General distrust was a permanent part of him now. He frequently joked about “skeptic” being his middle name. Life had thrown him too many curveballs not to be wary. In his professional life, being suspicious of everything and everyone was beneficial. In his personal life, not so much.
“The guy wanted me to believe he was trying to stop you.”
Elle scratched her head. “But you think he was just pretending, and he actually wanted me to get away. Like maybe he didn’t want to hold me captive any longer.”
“If he ever was.”
“If he ever was…what?”
Luke hesitated. “Holding you captive.”
She blinked. Once. Twice. Then her eyes widened, and sparks ignited. “You can’t be serious.”
He shrugged. “Shit happens. You shouldn’t always believe what your eyes see or your ears hear.”
“Especially if there’s a reporter involved.”
His jaw clenched. “You said it, not me.”
Instead of the indignation he expected, pain and disappointment glistened in her eyes. Her chest heaved as if she was restraining an explosion of emotion. Then her shoulders slumped, and she released a long, resigned sigh.
“If you believe my kidnapping was a publicity stunt or an investigative ruse, why are you still helping me? Or are you just keeping the enemy close until you have adequate evidence for an arrest?”
It was his turn to feel befuddled. He couldn’t understand the tug-of-war going on inside him, much less explain it to someone else. Especially her. On one hand, he felt the strongest need to protect Elle—almost like he’d felt for Karla after their parents died. On the other hand was his deep dislike and distrust of reporters—also dating back to that life-changing event. The back-and-forth pull of the two opposing emotions was really pissing him off. He certainly couldn’t let Elle be aware of it. Who knew what damage her reporter’s claws could do if she detected a weakness in her prey?
“Look, you even said you don’t know why you were kidnapped. I’m basically saying the same thing.”
“Except you’re blaming me, and I’m not. Big difference.”
“You have the advantage of being able to rule yourself out as a suspect. I still see plenty of ways you could be involved—and not as a victim.”
She stood up so fast that she knocked her chair over backward. Leaning across the table to get into his personal space, she demanded, “What’s it going to take to convince you I’m the goddamn victim, and I had nothing to do with my abduction? That I wasn’t let go; I escaped.”
He pondered a moment. “Evidence.”
“What kind of evidence?” she snapped.
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll know it when I see it.”
Defeat radiated off her. “Fine. Tomorrow, I’ll move into a hotel. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stay here. Or for you to be involved…in the case. I’ll just have to accept that the FBI—despite my ex’s involvement—will do its best to bring my kidnapper to justice. I’m sure I can tolerate Richard’s presence if it means I can participate in the FBI’s investigation.”
Disappointment drenched him like a sudden downpour. Was it the thought of Elle leaving? Was it the frustration of being forced off the case again? Or was it the idea of her being with Richard? None of those possibilities should bother him this much.
“If that’s what you want,” he said as nonchalantly as he could.
She scowled at him. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Deputy Johnson. You damn well know it’s not what I want, but you’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t trust me enough for us to work together.”
* * *
Elle tossed and turned in Luke’s bed. Alone. She had been trying to get to sleep for several hours. After their argument, she’d pleaded exhaustion, taken a shower, and gone to bed. Unfortunately, despite how much she needed sleep, it eluded her.
Of course she understood why. But knowing the reason didn’t make it any easier to overcome.
She really wanted to work with Luke. Regardless of his distrust of all reporters, she believed they would make a formidable team. He was intelligent, intuitive, and intense, an awesome combination when investigating. She knew because she shared those same traits, and they had served her well in her career.
She and Luke would be able to crack this case. They could find her kidnapper and the evidence to convict him. But now, it wasn’t going to happen.
While crushing disappointment refused to let her sleep, Elle came to a startling conclusion: Luke was right; a lot of things didn’t make sense. No wonder he was suspicious.
Frustrated, she propped herself up on the pillows. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well work. Some of the confusing puzzle pieces might fit together if she could first figure out why she had been abducted. During her captivity, she’d tried to think, but constant fear created mental fog, making it impossible to concentrate and reason. Although she was still afraid of being recaptured, Luke’s protectiveness had quieted her fears enough for the fog to clear. Now, three potential motives instantly came to mind.
Sexual obsession. She shuddered at the thought of the kidnapper sexually assaulting or raping her. But he hadn’t. For an entire month, he’d been content with masturbating. Was self-gratification enough to satisfy a sexual obsession? And, as Luke had said, something seemed off and made this motive less plausible.
Fame. If the guy had kidnapped her for notoriety, he would’ve needed publicity. But Luke hadn’t said anything about the bastard publishing a manifesto or posting some grand statement on social media. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned any communications from the kidnapper. Hard to gain fame with no publicity.
Money. If the kidnapper wanted cash, he would’ve made a ransom demand. He hadn’t. And driving the big truck and RV all the way across the country must’ve cost a bundle. At this point, he had lost money.
She was just about to dismiss the money motive when another idea surfaced. Maybe the guy was getting paid by someone, not as ransom for her release, but as compensation for holding her captive. Damn. Why would someone hire a man to do that? She scrunched her eyes shut and contemplated possibilities.
One reason could be to get Elle out of the way. If the kidnapper’s boss was doing something or planning to do something she might uncover in one of her investigations, preventing her from nosing around would be important. If somebody feared being exposed, her absence was like insurance. Or maybe someone, who had already been exposed in one of her reports, wanted revenge. Revenge was a powerful motivator.
Another reason could explain the kidnap-for-hire from an entirely different angle. What if the kidnapper’s boss thought he was protecting Elle from…whatever? She did have a dangerous job and plenty of enemies, so perhaps somebody wanted to keep her safe. But what if she’d already rejected the offer of protection? The person could be used to getting his way and balked at being told no.
She gasped. A name flashed in her mind like a neon sign in Times Square: Richard Carmichael.
* * *
At 10:00 p.m., Luke clicked the remote to turn off the TV in the living room. He’d stared at the screen without seeing it for at least the past hour. His mind had been on something else: Elle, the smart, sexy woman currently sleeping in his bed. Alone.
Damn. Could he have screwed things up any worse? Elle was not only leaving tomorrow, she had also kicked him off the case. Not that he’d officially been on the case to start with, but still.
He punched the pillow behind his head and stretched out his legs, letting them hang over the armrest at the far end. Since he wore only boxer briefs and the room was chilly, he pulled up the sheet he had thrown on the floor earlier. However, being pissed would keep him awake more than being uncomfortable.
He had just rolled onto his side when his cell rang. He grabbed it from the end table and checked the screen. Holmes? What the hell does he want at this time of night? “Don’t you feds ever sleep?” he asked.
“Not much. Listen up, Johnson. Ca
rmichael is on his way to your place. He’s drunk, pissed, and armed.”
“I hate that combo.”
“This isn’t a joke. He’s talking crazy about ‘taking his woman back’ and other shit. Consider him armed and dangerous. And unpredictable. Let him search your place, toss it if he wants. Just don’t confront him.”
“Bullshit. I have a right to protect my property.”
“I’m not saying you don’t. Just ask yourself if it’s worth it,” Holmes said.
“Shooting the son of a bitch might come close.”
“Seriously, Johnson, I’m telling…asking…you to stand down and let Carmichael—”
“Let him what? Tear up my house? No thank you.”
“Look, I’m on my way. He called me as he was leaving his hotel bar. I figure he’s got a ten-minute head start. If you can just deal with him peacefully until I get there, I’ll take him into custody if he’s broken any laws. Deal?”
“Don’t count on it.” Luke disconnected. Elle. Shit.
He snatched the sheet and pillow off the couch and raced to the bedroom. Without knocking, he shoved open the door.
“Elle, get up! Carmichael’s coming.”
She bolted upright immediately, apparently also not asleep. “How do you know?”
“The FBI agent called. Carmichael is drunk and pissed. Said he wants ‘his woman back.’ The asshole will insist on searching the house again, and Holmes asked me to stand down. It sucks, but if my cooperation keeps you from getting hurt or found, so be it.”
Wearing a borrowed tank top—thin enough to expose her nipples—and pajama pants, she scrambled out of bed as he spoke. She scooped up the clothes she’d worn earlier and threw them into one of Karla’s decoy donation boxes.
Rushing out of the bedroom, she called over her shoulder, “My toiletries.” When she returned a minute later, she tossed everything into the box and then draped the comforter over both boxes.
Luke scoured the room, looking for any other signs of her presence, and pointed at her shoes under the bed.
“Where should I hide?” she asked as she slipped them on.
“I’m sure he’s going to look upstairs because Holmes didn’t let him spend much time up there this morning, so the pantry might be best.”
When they reached the kitchen, Elle peered past him and out the window at the barn. “What about there? Do you think he’ll search it in the dark?”
“Maybe not, but I gotta warn you. There are rats.”
“Rats? Ugh.”
“It’s rats or Richard. Your choice,” Luke said.
“Honestly, I don’t see much difference, so I guess I’ll take my chances with the four-legged variety.”
Luke took a flashlight from a drawer and pushed it into her hands. “Once you’re inside, don’t use it unless you have to. The barn walls are so full of holes that the light will be visible from here.”
In a sudden, unexpected move, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thanks.”
Then she was gone.
What the hell? Luke wasted a few precious seconds marveling at her kiss before he jumped back into action. He scanned the kitchen for any signs of his guest and found none. A concerned glance confirmed Elle had reached the barn safely, so he barreled down the hallway to the living room where he pulled on his jeans and slipped on his shoes.
Chuckling, he realized Elle hadn’t said a word about his lack of clothes. She probably hadn’t even noticed. Oddly disappointed at the thought, he retrieved his pistol from where he’d hidden it earlier under the edge of the couch.
Prep time expired when tires squealed at his driveway entrance.
* * *
Elle didn’t let herself think about rats—either kind—as she pulled the barn door open and darted inside. An earthy, but not unpleasant, smell greeted her. She swept the beam from the flashlight across the interior, finding it pretty much empty except for several mounds of hay and some old tools. She picked up a pitchfork and realized it was the first time she’d ever touched a real one. She rolled her eyes. “City Girl” should be tattooed on her forehead as a warning.
While she examined the dangerous-looking item and considered its potential as a weapon, something brushed against her leg. She jumped and squealed. Her reaction was met with a loud hiss.
A large tabby stood a few feet away with its back arched and its hair on end. Elle shook her head and chuckled at her own rapid heartbeat. As she watched the cat inspect her with unblinking eyes, she took long, slow breaths to calm herself.
“Here, kitty,” she called, squatting but not moving any closer. The cat eyed her warily. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll scratch your back or ears or whatever, if you’ll keep the rats away. They’re probably why you’re in here anyway.”
When the cat remained unfriendly, Elle sighed and chose the haystack farthest from the door for her hiding place. With the pitchfork beside her, she settled in a spot where she could see the entrance and then switched off the flashlight. The barn wasn’t nearly as dark as she had feared because there were holes not only in the walls to let light out, but also in the roof to let moonlight in. After a minute, her eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, and she spotted the cat on a nearby pile of hay.
She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Here, kitty-kitty. My offer still stands.”
The tabby approached hesitantly, coming barely close enough for Elle’s fingertips to stroke its forehead, but not near enough to be caught. The cat sniffed her fingers and moved a few inches closer. Kitty received a gentle scratch behind its ears as a reward. Nearer still, and Elle ran her fingernails through the hair on its back, receiving a loud purr in appreciation. Another minute of stroking, and the cat curled up in her lap.
“Don’t get too comfortable. I expect you to uphold your end of the bargain.”
The squeal of tires interrupted the one-sided conversation.
“Damn you, Richard,” she muttered. “If you had anything to do with my kidnapping, I’ll hang you by your balls.”
Her statement brought to mind the image of another man’s package. Smiling, she recalled Luke standing next to the bed and wearing nothing but his underwear. He hadn’t seemed the least bit fazed by his near nakedness. She snorted. Why should he be embarrassed when he’d already seen her completely naked?
Holding the purring cat, she leaned back on the hay and sighed. Luke was a really handsome guy with an awesome body. His pecs, biceps, triceps, abs, and muscles she couldn’t even name, were magnificent. His broad shoulders tapered to narrow hips with a tight ass on the flipside. Curly blond hair adorned his chest like spun gold. And the trail of it disappearing below the waistband of his boxer briefs was a path she’d definitely like to follow.
She giggled when she realized how aroused she was. Who would’ve thought she’d have any interest in sex after living in fear of it for a month? But apparently, her libido was alive and well. In fact, because she hadn’t had sex since breaking up with Richard, she was long overdue.
She clutched a handful of straw and sifted it through her fingers. Maybe a roll in the hay was just what she needed.
But then memories of her argument with Luke bombarded her. He hated the media—with good reason. And she was one of them. She was the enemy. Unfortunately, enemies-to-lovers only happened in romance novels. No chance the hunk would be interested in sleeping with a reporter.
Chapter 10
When Luke heard Carmichael charging across his front yard like a pissed-off bull, he morphed into battle mode. Leaning against the foyer wall, he waited, focused and ready.
Carmichael pounded the door with one hand and smashed the doorbell with the other. “Open the door, you goddamn hick. You’re hiding Elle or you know where she is. I want my woman. Now!” he yelled, slurring his words.
Luke let him rant for another minute before casually opening the door. “Go away. I already gave at the office,” he quipped.
“Outta my way,” Carmichael growled.
Luke allowed the jerk to shove him aside and stomp into the house. His fingers curled into fists, which was better than curling around the trigger of his gun.
“Where is she?” Carmichael demanded.
“You and the FBI still haven’t found Ms. Bradley? Shame on you.”
“You’re hiding her. I know you are.” Carmichael stepped off the raised foyer into the dining room and grabbed a board. He swung it like a baseball bat into the chandelier box. The sound of shattering glass filled the air.
“That’s gonna cost you, dickhead,” Luke snarled.
Carmichael pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and tossed them on the floor. “There. That should cover it.”
Luke’s fists clenched even tighter. “Get out of my house. I was going to let you search, but I’ve changed my mind. I’d never wish you on my worst enemy, much less on a nice woman like Elle. If I can help keep you away from her, you can bet your ass I will now.”
Carmichael launched himself at Luke, who avoided any contact by simply sidestepping the out-of-control man. The guy spun around and punched wildly at Luke’s face. He missed and stumbled off the landing back into the dining room. He grabbed the same board that had demolished the chandelier and attacked. Luke blocked the hits with his arms. No serious injury, but it was painful and, more importantly, annoying.
Eventually, his patience ran out. Luke snatched the board from Carmichael’s hands and flung it back into the dining room. Elle’s ex jammed his hand into his pants pocket, but before he could draw his weapon, Luke had his own pistol trained on him.
From behind, a strong hand gripped Luke’s shoulder. “I’m sure he deserves it, Johnson, but is he worth it?” Special Agent Holmes asked.
“Aw, shit, Holmes. Just a graze, okay? Just enough to give the asshole a scar to remember me by. Please, pretty please,” Luke said with an exaggerated whine.
The agent reached around with his other hand and pushed Luke’s gun down so it was pointed at the floor.
“You’re no fun,” Luke said, tucking the gun back in his waistband.
Only Obsession (Rogue Security Book 3) Page 8
