Her first reaction was elation. She punched her fist in the air. Victory! All her life, she’d avoided confrontation with any of her brothers because she knew, deep in the marrow of her bones, that she could never win. Never. They had all the power.
But tonight, she’d had the power.
Her elation didn’t last long as reality slammed into her. If there had been any victory, it was purely temporary. Jay wasn’t done with her. His little sister now represented found treasure, and he’d make her life hell until he got what he wanted.
She squared her shoulders with determination. She had weapons now. Money. Influence. Power.
Even—as backup muscle—Paul Fitzgerald would be on her side. Jay didn’t stand a chance.
This time it was Bailey’s barking that woke her up. A furious, terrified sound, repeated over and over and over, until the panic in the little dog’s howling reached her consciousness. She sat up in bed abruptly.
Bailey? Her gaze darted around the shadowed bedroom. Where was he? The sound came from outside. How had he gotten out? She threw back the covers, ran to the fireplace, grabbed the poker. She didn’t care what was down there, she had to protect Bailey.
As she reached the head of the stairs, the barking became a high-pitched yelping, as though he was in pain. Then she heard a thud, followed by whimpering, then silence.
“No!” she shouted as she dashed down the stairs.
All the exterior lights were on, just as she’d left them, but as she headed toward the porch, she noted that the sliding glass door was partly open. Had she locked it or hadn’t she? Was that how Bailey had gotten out?
Dashing onto the porch in her bare feet and the old sweats she slept in, she looked all around frantically, but didn’t see the dog. “Bailey?” she called out, but there was no response.
She made for the edge of the porch, jumped down the steps and ran along the side of the house, ignoring the sudden stabs of pain caused by stepping on small pebbles and larger stones. When she got to the compost heap, she stopped short and stared, her hand to her throat.
There he was, lying on the ground in a heap. Crouching down, she studied her baby, his small form bloody and still. Shaking with the cold and terror, Kayla touched his little body. It was still warm. And he was still breathing! The blood, she could see in the yellow light above the kitchen door, oozed from slashes on his neck and abdomen. Slashes that looked like giant claws had made them. A bear?
Could a bear open a sliding glass door?
Nurse Kayla, and years of responding coolheadedly in emergencies, took over; she had a patient, one who was going into shock, and she needed to take action. She dashed into the house, snatched up a throw from the back of the couch, dashed back outside and covered him up. Then she returned to the house, took the time only to put on sneakers and a coat and grab her purse, cell phone and car keys. Then she wrapped the tiny dog up in the blanket, got in the car and headed down the mountain, toward Lou’s clinic.
She might be too late to save the little Yorkie, but it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.
As Paul hiked the last few yards up the driveway, he was wondering what the hell he was doing here. It was Saturday, very early Saturday; the sun was barely up. He wasn’t supposed to be here because he didn’t work on Saturdays.
But, despite the long hike up the mountain, he had a lot of energy to burn. Way too much to be good for him. He figured he could perform one of the chores that involved heavy lifting, straining and sweating, anything to ease the pile-driver urge that had twisted his gut for most of the night.
He felt like an idiot. Last night, he’d headed into Susanville with Hank. On the prowl. Searching for a bed partner. There had been plenty of those in his past, willing women who were instantly attracted to him and did something about it. Including his ex-wife, who’d hopped into the sack with him two hours after they’d met.
So he’d done his damnedest to find a female who liked mindless sex and had no hang-ups about romance. And sure enough, he’d found one—spiked brunette hair, curvy as hell, and hungry. He’d had a couple of drinks with her. But his thoughts kept returning to Kayla Thorne, and the prospect of a meaningless roll in the sack with a willing body quickly lost its appeal. In the end, he’d decided to deal with his frustration, and went home alone.
As he trudged up Kayla’s driveway, he noticed that her Mercedes wasn’t there. Where had she gone so early in the morning?
Or had she been out the night before and hadn’t come home yet? Seeing Lou again? He didn’t care for the notion. Feeling possessive, are we? he asked himself. Damned right he was.
Something else grabbed his attention: the kitchen door was ajar. And right next to the compost heap, a raccoon stood, licking at something on the ground.
As Paul drew closer, the animal scurried away. He got down on his haunches and noticed a dampness in the ground. He took his finger and lightly swept the moisture, then looked at it. Rust-brown. He sniffed it. Blood? Hard to tell.
But it was enough to make his heart race. What had happened here? Most important, what had happened to Kayla?
Like a shot, he was up and calling her name, getting no answer. He tore through the house, the entire two floors, searching, calling. But no Kayla.
And no Bailey, he realized. Had they been kidnapped? The car stolen? Was that blood on the ground, and if so, whose? Who could he call to find out?
His ears pricked up at a new sound. A car engine. Coming up the driveway. He tore down the stairs and headed out the kitchen door in time to see Kayla’s Mercedes pull to a stop.
He bounded out the door and ran to the car. Before she’d even turned the engine off, he’d grabbed the driver’s side door handle and yanked it open.
Startled, Kayla looked at him. “Oh, Paul. You scared me.”
He helped her out, held her by the upper arms and stared at her. She looked like hell. “Are you all right?”
She was still gazing at him, confused. “What are you doing here?”
“I was going to finish up some work. Tell me.” He tightened his hold on her arms. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“You’re hurting me.”
He dropped his hands. The adrenaline had made him handle her more roughly than he’d intended. “Sorry. Tell me.”
She wiped a hand over her tired face. “I don’t know. Bailey’s barking woke me up. The glass doors to the porch were open. He was lying on the ground, all bloody. I took him in to the vet. I’m…not sure if he’ll make it.” Moisture glistened in her eyes. “Poor little thing, he looked so helpless.”
With that, she brought both hands to her face, sagged against the car and began to sob. Without thinking, Paul pulled her into his arms; as gently as he could he urged her head onto his chest. With little persuading, she sobbed into his shirt, her slender body shaking with exhaustion and fear.
He stroked her back, her hair, murmured soothing words. Damn but she felt good in his arms, so right. He gave himself over to a feeling of tenderness he didn’t remember as ever being a part of his makeup before.
After a while, when her crying eased up some, he asked, “Who did it?”
“I don’t know,” she sniffed into his sweatshirt. “I honestly don’t know.” With a sigh, she pulled away from him, offered a watery grin. “Thanks for the shoulder.”
He nodded but wasn’t through yet. “What caused Bailey’s injury?”
“It could have been a bear, Lou said.” Kayla leaned into the car, retrieved her purse and pulled out some tissues. She mopped at the tears on her cheeks.
“Lou?”
“My vet. She’s the best, bless her.”
“Her?”
“Yes.”
A huge sense of relief poured through him. The “Lou” she’d met the other night was a woman. As Kayla had said, a friend. “And Lou said it was a bear?”
“She wasn’t sure. It could have been a knife.”
He didn’t like hearing that one. “Which indicates a human was invo
lved. Whatever it is, it’s escalating. Any ideas? Anyone you can think of who means you harm?”
“Not like this.”
“Melinda? Steven? Someone I don’t know about?”
She paused, seemed to be thinking. “I suppose it could have been…” She shook her head. “No, never mind.”
“Could have been who?”
She heaved a sigh. “I told you I hate to talk about my family, but well, one of my brothers, he’s…”
As Kayla’s sentence trailed off, the hair on the back of Paul’s neck bristled. “What about him?”
“He’s a pretty bad character. He called me last night.”
“He called you?”
She nodded, “Yes. On my cell phone. And, well, he said stuff about wanting some of the money I’ve inherited. You know, cash in on a good thing. He’s scum, trust me.”
“I do.” She had no idea how much.
“Jay, he’s always been the worst of the lot.”
“Jay,” he repeated, but he’d known the name before she’d said it. Amazing, he thought with a detached part of his brain. He’d thought he’d hit a dead end, but an opening had been found.
“Yes, my brother Jay.”
“He called you?” He was aware he was repeating everything she said, but he wasn’t sure just how to proceed.
“Yes. I don’t know how he got the number. I’m unlisted.”
“It’s not hard to do, if you have the right contacts.”
“He kind of hinted at that. Anyhow, it might have been him who hurt Bailey. Jay can get…pretty mean.”
Paul was experiencing a whole smorgasbord of reactions: elation at being one step further in accomplishing his mission; rage at the piece of dirt who’d caused his downfall—and had probably hurt a defenseless dog—and a niggling sense of guilt at leading an innocent Kayla into helping him even more, while keeping her in the dark about his knowledge of her brother and Paul’s original reason for seeking her out.
“This brother, where was he when he called?”
“I have no idea.”
“I mean, do you think he’s nearby? Close enough so that he could come up in the middle of the night, cause what happened?”
She shook her head. “I really don’t know. I don’t know much of anything about Jay, to tell you the truth. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“We’ll track him down, find out where he is.”
“Do we have to?”
“If he’s behind all the attacks on you, I’d say it’s a priority. I’ll call my friend Brian—he’s on the force in Albany, get him on it. With cell phones, they can get a fix on where a call originated.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
“And you said the porch doors were open. Were they forced?”
“Oh, Paul, I have no idea.” She swiped a hand over her eyes.
“I’m sorry. Here I am, asking you all these questions. You look exhausted.”
She offered a sleepy smile. “I am.”
Mind racing, he took her hand, closed the car door and led her into the house and up the stairs. “What did Lou think Bailey’s chances were of getting better?”
“She couldn’t say. But she insisted I come home and get some sleep. She’ll call me if there’s any change.”
As though all her energy had suddenly given out, she sagged against him, so he scooped her up in his arms and carried her into her bedroom. Once there, he sat her at the edge of the bed and removed her shoes. Gently, he eased her down so she was prone, then pulled the blanket up to just under her chin. He stood back up and stared down at her.
Her eyes were nearly closed, but she managed a sleepy smile. “Thank you, Paul. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re here.” The look on her face was relaxed and full of trust. She closed her eyes, and in a moment he could see by her even, shallow breathing that she was asleep.
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her, watching her as she slept. He felt a stirring in the region of his heart, which perfectly complemented the way his gut was churning at his deceit.
He should be rejoicing; he was finally on the trail of Jay Vinovich-Goodall. In the next few days, Paul was sure, he’d be able to find the son of a bitch and complete his goal, the one he’d set in motion by coming here to work for Kayla.
What he was thinking about instead was something that gave him no joy whatsoever. He was starting to care about Kayla Thorne. To care about her a whole hell of a lot.
God help him.
Chapter 7
By the time Kayla woke up, the sun’s rays shining in her window indicated that it was nearly noon. The enticing aroma of fresh coffee hit her nostrils. Still half asleep, still dressed in her sweats and thick socks, she made her way downstairs and into the kitchen and poured herself a cup. Through half-closed eyelids, which she was still reluctant to open all the way, she gazed absently around the kitchen. Her eyes stopped when they reached the small tiled windowsill that overlooked the garden.
On the ledge stood an old tin can with a single flower in it. A weed, really, but the bloom’s color was a vivid yellow, reminding her of the happy hues of summer. Not quite knowing what to make of this apparition, she continued to stare at it.
Like that, it came back to her, all of it. The noise in the middle of the night, the furious barking, then the sudden cessation of sound. Bailey’s bloodied little body. The frenzied trip down the mountain.
Lou, Kayla thought. She needed to call Lou, see how the little dog was doing. She frowned. No, Lou had said she would call if there was news. The phone in her bedroom hadn’t rung, so no news meant good news, right?
Again, she found her attention drawn to the flower. Who could have left it?
But as soon as the question was half formed in her mind, the answer came.
Paul.
Paul, who had been here this morning, waiting for her when she’d managed to get herself back up the mountain. Who had let her cry on him and had offered comfort. Who had helped her into bed, had covered her and had stayed until she fell asleep.
And who had left her a flower.
Oh, my God, Kayla thought, her eyes brimming with sudden, totally unexpected tears. What a sweet gesture. To make her coffee and to put a flower in a tin. Acts of kindness. Nice, normal things for her to see and taste when she woke up, to block out the previous night’s horror.
Carrying her coffee cup with her, she stepped out into the sunshine and looked around. No Paul in sight. She walked around to the other side of the house and there he was, chopping wood. He’d mentioned it to her the other day, that there didn’t seem to be a lot of wood in the stockpile, and the house didn’t have any central heating. She had told him that since Walter’s death, it hadn’t even occurred to her to arrange for a wood delivery. She’d intended to get some boy from the village to chop some for her. But now, here Paul was, taking care of it for her.
He didn’t see her at first, so she took a moment to just stand and stare at him. A little voyeurism couldn’t hurt, and she did so like the picture he made. The sun was going in and out of the clouds, and the air was brisk with an autumn wind, but he had his shirt off as he worked.
Ah, what a sight it was. Sudden saliva flooded her mouth and she had to swallow it down. As Paul chopped, his rhythm even and sure, his bronze skin gleamed, and she watched as his beautifully defined muscles expanded and relaxed, expanded and relaxed, each sinew pulsing with vitality. His jeans fit him tightly, molding the sturdy muscles of his thighs and calves.
All in all, he was a marvel to watch; not a movement wasted, each stroke of the ax strong and competent. This was a man completely comfortable with his body and its physicality, and that insight set up a small yearning sensation in the pit of Kayla’s stomach.
The kiss they’d shared—was it only the night before last?—came back to her with a rush. The craving, the tightening of her inner muscles, the sensitivity of her nerve endings. It was all there.
“Paul?”
He turned as though st
artled. There was a funny look on his face—guilt?—but in the next instant, it was gone. Had she imagined it?
He nodded, walked toward her, stopped, then set the side of the ax blade down on the ground and held it there, one hand on top of the handle. It was a pose, although she was sure it was unintentional and only a product of her fevered brain. The Brawny man or Paul Bunyon, without the plaid shirt. A beef-cake-calendar model, with jeans instead of a jock strap.
More saliva in her mouth, more swallowing. Now that he was closer, she could see the individual sweat droplets as they meandered over his taut chest muscles, the thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead and around his thick neck. Why was sweat so sexy? she wondered, then ordered her errant imagination to shape up.
“How are you?” he asked her.
“Better, thanks. Did you leave the flower for me?”
Silly question—who else would have done it? But she watched as his mouth curved down in that belligerent expression men got when they were told it was good to encourage their “feminine” side. His nonverbal answer was a shrug.
Which she took as assent. “It was very sweet of you.”
Now he winced. He did not like that word. But that was what he was. Sweet. Inside, at least. Beneath all the rage and toughness and bitterness, there resided a good soul, a decent man.
“Really, it was a lovely thing to do,” she said warmly, teasing him now, making him squirm a little. If he hated sweet, then lovely would make him gag.
“I called my cop friend, Brian,” he said abruptly, successfully changing the subject and slamming her right back into reality. “Got him working on tracing Jay’s call.”
“Oh. Well, good.”
“And I checked the porch doors. There were no marks—they weren’t forced. Are you sure you closed them before you went to bed?”
“Yes. I was on guard, remember, from the rat. No, I’m sure I bolted them both.”
“Which means they could only be opened from the inside. Whoever got in did it through a window or one of the doors.”
Whispers in the Night Page 11
