Stranger In His Arms

by Charlotte Douglas

  That had been his first mistake.

  Making love to her had been his second.

  He had hoped eventually to turn Crutchfield over to the cops and take Jennifer back to Casey’s Cove with him. He’d even toyed with the idea of marrying her. But now his mother’s words came back to haunt him. He’d asked her once several years ago how she and his father had maintained such a long, happy union.

  “We love each other,” she’d answered simply. His mother had never been a complicated woman.

  “But there has to be more than that,” he’d argued.

  He could see her now, gray hair cut short and stylish, her lined face smiling, hazel eyes twinkling. “You’re right. There is more. For one, your father is my best friend. Always has been.”

  That fact was no news to Dylan. All his life he had witnessed how much they enjoyed each other’s company.

  “And second and probably the most important,” she’d added, “is that we trust each other. Love can’t grow without trust. It withers and dies like a flower without water.”

  Gazing at Jennifer’s pretty face, relaxed and innocent in sleep, Dylan realized any chance of a life with her was doomed. How could he trust such a perpetual liar?

  Turning his back on her, he dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. He’d have to bring Jennifer’s meal back on a tray, since she couldn’t risk being seen by Crutchfield. The sooner Dylan could leave this place the better, especially the room upstairs with its memories of lovemaking in that huge bed, memories that curdled now like sour milk when he recalled them.

  Tom Putnam was at the front desk when Dylan descended the stairs.

  “Sleep well?” his host asked.

  Dylan nodded. “But Jennifer’s a bit under the weather this morning.”

  The picture of discretion, Putnam made no comment. He merely gestured toward the room opposite the main parlor. “Breakfast is being served. If you like, we’ll send up a tray again for your wife.”

  Dylan didn’t correct his host. “Thanks.”

  When he entered the dining room, he found several guests seated around a huge mahogany table. Breakfast was spread buffet style on the matching sideboard. He helped himself to grits, ham, red-eye gravy and scrambled eggs and purposely took the seat opposite Crutchfield and Mrs. Thorne.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Mrs. Thorne nodded coolly and Crutchfield acknowledged his greeting abruptly before returning his attention to his overloaded plate.

  Dylan studied the man. He didn’t need Jennifer’s remembrances to pick up on the attorney’s coldness. He had seen for himself the ice in the man’s blue eyes.

  “Hear you had some trouble in the parking lot last night,” Dylan said.

  Crutchfield jerked his head up. “How did you know?”

  “I’d stepped out for a breath of air and ran into our host. He said someone had tried to break into your car. Anything stolen?”

  “What business is it of yours?” Crutchfield’s tone matched the coldness in his eyes.

  “Well, first, I have a vehicle parked out there, too, and second, I’m a police officer. Crime is always my business.”

  Crutchfield scrutinized him with a look that would have made a lesser man cower, but he didn’t frighten Dylan. Although Jennifer had lied to Dylan about many things, she had her former boss pegged. He was disagreeable, arrogant and conceited.

  But was he a murderer?

  Tom Putnam appeared at Dylan’s elbow and filled his coffee cup from a silver pot. “Sheriff’s deputy checked things out last night. Found where someone entered the trees from the parking lot, but he lost the trail. He guesses the would-be thief fled through the woods to the main road. Must have had a car waiting.”

  “What if he comes back?” Crutchfield demanded. “I don’t want my car broken into or vandalized.”

  “I’m hiring a security service today,” Putnam announced. “A guard will patrol the parking lot at night from now on.”

  Dylan would have felt guilty for his part in the deception, but he knew at Putnam’s exorbitant rates, he could well afford to pay the security team.

  “You from around here?” Dylan asked Crutchfield.

  “Savannah.” The attorney lied with even more ease than Jennifer. “And you?”

  “North Carolina,” Dylan said. “Just passing through.”

  Mrs. Thorne leaned toward Crutchfield and whispered in his ear. The attorney scowled, threw his napkin on the table and stood. He pulled out the woman’s chair, and the two left the room without a word to any of the other guests.

  Dylan finished his breakfast in silence.

  Kyra brought a tray, and he helped her select fresh fruit, pastries and coffee, then carried the tray upstairs.

  When he opened the door to the room, Jennifer was dressed and seated in the chair by the fire. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw him.

  “I thought you’d gone,” she said.

  “Gone?” He set her breakfast on the table by her chair and tried to keep his traitorous heart from sympathizing with her.

  “Back to North Carolina. I wouldn’t blame you.”

  “I’ll take you back to Atlanta after breakfast.”

  He crossed to the window and stood staring out at the autumn leaves glistening in the morning sun.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” Only the tiniest tremor in her voice gave away her distress.

  “That you’re not Jennifer Reid?”

  “No, that Crutchfield is a murderer.”

  He shrugged. This morning he was having a hard time sorting out exactly what his beliefs and feelings were.

  “I’d swear that what I’ve told you is true,” she said, “but I suppose a liar’s word doesn’t carry much weight.”

  “Eat your breakfast,” he said without turning. “We should get on the road soon.”

  He heard the clatter of a cup against a saucer, but he continued to avoid looking at Jennifer. The sight of her softened his heart, and he needed to make his decisions with a cool, clear mind.

  Images of the attorney at breakfast tumbled through his head. Larry Crutchfield was a despicable man, but was he a murderer?

  And did Dylan want to hang around Jennifer and Atlanta long enough to find out?

  Chapter Eleven

  Fighting against a sadness that threatened to crush her, Jennifer shoved away her untouched breakfast tray and stood. “I’m ready to leave if you are.”

  Dylan turned from the window and nodded, avoiding her eyes. “Better wear dark glasses in case we run into Crutchfield in the hall.”

  With a heavy heart, she gathered her belongings, slipped on her sunglasses, and took one last glance at the room where so much had happened, where her life had gone from bliss to nightmare. Thankful to place the scene behind her, she opened the door and stepped into the hall.

  Without a word, Dylan followed, and together they descended the stairs.

  At the front desk, Dylan checked out with Tom Putnam.

  “Hope you folks enjoyed your stay,” the genial host said as they turned to leave. “And hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. Blackburn.”

  Mrs. Blackburn.

  Jennifer flashed the innkeeper a smile that was more of a grimace. That was the only time she’d ever be called Mrs. Blackburn. It’d be a cold day in hell before Dylan ever trusted her again, much less asked her to marry him.

  The ride back to Atlanta was quiet and strained. The atmosphere in the truck cab was so tense, Jennifer couldn’t wait to get out when Dylan pulled to the curb in front of her apartment.

  “Thanks for bringing me back. I’d say I’m sorry again, but I know you believe sorry isn’t enough.” She headed for the outside stairway.

  At the sound of a door slamming behind her, she turned. Dylan was following her up the walk.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “With you.” His expression was stern, and she’d have given what little of her savings she had left to see him smile again.
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br />   Recalling that he’d left his travel kit and backpack in her apartment, she reckoned he’d hit the road as soon as he’d gathered his belongings.

  Once inside, however, he settled in a chair and made no move to collect his things.

  Puzzled, she perched on the sofa across from him. “Okay, I give up.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “Give up?”

  “I’m no mind reader. Maybe you can fill me in on what you intend to do.”

  He nodded solemnly. “On the ride back, I gave this whole situation a lot of thought.”

  “Which situation?” She dared hope he was talking about the two of them.

  “The Max Thorne murder.”

  She hid her disappointment. “And what conclusion did you come to?”

  “I could go back to Casey’s Cove and leave you to fend for yourself.”

  Her heart sank at the thought of his leaving.

  “But if you’re right,” he continued, “and Crutchfield’s the murderer, I’d be shirking my duty if I don’t try to make him answer for his crime.”

  “I am right. If it takes a lie-detector test, I’ll prove that to you.”

  “And if I returned home and something happened to you—”

  She studied his expression, searching in vain for a sign of the caring that he’d shown last night.

  “—I’d feel guilty as hell.”

  “Guilty?” Was that all? Not sad or sorry, just responsible?

  If he’d noted her dismayed reaction, he didn’t show it. “So I’ve decided to stay and search Crutchfield’s office.”

  Anger got the better of her. He didn’t believe her, but he’d stay to help just to assuage his conscience.

  “I can inspect the office myself,” she insisted hotly, “and you can go back to Casey’s Cove with a clear conscience and forget about me. I don’t intend to let Crutchfield or Michael Johnson get their hands on me.”

  “You can’t guarantee that,” he said evenly, obviously unperturbed by her heated outburst.

  “Neither can you,” she shot back. “I’ve stayed out of their clutches for the last five months. I can survive a little longer. At least long enough to prove Larry Crutchfield murdered Max Thorne.”

  The corners of his lips lifted in a ghost of a smile. “I have to give you credit, Jennifer-Rachel. You have more courage than most men I know.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. This isn’t courage. It’s sheer desperation. I want my life back, and putting Crutchfield behind bars is the only way to do it.”

  He pushed to his feet. “Then we’d better get busy. We’re wasting time talking. While Crutchfield’s still in Madison is the perfect opportunity to search his office. Unless he has partners or associates who work on Saturdays?”

  She shook her head. “He’s a one-man law firm. He’s so arrogant, no one else could stand working with him for very long.”

  He started for the door and turned to her. “You have the key?”

  She patted her purse.

  “Then let’s go.” He opened the door and waved her through.

  FOLLOWING Jennifer’s directions, Dylan navigated through the light Saturday traffic of Atlanta’s Buckhead district. He was glad he didn’t have to concentrate too heavily on his driving. The debate waging inside demanded all his attention.

  Part of him wanted nothing more than to love, cherish and protect the woman beside him for the rest of his life. But his more rational side rebelled, insisting that Rachel O’Riley, alias Jennifer Reid, with her regrettable propensity for distorting the truth, would make his life a long, bumpy road of distrust and uncertainties.

  The harder he tried to stop thinking about it, the more he recalled the memory of her in his arms last night and the love shining in her eyes—before she’d dropped the bombshell of her false identity. Despite her flaws, no woman had even fascinated, excited or captivated him as she had. She had intelligence and good humor in abundance. She was definitely no quitter. Feisty described her to a T. A lesser woman would have cracked under the strain of the past five months.

  And he couldn’t deny that she loved people. He’d seen her interact with Miss Bessie, Raylene and Sissy and too many other residents of Casey’s Cove to count, had seen them respond to her warmth and friendliness. Surely a woman with that much affection in her couldn’t be all bad.

  But could he spend a lifetime with a woman he couldn’t trust?

  What he needed was distance and time to sort out his feelings, heal his disappointment and decide whether to keep Jennifer in his life. But he couldn’t leave her now, not until he was sure she was safe. To serve and protect was more than a motto for him. It was his reason for living.

  “Headache?” Jennifer broke into his thoughts. “I have some aspirin in my purse.”

  “No, thanks.” It would take more than a few pills to cure what ailed him. He put on his sunglasses and worked to smooth the scowl that had prompted her concern.

  “Turn left here,” she instructed when they reached a modern steel-and-glass office building. “There’s a parking garage below.”

  Minutes later they stepped from the elevator into the third-floor corridor and crossed the hall to an impressive double door marked in brass letters, Lawrence A. Crutchfield, Attorney at Law. Jennifer searched her purse for her keys, then unlocked the door. Dylan followed her inside to the elegant reception area, an interior decorator’s creation of glass and brass, burgundy and hunter’s green. Crutchfield’s clients must be extremely wealthy, he noted.

  At least until they received his bill.

  “I never thought I’d come here again.” She glanced around and shivered, as if haunted by bad memories. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Can you locate Max Thorne’s file? It might hold some clues.”

  “This way.” She turned right down a wide corridor and paused at the first door. “This was my office. Crutchfield’s is next. Wait there and I’ll bring you Thorne’s records from the file room.”

  Dylan entered Larry Crutchfield’s office and looked around. The spacious corner room featured floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. The other walls were wood-paneled, covered with memorabilia and pictures of Crutchfield with various celebrities, including presidents and media moguls.

  Jennifer was right about the attorney’s friends in high places, Dylan thought. No wonder she’d been reluctant to blow the whistle on the murder. Without solid proof, no one would have believed her.

  In addition to the celebrity photographs, various golf and tennis trophies and a huge gold-framed mirror completed the collection on the wall. The mirror hung exactly opposite the massive desk, where the egocentric Crutchfield could bask in his own reflection.

  Searching the office took only a few minutes. He found no sign of a gun in the desk drawers, the credenza behind the desk, or even in the adjoining bathroom, accessed through a door in one of the paneled walls. He returned to the office and checked behind the photographs for a wall safe.

  Nothing.

  Turning back the carpet in each corner of the room, he searched for a floor safe.

  Again, nothing.

  Moving behind the massive desk, he eyed the crime scene. Had Thorne been seated in either of the two club chairs in front of the desk, he would have been an easy target. Dylan inspected the leather of the chairs for signs of bullet holes or visible repairs but found none. Maybe Thorne had lunged for Crutchfield across his desk when the attorney plugged him.

  Dylan glanced at the tall windows and frowned. Jennifer had said the murder occurred at night, but there were no blinds or draperies on the windows. Surely the man hadn’t committed murder where anyone passing on the street could have witnessed it?

  “Problem?” Jennifer came in and placed a thick file on the desk in front of him.

  “No blinds. If Crutchfield shot Thorne at night with the lights on, he might as well have been on stage. There’s constant traffic out there on the boulevard.”

  Jennifer smiled, circled the desk, and leaned over
him to reach beneath the surface. Her honeysuckle scent sent a wave of longing shuddering through him, and he had to force himself not to reach for her.

  She flicked a switch beneath the desk and stepped back. Instantly the clear glass of the windows changed to an opaque hue.

  “State of the art,” she said. “Crutchfield spared no expense for his own convenience. My former office, however, has mini-blinds.”

  “Better turn these back to clear,” he suggested. “No need to call attention to ourselves.”

  She hit the switch again and moved toward the door. “I’ll be in the library, going through financial records on the computer.”

  He opened the thick file and began to plow through the dry, legal language of contracts between Thorne’s international delivery service and the businesses it served. After thirty minutes, he stood, stretched, and rubbed his bleary eyes.

  “Thought you’d need this.” Jennifer stood in the doorway with a steaming cup of coffee. He could sniff its tantalizing aroma all the way across the room.

  He accepted the mug and half-emptied it in one swallow. “Thanks.”

  “Any luck?”

  He shook his head. “I’m no lawyer, but everything I’ve read seems on the up and up.”

  Suddenly she froze and pressed a finger to her lips. The hall door lock clicked. Someone had opened it and entered the reception area of the office.

  He flipped the Thorne file closed, rose from the desk and grabbed Jennifer by the arm. Opening the door in the paneling, he tugged her behind him into the adjoining bathroom. After closing the door soundlessly, he indicated the shower cubicle. Jennifer stepped inside. Dylan followed and drew the shower curtain to conceal them.

  He held his breath and waited. He realized too late that he’d left the file on Crutchfield’s desk, and he couldn’t retrieve it without the risk of being seen by whoever had arrived at the law offices.

  Jennifer gazed up at him, her remarkable green eyes round with alarm. He shot her a reassuring smile, pulled her close, and kept his arms around her. If Crutchfield had returned to find them, the attorney would have to go through him first if he tried to harm Jennifer.