty like Hope healthy and awake, tears gleaming in her eyes as she realized that her only way out was submission to his lust.
Recalling the proprietary look in Frick’s eyes when he’d barged upstairs to demand to know where the new maid was, Trip grinned. Because there was nothing he liked better than the thought of taking one of the smug, self-righteous cowboy’s toys and breaking it before he’d even had the chance to play.
With that in mind, Trip’s gaze found Tawny’s laptop, lying forgotten on the nightstand. What if it were to disappear, and he were to mention to the police how he remembered seeing Hope slip out of the room an hour or so before her accident, hiding something, only to return later, clearly nervous? Perhaps she’d been so nervous, so stricken with guilt and worry, she hadn’t paid much attention to the cleansers she was mixing.
Provided she survived, it could work, he decided, unplugging the laptop and tucking it beneath his arm. Better yet, it would give him the perfect opportunity to snoop through the computer’s search history and check on his dear sister’s recent online activities...because Tawny might be his greatest ally, but with their billionaire stepfather’s illness making their future so uncertain, he would never be so foolish as to consider her a friend.
As he started toward the hallway, something at floor level glittered in the flashlight’s beam. Curious, Trip squatted down to check out the rug’s thick pile and came up, only seconds later, with a shriveled and misshapen disk smaller than his thumbnail.
A contact lens, he realized, but it was not until the next morning, with the daylight streaming through his bedroom window, that he noticed that this particular lens was ringed in dark brown...meant to be worn by someone out to hide the natural color of his or her own eyes.
Her, in this case, he was certain, remembering the clear glasses Hope Woods had been wearing. So he’d been right that she was hiding something...some secret he was more determined than ever to unearth.
* * *
One meal arrived and then another, but it didn’t matter because Hope wouldn’t eat them, no matter how often Dr. Colton lectured about keeping up her strength. He was more insistent about the breathing treatments, even waking her at night and sitting with her to ensure her compliance.
Mostly, though, she slept, a deep, drugged refuge from the grim reality she faced. But at some point—between her bound eyes and her drugged sleep, she had lost track of the time completely—she heard the background murmur of conversation, followed by the sound of one food tray being set aside and replaced with another.
Someone—she thought it was the doctor—said, “All right. I’ll be back to check in another hour.”
“No hurry. I’ll sit with her,” said another male voice, and an instant later, there was a scent, an outdoor aroma she associated with hay and fresh air, male strength and the memory of the kiss so searing it was a wonder the stable hadn’t gone up in flames.
A kiss she couldn’t risk repeating, no matter how lonely she was.
“Dylan,” she rasped out, the first word she had spoken in many hours. Her mouth was parched, but the tightness in her chest had loosened its grip and the pain in her throat was far more bearable. “Why didn’t you come tell me about—tell me what you found out about the elec—electri—”
“Shh,” he said, “don’t try to talk. Not until you’ve had some water.”
There was a low hum as he raised the head of her bed, and moments later, she felt a straw touching her dry lips. Dr. Colton had made the same effort several times before, but this time, Hope sucked in a sip of water. It felt so cool and tasted so sweet, she kept drinking until he took it from her.
“Not so much, so fast,” he said. “You don’t want to make yourself sick. Speaking of which, do you mind telling me why you’ve refused every bite of food and drop of water for the past two days now?”
“Two—” She choked on the water. “I’ve been lying here for two days?”
“The longest two days of my life,” he said, taking a seat in the chair at her bedside. “Every time I came to sit with you, you were out cold, but Levi—Dr. Colton—told me you weren’t cooperating even when you were fully conscious. Why not?”
“What did you find out? Are my ex-husband’s people still nearby? Have they been back to search some more?” she asked, pushing the straw away from her mouth and reaching for the bandages that kept her from seeing the truth or the lie in his expression.
As if she were anyone to judge...
He caught her hand. “Hold on just a minute,” he said. “I have to lock this door.”
By the time she heard the door latch, she was already unwrapping the strips of linen, emerging from the depths of a depression that had robbed her of her energy, of her will to fight, for too long. A moment later, she was groaning and covering her face with her hands against the blinding light.
“Here, let me turn off this overhead.” With a click, the room grew dimmer. “Electricians got all the power back on line this morning. And before you ask, not those two. Those men are long gone.”
She blinked and squinted, struggling to make her eyes work. “You’re sure?”
“Sure as anybody can be,” he said before explaining his theory about how someone had been bribed to tamper with the panel in the basement, allowing the assassins a chance to get inside.
“Who was it?” she asked, her voice still raspy. “Who did they bribe?”
“The electrician’s son, most likely. And someone with easy access to the mansion, too.”
“The same person who poisoned me?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, and she noticed he looked exhausted, with worry shadowing his blue eyes as if he’d been carrying the weight of her problems while she slept. Had he and the doctor taken turns watching over her the whole time she’d been sleeping, making certain that no one returned to harm her?
“I can’t say for certain you were poisoned, at least not intentionally. Can’t prove it, anyway. But I’ll admit, the timing has me worried.”
“You, too? What a coincidence,” she said drily.
“Worried enough,” he told her, “that Amanda and I both think it would be best to get you out of town for a few days.”
Hope tensed. “She’s changed her mind, then? Decided I’m too dangerous to keep around here?”
It was true; she knew it. But it hurt anyway, to think of abandoning her last link with her old life. Her last chance to bury Renzo so deep she’d never have to be afraid again.
“Just for a few days,” he repeated, “just for your own safety, until we can be certain they aren’t coming back.”
“But where?” she asked, throat tightening. “How?”
“I’ll explain everything,” he said, removing the cover from the tray on the bedside table, “as soon as you have something to eat.”
“Just tell me,” she said impatiently. The smell of the food turned her stomach. “I’m not hungry.”
“You are,” he assured her. “It’s just that your body’s forgotten how to pay attention to the signals. And you’ll like Agnes’s chicken and dumplings—promise. You’re lucky I didn’t steal your helping on the way here.”
She winced, the thought of eating anything so heavy an unimaginable hurdle. “I can’t, Dylan. I’ll be sick.”
“Listen, Hope. You’re going to have to have something. And it’ll be one heck of a lot more pleasant if you cooperate.”
She glared at him. “My ex-husband used to pull stuff like this. Ordering me around and pretending it was for my own good.”
He shrugged off her anger. “Yeah, well, the difference is, this is for your own good. And I won’t send hit men out to find you if you don’t do as I ask, though I have to admit, your stubbornness makes it kind of tempting.”
“I can’t believe you’d joke about that.”
He held out a small plate containing a buttered roll. “And I can’t believe you’d fight me over one of the rolls that launched a thousand cowboys. Now eat, and I can tell you all about our road trip.”
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