Stinging, like stabbing, circling bees had my eyes popping wide open. When my vision focused, all I saw was blond hair framing a young, compellingly attractive face. She wore latex gloves and a frown, and showed no sign of having recognized me from all the media coverage over the past months.
“Hold still,” the girl-not-Madi said as she finished cleaning my wound. She reached for the supplies she’d laid out on a towel beside me. “It’s only going to hurt for a second.”
“God damn,” I hissed, taking in another layer of sting as droplets of something attacked. “What the hell is that?”
She held up the bottle where I could see it. “Just a little super glue. The cut was deeper than I thought, but this should save stitches.”
I attempted to sit up, bracing myself against another wave of nausea. “Is that sanitary?”
“It’s what we have. Be my guest if you want to take your chances at the ER in this weather. I did find that clipboard in a drawer. God knows how long it’s been there. The building itself is pretty old, you know. You could get tetanus from the rusty metal, maybe die...”
“Ok,” I laughed. “Maybe I’m overreacting. Some.”
She rolled her eyes. Even as I rose to sitting, she deftly held my wound together with her thumb and forefinger, waiting for the glue to dry.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
“Treated a wound? Or been attacked by a stranger from behind?”
“Um—” Attacked wasn’t the word I’d have used, but from her perspective…
With her free hand, she gave me a packet of butterfly bandages. “Open these.”
I tore the package, removed the strips from the adhesive and handed over two small bandages. She affixed the tiny edges to her fingers while she continued to wait.
Something about the confidence in her demeanor comforted me. Nausea fading, I relaxed.
From my peripheral, I watched as naked lips, just the perfect amount of full, counted to sixty then puckered as she blew a thin stream of air to speed up the drying glue. Her eyes widened when she tried to pull her fingers away.
Afraid they were stuck, I shot her a nervous look and cleared my throat.
“Just kidding.” A hint of dimples showed in her half-smile. “The scar will probably fade completely in time. If you want to speed it up, you can apply liquid Vitamin E in a few weeks. Just make sure the cut’s healed right and tight.”
Thanks to my college ball days, I’d had more scrapes and scars than I could count. One more, even on my face, wouldn’t kill me.
“Have you always been squeamish over the sight of blood?”
Shit. Had I been that obvious? I gave her what felt like an embarrassed smile. Actually, no, I hadn’t. But that wasn’t anything I ever talked about.
She gathered up the trash. When I didn’t answer, she added, “It’s always the big guys that are the pussies.”
I shrugged. “Even gods have weaknesses.”
Though I’d meant it as a joke, at six foot three and two twenty five, I did happen to be in the best shape I’d been in since college. Even in my worst years, I’d managed to take decent care of myself. But when your biggest client was an NFL powerhouse who insisted all your meetings take place in the gym, you either played the part or looked like a douche.
She cocked her head and shot me a smart-ass smirk. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you? Gods are immortal. You nearly got yourself killed.”
I looked girl-not-Madi over, from head to toe. Even from her sitting position, I guessed her to be five-four, maybe five-five tops, and judging how I’d mistaken her from behind, she was small, yet firm to the point of solid.
She’d caught me off guard, that’s all. And regardless of what she’d swung, I’d had no intention of hurting a woman. “I think I could take you.”
“Really?” she said, head still cocked. “Whose ass is laid out on the floor?”
I nodded, conceding. “Girl-not-Madi 1, asshole, 0.”
At that, she burst out laughing and those adorable dimples nearly knocked me sideways all over again.
God she was fierce. But in a very unsettling way. She was tough and strong, defending herself, but didn’t come across as the overly aggressive sort who constantly felt like she had something to prove. She was beautiful, but not model gorgeous, more earthy and right. And maybe it was the Florence Nightingale routine, but there was something about her. Something so familiar that had nothing to do with Madi. Somehow I felt like I knew her, which was disconcerting considering she was making me hard with absolutely no provocation.
“I owe you an apology,” I said, tearing my eyes from her lips. Because, first of all, I did. Second, because I was trying to deflate my reaction to her. “I thought you were—”
“Yeah. You said.” She removed her gloves threw her supplies back into her first aid kit. “Now take your shirt off.”
“Excuse me?” My reaction doubled, painfully.
She pointed to the spot of nearly dried blood that had dripped near my shoulder. “We should try to get that out before it stains and your shirt’s ruined.”
“Oh, OK, thanks.”
She stood and walked behind the bar. Buttons from her torn shirt crunched under her boots as she went.
“You should know,” she said over her shoulder, “since you thought I was Madi, she went to Jamaica. Got a job with a developer decorating a new hotel chain he’s opening in the Caribbean. She sold her car to me, which tells me there’s no ETA on when she’s coming back.”
My head snapped up, reminding me that a dull ache was building. “Shit, the car. You left your lights on. That’s why I came in.”
Remaining calm, she turned the sink faucet on cold and let the water run over my shirt when I handed it to her. Girl-not-Madi quickly shook out two pills from a bottle she’d pulled from under the bar then filled a glass of water from the fountain. “Hold tight. I’ll be right back.”
Chapter Three
Grayson
Mambo’s voice echoed between my ears as I walked out of the bar and toward my car. When the time is right, the man you search for will come to you.
But could this really be Adam Holder?
Thanks to the internet and all the media coverage of the LaKendrick Smith case over the last year, images of him were in no short supply. Still, he looked different in person, rugged and way more masculine. But maybe that’s because he’d traded in his designer suits for an untucked shirt and jeans. Two days’ worth of stubble lined his usually clean shaven jaw. His eyes had looked brown in print, but up close they were beautiful. The color of dark wash denim after it’s reached the perfect amount of fade. While the cameras certainly loved him, they didn’t capture the raw energy Adam exuded, the sex appeal that no amount of film could harness.
That’s why I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was him.
Walking between our cars intending to open my driver side door, I changed tactics at the last second and tested the handle of his passenger side. It was unlocked. Using the door of his SUV to help shield me from the wind, I reached for the first thing I saw that might confirm the identity of the guy waiting for me inside. Proof came in black and white from a detailed rental car receipt.
Adam Holder. No fucking way.
I let out a long shaky breath. Talk about random. How could he be here, at the bar where I sometimes worked when the owner needed a favor or I needed extra cash? But the hows and whys didn’t really matter did they? Not when I wanted to turn cartwheels in the street because this was going down exactly the way Mambo had said. Only now was not the time for fist pumps and celebrations. Now was the time for a cool-headed assessment and to formulate a plan. Being face to face with Adam was only one hurdle in this leg of the race—the race to free Becca’s soul from limbo. And there were multiple hurdles to jump before I could check his name off the list.
My eyes scanned the receipt. He’d flown in today from D.C. to Denver and he wasn’t expected to return the car for nearly thirty days. So
unded like a long time, but it would pass fast.
Frustration over my predicament sank in. I’d deferred my final year of residency to finish what I’d started two years ago, and all because of a deathbed promised I’d made to my sister. But the fourth item on my sister’s bucket list seemed all but impossible. How the hell was I going to get Adam Holder from Fort Collins to get snowed in in Switzerland?
Becca clearly hadn’t thought this little fantasy through.
I wadded up the receipt and threw it. It bounced off the dash and landed back on the seat where I’d found it. Frustrated tears stung my eyes as I looked up at the swirling snow illuminated by the street light. This had to be some sort of joke. Mother Nature was about to deliver the perfect storm and I’d met Adam Holder on the wrong fucking continent.
I slammed his car door shut then unzipped the front pocket of my pants, pulled out a key, and unlocked the driver’s side of the Jeep I’d paid for with four hundred cash plus a rare bottle of tequila. Thankfully Madi had shown me, before she left, how a short in the wiring caused the lights to come on sometimes, randomly. I jiggled the switch, prayed for a miracle, then climbed inside when the lights went out.
Pulling my flannel shirt closed over my chest, I cupped my hands over my mouth and blew a gust of warm breath onto my numbing fingers. With shaky hands, I reached for the book in my glovebox and removed the loose piece of paper, limp now from overuse.
Emotion rose again and clamped down on my throat as I unfolded the list. I’d only gotten back into town today after a weekend hike, preparing for the inevitable conquering of the Inca Trail. Funny how things seemed to happen fast and when you least expected it.
Looking over the list, seeing how far I’d come versus how far I had to go still felt daunting, especially when the hardest task I’d yet to face stood right in front of me. Rather than rushing back inside, I took a minute to catch my breath and to decide.
What was my plan?
I placed my hand on the carved urn resting on the passenger seat. “We’re almost there, Becca,” I choked out. Then I felt stupid for talking out loud to someone no longer here.
It had been just over three years since I’d started this journey. More than that since the sudden accident that had put me on its path. While I didn’t believe in the hoo-doo voo-doo any more today than I had the day I met Mambo, I did believe in the deathbed promise I’d made. But was it really smart to discount there were bigger forces at work? Forces I couldn’t quantify or explain. Were those same forces holding Rebecca in limbo until the completion of her greatest dying wish? The bucket list I now held in my hand?
How the hell did I know?
I could ask all the questions in the world. They’d still circle back to one.
What did I do now?
Adam Holder, in the flesh, waiting for me inside the restaurant during what was working up to be a blizzard. That was an undeniable fact. But it was written perfectly clear. Number four said get snowed in at a chalet in Switzerland with Adam Holder.
A vibration in my pants pocket alerted me to an incoming call. I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen.
Andrea Holmes, the display read as a gust of wind shook the Jeep. Chills from the cold shot down my spine.
I thought about not taking the call. This so wasn’t a good time. But Andrea and I had been best friends since freshman orientation in college. She lived in Dallas now, working for a consulting company, doing IT. We didn’t talk often, but our relationship was such that we didn’t need to. I would always have her back like she’d always have mine. With email and text as our normal mode of communication, I knew she wouldn’t be calling if it weren’t important.
“I need a favor,” she blurted, by way of greeting. “Like, ASAP. And you’re the only one in the vicinity of the mountains who can help me.”
Another gust of wind shook the Jeep and swirled thickening snow. The storm was gaining momentum. Why hadn’t I grabbed my coat before I’d rushed out into the frigid night?
“I’m kind of in the middle of something,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Mom is freaking out. She’s with Pops and they’re at the hospital. He’s okay, just fell off the roof again, broken leg this time. Problem is they’re gonna have to do surgery so he’ll be in the hospital a few days. And you know Mom isn’t going to leave his side.”
I didn’t need to waste words like I’m so sorry your dad fell; concern was implied. I cut straight to the chase. “What do they need?”
“It’s Crutches, the cat. Mom can’t remember seeing her in the house before she locked up and thinks she might still be outside. She’ll be fine for a while, tucked under an eave of the garage, but I’m not sure if even that cat can survive days out in the storm I hear is coming.”
“So you need me to find Crutches.” It was a statement of fact, not a question. It was also something I’d have to work around plans with Adam Holder.
“I don’t mean for you to risk your life, scouring the woods or anything, Grayson. If she’s not already inside, just stay ‘til she shows up and let her in. Make sure her food and water dispensers are full. After that and if you can with the weather, you can go back down the hill. If not, hole up until it’s over. Cats can stay by themselves for days, right?”
The “hill” Andrea referred to was Swiss Mountain, which was an hour drive in ideal conditions. If I were going to make it up there at all, I’d have to leave soon. And once I got up the mountain, there’d likely be no getting down safely until the storm ended.
But that wasn’t a big deal.
Andrea’s parents had treated me like one of their own since we’d met. I’d even spent holidays with them on occasion and had house sat multiple times since coming to town.
Except, wait a minute.
Swiss Mountain.
Chills I’d previously chalked up to the cold inched back up my spine.
Though theirs wasn’t a chalet in Switzerland, Andrea’s parents did live in a cabin—if you considered six thousand square foot of glass, stone and western cedar a cabin—on a mountain coincidentally named. Bottom line was if Becca didn’t want to hang out in limbo forever, she’d have to allow for a little improvising.
“You said you’re in the middle of something,” Andrea said, interrupting my epiphany.
“I found Adam Holder. Or rather, he found me.”
Andrea knew about my sister’s bucket list and my quest to fill it in her stead. We’d traveled to the Texas Hill Country together last summer only she chickened out of diving the underwater caves of Jacob’s Well.
“Oh,” she wooshed out a breath. “Wow.”
I filled her in on what happened, how mistaken identity had led to Adam lying bleeding on the floor. And it didn’t take long for Andrea to come to the same conclusion as me.
“Dad falling off the roof couldn’t have come at a better time.”
Knowing Pops was safe, I wasn’t even about to say more.
Then she added, “Almost like it was destiny.”
“Coincidence,” I added, repeating the word that had bounced around my head.
“Even you have to admit it’s an eerie coincidence. Unless you’re in denial.”
Perhaps.
If only Rebecca—if her soul were indeed lingering somewhere between abeyance and peace—could give me a sign, something definitive to show me that I wasn’t on some sort of fool’s errand. And something obvious. Like that one time during our trip to Europe when she hooked up for a week with the Scandinavian poet. Petals from the flowers he showered her with daily spread outside the door of our tent or hostel meant game on.
“So what’s the plan?” Andrea said. “Now you’ve got access to your Swiss chalet, or at least the Rocky Mountain version of it. How do you plan to get him up there with you?”
I’m not saying I’m every man’s dream, but I saw the way Adam looked at me. And if the impressive erection he’d had when he handed over his shirt was any indication, he liked what he saw. I didn’t know wh
at his connection was with Madi Jones; she and I hadn’t known each other well enough to trade secrets. The way he’d tried to feel me up meant they’d at some point been intimate. However, they couldn’t have still been close. Otherwise she wouldn’t have packed up and moved to Jamaica without telling him.
I pulled at my bottom lip, thinking about Andrea’s question. “I don’t know. He’s a red-blooded guy, I’m a red-blooded girl. We’re both okay to look at. Maybe I’ll just ask him?”
Andrea burst out laughing at the only idea I had.
“You’re gorgeous, Peaches, but we’re talking about the most sought-after white collar criminal defense attorney on the eastern seaboard. He’s young and he’s killing it. Have you seen the leaked photos from his upcoming Time Magazine interview?”
I’d been doing my research. If it were on the internet and about Adam Holder I had an alert programmed to fill me in.
Andrea went on though, as if I didn’t have a clue. “He got LaKendrick Smith off the hook, not just for the federal money laundering and prostitution ring charges, but he also got the prosecution to apologize for LaKen ever being indicted in the first place. And let me tell you something from experience dealing with the DOJ, Grayse, the federal government does not apologize. Ever.”
“So? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Unless you’re a supermodel, it ain’t going down between the two of you the way you hope.”
Now I knew how Rebecca had felt all those years before. Leave it to your best friend to kick you in the self-esteem. “What makes you an expert on what Adam Holder wants?”
“He’s like the white Johnny Cochran of the twenty-first century. He’s a busy man and a smart one, too.” Andrea’s voice softened. “Look, I don’t mean it as bad as it sounds. You’ve got enough game to seduce him into a one night stand in good weather, but getting him to follow you to a mountain cabin where he’s likely going to be snowed in for days? Even with boner-goggles, the man’s going to be smarter than that.”
Blackmail & Lace Page 2
