The Fog

by Amanda McKinney

  She knew she was in good hands the moment she met Sally, who was impeccably dressed in a fitted navy-blue suit, with a bevy of jewels around her neck. Her hair was pulled back in a slick bun, not a strand of hair out of place, and her makeup flawless. The artist had taken Gwen’s limp, frizzy hair and created beachy waves that ran down her back. She’d braided the sides, intertwining little white flowers, and clipped them back, creating a crown-like effect. Gwen’s eyes were dark and lined, the “smoky eye” as Sally had called it, and her lips a pale shiny pink that matched the blush dusted along her cheekbone. She felt… like a princess. Beautiful. Confident.

  The dress—the gown—had a black velvet bodice that faded to gold silk chiffon at the waist and draped like water against her legs. When she saw it on the rack, she knew instantly it was the one. It reminded her of the women in the black and white pictures that hung throughout the hotel. As she looked back at herself now, she looked just like one of them.

  Old-world glamour, she thought as she sipped her Champagne from a stemmed glass, which had magically appeared in her hand minutes after Wesley had pulled Sally aside and whispered something she couldn’t hear. She guessed it went something like here’s my no-limit credit card, get this woman anything she wants. She could see him saying something like that because that’s what Wesley Cross did. He made demands in his flirty, charismatic way, and everyone fell in line. What a world this guy must live in, she’d thought. But she also knew he'd also said it because he wanted to make her happy, and that thought sent a tingle of excitement through her. He’d disappeared after ensuring Sally was capable, and the Champagne was cold.

  “Almost done,” Sally said as she grabbed a box from the floor.

  “Almost? Sally, you’ve done an amazing job. What else…”

  “You going barefoot, dear?”

  Shoes.

  Her eyes sparkled as Sally opened the box and carefully lifted a strappy, black shoe with a diamond-encrusted six-inch heel.

  “Oh, my God, Sally.”

  The woman smiled. “I know. Christian Louboutin.” She held them up, carefully turning them in her hands. “I ordered them from New York. I have dreams about these.”

  Together, they marveled at the shoe as if looking at the baby Jesus.

  Sally continued, “You’re a lucky girl, Gwyneth.” She raised her foot and slipped it on.

  Perfect fit.

  Gwen looked down at her feet, now sparkling back at her.

  Cinderella.

  She smiled, and whispered, “Yeah, tonight, I am.”

  With that, Sally stepped back. “I think you’re ready for the ball, my dear.” She placed her hand on the red curtain, “Shall we?”

  Gwen took one last look in the mirror and nerves fluttered through her. She wanted to take a picture. She was sure she’d never look like this again, and she wanted to remember it. She wanted to remember the feeling.

  ***

  Wesley sipped his beer and made his hundredth pass around the dress shop. What was it about women and getting ready? He’d grabbed the first tux and shoes that fit and was undressed and dressed in under three minutes. Why did women take so long? What the hell did they do in there? Not that he minded this particular delay much. He had an ice-cold beer and a chance to case the floor, the staff, and the people wandering it, which weren’t many. Eight people staying in the hotel, plus staff. How much staff, he wondered? And who was in the hotel that hadn’t reserved a room? He hadn’t been able to get the odd conversation he’d had with the bellman, James, out of his head, and especially the fact that James wasn’t at his post when they’d come back from discovering his tires flat. And who had the kid called seconds after he and Gwen had stepped away? It didn’t sit well with him. He needed to know more about the kid. He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled down to Dean’s number but paused. Dude was probably burning the candle at both ends, so he opened a new text to Officer Willard, instead.

  You know anything about a James O’Connor? Young kid, bellman at Half Moon, and his dad, Trace O’Connor? Also can you check into Mikhail Lutrova? He’s still in the state pen, right? Just verify.

  He hit send and clicked through the rest of his messages. Nothing from Jessica, although he hadn’t expected it. He knew DNA tests took time, but maybe, just maybe she’d uncovered something over the course of the afternoon. The bracelet should be easy enough to scan, but testing the blood on Leena’s neck for two sets of DNA was a longshot. Then again, he’d built a career on longshots, and making them stick.

  He tucked his phone back into his pocket and ran his fingers over a red silk gown hanging on the wall, imagining Gwen’s body underneath it. She’d look smokin’ hot in it, or out of it, for that matter. A smile crossed his face. Somehow, that woman had even made an over-sized lab coat look sexy.

  He focused on the low cut of the dress and found himself wondering what she looked like naked. The blood rushed between his legs, and heat rose up his neck.

  Jesus, Wes.

  He cleared his throat, turned away and took a swig of beer. As much as he hated to admit it, Gwen was a bit of a mystery to him. She was tough, with just enough of an attitude to make a man have to work for it, but not so much to turn him off. She was independent and driven, too, working her ass off to build a career and a name for herself. Perhaps his favorite thing about her was that she was smart, which was something he wasn’t accustomed to with the women he dated.

  Was she smart enough to stay away from him, he wondered, as a wave of insecurity swept over him.

  Dean had informed him over coffee that the Caregiver Killer had been found earlier that day. Was it a coincidence the murderer was caught less than twenty-four hours after Gwen had been on the scene? No shot in hell. Gwen was good at what she did and dedicated, that much was evident. Her heart was in it one hundred percent, which made him wonder if she had anywhere else in her heart for a man. He wondered if having a relationship ever even entered her brain. He had a feeling if it did, it was a fleeting thought that she’d push away to refocus on work.

  Gwen’s career choice took balls, and that was sexy as hell to him. She spent her life analyzing bugs that dined on dead bodies. She used her finely-tuned skill set to help build a story of what had happened, help shape an investigation and get justice for the victim. Their lives weren’t so different. Wesley had built a career hunting bad guys and delivering justice by capture… or kill. It wasn’t for the faint of heart. It wasn’t for the weak. And aside from his comrades, no one understood. No one understood the weight of the missions, or what it could do to a man to see the bodies of women and children brutally mutilated and murdered, or worse in some cases, mutilated, tortured and barely still alive, awake to see the massacre around them. No one understood the emotional toll the job took, even though no one on his team would admit to it. But it was there, buried deep down only to manifest itself in nightmares, stealing the only few hours of escape they were given in a day filled with hell. He’d seen counselors, psychologists, numbers of head doctors. Not because he wanted to but because he’d been ordered to. They all said the same thing: he needed to talk. Vent. They said it wasn’t healthy to see the things he’d seen, and do the things he’d done, and not let it out. Some restless nights, he thought maybe they were right.

  The girls he dated asked plenty of questions; wanted to hear all the stories. They didn’t want to get to know him, to understand him, they wanted to put themselves in the television shows, the movies, into the fantasy of the danger and the heroes who eliminated that danger. With every girl, he’d felt like there was an entire side of him they never knew. A dark side. But he knew they didn’t want to know that side, they only wanted to hear the heroic tales, followed by how much he could bench press.

  His counselor said he should talk to someone in the same field. Someone with a similar lifestyle that would understand. Someone with an open heart and sympathetic ear.

  Someone like Gwen.

  He’d never met a woman that he thought, maybe
—maybe—could understand him. The real him.

  Could Gwen?

  His attention shifted to movement across the room. He turned as the red curtain was pulled back.

  And his heart fell to his feet.

  For the first time in his life, he was speechless. Absolutely, totally, cat-got-your-tongue speechless.

  Holy. Shit.

  Gwen smiled, and all he could do was smile back. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.

  Sally grinned.

  He cleared his throat and forced his legs to move forward. He took her empty champagne glass, set it on the counter and with his eyes locked on hers, kissed the back of her hand.

  Her cheeks reddened, and he said, “You’re… absolutely beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she beamed.

  “Shall we?”

  Gwen turned to Sally, “Thank you, Sally. For everything.”

  “You’re welcome, dear. Now go.” She patted her backside. “Go. Have a good time.”

  He helped her off the platform and as Sally walked away—to the cash register he assumed—Gwen said, “Thank you, Wes.”

  The smile on her face and the sparkle in her eyes was worth every second he’d stood waiting on her. She was so happy, and that made him feel like a million bucks.

  With her hand in his, he led her out of the shop and down the hall. He stood a little straighter with her by his side.

  Until she stumbled.

  He grabbed her arm, steadying her as she burst out laughing. A belly-laugh that seemed to light the whole hallway. He pulled her to him, her face just inches from his. Her big, brown eyes met his, and his heart skipped a beat. His gaze trailed down to her full, pink lips. God, he wanted her. He wanted to take her to her room, rip off the dress that probably cost him the revenue of three guns and have his way with her. As if reading his thoughts, her eyes flared with heat and his stomach did a little dance.

  She pulled back, her cheeks flushed. “Sorry.” She laughed softly. “I’m not used to these shoes. I don’t really get into heels much.”

  He slid his hand over hers. “I guess you’ll have to hold on to me all night, then.”

  He led her up the stairs—nimble on his feet this time—and down a dim hall that ended at a massive set of French doors. Beyond the beveled glass, candlelight twinkled. A low, melancholy tune floated through the air. A small dancefloor centered the room with tables covered in black linen and fresh flowers positioned around it. Stained-glass windows, black with weather, lined the walls. Two chandeliers hung from the beams high above them.

  Before he could scan the room, she tugged at his arm. “Drinks.”

  He looked down, noticing a sudden unease in her face. The laughing, carefree woman from seconds earlier was gone.

  This time, she led him across the room to a small bar in the corner.

  CHAPTER 16

  The ballroom oozed a sort of gothic romance, with shadows from the candlelight dancing like ghosts along the walls. Under normal circumstances, it would be the most romantic evening she’d ever had. She’d make herself relax and loosen up and allow Wesley to take her onto the dance floor where she had no doubt he’d be the best dancer in the room. Because that was Wesley, good at everything.

  But they were not under normal circumstances. Her Cinderella moment had pulled her from reality, but the second they’d walked into the ballroom, she’d felt like she had a target on her back.

  Like someone was watching her.

  She pulled Wesley to the bar, not just because she needed another drink but because it was in the corner, allowing for a full view of the room. In her quick scan, only a few people had decided to attend the ball. Good, fewer people to analyze.

  “Howdy, there. Hell of a storm, isn’t it?” The tall, salt-and-pepper haired bartender wiped his hands on a towel as he walked over. He wore all black, from the shiny dress shoes on his feet to the black tie, and black button-up. He was handsome, Gwen noticed, with sparkling blue eyes, and smooth tanned skin. He laid two napkins on the bar. “What can I get y’all?”

  Wesley pulled out the leather stool for her and said, “I’ll take a Shiner.”

  “Tap or bottle?”

  “Bottle.” He settled in next to her.

  “And for you, ma’am?”

  She skimmed the liquor bottles lining the mirrored back wall. Beer wasn’t going to cut it. “Rum and coke, please.”

  “You got it.” The bartender walked away.

  She cast a wary glance over her shoulder.

  “You’re safe, Gwen. You’re safe with me,” Wesley whispered in her ear.

  Her eyes met his.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Her heart fluttered as she looked back at him, all dressed up in his tuxedo, the sexiest version of James Bond she’d ever seen. His gaze so penetrating, so confident, so serious, that she absolutely believed him.

  The bartender brought their drinks and laid a few menus on the bar. She took a deep gulp, then picked up the menu and scanned the selection. Her eyes drifted over the glossy page even though her brain wasn’t registering the words. She had to fight the urge to glance over her shoulder again. She gave up, slammed down the menu and looked at Wesley.

  “I just need to…” She shook her head. “We need to recap here. Okay, so five years ago today, you met Mikhail Lutrova, the Russian devil’s spawn that brutally murdered two women. That confrontation ultimately led to him getting locked up for the rest of his life.”

  “Right.”

  “And two days ago, your former lover was murdered in your basement, wearing a bracelet that you got her, which had a mysterious Russian pendant attached, which led you here, where your tires were slashed, ensuring that you couldn’t leave.”

  “Righto.” He tipped up his bottle and took a swig.

  “Shit, Wes.” She glanced at his jacket. “Do you still have your—

  “Of course. Clipped to my belt. Loaded.”

  She let out a breath and then said, “We’re crazy to not think it’s the same person. But it can’t be. Mikhail’s in prison, for life. Wait… could he have gotten parole?”

  “Life without parole.”

  “Then it can’t be him. It’s someone else. Someone here.” She felt herself coming unglued.

  “Just calm down. Drink.”

  Her eyes darted around the dark ballroom and paused on the man in a golf cap swaying back and forth with his wife on the dance floor, and just behind them, she noticed a man in a cowboy hat seated in the far corner, shaded by shadows. The candlelight from a nearby table sparkled off the metal tip of his cowboy boots.

  She leaned in and whispered, “Hey, did you notice—

  “The cowboy in the corner with a Stetson and steel-toed boots?”

  She raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t even noticed him look in that direction.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “He’s alone.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “That’s Bruce Jepsen.” The bartender, apparently eavesdropping, walked over. “Comes in here a lot, big hunter. Lots of deer in these mountains.”

  “Did you say hunter?” Gwen asked.

  “Yep. Got him a sixteen-point last season. He’s kind of legendary 'round here.”

  “From here?” Wesley kept his gaze on the man in the corner.

  “Don’t think so. Got a mansion, so they say, somewhere in Newton County. Kills all the deer over there, then makes his way here. Or so they say.”

  “He alone?”

  “No. Brought a buddy with him this time.”

  “Where’s he?”

  The bartender looked out the windows. “Not sure, but definitely not hunting in this damn storm. Supposed to continue all night.”

  “What’s he drive? You know?”

  “Red truck, I think.” He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. “Why you askin’?”

  “Just like to know who I’m trapped in the hotel with, Mr. …”

  “Beckham.
Becks for short.”

  “Becks, then.” He stretched out his hand. “Wesley Cross and this is Gwyneth Reece.”

  “Pleasure to meet y’all. And yeah, we’re stuck. ‘Least ’till morning, probably. The river will go down quickly.”

  “But they’ve got to repair the bridge,” Gwen said.

  “They’ll get it done.”

  “There’s really no other way off this mountain?” She asked.

  “Nope. Only one road. Too rugged on the other side.” He nodded toward Bruce Jepsen in the corner. “Great for huntin’.”

  “You a big hunter?” Wesley leaned forward.

  “Naw, more into fishing, myself.”

  “Me, too.” Wesley sipped, then said, “You catch and release or fry ’em up?”

  Becks wiped a glass and lifted it, examining it under the dim light. “Filet and fry when the mood strikes me. Are y’all planning to order something to eat or just drinks?”

  Wesley stared at him for a moment, then picked up his menu. “We’ll eat. I’ll take a cheeseburger and fries.”

  Gwen glanced down at the menu and recited the first thing she saw. “Turkey wrap, potato chips, please.”

  “You got it.” He scribbled on a notebook and stepped away.

  Gwen leaned in and whispered, “Ol’ hunter Bruce Jepsen’s got a buddy with him… you think it’s the same guy watching us from the truck after your tires were slashed?”

  Wesley nodded, sipped his beer. “Be my guess. I’d like to know what kind of knives they both carry.”

  ***

  Kaylee stumbled down the hallway, and a hiccup caught her.

  Geez, how many drinks had she had today?

  God, she was bored.

  Why had Lydia waited so long to get dressed for the ball, anyway? It had been twenty minutes since she’d gone to her room to change clothes. Probably into some boring, gray cotton turtleneck and ill-fitting skirt that hung past her knees. She liked the girl, but God, she could stand to loosen up. She doubted Lydia had ever had a one-night stand in her life, and that’s exactly what Lydia needed. A one-night stand—a proper send-off of her single years, days before she walked down the aisle. Yep, that’s exactly what that girl needed. Maybe she’d lend her one of the five cocktail dresses she’d packed. Maybe the tight, red little number, or, no, the blue lace one to go with her eyes. Her boring eyes.