by Diana Miller
“Nothing.”
“Have you gotten any unusual phone calls? Any hang-ups or wrong numbers?”
“Or strange letters or e-mails? No. Andy and I already discussed all this.” She was overdue for a trim. She pulled her ponytail forward and inspected it for spit ends.
“Did you photograph or videotape something you maybe shouldn’t have?”
“No.”
“Have you changed anything about your routine in the last few months, joined a new organization, changed gyms or dentists, started shopping at a new store?”
“Nope.” She dropped her ponytail. Luckily, the ends weren’t too bad, since she doubted Paul would arrange for a hairdresser.
“Has your work schedule changed so you’re home at different times?”
“My work schedule always varies.” Her cuticles could use attention. She pushed them down.
“You told me both your parents are dead. When did they die?”
She looked up from her nails. “My dad died when I was in grade school. In a car accident, but I didn’t care enough to ask for details since I never met him. He left before I was born.”
Paul made a note. “What about your mother?”
“She died of an aneurism when I was a sophomore in college. To save you research, she was a wonderful woman, but too impulsive for her own good. She never thought anything through, just did what felt right at the moment. She spent her life falling for scumbags, wasting her minimal paychecks, and dodging calls from creditors. But when she died, she had enough life insurance from her housekeeping job at Holiday Inn to pay off her debts. She also never slept with married men, so I doubt anyone hated her enough to have a vendetta against me. Are you finished?”
“Not yet.”
She grabbed her cup and stood. “Then I’d like more coffee.” She was halfway to the kitchen when she realized he was following her. “I can’t even go to the kitchen by myself?”
Paul held up his cup. “I wanted more coffee, too, and I didn’t think you’d want to play waitress.”
“You’re right.” She stomped to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup, then refilled his. Giving into the urge to make him pour his own seemed a little childish.
“Thanks.”
She gave him a saccharine smile. “My pleasure.”
“About your boyfriend Andrew Dawson,” Paul said when they were both settled back on the sofa.
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“You didn’t mention he’s with the Denver District Attorney’s office.”
She sipped her coffee. “I told you he was a lawyer.”
“His being a prosecutor could be important.”
“I was talking about my past relationship, for God’s sake.” Jillian gestured with her cup, stopping when she realized it was dangerously close to overflowing. “I wasn’t trying to hide anything. Unlike you.”
“What kind of cases does he handle?”
“He’s been in the Economic Crime Unit for several years.”
“He might have powerful enemies.” Paul made a note. “Did he tell you about any of his cases?”
“We talked about a lot of things in two years.”
“Was he involved with anything someone might be concerned he told you about?”
“How am I supposed to know what someone might be concerned he told me?” She started to wave her cup again, but stopped herself and set it on the coaster before she spilled it—or tossed the contents at Paul. “Besides, until Kristen was killed, I hadn’t seen Andy for over six months.”
“Who have you dated since you broke up with Andy?”
“Why is that your business?”
“Answer the question, please.”
She refused to let him know she was embarrassed. She lifted her chin, met his eyes. “I hadn’t had a single date since Andy dumped me. Which is why I was stupid enough to go out with you.”
Paul dropped his pen on his legal pad. “This is getting us nowhere.”
“Because there’s nowhere to go,” Jillian said. “The only reason anyone would want to kill me is because of you. Why does someone want to kill you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Don’t you think it’s only fair I know what’s screwing up my life?”
“I can’t tell you.” He got up, crossed the room, and returned with an iPad. “Look through all the photos in this file. They’re mug shots of felons known to be living in Colorado. Tell me if you recognize anyone.”
She glanced at the iPad screen. “What’s the purpose of this exercise?”
“You might have encountered someone who thinks you witnessed a crime or who’s pretending to be someone else.”
“I also could have encountered someone without a criminal record who thinks I witnessed something or who’s pretending to be someone else.” She tilted her head, widened her eyes. “Maybe I should look through photos of every single Colorado resident and mark everyone I’ve ever encountered. You can check them all out.”
He snorted. Anyone else she would have thought was disguising a laugh, but from his harsh expression, that wasn’t the case. “Look at the damn pictures.”
After five minutes of scrolling through unflattering photos, Jillian looked up. “I found someone.”
Paul had moved to a chair across the room, probably out of fear she’d sneak a peek at his top-secret work. He set down his laptop and came over to the sofa, carrying his pen and legal pad.
Jillian pointed at the mug shots of an African-American male in his early twenties. “I sewed up his arm about a month ago. Cut himself cooking, he claimed.”
Paul made a note. “Was he upset with you?”
“No, because I didn’t bother to report him even though I was pretty sure he didn’t get that cut slicing onions.” She scrolled to the next page. “I know this guy, too. They’re both members of the same gang.” She scrolled through a few more pages then pointed at another photo. “This guy’s in a different gang. I’ve never treated him, but I’ve seen him in the ER a couple times.”
“Do you know every gang member in Denver?”
“Quite a few have come in, either to be patched up or bringing someone else.”
“Have you had run-ins with them?” Paul asked.
“Nothing serious. They don’t dare hassle us too much because they never know when they’ll need our help. None of them would ever want to kill me.”
Paul ripped a few pages from his legal pad and set them and his pen on the coffee table. “List all the gang members you recognize. If you recognize anyone not gang-related, tell me.”
Jillian looked around the living room. “I forgot to ask, where are my friends?”
“Your friends?”
“Those nice men who brought me here last night. Especially that sweet Alex.”
The corners of Paul’s mouth twitched.
Although she’d probably imagined it. He hadn’t looked anything but serious since she’d arrived.
“They all left this morning. But don’t worry. You’re not alone with me. Sam’s still here, and so is another guy named Mac. And this place is so isolated hardly anyone knows it exists, and it has one of the best security systems around. No one can get in.” Cold steel hardened his eyes and voice. “Or out.”
A chill ran down Jillian’s spine. The Devil was definitely an appropriate nickname.
Like she’d said, when she made a mistake…
* * * *
“Time to get up, Jillian.”
Paul’s knock on her door roused Jillian from a sound sleep. After four hours of reviewing mug shots, she’d needed a break. Everyone was looking familiar.
Paul pounded louder. “Dr. Rodgers?”
Jillian glanced at the clock. Nearly six. No doubt, Paul had decided a three-hour break was long enough. She walked over and yanked the door open. “Now what?”
“Time for dinner.”
She smelled tomatoes and basil. “I’d prefer
to eat in my room.”
He smiled humorlessly. “I’m sure you would, but I want you to get to know Sam and Mac since they’re protecting you.” He took her arm. “Let’s go.”
“Just so you know, I’m not helping with cleanup.”
Paul left halfway through dinner without having said a civil word to her. Luckily, Sam and Mac proved much better company, especially Sam, who spoke enthusiastically about his high school librarian wife and their three elementary school-aged kids.
Despite her earlier assertion, Jillian ended up helping Sam with the dishes. Then she returned to her room and started one of the paperbacks she’d had stacked on her nightstand at home. It lived up to its reviews, so riveting and unpredictable she couldn’t put it down. Maybe not as riveting and unpredictable as her life had become, but a lot more enjoyable.
Her nap didn’t keep her from tiring before ten. She dug through her suitcase for her favorite T-shirt to sleep in, one from a Rolling Stones concert with especially pleasant memories. Right now, she needed all the pleasantness she could get.
She put on the T-shirt and was walking to the bathroom to brush her teeth when someone knocked on her bedroom door. “Jillian? Open up.”
Paul. He was probably there to lock her in the way Sam had last night, although someone had unlocked her door before she’d gotten up. She opened the door.
“Have you thought of anyone who might hate you, anything unusual that’s happened, or any especially sensitive or significant cases Andy’s recently handled?” he asked. “Anything that might make someone want to kill you?”
“No.”
“Let me know if you do.” He turned away.
“Paul?”
He turned back toward her.
“Is that really your name? Paul Devlin?”
“Paul Harrison Devlin.” His tone was coolly impersonal.
“Did you really go to Harvard?”
“I said I did.”
“Did you really have a golden retriever named Charlie?”
“Why would I lie about that?”
Why was she even asking? “Never a straight answer.” She looked away from him, at a weaving on the hallway wall opposite her room, an intricate combination of oranges, blues, and greens. “You know, the worst part is that even though it had only been a short time, I felt like I knew so much about you. Knew you. That’s why I stayed that night. But it turns out I didn’t know a damn thing, not even your real name.” She met his eyes. “Was everything you told me a lie?”
“I didn’t lie to you.”
“That’s a lie to end all lies.”
Paul raked his fingers through his hair. “What I meant is I didn’t lie about my dog and family, about what I think and believe, about what’s important to me. I only lied about my name and my job.”
She shook her head. “You lie so much you probably don’t even remember the truth. Good night, Paul.”
Before she closed the door, Paul stepped through it and grabbed her arms. “Damn it, I said I didn’t lie.”
She just looked at him.
“You know what else wasn’t a lie?” He shoved her against the bedroom wall and held her there with his body. Then his mouth was on hers.
Paul’s lips were hard and punishing, as angry as his tone had been. Despite that, heat pooled in Jillian’s stomach, between her legs. But she refused to respond. She stood ramrod straight, pressing her lips together.
After a moment, his kiss gentled. He stroked her lips with his tongue. She clenched her teeth to keep her mouth shut.
He pulled her slightly away from the wall and wrapped his arms around her, crushing her breasts against his chest as he continued kissing her. Electricity sparked through her, and her whole body trembled. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t keep fighting the heat he triggered inside her. She circled her arms around his neck, parted her lips, and kissed him back.
Paul shoved her against the wall so hard there wasn’t room for anything but body heat between them. He slipped both hands under the elastic of her panties, cupped her buttocks, and lifted her so her softness cradled his erection. Jillian’s heart hammered in her chest, throbbed in her ears and her sex. His lips left hers and skimmed down her throat then over her T-shirt until he reached one breast. His mouth closed over a nipple, his hot breath making it pearl beneath her shirt. He licked the soft cotton until her nipple felt wet, then sucked hard as he squeezed her buttocks. Jillian shuddered and rocked frantically against him.
Paul released her and took a step back.
Jillian opened her eyes, leaning against the wall for support, her breath coming in gasps.
Paul ran a finger down her burning cheek, across her swollen lips. “That part wasn’t a lie, and apparently it wasn’t for you, either.” His voice and breathing were completely normal. “Unfortunately I’m working, so I don’t have time for pleasant diversions.” His lip curled derisively. “Although I appreciate the offer.”
“Go to hell.”
Paul met Jillian’s eyes, his own as cold and remote as the Arctic Ocean. “Been there, done that. Sleep well, Jillian.”
He shut the door. And locked it.
Chapter 11
She hated him. Jillian awoke with the same thought that after several restless hours had finally lulled her into a fitful sleep. She hated Paul Devlin.
Deep down, she’d harbored the hope she’d been more than a sex partner and that his feelings had made him disregard any possible danger to her. After last night, she couldn’t fool herself. He’d never felt anything for her besides lust, which he’d satisfied without any concern he might be endangering her. After last night, he also knew she still wanted him. He had the power to destroy her last shreds of self-respect, even if he didn’t intend to harm her physically.
Which wasn’t at all certain. Because during the long night, Jillian had realized Paul’s story had quite a few holes, holes she’d been willing to overlook because he asked logical questions and had official-looking mug shots and because Sam seemed nice and had talked about a family he could have invented. Too many things didn’t make sense.
For one thing, it was hard to believe the government would haul an innocent citizen away at gunpoint and hold her against her will. Lawsuit concerns would stop them, even if the Bill of Rights didn’t. For another, the men who’d brought her here certainly hadn’t treated her like a guest of Uncle Sam or seemed like government agents. They’d acted and sounded like very bad guys, and from what they’d said about Paul, he fell into the same category. All she had was Paul’s word they were all with the government, and she knew what his word was worth.
Paul also claimed the government was entitled to hold her because of their need to protect him. If the government was so concerned about his safety, what had he been doing skiing in Colorado?
Had she really been targeted at all? The Keystone police had labeled her car explosion an accident, and the bus incident might have been an over-anxious commuter. Anyone trying to kill her had passed up all sorts of opportunities, when she was alone in her apartment, on her way to work or running or shopping, even at Kristen’s funeral. The only indisputable attack on her had occurred when Paul’s associates kidnapped her.
The more she thought about it, the less she believed Paul worked for the government. More likely, he was a criminal intending to use her as a hostage or to influence Andy or for some other evil purpose, one that would end up with her dead. She needed to get the heck out of here.
Running away was out of the question. She was outnumbered and out-armed, and in this frigid weather, she wouldn’t last long wandering in the mountains. Last night when she’d been putting away a platter, she’d opened the wrong drawer. Instead of more platters, this one had contained a black phone. An unused phone jack was on the wall above the counter, to the left of the drawer. Paul wouldn’t have bothered hiding the phone from her if it didn’t work, would he?
Her best bet was to contact Andy. He had the resou
rces to find and protect her. If she acted cooperative, maybe Paul wouldn’t watch her as closely as he had yesterday. Then she’d seize the first opportunity to call Andy and give him enough information to find her, or to at least know she was in trouble.
She’d do it today. She had a feeling her life depended on it.
Jillian dressed carefully, putting on a periwinkle sweater with her jeans, arranging her hair into a neat French braid, and applying more makeup than her usual blush and lipstick. As a final touch, she put on small gold hoop earrings. Looking halfway professional would hopefully remind her to act that way, even if Paul made some derogatory comment about last night.
Her door was unlocked again this morning, so Paul must be awake. She marched to the living room, not even stopping for a cup of coffee. Paul was at his sentry post on the sofa.
“Can you get a list of the ER patients I’ve treated in the last year or so? Their diagnoses, too, if possible.” She was pleased she sounded as if she were talking to a patient’s family doctor, rather than a man she detested.
Paul looked up from his ever-present laptop. “Why?”
“Because that might jog my memory of something relevant. A list of Andy’s cases, with brief descriptions, also might help me remember if he talked about any of them.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you said there’s nothing there.”
She shrugged. “There probably isn’t. I’ll try anything that might get me back to my life.”
He studied her for long seconds then nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“In the meantime, I’ll review more mug shots. Right after I get some coffee.”
Jillian went into the kitchen and slumped against the counter, her entire body trembling. Now all she could do was wait—and watch for her chance.
* * * *
It came late afternoon. After looking at as many mug shots as she could stomach, Jillian brought her paperback to the living room. While she pretended to read, she sneaked peeks at Paul, who was typing furiously on his laptop. As she’d hoped, acting distant but cooperative had made him less watchful of her.
Her stomach fluttered when she recognized the opening strains of a Mahler symphony. She’d convinced Paul to turn on the radio. They got satellite, so the station didn’t clue her to where they were, but she was counting on the music to help conceal her actions. Paul had insisted on classical music, but Mahler would soon be as loud as any heavy metal group.
