Freezing Point (2 page)

He frowned a little too much for Casey's comfort. What was going on here?

“Promise me you'll stay here, and I'll give you that interview. I'm going to retrieve your bag.”

She opened her mouth to ask him what was so dangerous about the loading dock. Why did she get the feeling he was sneaking around? Then she thought better of it, offering him a soft smile. “I promise.”

That seemed to reassure him because he sent her a quick nod and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Mr. Jesse Dufour had just tangled with the wrong woman. The wrong reporter. Except, she couldn't go there. Not now. Not after everything that had happened after writing that exposé about Will. At least not until the trouble she'd stirred up had died down.

She'd come here today to meet the company's ice sculptor, arrange an interview, a simple story to fill newspaper space. Still, in her experience, simple stories weren't always that easy and this one had already grown complicated. She'd proven herself good enough at stirring up trouble. Maybe she
could be equally as good at staying out of it. One simple story and she'd have this job.

An interview with the ice sculptor and coverage of the upcoming competition. That's all.

To that end, she'd have to ignore all the signals that there was something a little threatening going on here. Forget the look that could kill from the man on his cell. Forget that Jesse Dufour's strange demeanor and worried frown only intensified the sense of suspicion in her gut. This could mean a much deeper story. Adrenaline coursed through her. This could be her chance to get her life back—under a different name.

Or, she could lose her life completely. Hadn't she just driven over a thousand miles to escape a man who wanted her dead? Digging into his life for a story had been a mistake. But how could she have known?

Casey sighed and tugged the chair from the desk, plopping down.

It would be hard, but this time—if there was a story— Casey would let the truth lie buried. She had enough trouble already.

J
esse exited the room and stepped into the corridor, easing the door shut behind him. He prayed she would stay put but wasn't sure God would listen to the likes of him.

Hopefully, the woman hadn't just blown six months of work.

Because he'd had to stand idly by and watch people abused too many times at the hands of those he investigated, he reassured himself that he was justified in removing her, albeit a little brusquely. It could end up saving her life. But he'd created a new problem, because now he'd assured her an interview. What might she uncover about him? His real name, Jesse Mitchell?

He sighed and shoved open the door to the loading dock to retrieve her bag, hoping he'd find it before anyone else.

Carlos stood with Miguel, holding up a woman's shiny black bag—big enough that it could have been a briefcase—and scowling. Jesse meandered toward them, forcing a lazy grin as he formulated a cover story plus a back-up plan in case they didn't buy it.

Carlos dropped the bag to his side a little behind him and postured to block Jesse. “You know something about this?”

Jesse smiled and reached around Carlos for the bag, never taking his gaze from the man's eyes. “Sure, a woman got lost.
I escorted her out. What? You've been looking for a bag just like this one? You want to keep it?”

Carlos and Miguel eyed each other then burst out laughing.

Miguel slapped Jesse on the back and squeezed his neck. Jesse couldn't afford to show his relief. He needed to keep his cool like he hadn't been concerned to begin with. Unlike how he'd handled the reporter.

“That's why I like you, Jesse. You make me laugh.”

Over the past few months, Jesse and Miguel had become friends. Miguel called them brothers. Just another reason for Jesse's gut to sour every day. Growing close to people, becoming like family, then turning traitor on them was a tough gig.

Jesse held up the bag and laughed, too. “You want to look inside?” He feared they might already have done that, but then again, if she'd carried some sort of recording device or anything reporter-looking, they'd be having a different conversation right now.

“Nah. What do you think, I'm a criminal?” With that Miguel laughed again, mischief in his eyes. “Hey, Elena wants you over for dinner again. You like her cooking,
sí?
”

Jesse scratched his chin as though he'd have to contemplate his answer. Miguel narrowed his eyes. Jesse allowed a broad smile. “You know I do.”

“We'll set it up. Oh, and little Rosita has a crush on you, so be nice when you see her.”

A truck backed up to the enclosure, drawing Miguel and Carlos's attention away.

Despite the cold filtering from the refrigeration storing the ice, a drop of sweat trickled down Jesse's temple. Not good. Jesse was grateful the men had been pulled away before they'd noticed that he was nervous.

He exited the loading dock and made his way back to the
office, wanting to give Casey Wilkes a few choice words but knowing he couldn't. Little did she know what she could have walked in on—a person didn't just walk in on Carlos and Miguel these days.

Jesse marched toward the door, steadying his hands. He gripped the knob, hoping she'd waited like he asked, but if she wanted her bag she'd be there. Stepping inside, he smiled when he saw her sitting in the chair, her feet propped on the empty desk. He wondered what she'd say if he told her the man who used to occupy this office was dead, had been knocked off at this very company.

Upon seeing him, she grinned and shoved her gorgeous blond hair behind her shoulders.

“Well, you going to give me that?” Amusement filled her sea-green eyes.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

Here it comes.
Now that she'd had a few minutes to catch her breath, she was going to ask him questions about the dangers of the loading dock. Fortunately, he had at least five things he could list that didn't include Carlos and Miguel.

She moved around the desk and stood next to him, offering her hand, bright pink polish on her nails. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Dufour. I realize I must have caught you at a bad time today. We got off to a bad start. Sorry for that—” she cleared her throat, a mischievous smile playing on her lips “—inconvenience. In addition to an interview, I'd love to stop by and watch you create your sculptures as you prepare for the big ice-sculpture competition.”

Jesse rubbed his jaw. Why wasn't she grilling him? She had to be up to something more. Her light floral perfume wrapped around him while he studied her. He took a step away to distance himself and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall and gaining some control over whatever magic she was working.

If she wasn't going to ask, he was going to offer. He couldn't have a reporter leave the premises without an explanation, even if it wasn't the complete truth. He didn't want to think about what she could do with that.

“Listen, about the loading dock.”

She held up her hand, stopping him. “No need to explain again. Really. The loading dock is dangerous. You might want to post a warning sign to that effect. Then again, I got lost. Maybe a map of the entire facility would work better.”

Incredulous, he almost choked on a laugh. Was she for real? He held up his hands in surrender. “Look, I'm sorry you got lost and that I had to escort you out.”

He hoped she would leave it at that, satisfied that the loading dock was dangerous.

He liked her spirit, and he wanted to believe her story. That she'd gotten lost. That would keep things simple because what he didn't need right now was a reporter snooping around.

The last person to cross Carlos and Miguel had been silenced—he had either stumbled upon them in the middle of a delivery and was at the wrong place at the wrong time, or he'd been part of the crime ring and had given them reason enough to get rid of him. The empty office where he stood with Casey attested to the fact.

Her eyes narrowed if only a little before she flashed a smile, but he didn't miss it. “You're giving me an interview, Mr. Dufour, so we'll call it even.”

Now it was Jesse's turn to narrow his eyes. Did she suspect something?

 

Casey held her smile in place while Jesse opened the door for her. “When can I come back for the interview, then?”

“I'll be starting on a sculpture for the competition in a couple of days. Come back then and we'll talk. Just stay outside of the loading dock.” He smiled down at her as she
strolled through the doorway, passing him, and she caught a whiff of his cologne. Nice.

“I'll escort you out this time so you won't get lost,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Next time, I'll show you the side entrance to my studio.”

He kept pace with her as they made their way down the long corridor. Several doors along this hallway had windows, and Casey glanced through each one as they passed.

“What exactly does Helms Ice and Trucking do? Well, besides create ice sculptures,” she asked.

Jesse chuckled. “The ice division of the company makes and delivers ice, including dry ice, all over Southern California. The trucking side delivers frozen goods via refrigerated semis.”

“And which division do ice sculptures fall under?”

“I'm on the ice side, or rather, a small catering side. The competition I've been asked to enter is part of the company's efforts to grow that part of the business. It's good publicity.”

“Is there more than one ice sculptor, then? Surely, you can't do all this alone.”

“I have an assistant. Someone who works with me. I suppose if the demand for ice sculptures grows, we'd have to hire more, yes.”

Casey found herself relaxing a little. He was easy to talk to. This was starting to feel more like the interview she'd wanted. He opened another door for her, and Casey walked into the reception area.

He followed her then leaned against the tall reception counter. The brunette receptionist who'd been there earlier was now gone.

“Well, I guess this is it, then,” Casey said, feeling a little awkward, though she wasn't sure why. Too bad she couldn't interview him right now. Would the promise of an interview be good enough for her editor, Danny?

“For now.” Jesse smiled, but the walls he'd momentarily dropped were up again. “Here's my card. Call me in a couple of days and I'll meet you here.”

She wanted to watch him walk away, but it appeared he was intent on seeing her leave the premises. Again, she got the sense he wanted her gone—and fast.

Casey gave a little wave then exited the door.

Once in the parking lot, she hurried to her car and clambered in. She tossed her bag on the passenger seat and all the stuff inside—paper, gum wrappers and even her wallet—spilled onto the floorboard.

Casey couldn't reach her new TracFone, which had slid to the floor on the other side of the seat, just out of reach.

Of course.

She got out of the car and walked around to the other side, opened the door and shuffled through the junk to get her cell.

After she scraped everything except her phone back into her bag, she shoved the length of her hair behind her shoulder and climbed back into the driver's side.

She skimmed the contacts listed.

But why? Force of habit, she supposed. Since fleeing Oregon, everything about her life had changed. She'd better get used to it.

Who was she going to call? Not Eddie Morris, her editor in Oregon who'd sent her away on a leave of absence until Will Tannin gave up on destroying her, taking the newspaper with him. What would she tell him? She had stumbled upon a possible exposé but she wasn't about to tackle it?

Maybe she should call Danny Garcia, the editor who'd promised to hire her if she could get this story about the ice sculptor. No. She'd savor her almost-job contingent on her almost-interview for a while.

Meg. Her best friend expected a weekly update. But Meg could wait.

Casey needed to catch her breath. Gather her thoughts. She rested her head against the seat to take a calming breath. Could it actually have been a week ago that she'd driven all the way from Oregon to a little town on the outskirts of San Diego in order to hide?

Or “fall off the grid,” as Eddie had put it.

Once settled in Aunt Leann's home, she'd marched right into the office of the
Orange Crossings Times
to ask for a job. As it turned out, the editor was in the midst of chewing out one of his reporters because he'd not been able to breach the gatekeeper at Helms Ice and Trucking Company. With the ice-sculpture competition approaching next week, he needed a story.

All Casey had to do was tell him she could get the story because her uncle owned the company. Since it was a simple human-interest story there wouldn't be any conflict of interest.

His response? If she got the story, she had a job.

She opened her eyes and noticed someone watching her from the far corner of the building. Black hair flashed then disappeared. She recognized him. The cell-phone guy. The worker had been watching her.

Her pulse inched up.

Why would he be watching her?

Or had Casey's stalker experience with Tannin put her reporter instincts on overdrive, and she was simply having knee-jerk reactions to everyone who so much as glanced her way?

Would she ever recover?

Shifting her lime-green Volkswagen bug into Reverse, she backed out of the parking space and exited the lot as fast as her car would go.

Although disappointed she couldn't get an interview with Jesse today, she knew these things took time, and she'd see
him again in a couple days. She allowed a smile to come to her lips when she remembered his rugged face and fierce blue eyes, teasing her. He'd actually had the audacity to flirt with her.

He had charm, that was a fact. The guy was dangerous in more ways than one. She turned on the radio, shoving thoughts of Jesse the ice sculptor aside as she headed to her aunt's beach house, just up the road from the ice company. She would call Meg when she got there.

Taking a left onto Shoreline Road, the frontage road that led to the beach, she continued to watch her rearview mirror, looking for a tail—a habit she'd gotten into while fleeing Oregon. She didn't think she'd ever lose it.

In three minutes she could relax behind the safety of the beach-house walls, alarm system on alert.

She pulled into the driveway and then all the way into the garage. While the automatic garage door began its slide to the ground, shutting her off from the neighbors, she glanced at her rearview mirror and noticed a man across the street, replacing a window in a house. He was watching.

Relax. He was probably curious if not suspicious. Completely normal.

Once inside, she kicked off her shoes. Though at first she planned to call Meg, the view of the ocean drew her forward. The wall on the west side of the house was nothing but a huge window, affording an amazing panoramic look at the beach, waves lapping the shore.

Any other time, she'd walk out onto the deck and let the salt-water breeze lick her skin. But not today.

A year ago, Casey had been conducting research on an article in which she hoped to expose the enormous salaries of heads of charities and non-profit organizations. Little did she know that in the process she'd be led down a money trail, following the money behind one Will Tannin, CEO of Inner City
Aid in Portland, Oregon, and discover his duplicity. Tannin had an affair with a woman who'd sought aid through the organization. She'd given birth to his son, and though he refused to acknowledge the relationship, he paid the woman to keep quiet.

Casey hadn't gathered the evidence she needed to prove the money he paid the woman had come from the charitable funding, but she'd been working on that when she'd had to leave Oregon. Since Casey's exposé, Tannin had lost his job, his wife and family and his home. Though he had not been charged with a crime yet, his life had been destroyed.