True Lies
Ingrid Weaver
To Melanie, George and Karl— three truly amazing people.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Bruce Prentice hadn’t used the tourist disguise in years, but it was one of his favorites. This time he wouldn’t need to risk the inconvenience of a fake beard, since his own scruffy blond stubble had reached a length that buried his distinctive chin and jawline. The wads of gauze that he held against his gums effectively filled the lean hollows of his cheeks.
He flicked a quick, assessing glance at his reflection in the rearview mirror, then allowed himself a tight quirk of a smile as he noted the way the contacts turned his eyes a nondescript brown. Subtle props were the easiest to work with, like the padding that expanded his stomach four sizes and the baggy jacket that would allow him to curl his shoulders forward. The loose clothes had another advantage—they effectively concealed the gun that nestled in the custom-made holster at the small of his back.
He spotted the mailbox, a rusty red one that leaned on a post beside the ditch, half hidden by the swaying grass at the side of the road. He put down the clutch and let the van coast to a stop as he checked the name.
“Emma Cassidy,” he read aloud, trying out the slightly nasal twang that he had decided to use. Bruce had learned that unsophisticated accents tended to put people at ease, making them more cooperative, and making the actual timbre of his voice less memorable. That was only one of the hundreds of tricks he had learned during the years he’d been working at the job.
The job. That’s what he called it, when he took the time to think about it, even though it had long ago gone beyond the bounds of merely a way to make a living. He seldom concerned himself with money. He hadn’t taken a vacation in four years. What he did became who he was, and who he was varied from day to day. A month ago he had been a homeless vagrant. A year ago he had been a priest. He was a tourist this time because it gave him a valid reason for nosing around these woods.
Through the open window floated an acrid trace of wood smoke, along with the sharp scent of the spruces that loomed over the road. Silence rolled back at him as the dark trees absorbed the last echoes of the engine. He pocketed his keys, giving himself a moment to observe his surroundings. Bruce was more accustomed to working the streets of Chicago, but Emma Cassidy had chosen to conduct her business at the end of a sparsely populated dirt road on the outskirts of Bethel Corners. The quaintly tiny Maine town was an unlikely setting, he thought, but there was no mistake. The trail he had been following for weeks had led him here.
He swiveled from his seat, then stooped over to walk to the back of the van and squatted down to unzip his camera bag. With quick, economical movements he snapped a telephoto lens in place, slipped the padded camera strap over his shoulder and opened the rear door. At the sudden squeak of metal, a squirrel chattered maniacally from the concealment of a bushy pine. Bruce stepped to the road, easing the door shut behind him.
The driveway that led into the woods was little more than a rutted track. In the damp depression beside a basketball-size boulder were the traces of wide, deep-treaded tires. Automatically Bruce swung the camera up, focused, and recorded the pattern. These tracks would be from the blue four-wheel-drive pickup that had rattled past five minutes ago. If she was going to town, she would be gone for forty minutes, thirty minimum. If he was lucky, only the squirrels would witness the brief reconnaissance foray he’d planned. Still, with a caution learned from long experience, he maintained his stooped posture and shuffling gait as he made his way through the shadows that dappled the drive.
At the crest of a hill the trees abruptly gave way to an open expanse of rock and low bushes. A small bungalow-size log cabin perched on a rise that faced a sparkling blue lake. To one side was a neatly stacked crib full of firewood and an open shed that was probably used as a garage, to the other side was a round cement well and a fenced-in rectangle with rows of mounded dark earth and trembling green sprouts. Bruce cataloged it all. Shelter, fuel, water and food—she was practically self-sufficient here. She could hole up for days, maybe weeks at a time. A good place to hide, he decided, glancing behind him toward the road that was already lost to sight.
He angled his baseball cap to shade his eyes as he turned in a slow circle. The cabin was isolated, not only by its location, but by the tight-lipped, mind-your-own-business yankee character of the locals. A twinge of interest nibbled at his mind. Perhaps she was smarter than he had thought.
Walking forward, he took several shots to record the layout, then pointed the camera toward the shore of the lake. As good as binoculars, the long lens gave him a clear view of the gleaming white plane that bobbed gently at the end of a wooden dock.
That’s how she did it, of course. A float plane didn’t need to use runways. Or official border crossings. With hundreds of miles of rugged bush between here and the St. Lawrence, a skilled pilot could rendezvous in the black of night, make a pickup, and bring the cargo back to this picturesquely peaceful lake with no witnesses except the moose and the muskrat.
Beneath the scruffy beard his jaw clenched. People in Cassidy’s business were well paid for the risks they ran. Bruce had long ago stopped trying to figure out why they did it. There was no explaining human greed, no justifying the misery that resulted from even one midnight run. Getting rid of a link like this would only interrupt the flow, not stop it. But this was one way to get to the source. And before he was finished with Miss Emma Cassidy, he intended to make her useful, whether she wanted to cooperate or not.
The fine hairs at the back of his neck tingled. Although he couldn’t identify any sound that had alerted him, suddenly Bruce knew that he was no longer alone. Careful to keep his movements casual, he swung the camera in a slow arc, scanning the dark forest, the rocky hillside, the cabin, the drive....
A lone woman stood on the crest of the hill, the sun at her back, her slim body braced against the breeze. Leather boots laced past her ankles, black denim clung to her long legs. The loose white shirt she wore fluttered, flattening briefly against compact but generous curves. Her face was shadowed by a broad-brimmed canvas hat, so he had only a quick impression of a delicate jaw and a dimpled chin before he clicked the shutter and lowered the camera.
“Hi, there,” he called, using the voice he had chosen.
In response she moved forward. She walked with the easy stride of an athlete, each step a study in fluid grace. Without slowing down, she lifted her arms and unslung the weapon that she had been carrying on her back.
Despite the years of training and the countless times he had met the unexpected, Bruce couldn’t help the tickle of surprise he felt as he realized what she held. It was a hunting bow. Its sleek curves gleamed in the sunlight, its long, narrow stabilizers bristled outward. The pulley-enhanced bowstring promised swift, silent penetration. There was something primitive about the way her fingers wrapped around the carved grip and casually clutched its deadly potential, something almost...sensual.
Bruce felt his pulse thud as blood coursed heavily through his gut. He couldn’t remember the last time he had experienced this sudden thrill of anticipation before a job. She would be a worthy adversary, an entertaining prey.
“Was that your van at the foot of my driveway?” she asked. Her voice was low and steady, filled with an emotion that could have been
anger.
The sun was still at her back. He couldn’t see her eyes, so he kept his gaze on her hands, alert for any movement that might indicate her intentions. “You must be Miss Cassidy.” He wiped his palm on his baggy multipocketed pants and stuck out his hand. “I'm Bruce Prendergast. I heard in town that I could find you out here.”
She halted about six yards away, bracing her feet apart and pulling an arrow from the quiver at her waist with a controlled, insolent motion. “What do you want, Bruce Prendergast?”
He assessed the ease with which she handled her weapon. Chances were he wouldn’t be able to get to his gun before she nocked the arrow, so the best course of action would be to play out his cover. It was too soon for a confrontation. That wasn’t what he had planned.
Letting the hand he offered drop awkwardly to his side, he maintained his pose of amiable harmlessness. “I wanted to talk to you about hiring your plane.”
Beneath the flowing white shirt her bow arm flexed. An oblong leather guard was strapped above the wrist, molding a suggestion of smooth muscle. “What would a reporter want with my plane?”
He cleared his throat, feigning a nervousness he didn’t feel. Adrenaline was surging through his body. His muscles tingled with the urge to move, to act, to wrest control of the situation. He wouldn’t be able to reach his gun, but if he dived to his left, away from the bow, and did a few quick rolls, he could probably take her down to the ground. She appeared to be around five foot six, more than half a foot shorter than his real height. He outweighed her by at least eighty pounds, so he wouldn’t have any trouble subduing her if it came to physical contact. He’d keep the option in mind. “Reporter? I'm not a reporter, I'm an accountant. I'm just here to do some—”
“Then why the camera?”
“This?” He glanced down at the object in his hand as if he had forgotten he still held it. “Oh, heck. I always take tons of pictures when I'm on vacation. I've taken two rolls just since New Hampshire—it’s beautiful country around here. I'm not much good at it, though. Taking pictures, I mean.”
A gust of wind rippled her white shirt, pulling the open collar to one side. For the space of a heartbeat, sunlight slid over the upper curve of her breast before the supple fabric fell back into place. “This is private property, Mr. Prendergast.”
He nodded quickly, then flapped a hand toward the plane behind him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to trespass. The fella at the gas station told me that you might be willing to fly me in to some of the lakes to the north of here, so I thought, why not?”
“Who sent you? What’s the name of this fella you talked to?”
Within the concealment provided by his loose coat he slouched a little more. She had sounded suspicious, not only of what he had said, but of the way he had said it. Oh, yes. She would be a worthy adversary. “Hugh something. I don’t know his last name. He sold me a bunch of fishing tackle from that shop he’s got in the back.” He crinkled his nose in a smile consistent with the inoffensive cowardice of his persona. “Uh, ma'am, that bow is making me nervous. Would you mind pointing it somewhere else?”
Her mouth twitched—was that a smirk? Instead of putting the weapon away, she began circling slowly to her left. “Do I really make you nervous, Bruce?”
She was doing it deliberately, he realized with a start. She thought she was frightening him, and she was playing her advantage to the maximum. The steady thud of his pulse was loud in his ears as the anticipation he felt heightened. He still couldn’t see her eyes, so he couldn’t be sure what she would do. The way she was moving would make it more difficult for him to take her—did she realize that? “Uh, ma'am?”
The fingers that held the shaft of the arrow were long and slender. Absently she ran her thumb over the trio of stubby feathers that were set into the blunt end. “Which lake were you interested in?”
“Uh, any lake as long as it has fish.”
“You're a fisherman?”
He affected a nervous chuckle. “I'm not much good at that, either, but I've heard there’s terrific fishing toward the Quebec border. While I was in the neighborhood, so to speak, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to try my luck.” He attempted another smile. “Please, do you think you could put that bow away, now? If we're going to be doing business together—”
“That hasn’t been established, yet.” Her fingers moved over the arrow as she ran a fingertip along the smooth wooden shaft. It was a slow, unconsciously suggestive movement.
He watched her hand warily, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Hugh from the gas station said that you often fly parties of fishermen to some of the lakes that don’t have road access,” he said, adding a whine to his twang. “What’s your usual rate?”
“I'm not a professional pilot. I've only got my recreational certificate, so all I can charge is the cost of the fuel. Accepting a fee is against the rules, and I wouldn’t want to do anything illegal, now, would I?”
Her scruples had to be as phony as his potbelly, but he was willing to play her game. “Well, heck. That doesn’t seem fair. How much does the fuel usually cost?”
Her mouth twitched again. Another smirk? “Depends where I buy it.”
“Oh. I get it. No receipt, no income tax, right?”
She simply waited and fingered the arrow.
He made a show of fumbling in his pants pocket and withdrew a battered leather wallet. He knitted his brows in concentration as he thumbed through what he knew would appear to be a thick wad of bills. “I've only got another week before I have to be back in Chicago. How much would the fuel cost for one day?”
She remained silent, twirling the arrow in her fingers. For a long minute the only sounds were the whisper of the wind in the pines at the edge of the hill and the gentle, rhythmic lapping of waves against the lakeshore. Finally she exhaled on a gusty sigh and thrust the arrow back into the quiver. “Okay, Mr. Prendergast. You've got yourself a pilot.”
“Great! Thanks. Are you free tomorrow?”
“I suppose so.” She hesitated for another minute before she slung the bow onto her shoulder and used her thumb to tip up the concealing brim of her hat.
And for the first time, Bruce saw her face.
Dangerous, he thought. This woman is dangerous. Not because of the deadly weapon she carried so casually. No, he knew how to defend himself against physical threats. What he hadn’t been prepared for was the impact of her gaze.
My God, he thought. She’s beautiful.
Blue eyes as clear and deep and pure as a mountain lake sparkled up at him. He saw mischief, not malice. Vulnerability, not violence. Sunlight caressed cheeks that bore the pink kiss of the wind. Innocent freckles danced across the bridge of an impudent, upturned nose.
Everything he had carefully cataloged swept back on a wave of awareness. The long, slim legs, the athlete’s stride, the hunter’s nonchalant confidence and the aura of suppressed energy...the pale skin beneath the white shirt...the slender, competent fingers stroking the shaft of the arrow...the low, throaty voice, those lips that twitched with secret amusement...
The simmering anticipation he had been feeling, that low-level excitement of the chase changed to something more basic, reached beyond the circumstances and beyond the job to touch the part of him that was simply, essentially male.
“Come to the house,” she said. “We can go over my maps.” Turning her back, she walked away.
Sweat trickled between his hunched shoulder blades as he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. Ruthlessly he willed this dangerous awareness to stop. He reined it in, breathing deeply through his nose until he thought he had regained control. But he had already taken three strides before he realized that he’d forgotten to use Prendergast’s ambling shuffle. Instantly he dropped back into character, fumbling to draw a lens cap from the pocket on his thigh as he followed her toward the cabin.
She didn’t look back. Evidently she had finally bought his story along with the amiable harmlessness of his per
sona.
But there was nothing harmless about this situation. He was shaken by his temporary lapse from the cool professionalism that had been second nature to him in the past. How could he forget, even for a second, who he was. And who she was. So what if she was beautiful, if she stirred something inside him that he had thought long dead? In the end it didn’t make any difference. After all, he was here to do a job.
And part of his duties could include sending Emma Cassidy to prison.
* * *
Emma could feel his gaze on her, boring through the thin cotton of the shirt that was beginning to stick to her back. She clasped her hands in front of her, hoping he wouldn’t see the tremors that shook them.
God, what a complete fool she had made of herself. He was nothing but some innocent accountant on vacation, and he had been scared practically witless by the sight of her hunting bow. She shouldn’t have done it, but the moment she had seen that camera pointing in her direction, all the old memories had resurfaced and in her anger she hadn’t been thinking straight.
Of course, he was nothing but a tourist. What else could he be up here? This was Maine, not New York. There was no longer any need to check through her curtains to see whether she could elude the reporters that had staked out the house. There were no flashbulbs to blind her as she moved freely about her property. No one knew her here. To her neighbors she was simply that lady with the plane. Besides, she was old news. It had been over three years since she’d changed her name and escaped from the fishbowl her life had become.
She glanced over her shoulder. Bruce Prendergast smiled with that endearing nose crinkle and juggled his camera in front of him while he fumbled with the lens cap. A twinge of remorse traveled through her. He hadn’t done anything to deserve such a hostile welcome. He couldn’t possibly know how she felt about reporters. She loathed them for what they had done to her and her family. She hated them almost as much as she hated cops.
Relax, she ordered herself as she pushed open the front door of the cabin and waited for Bruce to catch up. He stumbled on the slab of rock that served as a step, then tugged on the brim of his baseball cap and grinned sheepishly.
True Lies Page 1
