Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances) (24 page)

"She can come home with me," Doug said.

She swerved to face him, certain she'd see a huge leer or
smirk, a hint he joked with her. But his expression looked solemn. Steady. Completely serious.

"No." The denial came from both Richie and Ace simultaneously.

"Why not?" Doug demanded. "Completely on the up-and-up
here, guys. My place is big, secure, and anonymous. She'd have
her own bedroom, twenty-four-hour security, and the ability
to stay in contact with anyone she wants to while still maintaining a low profile."

Lyn's steely armor softened. Beside her sat a white knight,
a man who cared enough to care. Unlike these other two Neanderthals.

"Actually," she said, "that's not a bad idea. New York is the
perfect place for me to hide in plain sight. No one knows Doug. Even if the press eventually finds out who he is, there'd
be nothing to link him to me."

"Actually," Ace replied, his tone more frigid than dry ice, "a
lot of people know Doug. A lot of press people. And there'd be
an awful lot to link him to you because of what he does for a
living."

She shook her head. "Why? Because he works for you? It
would still be too great a stretch for anyone to link you with me
and by extension, Doug with me."

"Is that what he told you?" Ace glared at Doug. "That he
works for me?"

"No." Doug eased his arm away from her. A subtle signal,
but the gesture put Lyn on alert. "I never said that."

Her brow furrowed as she studied Doug, confusion buzzing
in her brain. "Of course you did. I asked how you knew Ace."

"And I said that I'd known Ace since his first professional
competition. That I was, sort of, in promotion."

"Right. So?"

The room grew eerily silent, with three pairs of eyes looking everywhere but at her. Cold sweat broke out on her arms.

Sort of. He'd said sort of. "What exactly am I missing?"

Doug ducked his head, sighed. "I work-that is, I used to
work-for The Sportsman."

"The Sportsman," she repeated. The Sportsman magazine.
She doubted he handled their marketing. Her heart crept into
her throat. "You're a . . ." The word stuck, refusing to leave
her lips.

Please, God, please don't let it be true. Don't let me be more
of an idiot than I feel right now.

But apparently, God wasn't taking requests today.

"I'm a reporter, Lyn."

"And your arm? I'm guessing you didn't lose your arm in
some drunken car accident."

Something about the nap of the couch cushion fascinated Doug all of a sudden because he kept his gaze fixed
there. "I lost my arm in Iraq. I was embedded with Giles
Markham's army unit. I'm the only survivor of a Humvee
explosion."

"So, all this time, you've been spying on me? Taking notes?
Planning to write a story about me?"

He didn't answer, still couldn't look her in the eye, and she
had her confirmation. But she noted the same guilty expressions worn by Ace and Richie. The fine hairs danced on her
nape.

"You knew, didn't you? Both of you."

Richie held out his hands in supplication. "Now, Lynnie,
honey, it's not what you think. Doug really did need our help,
and I had no way of knowing you and he would even meet, much
less become involved with one another. When Kerri-Sue told
me, I-"

"Kerri-Sue knew too?" She bit back a groan. Just how widespread did this conspiracy reach?

"Not at first," Doug interjected. "She Googled me, found
out the truth."

Ha. Google. Why hadn't Lyn thought of that? Oh, maybe
because she never thought her friends would deceive her so
horribly.

"Kerri-Sue trusted that Richie wouldn't have accepted me
into the program if I meant you any harm," Doug continued.
"And I don't, Lyn. Really. In fact, now that you know the truth,
we can make this work in your favor. All you have to do is give
me an exclusive interview. I'll get the press off your back-"

Despite legs more wobbly than Jell-O, she got to her feet,
pointed toward the doorway. "Get out." Her volume stayed low,
but the tone was pure white-hot rage. "You and Ace, get out of
here."

Doug rose and walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps,
as if he approached a raving lunatic. "Now, Lyn, please. It's
not what it seems."

"No?" She tossed back her head and laughed bitterly. "Oh,
well, thank God for that. Because it seems like my friends are
conspiring with my enemy. It seems like I've been lied to and
set up and made a fool of by people I've trusted for years. So
by all means, Doug, tell me I'm wrong."

Even if he had attempted to take her up on that request, she refused to remain in this house one moment longer. Hands
curled into tight fists, she turned away from the monsters surrounding her. "On second thought, you guys stay. I'm out of
here. Phyllis?" she called as she strode from the den. "Would
you call Larry and have him pick me up ASAP? I'll wait for
him outside."

Ignoring the cacophony of arguments from the men inside
the Armstrong house, Lyn waited outside in the wet snowfall.
She didn't care if she resembled Frosty the Snowman. Cold
didn't bother her anymore. Her fury kept her toasty warm.

How could they treat her so badly? Ace, she supposed, simply didn't understand her aversion to the spotlight he so obviously adored. Doug, no doubt, saw her only as a story. But
Richie? Richie, who knew and understood the pain she'd endured when Akers printed that photo? Richie had gone behind
her back to put her in the direct line of fire. And his duplicity
cut past her ribs, tearing her heart to shreds.

By the time Larry's familiar, battered blue Chevy pulled into
the driveway, she'd grown numb. Numb from the frigid night
air, numb from the agony of betrayal. Without waiting for Larry
to get out of the car to help, she yanked open the passenger door
and slid inside.

"Where we headed, sweetheart?"

Where, indeed. She had no idea. For the moment, she said,
"Just drive, Larry. Please."

"You got it."

He pulled out of the driveway and headed back toward the
center of town. For a while, the only sound in the car came from
the occasional static of the dispatch service and the squeal of the
windshield wipers clearing the fallen snowflakes.

"Saw what happened on the news," he said at last.

Great. She rubbed her temples with icy fingertips. "Please,
Larry. I can't talk about it right now."

"Whatever you want, Lyn," he said. "I just want you to
know that you need anything, anything at all, you ask, okay?"

Staring out at the endless black highway, she murmured,
"Okay. Thanks."

She finally made him drop her off at Winterberry Cafe,
where she begged to use the phone in the owner's office. When
April answered her cell, the dam inside her burst, and she broke
down.

"Oh, thank God!" April exclaimed. "Where have you been?
Are you okay?"

"No," she said. She wanted to tell her sister everything. About
Ace. And Doug. And Richie. But any words she tried to utter
wound up choked by tears or unintelligible thanks to the shudders racking her.

"Okay, okay. Breathe, sweetie," April soothed. "Where are
you?"

"Winterberry's."

"Not out in the open!" April stated with surprise.

"No." But she looked around the cramped room filled with
restaurant supplies and invoices anyway, to be sure she was
alone. "I'm in the office."

"Okay, can you stay there?"

"Uh-huh."

"Give me a number to reach you."

Lyn managed to rattle off the phone number.

"Sit tight and give me five minutes. Mrs. B.'s waiting to hear
from you. She's got your bag packed and Aaron's car gassed up
and ready. Stay where you are until you hear back from me."

Once April hung up, Lyn sank into the squeaky chair, placed
her head on the desk, and wrapped her arms around her ears.
Still, the recriminations screamed inside her brain.

Way to go, Lyn. Of all the men for you to fall for, you chose
a reporter? Now what?

Because you fell hard, kiddo. And he just shattered your
heart.

How would she ever recover?

The restaurant's office phone rang, and she hesitantly picked up. "Thank you for calling Winterberry's. How may I direct
your call?"

"Got a pen?" April asked.

Assured Lyn was ready, April gave her a series of directions
and summed up with, "Aaron's on his way to Winterberry's with
the car. Once you're on the road, don't stop till you're way out of
town. If you have to go to the bathroom, go now or hold it for the
next three hours."

Lyn stared at the chicken scratch she'd hastily written on a
blank invoice sheet. "What exactly is this place?"

"It's the perfect hiding place. The house belongs to a client
of Rainey-Day-Wife. He's away in Brussels on business until
after the New Year. Take care of his dog, his houseplants, and
his python, and the place is yours till he comes home."

Lyn swallowed hard. "His python?"

"It's in an aquarium in a locked room. You don't have to do
anything more than feed it one mouse every week or so and
make sure the water dish is full. All the instructions are taped
to the outside of the tank. It's a piece of cake, really."

A python? She shivered. Ick.

But then again, honestly, what was the difference between
a caged python or the nest of vipers she'd just left? At least the
python didn't try to be anything but a python.

"And what kind of dog?" If April mentioned any breed with
a remotely aggressive reputation, she'd have to rethink this
whole get-out-of-Dodge plan. Larry had offered his couch for
her to crash on. A crazy idea that was beginning to sound like
a reasonable alternative.

"Greyhound. A rescue dog. Sleek and sweet. Her name is
Ginger and she's an absolute doll. She just needs to be exercised a lot. You okay to keep up with her?"

"To have a safe place to hide, I'd run a three-minute mile
right now."

April laughed. "Good girl. Okay, the front door has a combination lock, so write the numbers down and keep all this info
someplace safe. Ready?"

"Ready." Quickly, she jotted down the combination. "Got it."

"Don't call me again, because we don't want to tip anyone off to where you are. Once you get to the house, make yourself at home. Tomorrow morning, call Brenda at the office. Tell
her you're Mrs. Snow and you wanted to thank her for the service our company provided. That way I'll know you're there
and safe. Good with that?"

"Uh-huh."

"If you need anything at all, call Brenda as Mrs. Snow.
She'll get the message to me. Okay?"

"Okay." She gripped the receiver tighter and whispered,
"April? Thanks. I owe you."

"No, you don't. It's my fault you're being hounded right now.
You warned me this might happen. I didn't listen, and I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Really. It'll all be okay."

But only if her heart could repair itself.

The sanctuary April had arranged sat in a gated community,
completely secure and miles from anyone she knew. Apparently April had taken care of all the details, because when Lyn
pulled up outside the guard's house in Aaron Bascomb's car,
ready to stutter out some lame excuse about visiting a friend,
the man simply tipped his cap and held out a cardboard tag.

"Good evening, Mrs. Snow. This is your parking permit.
Please make sure it's hanging from your rearview mirror at all
times, as our security patrol does random checks throughout
the neighborhood day and night. The house you're looking for
is twenty-three Clay Court. Follow this road to the first stop
sign, make a left, then a quick right. The house will be directly
facing you in the center of the circle. Red door with a big white
sparkly Christmas wreath."

She took the parking permit and offered him a tired smile.
"Thank you ... ?" She paused. Despite the halogen lights from
the guardhouse behind him, she couldn't read the name printed
on his badge in the darkness of night.

"George," he supplied. "I wish you a pleasant stay with us,
Mrs. Snow. If we can be of service to you while you're here,
please let us know. You can reach us twenty-four hours a day
by dialing nine-zero on your house phone."

"Thank you, George." Rolling up the window, she drove through the raised gate and followed the road to the first stop
sign as directed. Hours after midnight, the neighborhood of
cookie-cutter townhouses on the fringe of an eighteen-hole golf
course slumbered under cloudy skies. She spotted the door with
its glittery wreath easily and pulled into the short driveway, then
put the car in park and turned off the engine. With her purse in
hand, she grabbed her emergency suitcase from the backseat
and hurried to the front door.

When she punched in the door code, the locks clicked, and
she slipped inside. On the left wall beside the door, as promised, she found the light switch and flipped it up. Instantly the
house burst into illuminated life, but exhaustion finally claimed
Lyn, leaving her too drained to check out her surroundings.
She dropped her bags on the floor, then slumped against the
wall. Sliding to a squatting position, she covered her face with
her hands.