by Sarah Andre
“Not this again.”
She vaguely recalled protesting at the crash site and blushed. “Just let me lean on you, I’m not helpless. How far can the bathroom be?”
“Upstairs.” White teeth flashed in a wicked grin. “Leo uses the one down here as storage for his research.”
He stripped off the afghan, lifting her effortlessly, and she was sure it was the shaft of pain in her ribs, not those rock-solid arms, that made her gulp in a mouthful of air.
“Wait,” she breathed. He stood motionless until her nausea passed, and she nodded weakly.
He made his way slowly around the sofa, obviously taking great care not to jostle her. Again the scent of fresh air and warm male surrounded her as he walked them through the foyer to the bare pine stairs. His hiking boots clomped up into utter darkness and a considerably cooler temperature.
To distract herself from both the jittery feeling of being carried and her throbbing headache, she reviewed the conversation she’d overheard. It was so hard to believe someone this gentle and considerate faced murder charges.
“Who are you accused of killing?” she blurted out, sounding breathless because of her constricted chest.
She couldn’t see his face now but heard the sharp inhale as he paused mid-climb. “How much did you hear?”
“There’s a trial next week. You’re the defendant.” She paused for more oxygen, wondering why she kept talking when it stirred so much nausea. But she had to know.
He climbed the rest of the way in silence, and once again tension emanated off him like sound waves. Given this other side of his personality, she tried again to imagine him murdering someone, yet not only did it still seem improbable, but she wasn’t even remotely frightened to be trapped in a cabin with him. Why? Because he’d saved her? Because a guy this ridiculously hot couldn’t possibly be capable of something that horrific? Or maybe she held a black belt in martial arts and was just naturally fearless.
“You sure ask a lot of questions,” he finally said in low warning. “Maybe try using some of that energy to remember who you are and why you’re avoiding cops and hospitals.”
Cops and hospitals? Avoiding? Clearly he was trying to distract her, and she wasn’t buying it. There were rich layers to this guy that she intended to uncover. But she let the subject drop, given he was her sole source of transportation. “Sorry. I was just curious.”
He grunted and marched her through a bedroom so black she couldn’t make out the details. Either he had night vision or this was his room, and, headache or no headache, the intimacy of the moment made her perspire. And not with nervousness.
“Is this your bedroom?”
“Nope.” He strode on, and she heard the boot steps change from wood to tile.
“Leo’s?”
“Mm hmm.”
He deposited her carefully onto her left foot. She wobbled, and he molded her upper body firmly to his.
“Are you dizzy?”
“A little,” she admitted, clinging to him as her world tilted and her stomach roiled.
He remained still and silent, his powerful arms wrapped around her in a gentle embrace. She got her bearings but clung to him in the darkness a fraction too long.
“How ’bout now?” His voice was husky and sexy and very close to her ear.
“Oh…uh…I’m okay.” Oh Lord, he knew!
“I’ll let you get to it then.”
The underlying laughter made her cringe. Humiliation collided with annoyance, and as his arms loosened, she held his soft shirt captive. “Who’s the victim?” she whispered.
Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she saw Bob rub his beard. He sighed. “No one you know. And I…I didn’t do it.”
Oddly she believed him. Maybe when her memory came back she’d know why.
“Will you be okay in here? By yourself, I mean?” His warm breath puffed on her forehead.
“Yeah.” She grasped the edge of the sink and turned from his embrace.
In two strides he was just a dark shape in the doorway, but the shape paused. “Listen, I was out of line back on the stairs—”
“I get it. You don’t like questions.”
“That’s the understatement of the century, baby.” The door closed with a soft click behind him.
She spent the entire time in the dark, chilly bathroom replaying the way he’d called her Baby in that hot, honey timbre. Sometimes it paid not to know your own name.
On the way downstairs she remained quiet, torn between ruminating over what she’d overheard and how being glued to his chest created tingly sensations that overrode her excruciating bruises. Nestled back on the sofa, she answered Leo’s questions about pain in various parts of her body.
As Leo fussed with her ankle, she heard the clatter of a log being tossed into the fire, and slowly craned her neck to avoid dizziness. Bob crouched on the hearth, staring morosely at the leaping blaze. The golden light flickered and shadowed along his sculpted cheekbones. He had to be thinking about his disastrous future, the trial, the murder…God, she itched to find out more but knew he’d shut her down.
“Where do you sleep?” she asked instead. Clearly upstairs if there was no usable bathroom down here.
Bob swiveled around, a ghost of a smile instantly replacing the frown. She had a feeling this guy kept his emotions locked up tight. The brooding hadn’t been for public observation. “Again with the questions?”
“I’m just trying to get the layout of the cabin in my head.”
He straightened, smile still in place. “I sleep there.” He jerked his head at her.
He slept on the sofa? “Oh,” she sputtered. “I—I feel bad about this now.”
In two strides he was beside her. Gray eyes twinkled as he peeled back a corner of the afghan. “Then move over.”
“Very funny.” Thank God Leo wasn’t taking her pulse right now!
Bob tucked the blanket back around her shoulders, his grin devilish, like he was perfectly aware of his effect on her. She smiled back, too exhausted to continue the game. He’d saved her life, called her Baby, and tucked her in. Even knowing he was the defendant in something with crime-of-passion attached to it, to her he rated as one of the Good Guys.
“You’re in charge of waking her every few hours,” Leo instructed. “And make sure she drinks that glass of water. We don’t want her dehydrating.”
“What do I do once I wake her?”
“See if she has any long-term recall, or at least retains short-term memory like our names.”
Bob bent in close. “You heard the boss. You need to rehearse our names or anything?”
“Bob. Leo. But if you have to keep waking me, doesn’t that mean you can’t sleep at all?”
“No worries. I hardly sleep.”
“Because of your trial?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Stop with the questions, or I’ll wake you twice as often as I have to.”
“I knew you wouldn’t answer.” She yawned, fighting the ten-ton weight of her eyelids. “Anyway, thanks for rescuing me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Did I really call you Jesus?”
“Yup.”
Somewhere behind her, Leo snorted. “Head injury must be more serious than I thought,” he said under his breath.
“Bite me,” came the honey-soft reply.
She grinned and sank into the utter blackness of unconsciousness.
Chapter Four
“Don’t you hang up on me, Jesselyn.”
Her heart seized, hearing that Southern drawl after all these years. “I’m Jordan,” she sputtered with false bravado.
“No you ain’t. And I don’t like that sassin’ tone a yours.”
She could picture his mottled face spitting out the words. Imagine his hands curling into fists. If she didn’t end this call right now, she’d collapse into a catatonic heap. Christ, she’d gone through so many careful steps these last sixteen years to make sure this phone call never happened. How the hell had he fo
und them?
She sank to the carpet, shaking so hard the phone knocked against her cheek.
“You’re gonna pay me back for every day I was in that hospital. And every day I was stuck in Holman, cuz I’d’a never been in that bar with that gun if it weren’t for you.”
“No!” Jordan awoke, whispering the shriek. Memories sped back with the impact of a bullet train, followed instantly by a roaring headache. She grimaced in pain.
“You got one week…” Oh God, how long had she been unconscious? How many days were left?
Her gaze swept from the glowing embers in the fireplace to the window where snow fell thickly against a cement-colored dawn. A long snore startled her. Ever so gently she angled her head toward the handsome man sprawled in the club chair, head cocked uncomfortably to the left, athletic-socked feet crossed on the cocktail table. “Good Guy” Bob Ritchie. What a crock.
And did he actually think that beard was a good disguise?
She stared at Lock Roane, excitement growing by the second. The hardest part was over: she’d found the elusive skier! Getting him to talk about the night of the murder was her only way out of this mess. She had to pull this off.
Her mood brightened further as each detail of her recent past fell into place.
As she’d climbed into her rental car at the Denver airport, her cell phone had rung. Caller ID: Private. She’d given that bastard her cell number to keep him from calling the house. This had to be him.
“Jordan Sinclair,” she’d said curtly.
“Hello, Jesselynn.”
Her mouth had instantly dried up, but she’d forced the words out anyway. “The name is Jordan.”
“You got my two hundred thou?”
“Not yet.”
“Tick, tick. One whole day almost gone. Monday I’m collectin’ my money, or my Ginny, and you know she’ll go willingly. She don’t wanna make me mad.”
Silence pulsed across the line. He was right.
But maybe her roommate’s idea to threaten him back would slow him down. She swallowed convulsively and said through wooden lips, “Extortion’s a parole violation. I’m calling the Alabama authorities with the head’s up.”
“Pity I ain’t in Alabama no more. But you go right ahead, Jesselynn, all you’ll do is put yourself on their radar. You think they won’t wonder why I’m gunnin’ for you? You think they’ve stopped looking for you?”
Fear, like black bile, rose in her throat. She closed her eyes, helplessly defeated. And his ugly laugh confirmed that no matter how many years had passed, he knew exactly what he’d reduced her to. “I’ll chance it just to get you back behind bars,” she sputtered, white-knuckling the cell phone.
“If I find out you told a soul about these here calls, missy,” he snarled, “I’ll make it my dyin’ duty to kill you both. I got people who owe me favors. If I go back to prison, I’ll give the order. You’ll never know when. You’ll never know who. Now get me that damn money.”
She’d pressed the End button, then needed several deep breaths to ease the body shakes enough to operate the car. Paralyzing fear took up valuable seconds, and she had none to spare. She vowed not to answer any more “Private” ID calls.
Pulling herself together, she’d called her roommate to check in.
“We’re just fine.” Rebecca had spoken in a soothing tone, meaning Ginny was probably listening. “We’re watching a Hallmark movie together.”
“She’s okay without me?”
“Seems to be.” A slight muffle and then Rebecca had whispered, “It’s like you’re just working late.”
“Can I speak to her?” It was the first time since they’d run from Prattville, Alabama sixteen years ago that she’d ever left her mother. When she heard the breathy greeting, tears sprang into Jordan’s eyes. As exhausting as it often was, she ached to be home caring for her mom right now.
“Hi, Mom,” she said, blinking rapidly. “I’ll be late, okay? Rebecca will help you do everything for a while.”
“Okay.”
Jordan hesitated. Who knew what she understood anymore? It was only obvious when she didn’t understand. Her confusion and fear resulted in sharp screams and combative slapping away any help.
“I’ll see you soon, Mom,” she’d said with all sincerity. “I love you.”
“Okay.”
A split second later Rebecca had said, “Jefferson’s still at the office. We’ve been working on your problem all day. A lot of dead ends. Lock and Load disappeared as seamlessly as you and Ginny did. But when I left to get your mom from day care, Jefferson said he’d found something promising.”
“Great. Finding that asshole skier is my only shot. I’m heading toward Aspen. That’s where his lawyer’s office and the courthouse are. Lock can’t be that far.”
“Go get him, girl.”
Her next call had been answered by a warm, familiar baritone.
“It’s me,” she’d said, immediately picturing her boss at Maguire Private Investigations. His roller chair would be kicked back, feet crossed and resting on his desk, surrounded by three computers all spitting out continual, confidential data. The large picture window behind him that overlooked the stately grounds of Harvard and the Charles River would be ignored, as usual.
There was a smile in his voice when he’d asked, “So am I getting a cut of this crazy tabloid money?”
“After I make sure Mom gets the medical tests she needs.” The lie had stuck in her throat, and she’d cleared it awkwardly. Her boss could never find out about her past. “What’ve you got for me?”
Rustling paper noises and keyboard tapping.
“Here’s what I dug up so far. Lock found Tiffany’s body on her patio. She was naked, facedown, stabbed eleven times. There’s a YouTube video of a fight the couple had in a bar the evening before.”
“Yeah, I was one of the millions who saw it the day after. I tried to look for it on the flight out, but it’s gone.”
It’d been almost a year since she viewed it, but one element stuck in her mind. The murderous look on Lock’s face as he’d headed outside to confront Tiffany. Jordan knew that expression very well. Her palms had dampened the steering wheel. Abusive men like him deserved to be locked up.
“I’ll try to retrieve it for you,” Jefferson had said. “It’ll be difficult. The prosecutor undoubtedly got a court order to take it down to use for evidence. If it stayed up, the defense could claim it hampered getting an unbiased jury.”
“Rebecca said you might know where Lock’s hiding?”
“Only a hunch.”
“I love your hunches, Jefferson, spill.”
“Okay. Murder occurs on Saturday night, May fourteenth. Lock discovers the body the morning of the fifteenth and calls 911. Evidently there was so much evidence they took him into custody right quick. He shouldn’t have made bail, but a clerical error allowed him to walk out at noon on Monday, May sixteenth. No one’s seen him since. So where would a famous face go for solitude and privacy, Grasshopper?”
“Rehab?”
“Hopefully that’s what other people chasing this reward guessed.”
Jefferson and his mind games. “So…that’s a no?”
“Too easy. Some staffer or resident would’ve leaked it months ago. Nope, I gotta hand it to this guy, he’s good. Too bad I’m better.” Skip tracing was his specialty, and the harder the person was to find, the more he loved the work. “First I hacked into all the cell phone plans offered in Colorado and found his account. He made three calls after posting bail and hasn’t used his phone since. In fact, the battery must have been taken out—there’s no way to trace the GPS. I’m sure that’s per his lawyer’s advice.”
“Smart advice. Who’d he call?”
“Three people in this order: his coach, Thomas Black, in Aspen, five minutes and fifty-two seconds; his parents in Colorado Springs, twenty-three minutes, twelve seconds; and a man outside of Telluride, a minute, thirty.”
“Short conversation. Who’s the
man?”
“Number was a cell phone paid by a publishing company, no name listed. I called in a favor and found out the general location of the GPS, which is a cabin owned by a dummy corporation. All this furtive bullshit hung me up most of the day. Finally figured out who lives there. His name is Leo Ritchie.”
“I’ve heard of him,” she’d exclaimed. “His true crime novels are always on the bestseller list.”
“The cabin’s at the top of a large hill in Hidden River, Colorado. As far as I can see, the only other sign of humanity is half a mile south, back down on Highway One Forty-five. A store called Sam’s Bait and Tackle Shop.
“By the look of Leo Ritchie’s isolation, and the lengths he’s gone to not to be found, he’s probably a nutcase, but it’s an incredibly random association. There’s no mention of the two ever being seen together before in any of my databases. So what a great place for Lock to ‘rest’ before trial?”
She’d chewed on the information. It made sense. Lock couldn’t leave Colorado. If he wanted to hide, he’d be an idiot to tell anyone but his lawyer, parents, and coach the location. And why else would the last cell phone call be to some random, famous author? A call that only lasted a minute, thirty?
Yet basing their hunt on one lone phone call seemed awfully risky. She had no time to blindly chase leads all over Colorado. When she’d cautiously voiced her concern, Jefferson had chuckled, as if he’d expected it.
“Good for you,” he’d said. “Trust your gut, but keep trying to prove it. If my theory is correct, Leo Ritchie would provide us with evidence, right? So I hacked into his bank and credit information and his utility bills.” He’d paused dramatically. “Ever since mid-May of last year, his grocery and water bills have more than doubled. Someone is staying with him, Jordan.”
A chill shot through her. “Lock Roane,” she’d breathed.
“This is the best I can do in a single day, but yeah, I’d bet my career he’s within a twenty-five mile radius of Leo Ritchie. Now it’s up to you.”
She’d swallowed hard. “How long does it take to get from Denver to Hidden River?”
“Six-and-a-half hours. Five, the way you drive. But heads up. They’re predicting a snowstorm.”