Locked, Loaded, & Lying

by Sarah Andre

  He might be innocent.

  Or he might be very, very guilty...

  Olympic skier Lock Roane was on top of the world: smashing world records, collecting medals, and basking in the love of a nation and his beautiful heiress girlfriend. It all comes crashing down after Lock discovers his girlfriend had an affair—then wakes from a drunken bender to find himself covered in her blood. Disgraced and dethroned, Lock awaits his murder trial with dread, not knowing if his girlfriend died at his own hands.

  Journalist Jordan Sinclair is out of options. To satisfy her blackmailer, she must get the inside scoop (and its cash reward) on Lock Roane. An attraction to the arrogant athlete was not part of the plan. Neither is trying to find out what really happened that night. Now Jordan risks everything—including her life—to help the man she’s falling for. A man who just might be a cold-blooded killer...

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Check out Select Suspense’s newest releases… In the Arms of a Stranger

  Recipe for Love

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Andre. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Select Suspense is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Anya Kagan

  Cover design by Fiona Jayde

  Cover art by iStock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-301-3

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition June 2015

  To Dad and Mom.

  I sure meandered along the way, but here it is: my dream come true. Thank you for supporting every floundering step I took through life’s maze to reach this wondrous place.

  And to Martha, the cousin I admire most. Your courage and love of life are second to no one’s.

  Prologue

  Locklen Roane absorbed his girlfriend’s lethal scowl from across the crowded barroom. Her attempt to flip him off knocked over the empty martini glass in front of her. Great. She was pissed off and plastered. Tonight was not gonna end well. He should turn on his heel and walk the hell back out.

  Instead he let the Avalanche’s door swing closed, determined to plow through the apology he owed her. And judging by the mascara streaking her cheeks and how she swayed in her seat for balance, he needed to get her outta here real quick.

  Bracing inwardly, he pushed through the sea of happy hour bodies, fist-bumping friends and fans, and nodding at shouts of greeting until he reached Tiffany van der Kellen’s booth. He leaned in, purposely ignoring Wolf, his U.S. Ski teammate, lounging cozily beside her. Tiffany got off on jealousy, and Lock wasn’t up for that kind of manipulation tonight.

  “Hey babe.”

  “Go da hell,” Tiff muttered, her bleary gaze lighting on a brimming, pink Cosmopolitan near her.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t blow you off. I’d punked the newbies, and somehow Coach found out and lectured me ’til my ears bled. I couldn’t even text you.” He caught her fingers. “Let me take you home.”

  She tugged her hand free and slapped him. “Touch me again, and I’ll schream.”

  He winced, not because the uncoordinated smack hurt, but combining it with her loud slurring guaranteed a YouTube frenzy. He glanced around the bar. Yep. Patrons had begun aiming cell-phone cameras in rabid interest. One thick-necked guy stood only feet away; even in this noise, his phone would pick up their words. Christ, hadn’t the public seen enough sordid scenes between the two of them?

  He transferred his attention to Wolf. “We need to have a serious talk.”

  His teammate raised his hands in mock surrender. “Dude, she Tweeted about her shitty day and what a shit you are. I came as the consoling friend.”

  Yeah. That sounded like something Tiff would Tweet. Lock leaned a knee on the booth cushion. “Come on, Tiff. Just once, can we leave without making a scene?”

  “You don’ get to waltsh in here and tell me what t’ do!”

  More heads swung their way. Drunken Tiffany, the Mrs. Hyde who could pick a fight faster than he could shred the Grand Slalom. Impatience flooded through him. These scenes were so routine he knew he was seconds away from taking the bait. He counted to ten, unclenched his teeth, and started over. “I said I was sorr—”

  “You’re not sorry!” she shrieked, which made the slurred words sound all the more obscene. “I’m not goin’ anywhere with you. Ever. Where’s Marshy?”

  Where was Marcy? She manipulated his plastered girlfriend way better than he could. He glanced around for Tiff’s usually inseparable cousin, but Marcy wasn’t among the happy hour gawkers.

  Inspired, he turned back. “She’s outside waiting for you.” He held out his hand again, but she folded her arms, settling deeper in the booth.

  What the hell was he going to do? She was working up to throwing a real fit. The kind that made the evening news. Heiress and Olympic champion duke it out in a bar. The van der Kellen charity thing was a huge deal in Aspen every spring. He’d been an ass to stand her up, but now wasn’t the time to let her go off on him.

  Biting back his irritation, he slid another glance at Cell Phone Guy, who actually smirked in return, eyes hostile and challenging. As much as Lock despised his privacy being so blatantly violated, he was clearheaded enough not to go over for a throw down. The dude looked like he crushed beer cans between his biceps for sport.

  Wolf, however, waved to the cell camera, looking mighty entertained. Lock sucked in a breath. He had to get her out of here. “Tiff—”

  “What’s going on?”

  He twisted around and sighed with relief. “Marcy.” Thank God! “Help me get her out of here.”

  Marcy frowned, her gaze sweeping over the empty glasses, mugs, and beer bottles scattered across the table. “I’ve got it handled, Lock. No need to help us now.”

  Okay. So that made tw
o furious van der Kellens. That damn bachelor auction! “There’s a guy over my shoulder filming every move Tiff makes. Your grandmother’s going to shit when this goes viral.”

  No change in her glaring scowl. He couldn’t believe it. She was a Mama Bear when it came to protecting Tiff from her drunken self. The plug should’ve been pulled here four drinks ago.

  “She’s fine,” Marcy spat out.

  “Seriously? You’re going to let your anger at me stand in the way of taking care of—this?” He jerked a thumb at his girlfriend who was blathering about a seat in New York and how important it was while Wolf nodded gravely, his eyes never leaving her cleavage.

  Lock shoved his hands in his pockets and fisted them tight. “You hear that?” He cocked an eyebrow at the frumpy, freckled cousin glaring back at him. “She’s talking about how important chairs are in New York. Drunk enough for you?”

  “Shut up, Tiffany,” she snapped, without taking her accusing eyes off him.

  “Yeah, that’ll do the trick.” Lock turned and slid Tiffany’s untouched Cosmo away. “Let’s go, babe. Now.”

  “I haven’t finished that!”

  He grabbed the dainty glass and swigged the pink liquid like a shot, hearing both cousins gasp. Thunking the empty glass in front of Tiff, he fought the urge to pucker at the god-awful sour taste. “You have now.”

  Tiff blinked, open-mouthed.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Marcy snarled. “I told you I have everything under control.”

  “No, Marcy, you don’t. I get that you want me to go fuck myself, but don’t take your passive-aggressive crap for me out on her. She needs to go home and sober up.” Clamping a hand around Tiff’s wrist, he forcibly began sliding her out of the booth.

  Marcy slapped his bicep. “Leave her alone, pigbeast.”

  Pigbeast. Lock shook his head. Cell Phone Guy should charge money for this train wreck.

  Tiff struggled, but at last she was out and standing. Twenty feet to the door.

  “Everything all right here, Lock?”

  “Butt out, slick,” Tiff slurred.

  “Hey, Ronny, sorry about all this.” He fist-bumped the bartender. “I’m taking her home.” He jerked his head in Wolf’s direction. “He’ll pick up the tab.”

  “No tab. She came in like this, so we cut her off early. But her admirers kept smuggling over drinks.”

  God damn it! He fought back the black cloud of jealousy. Nodding good-bye, he focused on the success of hauling her a few feet closer to the entrance.

  “Yo,” Wolf called, “wanna catch the ballgame tomorrow?”

  Lock shrugged, still pissed off at his teammate and Marcy, who stood beside the table watching their departure with a scary-looking scowl.

  “Wait—” Tiff weaved to the right, still trying to yank her wrist from his grasp. “I gotta go…”

  “We’re leaving, honey.”

  “No. Lemme go. I shee shomeone.” She wrenched one more time, but finding her wrist still trapped, she whirled clumsily and struck him in the chest. “Let go, asshole, you’re hurting me!”

  The high-pitched shriek resulted in deafening silence around them. He impulsively let go, raising his hands in antagonized surrender. “All right, damn it, go.”

  The crowd murmured collectively as she spun off balance in her newfound freedom, almost collapsing into a crowded booth before she caught herself. Without a backward glance, she staggered toward the entrance, no small feat given those neon-pink stilettos.

  He closed his eyes briefly, choking back bitterness. This relationship was so out of control it gave him an ulcer. He regretted the impulse that had led him in here tonight. If he’d known she was here and this toasted, he’d have headed to his condo and apologized tomorrow. Maybe he should cut his losses right now and split, because the honest-to-God truth? Anything was better than being with her right now. But at least she was leaving the damn bar.

  Aw, hell. He should go after her.

  Marcy brushed by, calling him something a lot harsher than pigbeast under her breath.

  “Yo, Marcy, wait up,” Wolf called, sliding out of the booth. “You owe me money.”

  Tiff reached the door, and a guy in a dark-purple polo opened it for her. As she stepped into the May sunset, she swayed into him, and the man threw an arm around her. His swagger seemed familiar, and alarm bells rang.

  “Who the hell is that?” Lock snarled.

  Wolf followed his gaze just as the door closed on the pair.

  “You oughta know. You two almost came to blows in Wengen last year.” Wolf snorted with laughter. “Coach had to apologize to the whole Italian team.”

  Roberto Vannini! The World Championships.

  The raucous bar noise faded as shock rippled through him. He stared at the closed door. What was Vannini doing here? In America? At this particular bar in Aspen? Walking with an arm around Tiffany, who’d just come back from a week of couture shopping in Milan?

  Yeah sure, when she left last week, their battered relationship stood on shaky ground. And yeah, he shouldn’t be surprised that she’d gotten hit on in Italy. But Vannini? Of all the goddamn men in this world, she’d chosen that bastard? Knowing exactly what screwing Vannini would mean to him?

  The black cloud he’d fought so hard to control enveloped him, suffocating and toxic. Squeezing his fists, he stormed toward the entrance.

  “Lock—think twice, man,” Wolf warned.

  “Shut the fuck up.” He passed by Marcy, still glaring, and completely ignored the now silent crowd, rubbernecking like they were witnessing a ten-car pileup. “I’m gonna fucking kill her.” He banged out the door.

  Chapter One

  Ten months later.

  “Any recollection yet, Lock?”

  “No.”

  Lock turned from the onslaught of stinging flakes and hurricane-force wind. He flicked his jacket sleeve and squinted at his watch. Almost midnight. Three hours ago when he’d slipped into Sam’s Bait and Tackle Shop, lit only by purring beverage refrigerators, the flakes had been sparse. Now that the hellish clandestine meeting with Parker had wrapped up, snow pummeled down. This would probably turn into a blizzard before he reached the top of the hill.

  “Any recollection yet, Lock?”

  Shit.

  He continued his dispirited trek up the dense forest to the cabin, desperately searching the black hole of his memory for the trillionth time. Had he killed Tiff? Why couldn’t he remember something? He swallowed down the ever-present sense of horror. Christ, he should’ve grabbed a couple of beers before he left the bait shop. He sure needed them after his lawyer’s lecture.

  When jury selection started Monday and this insane hiding ended, he vowed he’d pay to renovate Old Sam’s decrepit shack. He owed Old Sam for all the times he’d jimmied the lock with a credit card to meet Parker after the place closed down. Lock was pretty sure the old man knew about the “break-ins,” given the peculiar absence of a six-pack once in a while and the twenty-dollar bills Lock left on the counter. But even when he wasn’t swiping beer, he owed Sam for his company. For keeping his identity a secret these last ten months. Sure, the old man talked way too much about being a cook aboard the Princeton aircraft carrier, but it sure beat hanging with Leo hour after hour, day after day.

  Out of the corner of his eye, headlights barreled around the bend of Highway 145 far below. Has to be a tourist—who else would drive like a lunatic in this mess?

  As if on cue, the car skidded sideways on the highway. He stiffened, squinting through the swirling snow and dense mist of his breath.

  The car swerved the other way, then in an ominous pirouette, sliding across the second lane. Either the wheels had just locked up or the driver stupidly fought the slide instead of turning into it.

  Another 360. Christ! Lock stared helplessly at the unstoppable disaster hundreds of yards away. Time stretched out. The car now faced backward but skated forward, gathering momentum as it slid straight for the guardrail and the San Migu
el River beyond. Oh shit! It’s gonna—

  A grinding screech echoed uphill as the rear fender smashed through the guardrail. The car sailed in the air and disappeared into the dark abyss below.

  “Shit! Hold on, just—I’m coming!” His voice sounded tight in the eerie silence, and his knees shook as he stumbled downward, the horrific grinding sound still echoing sickly in his head. Damn it to hell for not having a cell phone! This was gonna be bad.

  The thick forest would have made this descent treacherous on any given night, but combined with the stinging snow and thin, bobbing beam of his flashlight, his journey became one of survival. Flakes blinded him and clogged his breathing. Slashes of frigid wind whipped him until he staggered. He pushed on, slipping and sliding, and twice collided with cottonwood branches, the second one clocking him so hard it sheared off his knit cap.

  Uttering an oath, he continued on, his breath now ragged. He reached the highway and half-ran, half-skated across. He halted at the guardrail’s serrated hole and swept the flashlight in an arc. A Honda Civic lay upside down on the embankment. The headlights shone with morbid stillness into the swirling river three feet away.

  “Hang on,” he hollered, sidestepping carefully down the embankment. A blanket of innocent-looking snow hid jagged rock and loose stones. One misstep and he’d pitch right into the howling river.

  When he reached the upside-down driver’s side door, he shone the light through the shattered glass. A figure in a red sweater was still belted in and slumped away from the door. A dark ponytail cascaded to the car ceiling, and a crimson gash on the woman’s temple glistened in his beam.

  “Come on, honey, please be alive,” he whispered, his teeth chattering from bitter wind and sweat-soaked clothes. What if she had a broken neck? In trying to save her, he’d kill her. Fear clawed at him, so raw he thought he might vomit.

  He straightened and gazed up the embankment to the silent, snow-covered highway beyond. This was the boonies. There’d be no snowplows or cars passing through for a long, long time.

  He turned back and yanked the door handle with all his strength. The dented metal groaned as it yawned open, and shards of glass showered around his boots, glittering under his flashlight’s beam. He hunched down, shining the light on the woman. A thin rivulet of blood ran from her temple into her hairline before dripping rhythmically onto the ceiling in a growing pool.