by V. R. Marks
Everything in her expression changed, suddenly shutting him out. He didn't fight it, didn't push the way he wanted to. Deciding retreat was best for the moment, he gave her his most easygoing, innocent smile and walked out.
* * *
Allie watched him go, wondering what was going on behind those dark, assessing eyes of his. She used to be able to read him easily. Now she wasn't sure of anything about him or the recent events that had shoved them together.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. He believed her about the money, despite getting some notice to the contrary suggesting she was a criminal. And she was sure he'd believed her when she said she wasn't a murderer. Being a person of interest in that regard terrified her. If she could prove she wasn't around when Roberts died, this unrelenting pressure inside her might ease up.
She knew her body's physical limits from her triathlon training and competitions. She reveled in that place where positive thinking and confidence raised her performance, helping her break through her previous best efforts to reach new heights.
Stress of that nature was a certain kind of joy. Pushing herself, amping up the physical demands resulted in an endorphin rush that couldn't be matched. This cloying fear and uncertainty offered a stress far different and unwelcome. Though her body was honed for running in competition, she didn't seem to have as much stamina for running away from her problems. She did however, prefer to stay alive and out of jail, so she'd keep on running, keep on pushing herself, for as long as it took to clear her name.
She took a minute to stare at her computer screen. Sheriff Cochran's voice rumbled through her head. She couldn't seem to stop hearing him tell her that authorities in Virginia wanted to question her about Bradley's murder. Ross' voice came next, reminding her with that dreadful certainty that someone had planted an eyewitness and likely enough evidence to justify dragging her into the investigation.
Her fingers hovered over the laptop keyboard. So far, she'd only cruised through public news sites anonymously, but she needed to be smart here. Her boss had laundered millions of dollars through an account she'd created. By default of her access, any objective observer could only come to the conclusion that she controlled the money, that she'd mismanaged the account for her own purposes. It didn't take a genius to know her boss wanted his money and it suddenly didn't feel bizarre to think he was having her electronic activity monitored.
Except Bradley Roberts was dead.
She set the computer aside gently and eased off the bed, as if any rough motion would cause alarms to sound, compromising her momentary safety.
"Be smart, Allie," she coached herself. She stared out the window, watching the wind tug the leaves off their branches.
Her boss might be dead, but she knew the corruption went higher. Whoever was behind this hadn't managed to hack or ghost her personal computer yet or they wouldn't need to chase her down. They would have stolen her login and passwords and gone forward with the scheme.
Private browsing was a thin veil she couldn't rely on indefinitely and she needed to know the status of her personal account as well as the corporate account. She needed to know if Bradley had set all this in motion and his hired thugs were just following through with the original orders. She didn't want to consider that someone else was pulling the strings now and hiring killers and kidnappers to clean up the whole mess.
It seemed every scenario she imagined had a grain of plausible in it. Wasn't that the very definition of paranoia?
Her contemplation of the colorful oak leaves dotting the yard was interrupted by the chime of an instant message on her laptop. Damn. She'd forgotten to disable that feature. As a fugitive, so far she could definitely say she'd make a great captive. She bit her lip, wondering if it was safe to answer. The only person she chatted with through instant message was her best friend Nicole. Allie thought of the false alibi she'd given Cochran. Maybe the sheriff had already called to check out her story. She owed her friend some sort of explanation. But what if Bradley's thugs used that thread of information to trace her here?
She didn't want to compromise Ross, but she couldn't leave Nicole hanging either. She dropped to her knees at the edge of the bed and typed in a quick greeting.
The reply came back immediately. 'Are you okay?'
'Yes. You?'
'Fine. Have a new hobby answering questions about you.'
Allie smiled. 'Thanks.'
'Where are you?'
It was a fair question, one Nicole might very well ask, yet a chill slid down Allie's spine. A dozen scenarios played through her mind in the matter of a few seconds. All of them dark and ending unhappily for her and Nicole.
The cursor blinked at her, demanding she offer up some sort of answer. 'Hanging out with Aunt Ruth.'
Nicole, the real Nicole, knew Aunt Ruth was away on a cruise. 'That's great. You two needed to catch up.'
'Yeah. I'll be in touch soon.' Allie managed to type in the reply on the first try despite her sweaty palms and shaking hands. Her finger slipped off the power button, but she got it on the next attempt and closed the laptop.
"Ross." Her effort to shout came out in a creaky whisper. She pushed back from the bed, found the power cord and yanked it out of the wall. "Ross!" Her voice was stronger this time as she rushed out of the room to find him.
The rush of relief made her lightheaded when she saw him charging down the hallway toward her. "What is it?"
"I – I –" She had to swallow back the terror clawing at her throat as she struggled for rational thought.
"Are you hurt?" His hands were on her shoulders, steady and warm. Having him close was the embodiment of a security blanket. Whatever was going on, he would help her get through it. Calmer, she noticed his eyes were darting behind her, looking for the threat.
"No. I'm fine. Nothing like that. It's Nicole." Allie cleared her throat. "My friend. My, umm, alibi. We IM. I didn't want to reply, but I thought I should after giving her name to the sheriff."
"Okay." He took a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaving her feeling alone and vulnerable again.
"Not okay." Through the panic, she struggled to say things in the right order. "I'm sure it wasn't really her, but I got scared and shut everything off in case they're tracking my laptop somehow."
He scowled in the direction of the open bedroom door. "You're sure that's possible?"
"Yes. Unlikely, but possible." She took another steadying breath. "But if they could do that, track or hack my computer I mean, they'd have what they want already. Why would they still chase me?"
"Good question." He scowled down at her.
She didn't feel small, or in trouble, but she discovered how much she preferred his smile to the hard, cold expression clouding his features now.
"I really need to tell you everything."
"That would make things easier."
A grin teased the corner of his mouth and she had to work to keep her mind on business when it wandered down memory lane, back to those sweet days when they shared everything from kisses to chemistry homework.
"First I need an untraceable internet connection."
"Meaning untraceable to you?"
"Yes. Please?" She reached for him but caught herself and thrust her hands in her pockets. The last thing she needed was to make this personal when he was likely involved with someone else. Maybe he'd been hers once, but those days were truly a lifetime removed from this moment.
"The computer in my office is as secure as it gets this side of a military operation."
"That should do." She smiled up at him, hoping he saw gratitude rather than the persistent ache of desire that was as inconvenient and unwelcome as a broken tooth.
However he interpreted her expression, he simply did an about face and walked away. She fell in behind him, much like she imagined his military team had followed wherever he led.
At the door to his office, he waved her in ahead of him. "Have a seat. Your login is there." He pointed to a sticky note p
osted on the edge of the monitor. It was the closest thing to clutter on the big, glossy desk.
She didn't remember him being this neat when they were kids. Sure everyone had to grow up, but there was something detached and sterile about this place. "You don't live here do you?"
"I told you as much." He shook his head as if she'd disappointed him somehow. "You ready to tell me what's going on?"
"In a minute." She clicked the icon and waited for the web page to load. "Way before any of this started, I memorized the account numbers and passwords I need."
"Of course you did." Ross remembered how easy it was for her to recall everything from equations to history dates in school. If her memory wasn't officially photographic, it was damned close. As he watched her narrow fingers flitting over his keyboard, he couldn't help thinking about the days when he'd held her delicate hand in his as they walked between classes or after school. With a mental curse, he yanked his mind back from that cliff. Allie's hands didn't matter. He needed to pay attention to what was happening on the monitor.
She was moving quickly from screen to screen, but he recognized the logo for an offshore bank he'd dealt with on a previous case.
"My boss said he didn't need to know the details, since this charity fund and outreach was my pet project. My idea, my management, he told me." She turned to face him, her blue eyes wide and sad. "Believing him about anything was my first mistake."
She opened a new Internet window and entered another account number. "For a few months I thought everything was golden. Money came in, amounts matching what he said the company would contribute from two specific departments.
"But one day I logged in to pay a catering bill and noticed a withdrawal I hadn't made. A week after that, there was an amount equal to my paycheck in my personal account. I called the bank and straightened it out."
"Your boss was playing in the account?"
"I certainly didn't make those bogus transactions."
"And you think he was laundering money?"
"Yes. Since he was the only other person in the company on the account, I went to him first. He brushed it off as computer error and I wanted to believe him."
"But you couldn't."
"No." The screen changed to an independent cloud data storage service. "It's a charity fund." Her shoulders hitched on a sarcastic chuckle. "I didn't want the company to come under fire as so many corporations and charities do. So I looked deeper, determined to find a reasonable explanation. When I examined the ebb and flow of the account, matching those numbers to my proposed budget, money laundering was the only explanation. I stored the screenshots here."
The monitor was full of numbers, and a certain deposit was highlighted across the screen. Ross silently commended her for taking such good care of potential evidence.
"I researched this account number," she tapped the screen. "And then I made a call. Imagine my shock when the bank was too happy to help me manage my money."
"Someone set up an offshore account in your name?"
"Yup. But I was able to figure out the password. Bradley is - was - too confident in his scheme and a creature of habit." When she leaned closer to the monitor he found himself mesmerized by the elegant line of her neck. The shorter hair had been a momentary shock, now he cataloged the benefits of easy access to the places he knew were sensitive. Crap. He should not be thinking about sensitive parts of Allie.
A memory rolled over him like a tank, of her snuggling close as he nibbled on the spot right behind her ear. It had been summer, hot and sticky 24/7, with the buzz of insects trying to drown out whatever he'd had playing on the car stereo. He'd dreamed about that day more than once when he'd been alone and miserable on one mission or another. He'd dreamed of it more than once in the few years since he'd returned to a civilian life.
When you worked with a team, a good team, you got to know details, the tics that made up a person. Real, steady relationships were rare in Special Forces. The job came first and many spouses didn't understand. In the dark corners of his own mind he always compared every woman to Allie. None of them held up. But he'd also compared Allie to the few wives who did stick, wondering what might have been if she'd only had the same courage and commitment. A senseless exercise since he'd had that answer every week that his letters from basic training went unanswered.
"This is new."
Allie's voice, a blend of curiosity and distress pulled Ross away from the painful abyss of those memories. "What's new?"
She moused over the area to highlight the transactions. "Someone moved money out of the stateside account."
"You said –"
"I requested a hold on the funds before I confronted my boss last week. What makes it new is the account number. The money was going to that offshore account in my name, but this time the transfer went to a stateside account in Roberts' name."
"He's probably on several corporate accounts at that bank."
"Sure, but this isn't the corporation or the charitable foundation. This is him, personally."
"How do you know his account number?"
"That first payroll error was duplicated in the next pay cycle, but to his account."
"Trying to cover his tracks?" Ross' battle instincts were heating up.
"Most likely. I knew it went higher than Roberts."
"What did?"
"The problem, the corruption."
"I thought you were the only one with access."
She pressed her fingers to her temples. "Technically I am. Policy requires two signatures on any account. If Roberts went in personally, they would've done what he asked. The company is one of the bank's largest clients. We have acres of accountants who oversee everything. Or they're supposed to."
Ross had an opinion, but he wanted hers. "What do you think is happening here, Allie?"
"I know Roberts used that account and my name to launder kickbacks." She reached forward, clicked on a new tab. "Look at this transfer record. He'd been subtle, but apparently that's over."
Ross agreed. "What changed?"
"Before he was killed?" The glow in her cheeks faded and her hands fell from the keyboard.
He didn't want to push, but he needed to know everything. "Something changed."
She nodded, sat up a bit straighter in the chair. "I confronted him about problems with a new product."
"There really was 'sensitive, proprietary data'? On a hard drive?"
"Yes. I have the only remaining proof as far as I know." She chewed on her lip. "How do you know about the hard drive?"
He waved that off, planning to get to the proof of what later. "Go back to the money. When were the last transfers made?"
"Publicity and public relations for pharmaceuticals is a tough balancing act." She wasn't evading the question, more just reminiscing through a daydream. He recognized the sadness in her eyes. It was the result of believing in something good, only to have that belief crushed by an ugly reality. "The public needs the advances and service the company can provide," she continued, "but they generally don't trust us. All the pricing games, the small print on ads, it adds up against us."
"Uh-huh." He nudged her aside and examined the records himself. "You went in with good intentions and they abused that. I get it."
"Yeah. I believed in a cause. Believed I could help."
"This charity thing was a good effort."
She startled him when she lurched out of the chair. "It was all a sham. I'm running around planning galas and volunteering awards and Roberts slides money through my account and offshore for who knows what."
"My bet's on personal gain," Ross muttered, relieved she didn't hear him. "Are you sure the only way Roberts can do things on the account right now is in person?"
"Yes. Although if he went in, he might have arranged for his own web access."
Web or in person, he didn't like what he was seeing.
"Why are you asking?"
"The dates. These last two are the day before he died. But there's another on
e from this morning."
"Impossible." She was back by his side, tormenting him with her jasmine scented hair again. "Move." She shifted the keyboard and pulled up the transaction details. "How does a dead man walk into a bank?"
"Got me. You're sure the account was frozen?"
"As cold as I could get it."
Ross took the keyboard back, switched the login and sent an email to Rick, another to the sheriff. "I'll see about getting the camera feeds from the bank. Might be the proof of life we need to clear that warrant."
"So who's on the coroner's table?"
"What?"
"Sheriff Cochran said Roberts was on the coroner's table." She stared up at the ceiling. "I really thought I was working with the good guys, Ross."
"As the saying goes, a couple bad apples don't ruin the crop."
"Is that advice good for potatoes too?"
He chuckled. "You aren't going to Idaho."
"Not convinced." She turned her head, her eyes clear and steady on him. "If it is Roberts, why frame me for his death?"
"Easy pickings?" He barely got the words out. Her face was too close, her rosy lips right there. Definitely easy pickings of a different sort. He wanted to taste her, to know if she was as sweet as he remembered. His fingers itched to trace the shell of her ear, the smooth column of her throat, the soft swell of her breast.
He gritted his teeth against the desire, forced his gaze back to the computer. A few days ago she'd been a simple thief and he'd been tasked with recovering the stolen property. Nothing simple about her now. Clinging to the last shred of his business sense, he logged out of his side of the system, limiting her access once more.
"Hello?" Eva's voice startled him. "Anyone home?"
Striding quickly out of the office, he met her in the kitchen. "Thanks for doing the shopping."
Eva set two bags on the granite counter. "You can get the rest while I put stuff away."
"Deal." Ross rushed out, never more grateful for an escape.
His professional concern that Eva might have been followed evaporated when he saw the dusty grocery store logo magnets from the oldest store in Florence on the doors of a battered Jeep Wrangler. He grabbed the last of the bags and headed back into the kitchen.
