“What do you mean?”
“We’re engaged already. So I figure we’ve got at least a year’s worth of dates to cram in between now and the big day.”
“Ha-ha. And you think the best way to start is with a terrible movie?”
“Terribly romantic movie,” he corrected.
She met his eyes. “And if I want the bar set a little higher than that?”
“Then I suggest you come a little closer. I offer an epic cuddle service.” He lifted his arm to the back of the couch and nodded toward the empty space.
She made a face—the same one that kept making him think she wanted to argue but couldn’t muster up a good one—then sighed and slid over.
“Happy?” she said, her voice full of put-on grumpiness.
“Getting there. Just one thing missing.”
“What?”
He pulled out the remote control from under his thigh and clicked the play button. “This.”
“Of course.”
“Yep.”
She shuffled a little before tipping her head into him, and as soon as she was settled, Anderson brought his hand down to smooth her hair off her cheek, then pressed his chin to the top of her head.
“See?” he said after a few minutes. “This couldn’t possibly be a waste of time.”
She didn’t answer, and a glance down told him why. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, the soft inhale and exhale of sound sleep making her chest rise and fall rhythmically. Anderson smiled. It felt good to have her tucked in beside him. Like she belonged there.
Chapter 7
Anderson woke with a start, jerked out of sleep by something unwelcome and unknown.
In a nanosecond, his body went from still and out cold to still and on high alert. As he strained to pinpoint what had woken him, the hairs on the back of his arms were already standing up in anticipation of an intrusion. But he couldn’t hear a sound. Careful to keep quiet, he breathed out, and, without opening his eyes, he took a mental inventory of his situation.
He was on the couch where he’d drifted off. Light seeped through his closed lids, making him sure the sun had come up. Everything seemed calm. Quiet. He started to open his eyes and sit up, but before he could get all the way there, the telltale click of the door unlocking hit his ears.
Anderson immediately slid his hand to his waistband in search of his holstered weapon. His hand came up empty. It took him a panicked second to recall that he hadn’t grabbed the gun from the glove box of his truck before he and Nadine had made their stealthy entrance.
Nadine.
Panic hit him again, this time harder. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of her first.
No time to feel guilty.
Where was she? His eyes swept the room as he pushed to his feet and inhaled. Her scent was all around. Faint but there. Her actual self, though, seemed to be AWOL.
Damn, damn, damn.
Up the hall, he could hear the door opening all the way now.
“Nadine,” he called, his voice so low that it barely carried past his own ears.
Seriously. Where was she?
He darted across the room. The bathroom door hung open, its light off. He turned and strode in the other direction. He pushed open the French doors that led to the elaborate bedroom. The king-size bed sat untouched, and the second bathroom was as dark as the first.
There weren’t enough damns in the world to cover his confusion and concern, and he didn’t have time to come up with a string of more creative curses. Whoever had opened the door was already inside. They were shuffling around out in the living area.
With a near-silent growl, Anderson grabbed the handle on the closet door, flung it open and stepped inside. It was a shoddy solution. The second place the intruder would look, straight after bending to peek under the bed. He wasn’t interested in hiding, but it was also his only option if he wanted a chance to get a look at the invader and a chance to assess his chances of coming out on top in hand-to-hand combat.
Hand-to-gun is the more likely scenario, said a grim voice in his head.
He took a breath and forced off the thought. The person in the other room seemed to be taking their sweet damned time. He gritted his teeth. Thoroughness was a quality Anderson appreciated everywhere but in criminals. There, he preferred quick and stupid.
And you still don’t know where Nadine’s gone to.
He took the few minutes he had to reason through it. If someone had come in and taken her, he would’ve heard it. So logically he had to assume she’d left of her own free will. Maybe she slipped out to get some breakfast. Or maybe she’d woken early, found that the clothes didn’t fit properly and headed to the Whispering Woods Lodge’s gift shop for replacements.
The why doesn’t even matter, Anderson said to himself.
The important part of the situation was the fact that at the very least she’d started out leaving on purpose. The real question was whether or not it’d stayed that way.
If someone intercepted her between the suite and her destination...
Anderson did a mental headshake. He’d deal with that when—if—it turned out to be true. If he didn’t focus on saving his own butt, he wouldn’t get a chance to worry about Nadine’s.
And judging from the sounds carrying into the closet now, the intruder finally seemed to be making his way to the bedroom.
With his body tensed in anticipation of a need to go on the defensive, Anderson squinted at the half-inch space between the closet door and the frame. A flash of gray crossed his line of sight first. Then the outline of a short, squat person.
Not exactly the look of a hired assassin.
Of course, Anderson had experienced firsthand just how deceiving looks could be. As a rookie cop, he’d once pulled over a grandmotherly woman for running a stop sign and found a pound of marijuana on the passenger-side seat.
He continued to watch the figure move methodically through the room. Something about the movements made Anderson frown. They didn’t give him the impression that the person on the other side of the door was searching for him or Nadine—or for anything else, for that matter. He ran a hand over his chin, puzzling it over.
Why would a stranger come into the room if they weren’t looking for us? It makes no sense. I can’t think of a—
He groaned quietly as the presumed intruder turned, revealing the simple answer. The gray flash was a hotel uniform. The short, squat stature belonged to a middle-aged woman who wielded an oversize duster with practice and purpose. Her role was obvious. Cleaning staff.
Anderson cursed himself for not considering the possibility in the first place. He’d requested no housekeeping when he checked in, but that was a week ago. He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to talk himself into waiting patiently. It wasn’t what he wanted to do. In fact, if he hadn’t been sure it would draw a hell of a lot of attention, he would’ve burst out of the closet and torn off in search of Nadine.
Not in either of our best interests, he told himself firmly. Even if the minutes are going to tick by painfully.
Thankfully, though, the minimal amount of time he’d spent in the room meant that the woman was able to power through the job. Before too much teeth-grinding time passed, the door was clicking shut again. The second it did, Anderson stepped back into the bedroom, then out into the living room. There he paused. He fought an urge to rip through the room frantically, and instead moved slowly, seeking out a clue as to where Nadine might’ve gone.
Almost right away, he found a note, written in tidy, teacher’s handwriting that might’ve made him smile under different circumstances. As things were, the words did little to relieve his worry.
RAN TO GRAB SOMETHING FROM MY MOM’S. BACK SOON. N.
Though the note told him exactly where she’d gone, there was no hint as to why she’d left so abruptly. O
n top of that, her mom’s place was the very spot her brother had taken his last breaths. Where he’d confessed to having something to use as blackmail against Garibaldi.
A chill crept through Anderson, and he couldn’t shake the sudden, overwhelming stab of foreboding. Without stopping to question his gut, he snagged his truck keys and strode straight out of the suite without looking back.
* * *
Nadine lifted her eyes to her mom’s place for the tenth time. She’d arrived via one of the lodge’s dedicated taxis—which she’d guiltily charged to Anderson’s room while mentally resolving to pay him back every cent—about thirty minutes earlier and hadn’t yet been able to make herself approach the house. Instead, she sat on a public bench at the end of the street. At first, she’d sat down to assess the place. She wasn’t naive enough to think that Garibaldi wouldn’t consider having it watched. They were definitely well acquainted with it. If she wanted proof of that, she didn’t need to look any further than the fact that his men had made short work of removing Tyler’s body.
She blew out a breath and shoved aside the dark image that filled her mind. She hadn’t taken the time to grieve his passing, and though they hadn’t been close—barely knew each other at all, really—she could feel the sadness of loss on the periphery of her heart.
Later, she said to herself. Right now you need to do this.
She turned her attention once more to the home where she’d grown up. So far, she’d seen nothing amiss. No out-of-place vehicles, no flashes of unexpected movement. But her rear end seemed frozen to its spot, and she couldn’t say if it was fear of being caught, sorrow over all the loss or anticipation of being right that held her there.
And I am right.
The dream that had woken her at dawn was specific. A memory that fit perfectly with the sudden jolt of recognition caused by Anderson’s offhand use of the word “key.” She closed her eyes for a second, recalling the sleep-blurred images. In the dream, she’d been a child. It was her tenth birthday, and her father had been giving her a jewelry box. It was an ornate thing. Real wood, polished, stained and lacquered. Something not designed for a little girl with plastic bracelets and broken-clasped necklaces. The most important thing about it, though, was the fact that it needed a key to open it. When her father had handed her that key—both in real life and in last night’s dream—he’d told her in a serious voice that it was so she could keep all their secrets safe. Not her secret. Theirs. The difference had never stuck out before. Now, though, it seemed like a significant distinction.
Nadine opened her eyes and focused her gaze on the window that had been hers as a kid. She’d only looked in the house briefly when she’d arrived back in town. Everything had been covered in a layer of dirt. Left exactly as it had been when her mom had uprooted them from Whispering Woods and moved their life to Freemont. Like it had simply been put on hold.
Nadine wondered if her mother had left it like that on purpose, thinking maybe one day they would return. Maybe its in-limbo status was one of the reasons it had taken nearly a decade for the paperwork to catch up.
She glanced around again, a lump of regret building.
Cleaning it out and going through everything had been on her list of things to do, but being caught up in the continuing mess created by Garibaldi had delayed it.
So what’s your excuse now?
She shook her head. The delay now was in her own head, and she needed to push past it so that she could move forward. And maybe help the case in the process.
Taking a deep breath, she cast another look up and down the street, then pushed to her feet and—with her head down and her shoulders hunched to make herself as invisible as possible—followed the sidewalk up the street. She didn’t look up as she reached the house. She moved by feel, taking the steps to the second floor of the converted fourplex like she’d done a thousand times before. At the top, she realized her key was at home in the apartment she’d leased short-term. But when she put her hand on the doorknob, she found it unlocked anyway. Relieved, she pushed it open. And just inside, she stopped, puzzled by what she saw.
The grime was gone, the clutter reduced to manageable piles here and there. The reduction in untidiness left an unsettled feeling in the pit of Nadine’s stomach. It was almost like someone had come in to look around, and instead of tearing the place apart, they’d put it back together again. She shivered and resolved not to waste time thinking about it.
“Just get the jewelry box and get out.” Saying it aloud motivated her to actually do it.
Ignoring the way the hair on the back of her arms stood up, she stepped through the adjoining kitchen and living room and into the hall. She stared at the three doors that lined it. The first was her mom’s. The second was the one and only bathroom. The last was her own. She drew another breath and counted off the thirteen steps that brought her to a halt in front of it, then pushed it open, flicked on the light and made a beeline for the closet. There she stood on her tiptoes and reached up to the shelf where she’d left the box years earlier. Her hands met nothing but empty space.
A lick of increased worry swept through her. Fighting it, she bent down and pulled out a small storage bin from the pile on the floor. She upended it, stepped on top and peered up to the top shelf. A conspicuous space—four-by-four inches—sat just in between an old shoe box and a small stack of books. The panic that hit was immediate. And dizzying.
On wobbly legs, Nadine lowered her feet to the ground.
Someone had clearly removed the jewelry box. And they hadn’t even tried to hide that fact.
Maybe it’s a coincidence, she reasoned. Maybe Mom did something with it, or...
She couldn’t even make herself finish the thought. Her gut told her it wasn’t true. In fact, her instincts were all but screaming that the key and the box were important in some way.
So where is it?
Worry pricked at Nadine again. If the jewelry box contained whatever blackmail item her brother had mentioned to Anderson’s partner, and Garibaldi’s men already had their hands on it, whatever it was, that could be very bad news for her. It could even be the reason she’d become a target.
A target.
And she was more or less out in the open. She had no weapon and no plan. And therefore no protection. Sweat made her palms slippery. Why hadn’t she taken a minute to wake up Anderson? Sheer stubbornness was no excuse for risking her life. She wouldn’t be any good dead to anyone.
Except Garibaldi, said a little voice in her head.
She couldn’t quite shake it off, so she didn’t try. She needed to drop her solo act, admit that she needed help and get back to the lodge as quickly as she could.
Feeling a modicum of relief at the silent admission, Nadine spun and strode purposefully out into the hall. But she only made it a few steps before stopping again as a flash of something out of place on the floor caught her eye. It was flat and white and sticking out from under her mother’s closed door.
An envelope.
With a slightly unreasonable glance up and down the hall, Nadine moved closer, then bent down. The little slip of white came free easily. She lifted it up, feeling uneasy.
A name was scrawled over the front in all caps. HENDERSON. Though there was something familiar about it, Nadine couldn’t place it. But as her hands slid over the crisp paper, she had no problem figuring out what it contained. The shape of the key was unmistakable. But her skin wouldn’t stop crawling, so she decided it was better to shove the envelope into the tiny pocket on the waistband of her yoga pants. She could deal with it after she got back to Anderson. If need be, they could return to the house together.
She started walking again, but her nerves made the tap of her feet on the floor sound ominous, and she had to forcefully swallow the fear that encouraged her to freeze to the spot.
You’ve got this.
But the second she reached
the front door, she realized that what she actually had was a problem. A man-shaped one in a balaclava. He stood in the kitchen, a lit match in one hand and a pile of some unknown substance on the counter beside him.
For a second, Nadine was too puzzled to be afraid. What was he—Oh. He dropped the match to the pile, and it crackled. A slow, steady burn. One that would spread and destroy the house along with any evidence it might contain.
No sooner had Nadine made the conclusion than the masked arsonist lifted his gaze. It fixed on her, chasing aside anything but terror.
Run!
The urgent, self-directed command spurred her to move. She turned to flee. But it was too late. The man was on the move, too. He charged toward her, slamming her to the floor and knocking the wind out of her, cutting her attempt to scream to a squeak. And before she could recover from the impact, he’d twisted them up together. One hand pinned her arms behind her back, the other slammed over her mouth.
“Up,” he ordered, his voice gruff and mean.
She had no choice in the matter anyway. He yanked her to her feet.
“Think you can follow instructions?” he asked.
She managed a nod.
“Good. Listen carefully. I’m going to let your mouth go. You’re not going to scream. Not even for a heartbeat. And when we walk out of here, you’re also going to keep holding my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’m going to take off my mask, and you’re not going to look at me. We won’t be in a hurry. Two lovers who can’t stand to be more than a few inches apart. And if you don’t do what you should, I promise that I’ll risk shooting you right here. Got all that?”
She nodded again, tears pricking at her eyes.
“Good,” said her assailant. “At the very least, it’ll prolong your life by a few minutes.”
The dark words punctuated his rough shove toward the door.
* * *
Anderson took the last corner sharply, his anger and worry mixing to make him feel a little reckless. He tightened his hands on the wheel and braked, trying to calm himself. When he pulled the truck over, though, his eyes lifted to the converted fourplex where Nadine’s mother had once lived, and all hope of gaining some serenity evaporated.
Undercover Protector Page 8
