Stranger in Cold Creek

by Paula Graves

  Because he couldn’t, he thought. His life hadn’t really been an open book since his college graduation, over fifteen years earlier, when a man named Alexander Quinn had introduced himself by another name altogether and asked him to take a drive.

  His CIA career had ended almost before it began, but the things he’d seen and done during that short time had changed the way he approached life. There had been no such thing as a normal life for him, even when he’d been working for his father at the accounting firm. There’d certainly been nothing ordinary about his life as Alexander Quinn’s undercover operative in southern Virginia.

  “Your name is John Blake. I’m pretty sure about that.” She stepped closer to him, taking full advantage of her height to crowd his space. “Although you seemed to disappear for a while between your time at your family accounting firm and showing up on the payroll of Blanchard Building.”

  “I was finding myself.”

  She laughed, a deep belly laugh that made him want to laugh with her. “You know what? I’m not sure I want to know what you were doing. I have a feeling the truth wouldn’t be nearly as interesting as what I’m imagining.”

  Damn, he wanted to kiss her. It would be so easy; she was standing there, near enough that he could reach out and pull her to him, close the space between their bodies. He remembered how her body had felt pressed to his all too briefly.

  The air between them electrified, and her laughter faded until she was gazing up at him, her eyes luminous and her lips trembling apart.

  So very easy to kiss her...

  He pulled back, trying to remember why he was in Texas in the first place. He was here to lie low, not start an affair with a Barstow County sheriff’s deputy. She was already curious about his background. She was smart and she had the resources at her command that could unravel a lot of his secrets.

  He needed distance from her, not closeness.

  Except someone wanted her dead. And protecting people was his business these days.

  As she took a step back as well, her eyes narrowing, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Tell me about Delta McGraw.”

  She took another step back. “Who told you about Delta?”

  “You did.”

  “I didn’t mention her name.”

  “Your father told me her name.”

  Her brow furrowed, her eyes darkening to thunderclouds. “You talked to my dad about one of my cases?” She pushed past him and stalked down the hallway, her shoulders squared with anger.

  He followed her into the living room. “Someone tried to kill you. And me, in case you forgot. That same person came back to my house looking for God knows what. And someone also tossed this place and left no stone, canister or sofa cushion unturned.”

  She turned to face him. “That could have been kids.”

  He arched an eyebrow at her, and she sighed.

  “Fine. It was probably related. But what do you think any of it has to do with Delta?”

  “You said yourself it’s the only real case you’re investigating. And didn’t you say that the call that sent you out to Route 7 in the first place was about Delta? Someone had seen her hitchhiking or something?”

  “Right. But I didn’t see her anywhere.”

  “Maybe you weren’t supposed to.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You mean that call was to lure me out there?”

  “The weathermen were predicting snow. Hardly anyone was out on the roads by that hour because of the dire reports.”

  “But someone would have to know I was the one who took the call.”

  “It was your case. You would have been the first person the call would have gone to, right?”

  She nodded, looking thoughtful. “But that still doesn’t answer the question of why someone would run me off the road and try to shoot me. That’s pretty drastic for a missing persons case.”

  “Unless she’s not just missing.”

  “You think someone killed her.” Her expression remained mostly neutral, but there was a flicker of pain in her eyes.

  “How close were you and Delta?”

  “Not real close. But I guess about as close as she’d let anyone get.” There was a hint of hesitation in her voice. “I tried to help her a few times. Adjusting to life without her dad was really strange for her. They had a...difficult relationship.”

  “Because he was a con artist?”

  She frowned. “Did my dad tell you that, too?”

  Busted. “I asked about her. He didn’t know he was spilling state secrets or anything.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

  “Because you’d probably pull that whole police-business thing and keep it to yourself.”

  She shot him a look of consternation that told him his words had hit the mark. He was right and she knew it. “It is police business,” she said weakly.

  “And you weren’t the only one who nearly got killed yesterday.” He stepped closer to her, willing her not to back away. He needed her to understand that he had a stake in this mystery, too, because there was no way in hell he was going to let her whip out her badge and try to shut him out.

  Her eyes went wide and unexpectedly soft. “I know. But you were only involved because of me.”

  He knew she was probably right. But there was that little sliver of possibility that he’d been the one who was the real target, wasn’t there? Quinn didn’t think anyone from the BRI had tracked him down to Texas, but despite his downright mythical reputation, Quinn didn’t really know everything. He could be wrong.

  And all it took to get a man killed was to drop his guard just once in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “You’re not just a carpenter, are you?”

  He snapped his focus back to her. She was looking at him with sudden understanding.

  “I don’t know what—”

  “A year overseas working for a global marketing firm. But you’re an accountant. Or a carpenter. Why doesn’t that compute?”

  “Miranda—”

  “And there’s a whole year missing more recently, until you show up a couple of weeks ago on the payroll of Blanchard Building in Garza County. But as far as I can tell, the entire time you’ve been on their payroll, you’ve been living here in Cold Creek.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t react to things like a civilian.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “No, you don’t have that vibe,” she agreed. “But I’m betting you’ve done some sort of intelligence work. No record of time in the military, so I’m guessing CIA or NSA. Maybe Homeland Security.”

  He decided to play it for a joke. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have—”

  “To kill me. Right.” She shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask any more questions. Promise.”

  Good, he thought, though he wasn’t sure it was a promise she’d be able to keep. Curiosity glittered in her eyes like diamonds, even now. How long would she be able to keep that desire to know at bay?

  * * *

  MIRANDA HAD MANAGED to find a bottle of bath gel that hadn’t been dumped down the bathroom sink and took a long, hot soak while John went to the barbecue joint a half mile down the road to pick up takeout. By seven that evening, she was full and growing sleepy, but he showed no signs of leaving.

  “You’re not planning on leaving, are you?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

  John met her gaze. “I’d rather not.”

  She leaned toward him. “Why, Mr. Blake, is that a proposition?”

  He leaned toward her, as well. “Well, that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you’re being facetious or serious.”

  Good question. She sat back slowly. “Facetious.” Sort of.
/>   He smacked his hand against his heart, feigning pain. “Ouch. I still want to stay, though.”

  “You do realize I’m a well-trained law enforcement officer.”

  “I do.”

  “But you still think I need a bodyguard.”

  “Even a well-trained law enforcement officer sometimes needs backup.”

  She waved her hand toward the newly bare room. “I just have the one sofa.”

  “I can sleep on the floor.”

  “But you’re still recuperating from a hunting accident.”

  His eyes narrowed, not missing the hint of skepticism in her voice. “Yes, but you made it plain you don’t intend to share the sofa.”

  Before she could think up a decent comeback, headlights flashed across the front windows and she heard the rumble of a car engine rattle to a stop. Adrenaline flooded her system in a couple of heartbeats, and she reached for the holstered M&P 40 on the side table next to the sofa.

  John was on her heels as she crossed to the window and looked out. “Who is it?”

  She nearly crumpled with relief when she recognized her father’s old Silverado. “It’s my dad.” She peered at the truck bed. “And I think that’s a mattress set in the back of his truck.

  * * *

  GIL DUNCAN’S EARLIER friendliness had faded into a suspicious sort of watchfulness, John noticed as Miranda’s father finished helping him position the mattress and box springs into the existing bed frame. “You’re still here?”

  John stifled a smile. “I am.”

  “Hmm.” He glanced toward the open doorway, as if keeping an eye out for Miranda, who was still in the living room, checking in with the sheriff’s department to see if there had been any word yet from the lab. “Any particular reason why?”

  “Just keeping an eye out for her,” John answered. It was mostly the truth. Even if he weren’t attracted to Miranda, he’d still feel the need to be here to watch her back. The attraction was just a bonus.

  “You plannin’ on staying all night?”

  “Dad.” Miranda’s firm voice from the doorway made her father close his eyes in frustration.

  “Anything from the lab yet?” John asked, trying to distract Miranda from her father’s nosy question.

  “Not yet. I knew it would be too soon, though Bill Chambers promised me they’ve put a rush on it, since it was an attack on a cop.”

  “You need me to stick around tonight?” Gil asked. “I could sleep on that new sofa of yours.”

  Miranda glanced at John. He twitched his eyebrows upward, wondering how she’d answer.

  “No, Daddy, I’m good. John’s going to stick around a while. It’ll be fine.”

  Gil angled a narrow-eyed look at John. “All right, then. I’ll head on home, I guess.”

  Miranda gave him a quick hug at the front door. “Thanks for bringing the mattress set.”

  “It’s not like you were plannin’ on coming home to stay tonight,” he grumbled. “So I figured you might as well have the mattress and box springs off your old bed.” He gave John another speculative look and headed down the front porch step and out to his truck.

  Miranda watched until his truck turned out of the driveway, then came back into the house and closed the door behind her. She looked at John. “He’s overprotective sometimes.”

  “The best dads are.”

  She smiled at that. “Well, at least that solves the sleeping arrangements. You can have the sofa. Dad brought all the pillows from my old bed, so I should have plenty to spare.”

  “So you’re not going to kick me out, then?”

  “Not at the moment.” She crossed to the fireplace, picked up the poker and pushed around the logs inside to stir the flames. John couldn’t stop himself from moving closer, drawn by the heat.

  She looked up at him, the flickering flames burnishing her skin to a soft gold and igniting the red glints in her hair. He wasn’t aware of taking a step toward her, but he must have, because suddenly they were only a few inches apart, her breath mingling with his.

  She was so warm, so alive. So very, very close.

  All he had to do was bend his head and his mouth would cover hers.

  She moved suddenly, backing away. “I’ll find you those pillows.”

  John watched her hurry from the room, aching with frustration.

  Chapter Eight

  Miranda woke with the sun just after six, getting as far as the shower before she realized that, one, she wasn’t expected back at the station until tomorrow, and two, she had a man sleeping in her living room, and it probably hadn’t been a good idea to shed her nightclothes as she crossed the hall to the bathroom.

  Wrapping herself in a towel, she tiptoed out to pick up her clothes, keeping an eye on the door to the living room.

  “Hey, Miranda, I was looking at this room—”

  She froze at the sound of John’s voice coming from behind her.

  Oh God, she thought, please let this towel be covering everything.

  “Sorry.”

  She stood quickly and turned to face him, clutching the towel closed in front of her. “I thought you were still on the sofa.”

  “I woke early and couldn’t go back to sleep, so I was looking at that room back there.” He pointed his thumb toward the back of the house. “I can help you out with the repairs if you want.”

  “I thought you were working on your own place for your employers,” she answered, acutely aware that the towel she’d chosen was entirely too short for a long conversation with a man in her hallway.

  “I am, but I should be able to accomplish both in the time I have. You’ll be going back to work tomorrow, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I could come over here while you’re at work and start getting some of the frame repairs done, at least. And I could help you put up the drywall and lay the new floor. Those are two-person jobs.”

  “My dad was planning to help in the evenings.”

  “So there’d be three of us working. It would get done three times as quickly. What do you say?”

  “I’d have to know your rates.”

  “I’m not talking about doing it for pay.”

  She cocked her head. “But we barely know each other.”

  He took a couple of steps closer to her, making her knees tremble. “We’ve spent two nights together now, haven’t we? Surely that qualifies us as friends.”

  She tightened her grip on the edges of the towel. “You just want to keep an eye on me. You think I’m still someone’s target.”

  “Don’t you?” he asked.

  She supposed she should. Someone had come close to killing her only two days ago. And someone had thoroughly searched her house with ruthless abandon—possibly the same person.

  If they hadn’t found what they were looking for—and how would she know, since she had no idea what that was—they might keep coming back.

  So having her own personal bodyguard wasn’t the dumbest idea she’d ever heard, she supposed.

  “Tell you what. I’ll give it some thought in the shower.” She darted back into the bathroom and closed the door, leaning against it for a moment to calm her twitchy nerves.

  If being around John Blake left her this shaky after two days, what condition would she be in if he stuck around longer?

  But maybe she should stop considering the question as a woman and start thinking about it with the instincts of a cop. John Blake was one big walking enigma who’d come into her life shortly before someone attempted to end it. Maybe that was a coincidence.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  She pondered the thought while she showered, coming to the conclusion by the time she stepped out of the shower that John couldn’t be the person who wanted to do her
harm. She was pretty sure the accident happening in front of his house had been pure happenstance. And while there was a window of time when he could have tossed her house, it was a very narrow window.

  He’d have had to rush over to her house as soon as Miles Randall drove her to the clinic for treatment, because the mess in her house hadn’t been created in a short period of time.

  She checked that the hallway was empty before scooting across to her bedroom, wrapped in the now-damp towel. After dressing quickly, she headed into the living room, where she found John folding up the bedding she’d provided for him the night before.

  He looked up and flashed a smile that made her stomach turn a little flip. “Hey. Did you give my proposition any thought while you were in the shower?”

  It was all she’d thought about. She’d spent the whole time under the hot spray weighing the pros and cons of taking him up on his offer.

  So what if he was still a bit of a mystery? He’d been nothing but helpful to her so far, and she had no reason to think that whatever he might be hiding was any danger to her. On the upside, he was apparently a good enough carpenter to get a job with a company as big as Blanchard Building. He was also pretty good to have around in a crisis.

  And did it matter if she found him attractive and intriguing? She was single. So was he, according to the background check she’d run. And if she went forward without any illusions about some sort of romantic happily-ever-after, who would get hurt?

  “I could use the help,” she said.

  His grin spread wider. “Great. So why don’t we go take a look and let me catch up on what you want done?”

  “Slow down, tiger. How about we go find breakfast first?” Her kitchen was a useless mess, but the plumber she’d called the previous afternoon had told her he couldn’t come until this afternoon. “There’s a diner in town that serves an old-fashioned country breakfast, if that’s your thing.”

  “It’s my thing,” he said with a smile. “Now and then, anyway.”

  * * *

  SHE SHOULD HAVE known better than to try to dine in at Creekside Diner, because everybody there had heard not only about her wreck, but also about the mess an intruder had made of her house. Between the hushed questions from the wide-eyed waitress and the incessant whispers of the less brave diner patrons, Miranda felt as if she was having breakfast in a fish tank, with everyone watching the show.