Mistaken Identity

by Merline Lovelace

  The building was tucked under a stand of pines. Enough moonlight filtered through the boughs to show the structure’s rough-planked siding, corrugated tin roof and wraparound porch set off by split-log railings. Lauren was willing to concede that the place had a rustic sort of charm in the moonlight, but it definitely fell into the “shack” category.

  No way around it. It was small. Too small for strangers to inhabit without tripping over each other on their way to the bathroom. If there was a bathroom….

  That fear was laid to rest when they stepped inside and Marsh dumped the bags to light the oil lamp left on a convenient shelf beside the door. The flickering light soon illuminated a sort of kitchen/living room, dominated by a massive stone fireplace, with a door leading to a shadowy bunk room beyond. Handcrafted split-log furniture offered no-frills, man-sized comfort.

  To Lauren’s relief, another door at the rear of the kitchen revealed a gleam of porcelain. At least the place had indoor bathroom fixtures. Her moment of giddy relief evaporated when she poked her head inside the bunk room, however. It was just that—a room filled with bunks topped by bare mattresses. Folded sheets and blankets were stacked on a makeshift dresser. A squat, pot-bellied woodstove occupied the center space, alongside a table littered with poker chips and a deck of greasy-looking cards. A grossly overendowed Miss January 1987 provided the only decoration.

  Pulling in a deep breath, Lauren backed out and took another survey of the main room. Her gaze went to the sofa, cushioned in red and dun cowhide, and then to Marsh.

  “That better open into a bed for you or we’re out of here. Now.”

  Only after she’d issued the ultimatum did she stop to wonder how the heck she’d enforce it. The same thought must have occurred to Marsh. He flicked her a sardonic glance, but answered equably enough.

  “It doesn’t, but I’ve racked out on it before. I’ll survive.”

  “The DEA sends you up here often, does it?”

  He answered with a shrug and passed her the tote and gym bag. “You can get settled while I crank up the generator and haul in some wood.”

  Moments later, the overhead light in the kitchen flickered on. Lauren found the switch for the bunk room and flooded the room with light. It didn’t look any better than it had by the glow of the oil lamp.

  Unpacking the few items she’d brought with her took all of three minutes. The jeans and tops went on pegs pounded into the wall. The sneakers she lined up beside the bunk closest to the stove. Becky’s undies she left in the gym bag. She had her bed made and had strolled back into the main room by the time Marsh returned, his arms laden.

  His boots echoed hollowly on the pine floor-boards as he crossed to the fireplace and hunkered down. Within a remarkably short space of time, the kindling had fired a cheerful little blaze. Lauren was standing in the middle of the room, wondering what the heck she’d gotten herself into, when he pushed to his feet.

  Tugging off his hat, he hooked it on the antlers rack over the fireplace and shagged a hand through his hair. A black brow cocked as he took in her uneasy stance.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “Second, third and fourth.”

  “About this place, or about coming with me?”

  “Both.”

  Her glance went to the windows, as yet unshuttered to the night. The darkness beyond the wavy glass panes defied penetration. No lights winked in the distance. No beams of headlights cut through the pines. Lauren felt as though she and Marsh Henderson had dropped off the edge of civilization.

  “In the movies the cops always whisk the star witness off to a hotel room or a safe house in another city. Not to an isolated mountain shack.”

  “This isn’t a movie.” A muscle ticked at the side of his jaw. “Those were real bullets aimed at Jannisek.”

  Lauren shivered under her blanket of suede. “And you really think you can lure him out of hiding despite the fact that more bullets might come zinging at him?”

  “Not me.” His lake-cool baby blues didn’t reflect even a shadow of remorse. “You. When he calls around looking for Becky again, he’ll get the word that I have her.”

  Lauren didn’t particularly care for his word choice. Or for the prospect of being dangled like a piece of prime beef in front of a desperately hungry man.

  “What if he doesn’t call anytime soon?”

  “I’ve already told you, it doesn’t matter how long this takes. I’m in this for the duration, Beck…”

  “Lauren,” she interjected. “The name’s Lauren.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, as if the mix-up in identities were somehow her fault.

  “Say it,” she demanded.

  His head inclined an inch, maybe less. “Lauren.”

  The victory was a small one, but she savored it until the tiredness dragging at her limbs convinced her that she couldn’t go another round tonight.

  “Well, we’re here now and I’m wiped. We’ll talk about the duration tomorrow. Do you want first dibs on the bathroom?”

  “No, it’s all yours. But you might want to wait until morning to take a shower. It’ll take a few hours for the water to heat.”

  Lauren didn’t waste time in the tiny bathroom. It was as cold as a refrigerator and just about the same size. Her skin was tingling from a quick splashing when she retreated to the bunk room and closed the door firmly behind her.

  Marsh had gotten a fire started in the potbellied stove, thank goodness. Resin popped as the flames licked greedily at the iron grate, and the stove’s warmth supplemented the weak glow put out by the space heater at the far end of the room.

  Sagging onto the end of her bunk, Lauren huddled as close as she could get to the stove. Miss January smirked down at her from the opposite wall, her superabundance of naked flesh impervious to the chill.

  This was wonderful, Lauren thought, morosely. Just wonderful. Not only had she exchanged her airy Denver bedroom with its spectacular views of the mountains for this cold little box of a shack, she was now sharing her quarters with 1987’s queen of male fantasies.

  And with a man she’d only met a few hours ago.

  She was honest enough to admit that the idea of spending an indeterminate length of time in Marsh Henderson’s company disturbed her almost as much as anything else in this bizarre situation. In the few short hours since she’d flown out the back door of Becky’s house and into his arms, he’d taken Lauren down a fast track from gratitude to suspicion to fury. From the way her pulse had zinged all over the place when he’d laid that roguish grin on her, she suspected he could take her down a few other tracks if she’d let him.

  “Not in this lifetime,” she vowed to the skeptical Miss January.

  Henderson had showed Lauren his true colors tonight. He might claim to be one of the good guys, but he was every bit as ruthless as the man he was hunting.

  Dragging her tote across the bunk, she fished inside for her cell phone. Becky probably hadn’t made it to Aunt Jane’s yet, but Lauren could alert her that she was coming. The flashing message on the digital display killed that notion.

  No service. Out of range.

  No service. Out of range.

  Wonderful!

  Her mouth twisting, Lauren realized the phone salesman might have known what he was talking about when he’d advised her to shell out a few more dollars for a more powerful unit with nationwide coverage. With her business still long on potential and short on cash flow, she’d opted for the cheaper, urban-area service instead. Now she was paying the hidden costs he’d tried to warn her about.

  She rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead, fighting the tiredness that pulled at her. How in the heck would she contact Becky?

  Henderson had brought a phone. She’d glimpsed it in the car, and again when he’d dumped his gear in the living room. She knew his would work, even out here in the wilds—anxious as he was for David Jannisek to contact him.

  Now all she’d have to do was figure out a way to separ
ate Henderson from his phone. She’d work on that problem tomorrow, she decided. She was fast reaching the overload point tonight.

  Bracing herself for the cold, Lauren got ready for bed. Her stacked heel shoes hit the floor with a thump. The jeans followed a moment later. Goose bumps popped out on her thighs and stomach as she forced herself to shed the suede jacket, her stretchy knit top and sensible, comfortable un-wired bra. Shivering, she dove into the Arizona Suns T-shirt she’d snatched from the pile of clean laundry on her sister’s floor. Only then did she discover that Becky had scissored the shirt to bust-skimming length. The darned thing left more midriff bare than it covered.

  The clean undies she dragged out of the gym bag covered even less. Cursing her sister’s predilection for minimal clothing and maximum exposure, Lauren wiggled the panties into place. The thong rubbed against her with all the comfort of Number Three fishing line as she yanked another blanket off the shelf.

  A quick side trip doused the lights. With only the glow from the stove to guide her, she spread the blanket and crawled into the bunk, yelping out loud when her bare skin hit icy sheets.

  On the other side of the thin wall that separated the bunk area from the bathroom, Marsh heard a strangled cry over the splash of running water.

  His head shot up. Soapy cold water ran from his face onto his neck and bare chest. His brain processed the sound in two seconds flat. His feet were moving in three. Instincts honed by more than a decade working undercover had his Glock cocked and his boot against the bunk-room door in another ten.

  The door crashed against the wall.

  Marsh charged in.

  The woman in the bunk closest to the glowing woodstove bolted upright. Thrusting a pile of blankets away from her face, she took one look at his two-fisted stance and shrieked again. Her screech was still bouncing off the walls when she kicked at the tangled blankets, lost her balance, and tumbled off the narrow bunk.

  Pulse pounding, body in an instinctive half crouch, Marsh spun a full 360 degrees and searched for the cause of Becky’s distress. Lauren’s distress. Whoever!

  In the reddish glow from the stove, he registered the room’s one closed window, its glass unbroken. The rest of the beds unmade and undisturbed. Miss January in the same provocative pose she’d held since one of his brothers had reverently pinned her in place years ago. But nothing to raise a cry of alarm.

  He hit the wall switch, and did another search. Still nothing.

  Blowing out a ragged breath, he uncocked the weapon and laid it aside before stepping over to the thrashing bundle of blankets to grasp Becky’s arm. Lauren’s arm. Dammit, her arm. Pumping adrenaline and a surge of sheer annoyance at not knowing whose soft flesh he grasped put a sharp edge to his voice.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I was until you burst in!”

  She scrambled up in a welter of scratchy wool blankets and tumbled hair, giving him a view of the sorriest excuse for a T-shirt he’d ever seen. When Marsh saw what she wasn’t wearing below that scrap of cotton, his stomach kicked clear back to his spine.

  “What’s…what’s wrong?” Panting, she dug her fingers into his arm to steady herself. “Why did you storm in like that?”

  With a Herculean effort, he dragged his gaze from the expanse of bare, quivering skin above her belly button.

  “I heard a scream.”

  “A scream?” Her voice spiraled upward. It didn’t take his decade of undercover experience to see she was still as pumped as he was. “Who screamed?”

  “You, I thought.”

  “I didn’t make a sou…! Oh.”

  She released her death grip, leaving nail marks in his arms, and shoved back her hair. The movement dragged the shirt up.

  Marsh swallowed. Hard.

  “Well, maybe I did let out a little gasp when I climbed into bed.”

  “Gasp, hell! I heard you right through the wall. Why did you screech like that?”

  “I did not screech. I merely—squawked.”

  “Care to explain why?”

  “The sheets were cold. They felt like ice.”

  What the Sam Dickens did she expect, given the amount of exposed skin available to make contact with the blasted sheets? Exercising considerable restraint, Marsh refrained from pointing out the obvious. His restraint didn’t extend to denying himself another quick sweep of bare stomach, trim flanks and long, luscious legs, however.

  He was still taking in the view when she bent to retrieve the blankets and gave him a glimpse of rounded bottom cheeks bisected by a T-strap.

  He broke out in a sweat.

  “You scared the heck out of me,” she grumbled, still rattled and not happy about it.

  “Sorry.”

  He backed away, retrieving the Glock on his way to the door. He had to get out of there before he did something monumentally stupid—like giving her time to notice the fact that he wasn’t breathing.

  “Go to sleep.”

  “I intend to,” she muttered, dumping the blankets on the bunk. “As soon as my heart stops jumping.”

  Marsh’s heart performed a few jumps of it own as she yanked the bed coverings into place and crawled in. She was still twitching the pillow into position when he doused the lights and beat a hasty retreat. He didn’t pull in a whole breath until he reentered the bathroom he’d raced out of scant moments before.

  It didn’t surprise him that the face staring back at him from the square shaving mirror tacked above the sink showed skin flushed and taut across the cheekbones. Just thinking about the woman who’d floundered free of her blankets got him hot above the waist and hard below. Lord! Did she have any idea of what she did to a man’s nervous system?

  If she was Becky Smith, she did.

  That thought cooled him off faster than the icy water he slapped on his face to wash off the drying soap.

  If she was Becky Smith, she knew exactly what impact those long legs and curving flanks would have on him. The same impact they’d had on half a dozen other men at various times during the past year—including David Jannisek. Becky had racked up more trophies than a world-class champion bull rider.

  And what about the sister? What if she was Lauren Smith, as she claimed? Did she collect trophies with the same effortless ease as her sister?

  In another time, under other circumstances, Marsh might not have objected to being collected by the woman in the next room. Wouldn’t have objected, either, to exploring her mouth with his tongue, and her enticing rear with his palms. But he hadn’t brought her up here to play games with her.

  Besides, those kind of games could get in the way of his plan. Jannisek had already called once looking for his girlfriend. He’d call again, sooner or later. Marsh would stick to his game plan, draw the man in, go over or around or through him to get to Ellen’s killers. He’d convince Becky to cooperate—or Lauren to cooperate by acting as Becky.

  Dammit, which one was she? Frustration nipped at him again as he toweled off and shagged his shirt from the john seat. He didn’t like this uncertainty. Didn’t like not having the edge of knowing who the heck he was dealing with. Hopefully, Pepper would have a positive ID for him tomorrow. In the meantime, he’d better push the image of Ms. Smith’s all-too-sexy posterior out of his mind or he’d never get any sleep.

  He woke the next morning to a stiff neck, a rumbling stomach, and the annoying awareness that putting Becky/Lauren out of his mind and keeping her out were two different matters. For the first time since he’d decided to go after Jannisek, he felt a twinge of sympathy for his prey.

  From all reports, the hotelier had gone off the deep end for the cocktail waitress who might or might not be tucked up in the bunk room. She’d gotten under his skin, according to all accounts, like an itch that required continual scratching. Marsh would just make damned sure she didn’t get under his.

  That resolution stayed firmly in his mind as he rolled off the lumpy cowhide-covered cushions, while he pulled a clean shirt and shaving kit from his gear bag, dur
ing his shower, and as he put the coffee on. It got shot all to hell when the bunk-room door opened fifteen minutes later.

  A good inch of bacon grease sizzled in the cast-iron skillet in which Big John had taught his boys to fry everything from eggs to venison. Marsh had just transferred a thick slab of bacon onto a plate and was forking another into the hot grease when he heard her shuffle out of the bunk room. He paused in his task long enough to toss a casual good morning over his shoulder.

  “What’s so good about it?” she grumbled as she padded toward the bathroom, an embroidered toiletries bag in hand.

  “Not a morning person, huh?”

  “Not any kind of a person until I inject some caffeine into my system.”

  “The coffee’s ready if you want to pour yourself a mug.”

  She grunted and detoured into the kitchen long enough to fill one of the chipped mugs. The bathroom door banged shut behind her a moment later, leaving Marsh with hot grease spitting against his hand and a grin pulling at his mouth.

  In the dark of night this woman had come flying out of a back door and crashed into him, all long limbs and dangerous curves. That combination had proved disturbing enough, but it didn’t compare to the erotic image of the same woman in half a T-shirt and a few strategically placed strings that had kept him awake most of the night.

  Given the choice, he knew darned well he’d vote for the thong anytime. Yet he found himself curiously impatient for this sleepy-eyed grump in jeans, sneakers and an oversized sweatshirt to emerge from the bathroom.

  Chapter 6

  Feeling less than happy with the world in general and with a certain DEA agent in particular, Lauren rubbed a clear spot in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. A decidedly unimpressive reflection glared back at her. Wet hair straggled down her neck. Her skin glowed brick red from the hot shower—everywhere that wasn’t pimpled white by the nippy morning air, that is. She looked like a walking disaster, which was exactly how she felt.

  What in the world was she doing in this tiny cabin, somewhere in the wilds of northern Arizona? More to the point, how the heck was she going to get through an indeterminate number of hours with only Marsh Henderson and a bunch of pine trees for company?