“The Whisper Inn?” he asked, taking her arm and steering her toward a black pickup.
“Good guess.”
“Not really. It’s the only bed-and-breakfast in town.” He opened the passenger door of the truck and gestured for her to climb in. “I’ll take you there.”
“Thanks,” she said, climbing into the truck and buckling her seat belt. She’d call her brothers as soon as she reached the inn, let them know where she was and that she was fine.
Mason closed the door with a quiet click and walked around the side of the truck. She expected him to climb in and get going, but he pulled out his phone instead, texting as rain splattered on the windshield. He had to be cold, but he didn’t seem to be rushing.
She guessed he wasn’t in any hurry.
His house was probably still off limits. He had clothes, his phone and, she presumed, his wallet with his ID.
She had nothing. Her purse was in the Jeep. Her phone was probably still lying in the rain and ice. All she could hope for was a kind innkeeper who’d allow her to check in without identification and a credit card.
She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
Right now, she had to focus on what she’d come for. She’d figure everything else out once she had some time alone and access to a computer. That, at least, was cut-and-dry. She could dig up plenty of information about Mason, about what he’d been working on and who he’d been working for these past few weeks. And about his business partner. John Roache. Was it a coincidence that the guy had died, that Mason had attended his funeral and that his house had been broken into while he was gone?
It wasn’t her business, but if Mason was right, if she’d walked into something that could put her in danger, she needed to know where the danger was coming from.
* * *
The monsters were out there, lurking in the darkness. Not the guys with handguns and weapons. The memories of blood and death and helplessness. Most nights, Mason could push them aside by focusing on his work, by the difference he was making in the lives of his clients. But most nights, he didn’t hear gunshots echoing through the woods outside his house or see a bloodied woman trying to swim for her life.
Trinity had no idea what she’d gotten herself into.
Even Mason wasn’t sure. He had a direction to look in, though, and he wanted to make sure Judah was on the same page. He sent a text to him and one to Agent Michaels, letting both know where Trinity would be and informing them that Mason planned to be with her. Until they caught the guy who’d tried to kidnap her, she wasn’t safe.
Cold rain dripped down his face, slid down his neck and pooled in the hollow of his throat. The texts had been sent. People who needed to know his plan, knew it, but he didn’t get back in the truck. He needed the cold air and the freezing rain to anchor him and pull him away from the memories that had haunted him for too many years to count.
Trinity rapped on the window. He ignored her. He’d spent nearly a decade living alone. He had a few close friends and a few acquaintances, but there weren’t many people that he chose to spend time with. Not because he didn’t like people. It was more that he didn’t want to be responsible for them. He didn’t want to have other people’s lives in his hands. He didn’t want to feel the need to protect someone and he didn’t want to feel helpless if he couldn’t.
He probably should have thought about that before he’d put tracking devices in the prosthetics he made. The tiny chips sent constant feedback to his mainframe, keeping logs of an amputee’s movement, balance, muscle strength. When it was time for a new prosthetic or if the current one was causing pain or inhibiting movement, Mason had all the information he needed to create a new prosthetic or to correct the old one. Of course, that little computer chip also gave him the ability to find the prosthetic and, presumably, the wearer.
He hadn’t thought about how valuable that information might be.
Did Tate know his prosthetic leg could lead his enemies to him? Mason hoped so. He’d explained the microchip and he’d explained that the information was being transmitted to his computer. He’d also explained that the information was secure.
He had to keep it that way.
The truck door opened and Trinity got out.
“Are you okay?” she asked, heading around the side of the vehicle before he could tell her to get back in.
“Fine,” he responded, his voice grittier and harder than he’d intended.
She didn’t seem intimidated by it or by him.
“Then why are you standing out in the rain?”
“I like rain.”
“Do you also like ice? Because that’s what you’re coated in,” she responded, brushing raindrops from his cheek.
It was an unconscious gesture, without artifice or design, but he felt it down to his toes, his body responding in a way he hadn’t expected and didn’t want. Trinity was a stranger. Even if she wasn’t, he wouldn’t want any connection with her. Not on any kind of level that was more than surface.
He stepped back, catching her hand when she tried to brush ice from his shoulders. “I’m pretty good at taking care of myself, Trinity, so how about you keep your hands to yourself.”
She blushed.
Even in the darkness, he could see the color in her cheeks deepen.
“Sorry. I’m used to my brothers and the guys on the team. I forgot you weren’t one of them.”
“I’m not,” he said.
“Right. I’ve remembered. Now, how about we get on with what we were doing?” She nearly ran back to her seat and hopped in.
He did the same, climbing into the driver’s seat and shutting the door. The cab smelled like leather, stale coffee and something flowery and light that might have been soap, shampoo or lotion. He ignored it. Just like he tried to ignore Trinity.
The last was easier said than done.
The woman could talk. A lot.
And what she wanted to talk about was her friend. Bryn Laurel. Married young. Widowed by the war in Iraq. Hero husband who’d left her with a toddler and a broken heart, and now her son had cancer.
“It’s a terrible situation,” Trinity said as he reached Main Street. The town was quiet this time of year. No tourists. No bands playing at the marina. Nothing but the stillness of a sleeping community.
“Cancer makes every situation terrible,” he said because Trinity had finally stopped talking and he figured she expected some sort of response from him.
“But this is two huge losses for her, Mason. First her husband and now—”
“Are you saying that her son is going to die?” he cut in.
“If the cancer hasn’t spread, he has a really good chance of living a long life.”
“Then she isn’t losing her son. She’s just losing her dreams of what he could have been.”
“She’s terrified she’s going to lose him,” she argued. “And she’s worried about his mental health. He’s a sprinter. Already on track to go to the US Junior Championship. Without his leg, that’s not going to be possible.”
“People are resilient. Kids are especially resilient. Bryn’s son will be just fine without one of my prosthetics.” He didn’t want to do it. He sure wasn’t going to offer to make the kid’s prosthetic. But he couldn’t help thinking about his daughter, about three-year-old Amelie telling him that when she grew up, she wanted to be a princess with long, pretty hair.
He’d bought her a wig. A really expensive one that they couldn’t afford—long blond hair that didn’t match Amelie’s tan skin and brown eyes. Felicia had hated it. She’d been angry about the expenditure and unhappy that it didn’t reflect Amelie’s heritage. Amelie hadn’t cared about any of that. She’d loved the wig. She’d worn it everywhere. Church. The park. Preschool. Chemotherapy appointments. Hospital visits.
“I’m not asking you to do anything but meet with the
m,” she countered. “Give Henry a little hope that he can continue running track. Give Bryn the assurance that she’s doing everything she can for her son.”
“She is doing everything she can for him. She needs to know that regardless of what I decide.”
“That means you haven’t made your decision, yet!” she crowed. “Which means you may still agree. Which is great. I have pictures of Henry wearing his track medals. When you see them—”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Trinity. And don’t get your friend’s hopes up, either.”
“We all need hope,” she retorted. “There’s nothing wrong with having it.”
“When it comes to something like this, there is.” He turned onto Lakeview Drive, slowing his speed as he neared the long driveway that led to the Whisper Inn. Several of his clients had stayed there, so he knew how sharp the turn was and how narrow the spruce-lined drive. There wasn’t much room for error. If a car came up from behind him, he’d have nowhere to go but straight ahead. Nowhere to hide if bullets flew.
He frowned, glancing in the review mirror and probing the dark shadows. He needed to ask Annie Matlow to put up some streetlights, to illuminate the driveway a little more than it was. Annie had been innkeeper for two years. She was still learning the ropes and growing the business she’d inherited from her aunt, Lila Windhammer—Whisper Lake’s most ornery resident. At least, that’s what Judah said. Mason had always liked the elderly woman. Sure she’d been set in her ways and stubborn as a mule, but Mason had always appreciated that.
He’d also appreciated that she’d never tried to bring him a meal or to drag him to church. Something that just about every other elderly resident had done.
The driveway curved around a natural rock wall, the woods to one side and nothing but granite to the other. From there, it sloped up and opened into a circular parking area.
“Wow!” Trinity breathed as the house came into view. Large and stately, the Tudor-style mansion had been built over a century ago, every stone in its facade taken from a local quarry.
“It’s impressive,” he agreed, pulling up close to the cement stairs that led to the double-wide door.
“That’s an understatement.” She grabbed the door handle and would have opened it, but he reached across and grabbed her wrist, holding her in place.
“Don’t.”
“Get out?”
“Take needless chances. I’ll go make sure the door is unlocked before you get out.”
“You don’t really think someone is hiding out in the woods, ready to take a potshot at me, do you?”
“No. I think someone might be waiting to get another chance at abducting you,” he said.
She looked like she wanted to argue.
She looked like she had plenty to say but, instead of speaking, she crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”
“I’m glad you see the value of that.”
“What I see is that I’m tired. I have no phone. No money. No ID. I’m just hoping the innkeeper lets me check in anyway, because I don’t even have a vehicle to spend the night in.”
“If Annie won’t let you check in, I’ll make sure you have a place to stay,” he offered, the words rolling off his tongue before he thought them through.
“That’s nice of you, Mason, but I didn’t come here because I needed your help. I came because my friend does.” She said it so sweetly he almost didn’t catch the edge in her voice or see the sharpness in her eyes.
Almost didn’t.
But they were there, and he wasn’t one to miss much when it came to reading other people.
“No need to be bitter because I said no.”
“You didn’t say no.”
“Sure I did.”
“That was before you knew all the details.”
He shrugged and got out of the truck. The night was as quiet as he’d expected it to be. The soft patter of rain and ice a rhythmic melody that could have lulled him to sleep if he were home. He jogged up the granite steps, the wrought-iron handrails shimmering with a layer of ice. He checked the front door, wasn’t surprised when it opened. Annie might be new to the bed-and-breakfast, but she’d worked in the hotel industry for five years before she’d inherited Whisper Inn.
He turned back toward the truck, had barely taken a step, when Trinity exited the vehicle.
“You were supposed to wait,” he snapped as she sprinted up the stairs.
“For what purpose? The door is unlocked and—”
A car engine broke through the quiet, the rumbling purr making Mason’s blood run cold.
The visitor could be anybody—another guest, Judah, Agent Michaels—but Mason wasn’t prepared to take chances.
“Inside, and stay there,” he said, snagging Trinity’s wrist, dragging her the rest of the way to the door and giving her a gentle nudge inside.
He shut the door and sprinted down the stairs. The darkness was deepest near the edge of the woods, and he went there, slipping in between towering sweet gum trees and waiting for the vehicle to arrive.
SIX
The way Trinity saw things, she had two options. Stay inside and hope that Mason was okay or find a back door and head outside.
She knew what she should probably do.
Stay put.
So, of course, she walked through the huge entryway, moving past an ornately carved wooden staircase and into what looked like a sitting room. There were beautiful Victorian couches and gorgeous paintings. A gleaming coffee table held an arrangement of fresh flowers and several pamphlets that probably gave information about the area.
She didn’t have time to look.
She wasn’t looking for the innkeeper, either.
She needed a back exit and a dark path to the front of the house. Staying in the house was safe, but she couldn’t let Mason face whatever was coming alone.
Whoever was coming.
It could be anyone. Friend or foe.
She hurried through the sitting room and into a dining room. At the far end of the room, an open pocket door revealed an industrial kitchen with gleaming stainless-steel appliances, a huge fireplace and...
A back door!
Just what she’d been looking for.
She yanked it open and walked out onto a stone patio. Like the house, it was huge and impressive, the stones gleaming in the soft light that seeped out from the kitchen. She could make out the shadowy forms of a wooden bench swing, a fire pit, a set of wicker furniture and a huge grill with a cooking utensils hanging from little hooks on its side. She grabbed what looked like a miniature pitchfork and carried it around the side of the house, following the exterior line of the building, and waiting at the front corner. She had a good view of the circular parking area, the driveway and most of the porch. It looked empty.
She eased around the corner just enough to get a view of Mason’s truck. If he was in it, she couldn’t see him. She didn’t think he’d walked inside, so he was hiding somewhere, doing what she was doing—waiting for the approaching vehicle.
It was louder now, the engine revving as it moved up the slope that led to the house. Headlights flashed into the woods, streaming between trees and illuminating the rain-drenched shrubbery. She’d always loved rain. The sound of it pattering on the roof and dripping from leaves, the scent of moist earth and green foliage.
She wasn’t loving it tonight.
She was already soaked, her hair hanging limp against her nape, her sweatshirt clinging to her skin. Agent Michaels’s coat protected her back, but rain seemed to find is way down the collar onto her shoulders.
She shivered, the mini-pitchfork still clutched in her hand. Not much of a weapon, because it could only be used at close range, but it was better than nothing.
The vehicle drove into sight.
Large. Dark. Maybe wi
th tinted windows. She couldn’t make out the license plate, couldn’t see the driver. She wanted to get closer but the headlights swept across the ground just feet from where she was standing.
She jerked back, bumped into something hard.
Something that hadn’t been behind her before.
A hand slapped over her mouth and fingers circled her wrist. She struggled against both, but couldn’t free herself enough to use the weapon she was still clutching.
“This,” someone whispered in her ear, “is how easily you could be kidnapped. Maybe you’ll remember that the next time I tell you to stay inside.”
The hands dropped away, and she was free.
She turned, realizing she was looking into Mason’s flannel shirt. It took everything in her power not to slap him upside the head or to punch him in the arm. If he’d been Jackson or Chance, she would have, but he wasn’t one of her brothers or a member of HEART. She’d be really smart to keep that in mind.
“What were you thinking?” she whispered. “I could have hurt you.”
“With a barbecue fork?” he asked, plucking it from her hand.
“It would have been effective.”
“If you’d had a chance to use it.” He stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the car.
“Is it a police cruiser?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. Not federal, either.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How—”
“Trinity, how about we wait and ask questions after we see who’s arrived?”
“I don’t think the guy who kidnapped me is going to stick around to be questioned.”
“It’s not him.”
“How do you know?” She shoved herself between Mason and the house, tried to get a look at the car. She still couldn’t read the license plate or see the driver.
“As soon as I realized the car was coming up to the house, I knew it wasn’t him. He’d have parked where his car wouldn’t be noticed and walked in. That’s assuming he knew you were coming here. Did you book online?”
“I never book online. It’s too easy to be traced if you leave a cyber trail.”
Mistaken Identity Page 7
