Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  She was ready to die now.

  Her lips curved upward. Her cheeks moved, her eyes crinkled, but there was not an ounce of happy to buoy it up. The façade held, despite the escalating internal pressure.

  FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Ward had sat quietly when the Assistant DA had informed her that mobster Andrew DeLattio was being allowed to turn state’s evidence. Then she’d excused herself and thrown up in the restroom.

  Lines of strain etched her eyes and mouth. Her pulse fluttered.

  Truth was she didn’t mind dying, but she wasn’t going to stand on the sidewalk with a bulls-eye tattooed to her ass. Juliette Morgan was a target for every organized-crime family in the US and Elizabeth intended to make her disappear.

  Permanently.

  She walked through to the main bedroom, pulled out a scarlet Versace pantsuit and a tangerine silk blouse and walked back into the bedroom.

  Can I really do this?

  Yes! The answer screamed inside her head. How else could she reclaim her life? And if she died trying? So be it.

  She dressed. The red and orange clashing violently in an eye-catching display of high fashion—exactly the effect she was going for.

  Satisfied, Elizabeth walked through to the lounge and took one last look at the stylish Manhattan apartment. She was done with it, burned out, wasted, with no future to speak of and a past full of regrets. Time hadn’t diminished her fury; if anything it burned brighter and stronger every day. DeLattio owed her and Witness Protection or not, she was going to get her revenge.

  Forcing herself to move she stopped before she’d gone two paces. Her eyes caught and held an old sepia photograph staring at her from the hall table. A young couple grinned at her from their perch, affectionately hugging two tiny figures between them.

  It knocked her sideways, the lifetime of grief locked up in that treasured photograph. She swallowed three times before she could catch her breath.

  Ah, God.

  Elizabeth blinked to kill the tears and slid the photograph into her purse, next to her Glock. Hiding behind dark sunglasses, she picked up her keys and left without a backward glance.

  ***

  Triple H Ranch, Montana, April 3rd

  In the open doorway of the ranch house with his old dog pressed against his side, Nat Sullivan gazed up into the inky depths of the night sky. No moon shone tonight, though stars glittered like tiny diamonds against the blackest coal.

  It was two a.m. and his eyes hurt.

  A thin layer of fresh snow covered the ground, gleaming like exposed bone. The storm had been a quick blast of fury, totally unpredicted, but not unexpected, not this high in the mountains. Trees popped like firecrackers deep in the heart of the forest.

  A dull throbbing poked at his skull like a hangover. Not that he’d had the time or luxury to get drunk. The headache was the lingering aftereffect of a difference of opinion he’d had with a couple of repo men that afternoon. They thought they had the right to come to the ranch and steal his property. He figured they’d be better off dead.

  Stroking the silky fur that covered the old dog’s skull, tension seeped from his stiff neck as his muscles gradually relaxed. He let out a breath and his stance tempered, shoulders lowered as the tightness slowly eased.

  Peace, finally, after a day of almighty hell.

  The Sullivans had been granted a temporary reprieve when his mother suffered a heart attack. A life-and-death version of the silver-lined cloud.

  Nat tried to force a smile, found the effort too great, his jaw too damn sore to do it justice. Last time he’d seen his mother she’d been pasty gray, her hair standing on end, lying flat on her back in a hospital bed.

  Still giving out orders.

  Old. Weak. Cantankerous. His mother would go to her grave fighting for this land. He could do no less.

  Absently, he played with the silky fur of Blue’s ears. The Triple H was nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, a lush valley butted up close to the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Settled by his great, great grandparents, it was as much a part of his heritage as his DNA. A few hundred acres of prime grazing land, carved over millennia by the friction of ice over rock.

  Nat had had his adventures, traveled the world, seen more than his fair share of beautiful country, but now he was back to stay. Montana was in his bones, the backdrop to every thought and the oxygen of every breath. He leaned against the doorframe, looked out at the mountains and welcomed the fresh clean air pressed close against his cheeks.

  It was sacrilege to think the ranch could be taken from them.

  A shooting star plunged across the night sky, falling to its death in a brilliant display. Nat drew in a sharp breath at the flash of beauty. The dog stiffened beneath his palm, a low growl vibrating from its belly all the way to its teeth. Nat cocked his head, ears tuned in, attention focused. A low humming sound grew louder, like the buzz of a honeybee getting closer.

  A car.

  Heading this way.

  “Quiet, Blue. Go lie down.” He didn’t want the dog making a racket and waking his niece. Pulling the baby monitor from his pocket, he checked it against his ear to make sure it was still working, and turned back to the open door.

  Could be nothing.

  Could be Ryan driving home drunk even though he knew better. But Ryan didn’t always show good judgment after a bad day. Didn’t sound like Ryan’s truck though. Nat flicked off the baby monitor.

  Hidden Hollow Hideaway was remote and secluded, with mountains surrounding and enclosing the ranch on all four sides. Miles off the beaten track it was hard to find even in daylight. At night it was damn near impossible. People did not just pass by and they weren’t expecting any paying guests for at least another week. Troy Strange was their only neighbor for miles and he was more likely to visit smallpox victims.

  Trouble was coming—Nat smelled it, almost tasted it at the back of his throat.

  Cursing, he grabbed his rifle and ammo off the gun-rack above the kitchen door and loaded it, chambering a round. He moved quickly outside to stand in the deep shadows besides the big Dutch barn. Cattle lowed behind him and a wolf’s howl echoed through the hills to the east.

  Prickles crept up Nat’s spine. Were the repo men coming back for another shot at his horses? Despite all his attorney’s fine words?

  The car was cresting the rise a hundred yards from the main house. It sure as hell wasn’t Ryan’s truck. Nat’s heart thumped hard against his ribcage and adrenaline banished tiredness. He hugged the side of the barn as headlights cut deep into shadow. The rig, a Jeep Cherokee, pulled into the yard in front of the main house, cut the lights, cut the engine.

  Silence resonated around the granite peaks like a boom in his ears. Nat breathed in and out. He smelled the exhaust fumes tainting the pure mountain air, listened as silence combed the darkness, as if nothing existed except the colorless wasteland of night. Just time and universe, cold and rock.

  Anticipation sharpened every sense as he waited, balanced on the balls of his feet. Nobody moved. Nobody crept out of the Jeep. Nobody sneaked into his stable to steal his prize-winning Arabian horses.

  Nat’s breathing leveled off, his heart rate slowed. He relaxed his stance and adjusted his grip. Waited.

  The repo men had brought a truck this morning.

  Nat waited another minute, then another. His eyes grew gritty with fatigue and he fought back a yawn. This wasn’t the repo men. He didn’t know who it was, but it wasn’t them. Cold seeped into his hands from the frigid metal of the gun; his trigger finger was freezing up.

  “Damn it all to hell.”

  He wasn’t about to leave some stranger hanging around his property in the middle of the night.

  Though it was pitch-black, Nat’s eyesight was sharp and well-adjusted. He knew every inch of ground, every stone, fence, and broken-down piece of machinery on his land. Picking out shades of gray, he moved towards the car. Flicked off the rifle’s safety and peered in through the frosted-up glass. It wa
s like trying to see to the bottom of a riverbed in the middle of winter. He couldn’t make out a damned thing.

  With one finger, he lifted the handle of the driver’s side door. It clicked open, but no interior light came on. Nat took a step back and peered inside, made out a bundled up figure in the back seat, curled up, unmoving.

  Gripping his rifle he felt the tension crackle like static on a dry day. The fine hairs at his nape sprang up, tensile and erect.

  “Drop the rifle, mister.” The voice was softly feminine.

  “Now why would I want to do that?” he asked.

  She was silent. He could feel her apprehension; almost see her weighing her choices in the concealment of the Jeep.

  His teeth locked together. “I don’t think so, ma’am.” He might have been raised to be polite to women, but he wasn’t dumb. “Not ‘til you tell me why you’re sneaking onto my property in the middle of the night.”

  She shifted slightly. He heard the rustle as she pushed aside the blankets.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. There was a lilt, some sort of accent in her voice that sounded both warm and aggressive at the same time. It undid some of his irritation and sparked a glimmer of curiosity.

  “Well, ma’am.” Pitched low, Nat’s voice was steely with courteousness. “A better question would be what the hell’s yours?”

  ***

  It was a good question. It was a great question. But Elizabeth had been working undercover for so long now she’d begun to wonder herself.

  She’d followed the directions she’d been given by the woman over the phone, gone wrong a dozen times before God had decided she needed an even greater challenge and had given her a flat tire. All in all, she’d been driving for three days with limited stops and hadn’t eaten in eighteen hours. Fear and exhaustion had turned her into an amateur.

  Stupid.

  Instead of blending in she was sticking a gun in an innocent man’s face.

  Doubly stupid.

  She slid the Glock back into her purse. Slowly, noiselessly. She didn’t want to alarm him, didn’t want to get shot by some trigger-happy nut-job citing the second amendment. She had enough trigger-happy nut-jobs to worry about.

  Her vision blurred and her reflexes moved like glue.

  The rancher didn’t sound too chipper himself. But what had she expected, turning up in the middle of the night? She pressed her lips together into a rigid line of self reproof.

  Irritation seeped through the darkness in a palpable wave of hostility. The cowboy was seriously pissed.

  She’d screwed up.

  “I’m Eliza Reed. I booked one of your holiday cottages for next month?” Her voice came out surprisingly light and airy. “I took off earlier than expected. I was hoping to just sleep in the Jeep tonight and beg a room in the morning.”

  Making herself out to be an idiot wasn’t difficult at this point in her life. She cleared her throat, watched him carefully. Noted the way his chin dipped, even though the rest of him stayed as still as a mountain. Silence stretched as she held her breath waiting for his response. His silhouette was dark and looming—unrelenting.

  Shit.

  He was going to send her away.

  She tried to moisten her throat, swallowed repeatedly, but it didn’t help. She could not drive any further tonight. Her stomach rumbled, but she couldn’t face food. She just needed about a million years of rest. Her eyes closed and her body swayed. She caught the headrest in front of her, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

  “You can stay,” he said, finally.

  His voice was deep and carried a lazy drawl that reminded her of a childhood spent watching westerns on Saturday morning TV. That childhood had died along with her parents.

  “Thanks. Thank you, so much.”

  Babbling was not a good sign.

  She glanced up as relief washed through her, took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  “I’m going to get out now, okay?” She nodded toward the rifle, waited for his curt acknowledgement, sensed the slight relaxation in his stance like the uncoiling of an angry snake as he pointed the rifle at the ground and flicked on the safety.

  She raised her eyes to his face, made sure her hands were clearly visible before she moved. They shook badly, but that was okay. Between the cold and the adrenaline rush, he’d never know why she was really scared.

  “You frightened the devil out of me opening the door like that.” She forced a nervous little laugh, realized it came naturally. Fluttering a trembling hand to her breast, she added, “I’ve heard all these horror stories about grizzly bears and wolves.”

  Like anyone ever heard of a wolf opening a door.

  The man didn’t move. Didn’t speak. It was as disconcerting as hell. Her gaze hooked on a shadow that dented his chin, all she could make out in the darkness. Her balance cart-wheeled with nervous fatigue and suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

  Air. She needed air.

  Blankets trapped her legs, made her panic. She pushed them away and clambered out of the Jeep. The man hadn’t moved an inch and she found herself eye-level with that dented chin.

  He had a strong, firm mouth and she didn’t like it.

  A lungful of frigid mountain air iced up her insides and she shivered with cold, let out a deep gulp of breath and watched, mesmerized, as it curled up to brush past the cowboy’s cheek. He moved a fraction, as if to avoid the ephemeral contact.

  Annoyance radiated from him in waves, from the set of his shoulders to the rigid way he held his arms.

  Battling her cool reception, she tried again. “I’m really sorry, I would have phoned, but I lost my signal...” She could tell he was frowning at her.

  Fear skittered along her nerves. Fright clogged her vocal cords and paralyzed her muscles. Suddenly, she couldn’t speak. Nobody knew she was here. Nobody knew she was on a remote ranch in the mountains, only an inch away from a big, angry cowboy.

  And wouldn’t that be one of God’s little ironies? Murdered while on the run.

  Frozen, she jammed the edges of her jacket closer together, wrapped herself in its protection. Fingered the big, round, buttons, and concentrated on their smoothness. Wished to God she’d put her Glock in her pocket rather than her purse, or thought to wear her backup weapon. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Relax. Breathe. Relax.

  She’d been a good agent once—better than good. Now her heart thundered like a raging river and sweat broke out along her spine. She wanted to flee. Run and never look back. But she had nowhere left to go.

  Every sense strained as Elizabeth tried to gauge the stranger’s intent. Her eyesight had adjusted to the starlight and her right hand itched for her weapon. He surveyed her carefully, as if trying to make up his mind.

  Whether to shoot her or send her packing?

  A nervous laugh hovered at the back of her mind—exhaustion making her punchy. His jaw clenched so tight she could see it flex despite the dim light. She took an involuntary step back, found herself pressed against the frigid steel of the Jeep.

  “Guess I should welcome you to the Triple H Ranch, ma’am.” His voice was pitched low and soft, so soft she had to strain to hear him. He extended one hand in front of him while the other gripped the rifle. “Nat Sullivan.”

  The reluctance in his voice made her lips curve in a wry grimace. The background check on Nat Sullivan suggested he was a straight-up sort of guy. Single, early thirties, he’d given up a promising career as a wildlife photographer for National Geographic to come home and run the ranch when his father died.

  But background checks didn’t always tell the whole story...

  “Thank you,” she said, reaching out to take the hand he offered, determined to be brave. But the touch of his rough skin on her fingers sent a shockwave screaming through her nerves like a blast of fire. She jerked away, wrapped her arms tightly around her waist and pasted a smile on her face with the last scraps of her energy.

  She hadn’t been prepared for that.
No, sir.

  She hadn’t expected some weird chemistry to jump out and bite her on the ass. No. Sir.

  Maybe the earlier adrenaline rush had left her hypersensitive. Maybe exhaustion made her jumpy. Or maybe that came with the million-dollar price-tag on her head. Her smile slipped a notch and she couldn’t quite force it up into her eyes.

  The heat of him, even without physical contact, was like a solid wall of energy that emanated from his body. She wanted to steal some of that heat. Coldness moved inside her like a glacier now.

  He adjusted his grip on the rifle and she flinched, a small flicker of movement, but enough to remind her she was a victim. Fear made her weak and that was one thing she was determined not to be. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat, fought the haze of emotion that threatened to choke her. She’d made a mistake coming here tonight—should have gone far away. But even the moon was too close when you were running from memories.

  What a bloody mess.

  “Keys?” he demanded.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Where are your keys?” Each word was drawn out slowly, as if he was holding on to his patience by a very thin thread.

  She glanced towards the ignition, jerked back as he moved to retrieve the keys that dangled there.

  Oh, crap.

  The cowboy wheeled and stalked away.

  Elizabeth swayed on her feet, baffled and confused. The breeze snatched at her jacket, tugged at her hair as she watched him go. Her thought processes clicked slowly, one synapse at a time.

  What was he doing? Too tired to even put one foot in front of the other, she just watched him go, grateful she wasn’t dead.

  ***

  Nat cursed, knocked off balance. He opened the cargo hold, stared unseeing into its depths as a puny bulb cast a dim glow over the interior. After his day from hell, he’d been irritated that she’d turned up early, unannounced. But he’d been goddamned thunderstruck when he’d got a load of her face.

  It wasn’t just that she was pretty. That hadn’t fazed him. But for one brief instant, when she’d first stepped out of the car and raised her face...she’d looked like Nina. And his heart had damned near pounded itself to death.