Trust No One

by Barbara Phinney

  A gull screamed overhead and with his vehicle door still open, he glanced up. Thick, burgeoning clouds whipped past, low and dark and cold. A fat raindrop hit his cheek. He slammed the door and stalked toward his house.

  A movement of light against the dark sky caught his attention. Squinting into the moist wind, he peered over at the east cliff directly ahead, but saw nothing more than churning white-capped waves hurling themselves at the rocks. With nothing to do, he walked to the corner of his house and stared up at the cliff.

  It was probably a hungry gull, diving down for a morsel of food. He watched for the bird to be driven skyward by the updrafts slamming against the cliff.

  Instead, a figure appeared at the top, briefly, before stooping down again.

  Nick slammed himself against the logs of his house, instinct surging inside of him. One of the reasons scum like Cooms made New Brunswick their home was because of coves like his. Too dangerous for pleasure craft, these secluded coves were perfect for smuggling in drugs.

  And perfect for eliminating the kind of evidence that could speak out in court against them. Like witnesses.

  The heavens opened, pelting him with cold rain. He stared through the sheets of water, not wanting to lose sight of the figure trespassing on his land.

  There! A small, slight woman, busying herself with something at her feet.

  What the hell was she doing? His suspicious mind automatically focused on the worst. Was she getting rid of evidence? Or flagging in a boat?

  Wild speculation, brought on by his suspension, he told himself. But hell, the hairs on his arms tingled, a sure sign his instinct had just kicked into overdrive.

  Keeping low, he made a dash for the largest outcropping of rock beside his house, the one that hid his SUV from view and grew into the east cliff. He knew every pebble in the cove and he easily judged the distance to the figure. Three hundred feet, no more.

  The figure seemed to wipe her eyes against the wind and rain. He hugged the treeline, thankful his dark jacket matched his surroundings. Then he ducked into the woods, following the narrow path that climbed to where the woman stood. Hidden by the trees and muffled by the wind, he knew he'd reach her in a matter of seconds and she would never know he was there.

  Tiny hairs tingled at the back of his neck, chilling him more than the rain. He was in full-blown goose bumps by the time he reached the end of the path.

  Something was out of whack. His instinct had never failed. Until now, it had kept him alive and he anticipated no change. He stepped carefully onto the small precipice.

  There she was. He froze, not wanting her to catch his movement in her peripheral vision.

  Slowly, shakily, she peeled off her jacket and dropped it onto the sneakers she'd removed. He caught her drenched profile. A smooth face, pert ski-jump nose and pouty lips parted to show straight, white teeth.

  Lips, lush, delivering a moist heat to his bare skin.

  Desire pumped through him, hard and fast enough to cause him to jolt back against a dead tree in astonishment.

  Damn, he had to get himself laid if the sight of a bedraggled bit of a woman turned his crank so quickly.

  He squared his shoulders. Pretty face or not, she was up to no good.

  When she turned to confront the onslaught of howling wind and storm, he stepped past the edge of the trees. She still couldn't hear him over the gale, despite being only a few feet away from him.

  Her hair had been brutally hacked off and Nick felt a surge of indignation. Who had cut off such a thick, dark mass that even now defied the downpour with lush curls?

  Shivering, the woman tugged up her knit sweater. His heart spasmed. What the hell? Autumn was hardly the time for public nudity.

  She slipped the soaking sweater free of her slender body.

  Each hair on his arms danced as he watched with fascination. Would she reach around and peel away her bra as well?

  She didn't. Instead, she dug her ringless fingers into the soft sweater and with unexpected violence, rent it in two. Then stooping, she dragged the pale pink knitted material over the point of the sharp outcropping.

  Wearing only a sheer bra and hip-hugging jeans, she flung the sweater over the cliff. Heavy with rain, it sailed outward for a mere second before dropping from his view.

  Was this woman insane?

  Her shoulders stiff, the woman stepped closer to the edge. She leaned over, her frame weaving slightly in the strong wind.

  "Stop!" Nick didn't believe he'd shouted the word until she whirled around to face him. He stepped farther from the shelter of the trees and reached for her.

  The woman focused on his face, paling to the color of ashes.

  Her mouth formed a soft plea of something he didn't quite catch.

  Then she fainted.

  * * *

  As soon as she reached the cliff, Helen removed her shoes. Too bad she had to leave them here. They were comfortable and had cost her almost a month's worth of groceries.

  Not that she'd needed too many groceries, lately. All too often, Jamie appeared at her apartment door with Chinese takeout, or orders to put on a classy dress because they were going uptown to one of the many restaurants he owned.

  Remembering her socks, she tugged at them, turning them inside out. Some days, it seemed like Jamie owned half the city of Saint John. And a few of its politicians, too. He'd told her so himself one night after a few too many drinks. Another night, at one of his fancy parties, he'd even hinted he owned a few cops.

  It had made no difference to her, she'd kept telling herself. He was merely a casual boyfriend, not a long-term lover. She couldn't have anything long-term. No way, not after the mistakes she'd made a few years ago.

  All she'd wanted was someone to be close to. She thought she'd had it with Scott Jackson. But he'd taken her fragile state and swept it away like the tide below would do to her clothes.

  She shut her eyes and the pouring rain sluiced away the tears that had squeezed free.

  Things were different now. Bad. Worse than bad, as the horror of last week churned inside of her.

  She'd decided to break it off with Jamie and had walked into his office the very second he put a gun to the back of his friend's punched-in head.

  And pulled the trigger.

  She'd turned and fled, like the devil himself was at her heels.

  Indeed he was. She fought the memory of Jamie screaming at her, warning her she couldn't run. Warning her he'd find her. Catch her. Kill her.

  He hadn't so far. She'd worn the sneakers she'd just removed, while Jamie had struggled to keep up in his usual Armani suit and slippery Italian loafers.

  She didn't go home. Nor did she go to the police. Not after Jamie's veiled confession that he was paying off a few of Saint John's finest.

  Including Nick Thorndike—the tall, muscular man with a charming, rough-edged appeal to his dark features, who she'd first seen at Jamie's gala affair. She recalled the terrifying, hot slam of attraction that had both intrigued and appalled her. What insanity to be attracted to one of Jamie's crooked cops. If Jamie had found out…

  She'd pleaded a headache and escaped for home before Jamie could introduce her to Nick.

  The second time she'd seen him had been even more terrifying. Last week, as she'd stepped off the elevator, she'd spied him shutting Jamie's office door, with bloodstained hands. Not wanting to be seen, she'd ducked into the stairwell.

  Her fingers flew to her mouth to check a gasp. Why were his knuckles bloodied? What had he done?

  And yet again the crazy fascination resurfaced. Minutes after that, she'd learned how he'd bloodied his knuckles. Horrible.

  Now, a week later, shivering high above the churning ocean, Helen tugged off her jacket. How could she have ignored the fact that Jamie was nothing more than a well-dressed thug?

  And now a murderer who wanted her dead?

  She'd called her boss and said she would be out sick for a while. Since then, she'd spent most of the time fleeing fr
om phone booth to phone booth, always checking over her shoulder, always calling the only person she could trust.

  Her mother.

  Jamie could have tapped her mother's phone, but she had to take the risk. She couldn't put her mother through the worry of not hearing from her only child.

  The wind sprayed cold saltwater up into Helen's face as she recalled their most agonizing conversation.

  "Go to the police, Helen." Her mother had tried to be firm, but her voice quivered.

  "No, I can't trust them. Not after what Jamie said."

  "Come home, then."

  "No!" This call was risky enough. She'd have to keep it short.

  "Helen, you can go to the police. Tell them everything."

  "No, Momma!" She gripped the receiver. "I—I can't. I'm…I just don't have it in me."

  "You do!" Not for a long time had her mother sounded so stern. What a pair they'd become since her father died. Weak and foolish. Hadn't she been weak and foolish enough with Scott Jackson?

  "I wish I was stronger, I really do…." Still gripping the receiver, Helen used her bent wrist to swipe away her tears. "I'm sorry…"

  Her mother sighed. "Where are you?"

  "Safe for now, Momma," she'd answered, peering out of the phone booth to the highway gas station nearby. If only she could tell her where she was. "Listen, Momma, I'm going to have to leave for a while."

  "Leave? Where will you go?"

  Helen shut her eyes. She had to be strong, but the effect took so much out of her. Finally, she blurted out, "I'm going to make it look like I've killed myself."

  Her mother burst into tears. "Don't! You're all I have, sweetheart. I need you."

  "I'm not going to die, Momma. I'm just going to make it look that way."

  They'd hung up shortly after and with the help of several disjointed phone calls over the next few nights, she'd made her plans.

  Relenting, her mother had suggested this cove. Long before Helen was born, she'd been a housekeeper for the childless couple who lived there. Her mother said the cove was quiet, but she'd heard the log home was still occupied.

  Perhaps the homeowner could discover the proof that Helen had killed herself.

  Helen scanned the empty cove, thankful she'd taken her mother's advice. Though the log house stood as cold and dark as it had earlier when she'd checked it out, it was obvious someone lived there. Even the mailbox had been emptied each day.

  She let her jacket fall onto her soaking shoes. After a week on the run, always reliving the horror of Tony's murder, she ached with fatigue. But she couldn't stop now. The tide would turn soon. Whoever lived in the log home had to find her favorite shoes, the beloved necklace she'd dropped into one of them. On the wet sand, left by the receding tide, they'd find the expensive sweater Jamie had given her.

  She peeled off the sweater and dug her fingernails through the soft, loose knit, ripping it apart, venting her frustration and fear on the warm, pastel weave.

  A tired shiver rippled through her, slowing her movements for a brief minute.

  Focus! Only a little longer, then you'll be warm.

  Hidden in a plastic bag not far away were her mother's old clothes and a dirty wig purchased at a yard sale. They'd warm her up. And she'd be free. She flung the sweater over the cliff.

  Now, if she could get down to the next ledge, she'd leave part of her bra down there, too.

  "Stop!"

  She whirled.

  And froze, a gasp jammed in her throat.

  Oh, mercy. Him! The dirty cop!

  Jamie had sent his latest henchman, his pet cop, to turn her fake suicide into something horribly real.

  Her world went black.

  * * *

  Nick cursed, catching the woman before she fell and turned her damned stupid suicide attempt into an accidental death.

  He'd had his share of lousy timings, of things that went wrong at the worst possible moments—all cops did—but this took the cake.

  The woman slumped into his arms. He hooked his right arm under her knees and scooped her up. She was a real lightweight, maybe ninety pounds. Especially wearing nothing but a bra and tight jeans.

  Her round, full breasts peaked, pushing hard through the sheerest bra he'd ever seen. He had to cover her. There was no way he could trek back down to his home with those things pointing up at him.

  Bending his knees while trying to keep her level, he managed to lay her out on the wet outcropping. He ripped off his jacket to cover her torso, all the while praying he didn't slip and somehow end up mashing her breasts into his face.

  He could try to dress her in his jacket, but if she came to and saw him fooling with her…well, he didn't want that to happen. As an afterthought, he threw her wet jacket on top of his and lifted her up again.

  He spun around and plowed through the trees, wanting her as far from the edge of the cliff as possible. Within minutes, he reached his house.

  The woman was still unconscious when he laid her on the porch chaise he hadn't yet bothered to put away for the winter. After he unlocked his front door, he scooped her up again and carried her inside.

  The cold, still air hit his wet face, and blinking in the semidark, he stumbled over his rubber boots. With a curse, he kicked them aside, before carrying the woman to the couch. Her head lolled toward him when he laid her down, and with his shoulder, he shoved it the other way. Satisfied she wouldn't roll off, he headed straight for the woodstove.

  Once the kindling caught, he stalked over to shut the front door and kick off his shoes. After hesitating a moment, he stooped to straighten them. May as well try to keep the place neat, since he'd be pacing the floor like a caged tiger for the next few weeks.

  He looked around, his gaze landing on his crystal chess set as it caught the dancing firelight. He would probably hate his house and everything in it by the time the police department decided what to do with him.

  But for now, this place held a small measure of comfort, offering the familiar scents of the home his uncle had built for his aunt.

  A whimpering moan interrupted his thoughts. The woman. He hurried to the bathroom to grab a towel. Returning, he found her gaping up at him in unmasked fear, frozen like a mouse caught in a cat's stare.

  "It ain't hell, sweetheart, and it sure ain't Heaven. You're still alive." He stood over her, gripping the towel.

  She paled worse than before and for a fleeting moment, he expected her to faint again.

  Instead, she continued to stare at him in mute horror.

  "What's your name?"

  She said nothing.

  "Your name!" he demanded. What was wrong with her?

  It took her a moment to answer. "Helen," she whispered.

  "I'm Nick. Dry yourself off." He dropped the cool, dry towel on top of the jackets and walked toward the stairs. "I'll go find you something dry, since you've decided you don't like your pretty little sweater." He stopped and stared at her, his fingers digging into the banister as she pulled the towel up to her bare shoulders. "And forget trying to run for the cliff again. I didn't bring your shoes and I know I can catch you. Easily."

  Her throat bobbed in the dim light of the late afternoon. He rolled his eyes. Flighty ladies weren't his area of expertise. He dealt better with the hardened women who walked the streets. The kind who fought like animals and swore like their sailor boyfriends. Nick had no time for little ladies who couldn't take their pampered lives anymore and tore at their fancy sweaters in kittenish fury.

  Leaving their firm, rounded breasts sheathed only in transparent lace.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. He had to get her dressed. Now. Ignoring the psychological training that had taught him not to leave her alone, he galloped upstairs to his loft bedroom and grabbed only a sweatshirt. His sweatpants would probably fall right off her.

  He found her sitting half-naked on his couch, her slim legs stretching up to the rounded bottom he'd cupped moments ago.

  Whoa, Thorndike. "Here," he growled, thr
usting the sweatshirt at her. "Put this on."

  Her dark blue eyes focusing on his face, she accepted his sweatshirt and mumbled something resembling a thank-you.

  A loud crack of thunder tore through the house. He glanced out the window, surprised he'd missed the flicker of lightning. When he returned his attention to the woman, he found her hugging his sweatshirt to those damn full breasts, her eyes still like saucers.

  "You ought to be scared, sweetheart. You nearly died out there." He suppressed a shudder, himself. Her death would have been brutal, too, being mauled by the waves and jagged rocks. And if they didn't finish her off, the frigid Bay of Fundy water would. Then her body would have washed up on shore like DiPetri's had a few miles east of here.

  "Couldn't you have found an easier way to do it?"

  She blinked, her arms tight around his sweater. "Do what?"

  "To end it all. Kill yourself."

  Another bolt of lightning hit, the blue-white flash reflecting briefly in her huge, dark eyes. She didn't answer.

  "Pills would have been easier. Surely you have a whole medicine cabinet full."

  The selfish thought snapped back at him and he swore loudly. His usual cutting sarcasm worked great when he had to deal with hardened criminals, but this woman was sick. She needed help, not alternatives to throwing herself off his cliff.

  A few seconds later, thunder growled through the house. Through him. "Get dressed."

  The woman struggled with the sweater he'd handed her. Impatient, he bent down to help her, his knuckles accidentally brushing against her shoulder. Her skin wasn't as cool as he'd expected, but warm, smooth like the feel of one of his silk shirts on a summer's night.

  He yanked his hands away from her.

  As soon as the storm ended, she was going to a crisis center. The women there would be better at helping her.

  Way better than he could be.

  Chapter 2

  Helen jerked awake, her arms flying out in front of her to stop…

  Who? Jamie?