Unlawful Contact (14 page)

Wheels.

They’d taken the Lexus, but they’d left a fancy black Jaguar XK. It was probably the vehicle Mr. Rawlings had bought for himself when his dick had stopped working—which, given the cold bitch he’d married, might have been his wedding night.

Marc grabbed the set of spare keys hanging from a hook just inside the garage door and in a matter of seconds was sitting in the driver’s seat, grasping the leather-bound steering wheel with both hands. It wasn’t his old Chevy, but it would do. No more trudging for miles through the snow. No more risking hidden cameras on the buses. No more wasting cash on cabs.

Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings had hooked him up—no doubt about it. He had everything he needed—food, shelter, transportation, satellite TV, Internet, and solid cover. No one would ever think of looking for him in this neighborhood. He’d be able to search for Megan over a wider area, and when he wasn’t on the streets he’d be here, digging through boxes.

Somewhere in this house he hoped to find records of Megan’s childhood, clues to the life she had lived, perhaps diaries or photo albums that might lead him to friends that her adoptive parents didn’t know about or had forgotten. If he was lucky, he’d also find that report.

He knew he needed to go back inside and start searching, but he couldn’t seem to get out of the car. Before he could admit to himself what he was doing, he found himself backing out of the garage, down the driveway, and into the street. And then he drove.

He drove with no idea where he was going or even why he was doing this, window down, cold air blasting his face, his heart pounding in his chest. The streets rolled by, a blur of neon and halogen. Maybe he stopped at the red lights; maybe he didn’t. And then there were no red lights, only open highway. He poured on the gas, the glitter of Denver disappearing behind him.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

He asked the question, but it only made him drive faster, the answer chasing him like an avenging demon. He pushed on the gas pedal, felt the Jaguar surge, speed an anesthetic. Only when he’d left the interstate four hours later did he realize where he was.

Just north of Colorado Monument.

He followed the winding road, knowing even before he got there where it would lead him. And then he saw it—the place he’d parked his Chevy on that night twelve years ago. He pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car, stepped out into the cold night.

Compelled by something he didn’t understand, he stepped over the guardrail and walked to the place where he’d spread the blanket on the ground. It was here. No,
here
. It had been late spring and warm. Sophie had laid back on that blanket and let him do everything he’d wanted to do to her sweet, virgin body. The world had seemed changed from that moment—so full of possibility.
He
had seemed changed.

He looked around, took the place in—the dark shadows of looming cliffs, the deeper black of the canyons, the glinting stars, the immense silence. His life had changed irrevocably since then, but the place itself hadn’t changed at all.

For a moment he stood there, wondering what the fuck he was doing here. Then, all at once, the memories his conversation with Sophie had dredged up last night, memories he’d tried to ignore all day, memories he’d tried to outrun, caught up with him. He sank to the ground, staggered by the weight of his own regret, images colliding in his mind.

Leave her alone! She’s my baby sister!

Your sister’s gone to a better home. She’s with people who will raise her right.

You know how chick inmates are—bored and horny, dreaming of dick. Every time you walk by their cells, you know they’re hoping you’ll give it to them.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

It is the hope of this court, Mr. Hunter, that you will die behind bars.

Why you fightin’, Hunter? Afraid it’ll hurt? Afraid you’ll like it?

Please don’t! I helped your sister!

Whatever I feel it’s for the boy you were in high school, not the man you are now.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to silence his mind, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his fingers digging into the cold sand.

God, he’d fucked up. He’d taken the life he’d been given—far from perfect, to be sure—and he’d destroyed it. If only he could go back in time to this one night, the one night when everything had been perfect, and talk to the cocky young man he’d been.

And what would you say to yourself, Hunter?

Find Megan sooner and get her into therapy? Don’t trust Cross? Don’t keep your weapon loaded in the house? Run for the border?

Then staring into the darkness, he knew.

Don’t let go of her, Hunt
.
Don’t let go of Sophie. Don’t let her out of your life.

If only he’d done that one thing…

He sat there in the silence, feeling as empty as the darkness that stretched out before him, remorse as much a part of him as the air he breathed. Then slowly the sun rose behind him, splashing the rock walls of the canyon in pink, stretching golden fingers across the sky.

It was too late for him, too late to right the wrongs he’d done, too late to correct his mistakes, too late to claim the life—and the woman—he’d let slip away.

But it wasn’t too late for Megan, and it wasn’t too late for Emily.

He stood, walked back to the car, and started the long drive back to Denver.

“I’
VE ALREADY TOLD
you, Ms. Alton. We don’t have any records matching that description.”

Of all the PR flacks Sophie had worked with in her career, DOC’s Allyson Harris irritated her the most. She always had a tone to her voice that managed to be not only snippy but condescending, as if Sophie were somehow both rude and stupid to be asking questions. Today it was worse than usual, and Sophie knew why.

The report on Hunt’s escape had given Allyson the mistaken impression that Sophie was no longer worth taking seriously. Though Tom’s scathing editorial had cut DOC off at the knees, the local papers had made a big deal out of the report anyway, and one local radio talk show host had spent the better part of an hour excoriating Sophie for putting all of society at risk by enabling a killer to escape. She’d found herself fielding calls from reporters and getting angry e-mails from readers. Though Sophie knew she should let it roll off her back, the past couple of days had been both infuriating and humiliating.

Even so, she wasn’t about to let Allyson’s attitude intimidate her. “That’s impossible. I know the report exists. I spoke with someone who once saw a copy.”

That wasn’t strictly true, of course, but it was true enough. Hunt said the report existed, and so it must exist. Sophie couldn’t say why she felt so sure of that, but she did.

How well do you really know him, Alton?

She’d once thought she knew all she needed to know about him, and she’d been wrong. Was she wrong now?

“Are you suggesting that I’m lying?” Allyson always pulled the “I’m insulted” routine.

“Don’t be absurd. I know you don’t go through the archives yourself. You only report back to me with whatever they tell you to say.”

Allyson gave an indignant gasp, but Sophie steamrolled over her.

“What I’m saying is that, unless someone has destroyed the report in violation of state law, it’s there. It might be buried, but it’s there.”

“No one here at DOC would do any such thing, Ms Alton. You’re making wild accusations.”

Sophie took a deep breath, bit back the words she really wanted to say. “You’re creating conflict where there is none, Ms. Harris. I’m just trying to find this report, and state law says DOC has to help me.”

Allyson’s voice went arctic. “Perhaps if you’d tell us exactly what you’re looking for instead of fishing with a net we’d be better able to accommodate your request.”

But Sophie wasn’t about to fall for that. “That’s a great suggestion—except that we’d be starting all over, and DOC would get another three-day response period. I think I’ll take this up with the newspaper’s counsel.”

“You do that, Ms. Alton. I’m sure the paper’s attorney will tell you that we’re not required to produce a document that doesn’t exist.”

“He’ll also tell you that it’s a crime to conceal one that does.” Sophie hung up the phone, her mood having gone from bad to worse. “God, I hate that woman!”

“Was that your good friend Allyson Harris?” Natalie cast Sophie a sympathetic glance. “She’s a piece of work.”

“Yes, she is. I think DOC needs a broadside from legal—not that it will necessarily help. If they continue to claim the document doesn’t exist, I’m not sure how I’ll get a hold of it.”

Kat walked past Sophie’s desk, heading for the watercooler, bottle in hand. “The Colorado Open Records Act is only the front door. You need to find the back door.”

The back door.

Ken Harburg.

As Megan’s parole officer, he’d have grounds to access to her entire record. He’d be able to search DOC files for anything that pertained to her. And he might be willing to hand Sophie the report under the table.

She searched through the sticky notes littering her desk and found the one she needed. Then, hoping he hadn’t lost interest, she dialed Ken’s number.

M
ARC WATCHED
S
OPHIE
hurry to her car, then followed at a discreet distance as she drove from the paper to a downtown parking garage. He parked the Jag in the space beside her rental car, gave her a head start, then followed her up the stairs and down the busy street. She looked like the professional she was—long hair in some kind of classy braid, dark gray woolen coat, black pinstripe pants peeking out from beneath, black pumps on her feet, black leather purse.

Sleek. Sophisticated. Sexy.

She stopped in front of a sushi joint, glanced at her wristwatch, then turned back to look down the sidewalk. She was waiting for someone.

Marc ducked his head, pulled a quarter out of his pocket, and bought a newspaper—her newspaper, as it turned out. Unless she saw his face, he doubted she’d be able to recognize him. She’d never seen him dressed in a business suit.

He unfolded the paper and pretended to read, keeping a casual eye on her. She seemed nervous, impatient. Then she looked down the street past him and smiled.

A man Marc didn’t recognize smiled back and hurried toward her—dark hair, five-ten, one-eighty, in his early forties. He wore an ugly, dark suit and sported a thick mustache that might have looked good on Tom Selleck in 1981 but looked stupid now. From the way his jacket draped over his right hip Marc knew he was strapped.

A detective?

Shit.

Marc watched the two of them disappear inside, not liking it one bit when the man opened the door for Sophie and ushered her inside, his hand resting on the small of her back as if he knew her well. Giving them a few minutes to be seated—how well
did
she know this jerk?—Marc stood, tucked the paper under his arm, and went inside.

“How many today?” The hostess, a young Asian woman whose name tag read Leiha, drew a menu from the stack, a warm smile on her face, her blouse low-cut enough to reveal a tattoo of a dagger on the swell of her left breast.

“Just one.” Marc looked through the restaurant, saw where Sophie was sitting, and picked his spot. He kept his voice quiet. “I’d like the small table in the back.”

“This way, please.” Leiha smiled at him with bright red lips.

He sat on the far end of the table, facing Mr. Mustache’s back, able to see both Sophie and the restaurant’s front door.

A young Asian woman with long dark hair walked up with a glass of water with lemon and a hot, wet washcloth on a little tray. “My name is Su, and I’ll be your server today.”

Su told him about the specials, her gaze traveling over him as if
he
were lunch, then left him to decide. He washed his hands, glanced down at the rectangular paper menu, and found himself staring at the page.

Tuna. Salmon. Yellowtail. Snapper. Shrimp.

How long had it been since he’d eaten sushi? Hell, he’d forgotten it existed.

And then he went insane.

Only after he’d finished filling out the menu did he realize he’d ordered enough sushi and sashimi to feed a shark. Painstakingly he scratched out most of what he’d checked. He’d get the sashimi lunch platter now and an order of sushi to go. Then he heard Sophie laugh and remembered that he hadn’t come here to stuff his face.

Today was Day Three. Today DOC was required by law to respond to her open-records request about the report from Denver Juvenile. He was here to make sure Sophie gave him a copy of that report whether she felt like sharing information or not.

He watched as another server brought Sophie and Mr. Mustache two bowls of miso and a pot of tea. Sophie smiled, said something that made the guy laugh. Then she reached out and touched his arm.

She was flirting with him.

The realization hit Marc like a brick between the eyes.

The bastard was almost old enough to be her father! Half of the hair on his head was likely made in China. He probably needed Viagra to beat off and had a sperm count of two.

You’re jealous, Hunter.

Hell, yes, he was jealous!

She’s better off with him than she’d be with you, dumbshit, and she knows it.

That thought snapped him out of it—but only for a moment.

Then Sophie smiled, tilted her head to the side, exposed the delicious column of her throat—and Marc felt his teeth grind.

It was fortunate for all of them that Mr. Mustache chose that moment to take a leak. He excused himself, stood, and walked toward the restrooms in the back, leaving Sophie alone.

Marc fixed her with his gaze, leaned back in his chair, and waited.

The smile that had been on her face disappeared the moment the guy left the table, and she looked more irritated than excited or flirtatious. She glanced off to the side, her eyes focused on nothing in particular, as if she were thinking. Then slowly, her gaze traveled back across the room—and collided with his.

Astonished, Sophie could do no more than stare.

Hunt!

He sat no more than ten feet away from her dressed to kill in a single-breasted black suit and gray silk tie, his face clean shaven, his gaze laser-sharp. He looked so unbelievably…
hot.

But that didn’t stop her from wanting to bite his head off. His being here couldn’t be a coincidence. He had followed her!

“What are you doing here?” she mouthed.

“Having lunch,” he mouthed back. “Who’s he?”

Was he jealous? Good!

“My date.” She smiled, lifted her chin.

He gave a snort, shook his head.

“He’s a parole officer and a nice man, and he’s armed.” Furious, she spoke in a loud whisper. “You shouldn’t be here!”

“A nice parole officer? Well, that explains the ugly suit.”

One of the servers approached his table and set his miso and salad on the table with a pair of chopsticks. “I’ll be back with your sashimi.”

Hunt gave the server a slow, sexy smile. “Thank you, Su.”

Was he trying to make Sophie feel jealous, too?

As if!

Sophie waited for the blushing server to skedaddle then leaned forward to make certain he could hear her. “You should go! Now! All I have to do—”

“You won’t do it, and we both know that. Did you get the report?”

So that’s what this was about. He’d followed her, not because he wanted to see her, but because he wanted to get the report. Feeling strangely hurt, Sophie was about to tell him exactly what he could do with that report, when he suddenly glanced out the window.

Ken reappeared beside her and took his seat. “So what were you saying about DOC?”

Sophie forced herself to focus on Ken, doing her best to ignore the man who sat not far behind him. “Hmm? Oh. Not only are they trying to blame me in part for the escape, they’re giving me the runaround on an open-records request that I filed with Denver Juvenile on Monday.”

He picked up his chopsticks and attacked his California rolls. “What are you trying to lay your pretty hands on? I might already have it in my files.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” She gave him a bright smile, weighing her words carefully. “I have reason to believe a series of sex assaults occurred there some years back. I’ve asked for a copy of a report that was made as part of the investigation into those allegations.”

Ken frowned. “Does this have to do with Megan?”

Behind Ken, Hunt was sipping his tea and eating his miso, his gaze never wandering far from her. She leaned to her left, using Ken’s head to block her view.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that one way or another. Source confidentiality.”

“I understand.” Ken nodded, then his face sank into a boyish pout. “And here I was hoping you’d asked me to lunch because you found me irresistible and wanted to see me again. You don’t have to go out with me to ask for my help, Sophie.”

Behind him, Hunt scooted back into her range of vision, just as the server appeared with a plate of sashimi. He gave the server another sexy smile, unwrapped his chopsticks, and picked up a piece of what looked like yellowtail.

Sophie felt a stab of guilt for hurting Ken’s feelings. “Well, of course I wanted to see—”

Hunt lifted the sushi to his lips, curled the tip of his tongue around it, drew it slowly into his mouth, then chewed, his gaze riveted on her.

Heat unfurled in Sophie’s belly, and her pulse tripped, every coherent thought in her brain vanishing. “—you.”

For a moment she could do nothing but gape at him.

Then she jerked her gaze away from Hunt and was relieved to see that Ken was focused on his lunch. “It was sweet of you to worry about me.”

“Of course I was worried about you. The entire state was worried about you.”

Ken was telling her how he’d felt when he’d learned she’d been taken hostage, but Sophie barely heard him, her gaze drawn back to Hunt—who lifted a pale piece of tuna with his chopsticks, licked its juices with the tip of his tongue, and dropped it into his mouth, a look of bliss on his face.

Her breath caught in her throat, the heat in her belly spreading, moisture building between her thighs. Realizing that Ken had stopped talking and was watching her, she jerked her gaze away from Hunt.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It must be hard for you to talk about this. I just thought maybe he’d given you some idea where Megan might be.”

Sophie realized Ken was talking about Hunt and felt an absurd impulse to laugh.

He’s sitting right behind you!

“Yes,” she said instead. “I mean no! No, he didn’t say anything, but, yes, I guess it is still hard to talk about it.”

Ignore him, Alton!

But she couldn’t ignore him.

As if under a spell, she found herself compelled to watch as Hunt picked up a rosy piece of salmon, dipped it in soy sauce, then raised it to his lips. He flicked the pink fold of flesh with this tongue, licked off its juices, then sucked it into his mouth. This time he closed his eyes, and she swore she heard him moan.

Her inner muscles clenched—hard.

Instinctively, she crossed her legs, squeezing her thighs together to ease the inner ache, her gaze fixed on his face. But the pressure only made it worse, and she couldn’t help but squirm in her chair.