Best-Kept Lies (5 page)

Until last night. And then all hell had broken loose.

So she’d left and he’d followed her to Seattle. Now she realized she’d have one helluva time getting rid of him. It galled her that her brothers had hired him.

“What makes you think you’ll be safer in Seattle than Grand Hope?” Thorne had asked as she’d packed her bags in the pine-walled room she’d grown up in. “You’re still not healed completely from the accident. If you stayed here, we could all look after you. And little J.R, er, Joshua, would have Molly and Mindy to play with when he got a little bigger.”

Randi’s heart was torn. She’d eyed her bright-eyed nieces, Molly bold and impudent, Mindy hiding behind
Thorne’s pant leg, and known that she couldn’t stay. She had things to do; a story to write. And she knew that if she stayed any longer, she’d only get more tangled up with Striker.

“I’ll be all right,” she’d insisted, zipping up her bag and gathering her baby into her arms. “I wouldn’t do anything to put Joshua in danger.” As she’d clambered down the stairs, she’d heard the twins asking where she was going and had spied their housekeeper, Juanita, making the sign of the cross over her ample bosom and whispering a prayer in Spanish. As if she would haul her own child into the maw of danger. But they didn’t understand that in order for everyone to be safe, she had to get back to her old life and figure out why someone was trying to harm her.

And Joshua. Don’t forget your precious son. Whoever it is means business and is desperate.
She noted that Striker was still seated in his truck. Waiting. Damn the man. Quickly she closed the blinds, then took a final glance around the small nursery. Hardwood floors that were dusty, a cradle stuck in a corner, a bookcase that was still in its box as “some assembly” was required and she hadn’t had time.

Because you were in the hospital.

Because you nearly died.

Because someone is determined to kill you.

Maybe, just maybe, your brothers have a point.

Maybe you should trust Kurt Striker
.

Again she thought of the night before. Trust him? Trust herself?

What other choice did she have?

Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. If Kurt could figure out where she’d hidden Joshua, then the
would-be killer, whoever he was, could as well. Her insides knotted. Why would anyone want to harm her innocent baby? Why?

It’s not about Joshua, Randi. It’s about you. Someone wants you dead. As long as the baby isn’t with you, he’s safe.

She clung to that notion and set about getting her life in order again. She made herself a cup of instant coffee and dialed the office. Her editor was out, but she left a message on his voice mail, checked her own e-mail, then quickly unpacked and changed into a clean sweater, slacks and boots. She wound a scarf around her neck and finger combed her short hair, looking into the hall mirror and cringing. She’d lost weight in the past five months, indeed she now weighed less than before she’d gotten pregnant, and she was having trouble getting used to the length of her hair. She’d always worn it long, but her head had been shaved before one of her lifesaving surgeries to alleviate the swelling in her brain and the resulting grow-out was difficult to adjust to though she’d had it shaped before leaving Montana. Instead, she went into the bathroom, found an old tube of gel and ran some of the goop through her hair. The result was kind of a finger-in-the-light-socket look, but was the best she could do. She was just rinsing her hands when her doorbell buzzed loudly several times, announcing a visitor. She didn’t have to be told who was ringing the bell. One quick look at her watch showed her that it had been one hour and five minutes since she’d last faced Striker. Apparently the man was prompt.

And couldn’t take a hint.

“Great,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a towel and discarding it into an open hamper before hurry
ing to the front door. What she didn’t need was anyone dogging her, bothering her and generally getting in the way. She was a private person by nature and opposed anyone nosing into her business, no matter what his reasons. Reining in her temper, she yanked open the door. Sure as shootin’, Kurt Striker, all six feet two inches of pure male determination, was standing on her doorstep. His light brown hair had darkened from the raindrops clinging to it, and his green eyes were hard. Wearing an aging bomber jacket and even older jeans, he was sexy as hell and, from the looks of him, not any happier at being on her stoop than she was to find him there.

“What’s with ringing the bell?” she asked, deciding not to mask her irritation. “I thought you had your own key, or a pick, or something. Compliments of my brothers.”

“They’re only looking out for you.”

“They should mind their own business.”

“And for your kid.”

“I know.” She’d already stepped away from the door and into the living room. Striker was on her heels. She heard the door slam behind him, the lock engage and the sound of his boots ringing on her hardwood floors.

“Look, Randi,” he said as she stopped at the closet and found her raincoat. “If I can break in, then—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m way ahead of you.” She slid her arms through the sleeves and glanced up at him. “I’ll change the locks, put on a dead bolt, okay?”

“Along with putting in an alarm system and buying a guard dog.”

“Hey—I’ve got a baby. Remember?” She walked to the couch, found her purse and grabbed it. Now…the
computer. Quickly she tucked her laptop into its case. “I don’t think an attack dog would be a good idea.”

“Not an attack dog—a guard dog. There’s a big difference.”

“If you say so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go to the office.” She anticipated what he was about to say. “Look, it wouldn’t be a good idea to follow me, you know? I’m already in enough hot water with my boss as it is.” She didn’t wait for him to answer, just walked back to the door. “So, if you’ll excuse me—” She opened the door again in an unspoken invitation.

His lips twisted into a poor imitation of a smile. “You’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

“Why? Because of the money?” she asked, surprised that the mention of it bothered her, cut into her soul. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? My brothers have paid you to watch over me, right? You’re supposed to be…oh, hell…not my bodyguard. Tell me Thorne and Matt and Slade aren’t so archaic, so controlling, so damn stupid as to think I need a personal bodyguard… Oh, God, that’s it, isn’t it?” She would have laughed if she hadn’t been so furious. “This has got to end. I need privacy. I need space. I need—”

His hand snaked out, and fast as lightning, he grabbed her wrist, his fingers a quick, hard manacle. “What you need is to be less selfish,” he finished for her. He was so close that she felt his hot, angry breath wafting across her face. “We’ve been through this before. Quit thinking about your damn independence and consider your kid’s safety. Along with your own.” He dropped her arm as suddenly as he’d picked it up. “Let’s go. I won’t get in the way.”

The smile he cast over his shoulder was wicked enough to take her breath away. “Promise.”

“D
on’t even think about riding with me,” she warned, flipping the hood of her jacket over her hair as she dashed toward her Jeep. The rain had softened to a thick drizzle, a kind of mist that made visibility next to nil. It was early evening, the sky dark with heavy clouds.

“It would make things a helluva lot easier.”

Obviously, Striker wasn’t taking a hint. Collar turned up, he kept with her as she reached the car.

“For whom?” She shot him a look and clicked on her keyless remote. The Jeep beeped and its interior lights flicked on.

“Both of us.”

“I don’t think so.” She climbed into her car and immediately locked her doors. He didn’t move. Just stood by the Jeep. As if she would change her mind. She
switched on the ignition as she tossed off her hood. Then, leaving Striker standing in the rain, she backed out of her parking spot, threw the Jeep into Drive and cruised out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of him running toward his truck, but not before she managed to merge into the traffic heading toward the heart of the city. She couldn’t help but glance in her mirrors, checking to see if Striker had followed.

Not that she doubted it for a minute. But she didn’t see his truck and reminded herself to pay attention to traffic and the red taillights glowing through the rain. She couldn’t let her mind wander to the man, not even if she had acted like a fool last night.

She’d let him kiss her, let him slide her nightgown off her body, felt his lips, hot and hard, against the hollow of her throat and the slope of her shoulder. She shouldn’t have done it, known it was a mistake, but her body had been a traitor and as his rough fingers had scaled her ribs and his beard-rough face had rubbed her skin, she’d let herself go, kissed him feverishly.

She’d been surprised at how much she’d wanted him, how passionately she’d kissed him, scraped off his clothes, ran her own anxious fingers down his hard, sinewy shoulders to catch in his thick chest hair.

The fire had hissed quietly, red embers glowing, illuminating the room to a warm orange. Her breathing had been furious, her heart rocketing, desire curling deep inside her. She’d wanted him to touch her, shivered when his tongue brushed her nipples, bitten her bottom lip as his hot breath had caressed her abdomen and legs. She’d opened to him easily as his hands had explored and touched. Her mind had spun in utter aban
don and she’d wanted him… Oh, God, she’d wanted him as she’d never wanted another man.

Which had been foolish…but as he’d kissed her intimately and slid the length of his body against her, she’d lost all control. All her hard-fought willpower…

She nearly missed her exit as she thought about him and the magic of the night, the lovemaking that had caused her to steal away early in the morning, before dawn. As if she’d been ashamed.

Now she wended her way off I-5 and down the steep streets leading to the waterfront. Through the tall, rain-drenched buildings was a view of the gray waters of Eliot Bay—restless and dark, mirroring her own uneasy feelings. She pulled the Jeep into the newspaper’s parking lot, grabbed her laptop and briefcase and faced a life that she’d left months before.

The offices of the
Seattle Clarion
were housed on the fifth floor of what had originally been a hotel. The hundred-year-old building was faced in red brick and had been updated, renovated and cut into offices.

Inside, Randi punched the elevator button. She was alone, rainwater dripping from her jacket as the ancient car clamored upward. It stopped twice, picking up passengers before landing on the fifth floor, the doors opening to a short hallway and the etched-glass doors of the newspaper offices. Shawn-Tay, the receptionist, looked up and nearly came unglued when she recognized Randi.

“For the love of God, look at you!” she said, shooting to her feet and disconnecting her headset in one swift movement. Model tall, with bronze skin and dark eyes, she whipped around her desk and hugged Randi as if she’d never stop. “What the devil’s got into you? Never callin’ in. I was worried sick about you. Heard
about the accident and…” She held Randi at arm’s length. “Where’s that baby of yours? How dare you come in here without him?” She cocked her head at an angle. “The hair works, but you’ve lost too much weight.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“Now, about the baby?” Shawn-Tay’s eyebrows elevated as the phone began to ring. “Oh, damn. I gotta get that, but you come back up here and tell me what the hell’s been going on with you.” She rounded the desk again and slid lithely into her chair. Holding the headset to one ear, she said, “
Seattle Clarion,
how may I direct your call?”

Randi slid past the reception desk and through the cubicles and desks of co-workers. Her niche was tucked into a corner, in the news section, behind a glass wall that separated the reporters from the salespeople. In the time she’d been gone, the walls had been painted, from a dirty off-white to different shades at every corner. Soft purple on one wall, sage on another, gold or orange on the next, all tied together by a bold carpet mingling all the colors. She passed by several reporters working on deadlines, though much of the staff had gone home for the day. A few night reporters were trickling in and the production crew still had hours to log in, but all in all, the office was quiet.

She slid into her space, surprised that it was just as she’d left it, that the small cubicle hadn’t been appropriated by someone else, as it had been months since she’d been in Seattle or sat at her desk. She’d set up maternity leave with her boss late last summer and she’d created a cache of columns in anticipation of taking some time off to be with the baby and finishing the
book she’d started. Between those new columns and culling some older ones, hardly vintage, but favorites, there had been enough material to keep “Solo” in the Living section twice a week, just like clockwork.

But it was time to tackle some new questions, and she spent the next two hours reading the mail that had stacked up in her in box and skimming the e-mails she hadn’t collected in Montana. As she worked, she was vaguely aware of the soft piped-in music that sifted through the offices of the
Clarion,
and the chirp of cell phones in counterpoint to the ringing of land lines to the office. Conversation, muted and seemingly far away, barely teased her ears.

In the back of her mind she wondered if Kurt Striker had followed her. If, even now, he was making small talk with Shawn-Tay in the reception area. The thought brought a bit of a smile to her lips. Striker wasn’t the type for small talk. No way. No how. For the most part tight-lipped, he was a sexy man whose past was murky, never discussed. She had the feeling that at one point in his life, he’d been attached to some kind of police department; she didn’t know where or why he was no longer a law officer. But she’d find out. There were advantages to working for a newspaper and one of them was access to reams of information. If he wasn’t forthcoming on his own, she’d do some digging. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Hey, Randi!” Sarah Peeples, movie reviewer for the
Clarion,
was hurrying toward Randi’s desk. Sarah’s column, “What’s Reel,” was published each Friday and was promoted as “hip and happening.” A tall woman with oversize features, a wild mop of blond curls and a penchant for expensive boots and cheap jewelry, Sarah
spent hours watching movies in theaters, on DVDs and tapes. She lived and breathed movies, celebrities and all things Hollywood. Today she was wearing a choker that looked as if it had been tailored for a rottweiler or a dominatrix, boots with pointed toes and silver studs, a gray scoop-necked sweater and a black skirt that opened in the front, slitted high enough to show off just a flash of thigh. “I was beginning to think I might never see you again.”

“Can’t keep a good woman down,” Randi quipped.

“Amen. Where the hell have you been?”

“Montana with my brothers.”

“The hair is new.”

“Necessity rather than fashion.”

“But it works for you. Short and sassy.” Sarah was bobbing her head up and down as if agreeing with herself. “And you look great. How’s the baby?”

“Perfect.”

“And when will I get to meet him?”

“Soon,” Randi hedged. The less she spoke about Joshua, the better. “How’re things around here?”

Sarah rolled her eyes as she rested a hip on Randi’s desk. “Same old, same old. I’ve been bustin’ my butt…well, if you can call it that, rereviewing all the movies that are Oscar contenders.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Randi drawled.

“Okay, so it’s not digging ditches, I know, but it’s work.”

“Has anything strange been going on around here?” Randi asked.

“What do you mean? Everyone who works here is slightly off, right?”

“I guess you’re right.”

Sarah picked up a glass paperweight and fiddled with
it. “Now, when are you going to bring the baby into the office and show him off?” Sarah’s grin was wide, her interest sincere. She’d been married three years and desperately wanted a baby. Her husband was holding out for the big promotion that would make a child affordable. Randi figured it might never come.

“When things have calmed down.” She considered confiding in Sarah, but thought better of it. “He and I need to get settled in.”

“Mmm. Then how about pictures?”

“I’ve got a ton of ’em back at the condo. Still packed. I’ll bring them next time, I promise,” she said, then leaned back in her chair. “So fill me in. What’s going on around here?”

Sarah was only too glad to oblige. She offered up everything from office politics, to management changes, to out-and-out gossip. In return, she wanted to know every detail of Randi’s life in Montana, starting with the accident. Finally, she said, “Paterno’s back in town.”

Randi felt the muscles in her back grow taut. “Is he?” Forty-five, twice divorced with a hound-dog face, thick hair beginning to gray and a razor-sharp sense of humor, the freelance photographer had asked Randi out a few years back and they’d dated for a while. It hadn’t worked out for a lot of reasons. The main reason being that, at the time, neither one of them had wanted to commit. Nor had they been in love.

“He’s been asking about you.” Sarah set the paperweight onto the desk again. “You know, unless you’re involved with someone, you might want to give him another chance.”

Randi shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“You hiding something from him?”

“What?” Randi asked, searching her friend’s face. “Hiding something? Of course not… Oh, I get it.” She shook her head and sighed. No one knew the identity of her son’s father; not even the man himself. Before she could explain, Sarah’s cell phone beeped.

“Oops. Duty calls,” Sarah said, eyeing the face of the phone as a text message appeared. “New films just arrived. Well, old ones really. I’m doing a classic film noir piece next month and I ordered a bunch of old Peter Lorre, Bette Davis and Alfred Hitchcock tapes to review.” She cast a smile over her shoulder as she hurried off. “Guess what I’ll be doing this weekend? Drop by if you don’t have anything better to do….

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I won’t hold my breath.”

Good thing, Randi thought, as she didn’t seem to have a moment to breathe. She had way too much to do, she thought as she turned on her computer.

And first item on her agenda was finding a way to deal with Kurt Striker.

“…that’s right. All three of ’em are back in Seattle,” Eric Brown was saying, his voice crackling from his cell phone’s connection to that of Striker’s. “What’re the chances of that? Clanton lives here but the other two don’t. Paterno, he’s at least got a place here, but Donahue doesn’t.”

Striker didn’t like it.

“Paterno arrived three days ago and Donahue rolled into town yesterday.”

Just hours before Randi had returned. “Coincidence?” Striker muttered, not believing it for a second as he stood on the sidewalk outside the offices of the
Clarion.

There was a bitter laugh on the other end of the line. “If you believe that, I’ve got some real estate in the Mojave—”

“—that you want to sell me. Yeah, I know,” Striker growled angrily. “Clanton lives here. Paterno does business in town. But Donahue…” His jaw tightened. “Can you follow him?”

“Not if you want me to stick around and watch the condo.”

Damn it all. There wasn’t enough manpower for this. Striker and Brown couldn’t be in three places at once. “Just stay put for now. But let me know if anything looks odd to you, anything the least bit suspicious.”

“Got it, but what about the other two guys? Paterno and Clanton?”

“Check ’em out, see what they’re up to, but it’s Donahue who concerns me most. We’ll talk later.” Striker hung up, then called Kelly McCafferty and left a message when she didn’t answer. Angry at the world, he snapped his phone shut. All three of the men with whom Randi had been involved were here. In the city. Great… Just…great. His shoulders were bunched against the cold, his collar turned up and inside he felt a knot of jealousy tightening in his gut.

Jealousy, and even envy for that matter, were emotions Striker detested, the kind of useless feelings he’d avoided, even while he’d been married. Maybe that had been the problem. Maybe if he’d felt a little more raw passion, a little more jealousy or anger or empathy during those first few years of marriage, shown his wife that he’d cared about her, maybe then things would have turned out differently… Oh, hell, what was he thinking? He couldn’t change the past. And
the accident,
that’s
how they’d referred to it,
the accident
had altered everything, created a deep, soul-wrenching, damning void that could never be filled.

And yet last night, when he’d been with Randi… Touched her. Kissed her. Felt her warmth surround him, he’d felt differently.
Don’t make too much of it. So you made love to her. So what?
Maybe it had just been so long since he’d been with a woman that last night seemed more important than it was.

Whatever the reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t forget how right it had felt.