Kill Me Again (14 page)

She couldn't. And he wasn't going to share them. But his hand rose, and his fingertips moved along the side of her face, sliding to push a lock of hair behind one ear.

She held his eyes. Everything in her wanted to look away, but she forced herself to hold them. And then he leaned a little closer, and he kissed her lips. He parted his a little, just before they made contact, so that when he pressed closer, he was tugging at her lips with his, teasing them apart.

She sighed at the surge of wanting that shot through her at that sweet contact, and he swallowed her breath with a shudder of his own. His arms slid around her, and he rolled onto his back, pulling her onto his chest as he continued to kiss her. And the moment her lips parted in a silent plea for more he complied, his tongue
entering her, tasting her, sliding in and out of her mouth in a mocking imitation of the lovemaking she was sure would follow.

Only it didn't.

He broke the kiss, his eyes blazing, and even though she could feel his erection pressing into her thigh, he gently eased her off his chest and rolled onto his side again, so they were lying just as they had been at the beginning.

Softly, he said, “Good night, Olivia.”

“Good night,” she said back, because she didn't really know what else to say. He was clearly not going to make love to her tonight. And she didn't know why, but she was frustrated to the point of almost feeling angry about it. That kiss had been…electric.

She rolled onto her opposite side, putting her back to him so he wouldn't see the tears of anger and confusion that were burning, ridiculously, in her eyes. And she thought she might need another few shots of that rum if she hoped to get any sleep.

 

He slept, and he dreamed, and he twisted and turned in his sleep, trying to wake up but unable to. It felt as if he knew where the dream was going, but he couldn't stop it. It was as if he were a passenger aboard a runaway train, with no way to control it or slow it down, much less to jump off, even though he knew the tracks ahead were missing, the bridge was out and a gaping chasm waited to swallow it whole. And him along with it.

So he held on, dreading what was to come as the dream unfolded. He saw himself, and he saw another man, saw him clearly. Saw his skin, which was sun-kissed and healthy. He had a horseshoe of close-cropped black hair surrounding his suntanned bald head. He wore wire-rimmed glasses over his brown eyes, and he had thick dark lashes. Full lips. Lean, trim physique, and a white button-down shirt and tie that covered what he knew to be a powerful chest and ripped arms.

“Why don't you just shave the rest of your hair, pal?” he asked, in the dream. “You'd look a lot tougher.”

“Looking tough isn't the goal, son,” the balding man said. “
Being
tough is. And let's face it, if you don't look it, you have an advantage.”

“I get it.”

“So you think you can handle one last job for us?”

He felt himself nodding, knowing, understanding what the “job” was—then. He didn't now, though, and he couldn't access the knowledge that lay just beyond his reach.

“They're offering a million. Half up front. Half when it's done.”

“A million?” He looked at the balding man. “She must have pissed off someone important.”

“Majorly important, but you don't need to know who. You're going to meet with the bag man tonight. He'll have five hundred grand in cash and a dossier on the mark. But as always, we're way ahead of the client.” He handed Aaron a manila envelope.

Aaron opened it and slid out an eight-by-ten glossy color photograph. A photo of Olivia Dupree. As he stared at it, he felt a tightness in his chest, a closing off of his airways, that made no sense. He hadn't met the woman. Had no reason to feel anything at all about her one way or the other.

The man took the photo away from him, slid it back into the envelope and set it on the nearby table, where a .44 Magnum with a laser scope and a silencer lay, partially dismantled, surrounded by various brushes and rags and gun oil. He'd been in the middle of cleaning it when Bruce had shown up.

Bruce.
The other man's name was Bruce.

“Meet the guy tonight. Take the job and take the money,” Bruce said. “Then go to Vermont and make this Professor Dupree disappear for good, Adam.”

“Adam?” he said.

Awakened by the sound of his own voice, he blinked out of the dream, and into the present. He was in a tent, inside a sleeping bag, beside a beautiful woman.

A beautiful woman he was very,
very
afraid he had been sent to Vermont to kill.

B
y the time Olivia woke, Aaron was up, dressed and ready for the day. When he called her name—repeatedly, insistently—she growled deep in her throat, rolled onto her back and parted her eyelids, only to slam them closed against the bright yellow sunlight pouring into the tent around his dark silhouette in the doorway.

“Close the flap!”

“Nope. Open your eyes, sweetheart, it's time to be up and moving.”

“What time would that be?” she moaned.

“It's already past seven.” He said it as if substituting “noon” for “seven.” She tried using her vision again, squinting at him and shielding her eyes with one hand. “Okay, okay. Just give me fifteen minutes.”

He held out a blue tin cup with white speckles, and Olivia's nose twitched as she caught a hint of the aroma. “Is that…?”

“Coffee,” he said. “Fresh brewed and piping hot. This one's mine, but I have a cup out here waiting for you.”

“Okay,
five
minutes, then,” she said. “And don't let that coffee get cold.”

He grinned at her and, nodding, backed away from the tent, letting the flap fall closed and plunging her back into blessed dimness.

Groaning in protest, she wrestled her way out of the sleeping bag. Her fantasy of making love with her favorite writer in that little downy nest was long gone. She supposed it was a dumb idea anyway. He wasn't a rock star and she wasn't a worshipful teenager girl, and writers didn't have groupies.

He probably thought she was an idiot.

She got dressed in the semidarkness of the tent. The fabric allowed enough light to pass through for her to see by, but not enough that it had disturbed her exhausted, rum-aided sleep. Emotional exhaustion, she thought, but exhaustion all the same. Tired was tired, and she was none too happy at being awakened so early.

Dressed, she dragged a brush through her hair, tied it into a high ponytail and fished in her bag for a pair of sunglasses before emerging into the full force of the summer sun.

He was standing there, waiting, her coffee cup in his hand. Freddy stood beside him, eager, tail wagging, tongue lolling happily. There was a campfire blazing a few yards away, and balanced precariously on a nearby tree stump, a plate of food big enough to feed three of her.

“Breakfast,” he said, when he saw her staring at the food.

“Are we having guests?”

He rolled his eyes and returned to his folding canvas chair, retrieved his own overflowing plate of food from a nearby boulder and dug in.

Sighing, she went to grab her plate and took the other chair. After a few bites of a concoction that included scrambled eggs, bacon and who knew what else all blended together, she paused long enough for another slug of coffee and to ask, “How did you manage all this in the middle of the forest?”

“We're not in the middle. We're on the edge. And it was easy. One pan, quick cleanup, minimal fuss and lots of protein. We'll need it. Eat up.”

She tilted her head, studying him, her belly full though her plate still was, too. “You really have done this before.”

“I must have. And despite what I said yesterday, often, I think. It feels as natural as breathing.”

She rose, set her plate on the ground and said, “Come and get it, Freddy.”

The dog would have smiled if he could. Instead he just hurried to the plate and cleaned it in about three seconds and two gulps. Olivia returned to her seat to sip her coffee. And as she did, she studied Aaron. He seemed to be avoiding her eyes this morning as he tucked into his breakfast with relish and apparent haste.

“So what's the plan?” she asked.

He paused to look at her as he took time to swallow
his most recent bite. “You still think your ex sent that guy to your house?”

“I do.”

“Even though there are other names and faces on those disks?”

She nodded. “None of those others would know I had the disks, much less where to find me. Of course, I still don't know how Tommy figured that out, either.” She lowered her eyes then. “I don't like thinking about him.”

“I don't imagine you do. But if he's found you, and he's sent someone to kill you—”

Her head shot up fast and she interrupted. “
Kill me?
We don't know that. Maybe he just sent that guy to get the disks. We can't be sure he was going to do any more than that.” She blinked. “Can we?”

He hesitated a moment, his eyes holding hers, probing them. Then he looked away as he said, “No, probably not.”

“So we're going to call him. He always has one listed number.”

“Uh-huh, and what are
we
going to say to him?”

“
I'm
not saying anything. You're going to talk to him.”

“Yeah, you said that. I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to say when I do.”

“I've been thinking about that,” Olivia said. “The thing is, we
don't
know for sure it was him who sent that guy. So what if it wasn't? It's a slim chance, yes, but a
chance all the same. So what if it wasn't him? Maybe he doesn't know I'm alive. If I call him, I give that away, and that's the last thing I want to do.”

“Okay, that makes sense.”

“So you call, you feel him out, try to figure out how much he knows about me.”

“Yes, you said that, too. What I don't know is how. What do I say to him?”

“Tell him you're…working for someone who has some disks that belong to him, and that you want to return them. See what he says.”

“And…if he already knows you're alive?”

She lowered her head. “I'm fairly sure he does. I feel it in my bones that he's behind all of this. Maybe if he does know, he'll agree to leave me in peace in exchange for those damn disks.”

She looked at Aaron, waiting for his reaction. He seemed deep in thought, but finally, he said, “And you expect a man like him to keep his word?”

“I could always tell when he was lying.”

He shook his head. “It's a lousy plan.”

“It's the only plan we've got,” she said. “So it'll have to be good enough. Unless you have a better one.”

“I don't.” He sighed, looked into his cup, then tossed the remaining coffee into the fire. “All right, then. Let's break camp, pack up our gear and get out of here.”

She frowned. “But where will we stay tonight?”

“Not here. Never the same place twice, Olivia. Not if you don't want to be found.”

“Oh.” She watched him as he rinsed his now-empty plate and mug in a bucket of water he must have brought up from the lake. He emptied and cleaned the coffeepot, too, then packed everything away. Taking the hint, she finished her coffee and got to work helping him.

An hour later, the tent, the sleeping bags, the folding chairs, the pan and the lantern were stowed away, as well, all rolled into impossibly small bundles and tied onto the rack on top of the SUV, leaving plenty of room for Freddy in the back.

As Aaron drove, he handed Olivia one of the cell phones they'd purchased. Prepaid, untraceable. He'd said that they would use one for a day or two, then toss it and use the other one. She figured she would be able to check on things at home that way, too. She really wanted to call Bryan and find out how the investigation was going. Had they figured out yet who had tried to kill Aaron, and why? Would it be safe for him to return with her to Shadow Falls once she got Tommy off her back?

Or was someone still lurking, waiting to end his life?

She looked at the phone, licked her dry lips, felt her stomach churn.

“As soon as you get a signal,” Aaron said, “go ahead and try to find your ex's number. Then we'll place that call.”

She nodded jerkily and watched for the telltale bars to appear on the phone's tiny screen. As soon as they did, she dialed, her heart in her throat. It felt as if she were
standing face-to-face with the most terrifying part of her past. Tommy Skinner loomed in her vision like a giant monster, even though she knew she herself had built him up into that beast in her mind over time. She'd allowed her fear of him to give him power over her. And that fear, she realized now, had never gone away. It had been lurking, living and growing inside her, getting bigger all the time she'd been living her quiet, anonymous lie of a life. It had kept her from
really
living just as surely as Tommy himself had tried to. It had been waiting, that fear. Waiting for this very moment, this very day. In her soul, Tommy was Godzilla, and she didn't stand a chance against him.

She never really had.

But maybe, just maybe, with Aaron's help, she would find that she could beat him at last. Maybe she could conquer the monster of her nightmares. She was finally going to face Tommy Skinner once and for all.

She just hoped she would be alive when it was all over.

 

Bryan had phoned the publishing house three times before 9:00 a.m. His calls were returned at 9:15, finally, and he thought he would shout in relief when he answered the phone on his desk and heard a voice say, “This is Cynthia Rayne, executive editor at Obsidian Press, for Officer Bryan Kendall.”

“This is Kendall,” he said quickly. “Thank you for returning my calls, Ms. Rayne. We've had a…an incident
here in Shadow Falls, Vermont, that I believe involves one of your authors. However, we have yet to verify his identity.”

The woman was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “Are you saying one of my authors is
dead?
”

Bryan could have kicked himself. “No, no. Just that he has no ID and a head injury that has…impacted his memory. However, since he was due to speak here in town, scheduled to arrive the very day he was, uh, injured, we're fairly sure who he is. We just need to be certain.”

The woman said, “I see,” but she didn't sound as if she saw at all. “So who do you
think
he is?”

“Aaron Westhaven.”

There was a sound on the other end. Kind of a choking sputter, as if the woman had been drinking something and had just spewed it all over the phone.

“Ms. Rayne, are you all right?”

She cleared her throat. “Describe this author, would you?”

“Sure. He's about six-one, very fit, as if he works out regularly, dark hair and eyes, no beard or—”

“It's not Aaron Westhaven,” she said. “I'm sorry, but it's not.”

“How can you be so sure? I mean, I could fax you a photo or—”

“Officer Kendall, I can't tell you why I'm so sure, but I am.”

“Ma'am, I'm sorry to be pushy, but this is a police
investigation. This man was shot, so—I'm afraid you're going to have to tell me how you can be so sure he's not Aaron Westhaven.”

She sighed. He heard fingernails drumming near the phone. Then she said, “I need your vow that you will never repeat it to anyone.
Ever
. Can you guarantee me that?”

He thinned his lips. “Of course I can,” he lied, knowing full well he would have to share whatever information she imparted with Chief Mac, and possibly with Olivia, as well. The Feds—well, fuck them. They weren't sharing with him, so he wasn't going to share with them. Besides, they probably already knew.

“Aaron Westhaven is really
Erin
Westhaven,” she said. “
E-R-I-N. She
is a woman.”

“What?”

The editor on the other end of the phone sighed heavily. “It's our most well-guarded secret, Officer Kendall. It's why Westhaven never does public appearances anywhere, and why she never would have agreed to speak in some small town in Vermont. Someone has been playing you people.”

“But…I don't understand. Why?” Inside his mind, though, his brain was telling him that it didn't freaking matter why. The guy wasn't Westhaven. And whoever he was, he was with Olivia, and that wasn't good. It
couldn't
be good.

And so as the woman on the phone started going on about the different ways in which the general public and
book critics the world over viewed emotional novels written by men versus those written by women, he tuned out almost entirely, managing to thank her when she broke off for a breath, assuring her the information was safe in his hands and hanging up.

And then he put his head in his hands, and whispered, “I've got to find Olivia. I've got to find a way to warn her.”

 

Adam
. He was experimenting with thinking of himself by the name “Bruce” had called him.

He'd half hoped it would feel as foreign as “Aaron” had. Unfortunately, it felt right. It felt familiar, comfortable. It fit him to a
T,
like an old, worn-to-butter-soft baseball mitt. And that made him nervous—hell, it scared him to death—because he didn't
want
to be Adam. Not if Adam was some kind of professional killer. And that was what he was starting to believe.

He'd had flashbacks. Visions. Snippets like a montage of clips from a faded old black-and-white film. He'd seen himself holding a gun. Firing a gun. He'd seen victims falling to the ground. He'd seen himself approaching their prone bodies as calmly and coolly as if he were taking a walk along the shore on a sunny afternoon.

And now this dream, in which he was being paid a million—
a freaking million
—to make Olivia Dupree disappear. Permanently.

He did not like where all this was leading, and though he tried to think of another explanation, he thought any
logical person would draw the same conclusions he had. Though he wasn't sure of that, and he would have loved to run it by Olivia and get her opinion. That, however, would mean admitting he might very well have been hired to murder her. And she probably wouldn't react well to news like that. Particularly since she seemed to be harboring a bad case of hero worship for him.