Locked, Loaded, & Lying

by Sarah Andre

  She’d glanced at the clear sky and amber sunset and snorted. “I live in Boston, dude. I can handle snow.”

  Evidently Colorado snow was very different than Boston’s.

  Jordan shifted with excruciating pain on the ancient cushions and touched the thick gauze on her temple. Technically she hadn’t found Lock, Lock had found her. It took a near-death experience, but she was here, and all she needed now was some sort of proof for Starr News.

  God, her phone! Her backpack with her laptop and clothes…Where was her car? How far had Lock carried her in that storm?

  She ignored the twist of guilt, remembering how gently he’d pulled her from the debris, the solid arms that held her like porcelain. She had a vague recollection of him waking her a few times already and asking questions. There must have been silly ones mixed in because she remembered giggling. Remembered how he tucked the afghan about her each time, and how she drifted off looking forward to the next time he woke her.

  Craning her neck even further, she studied him intently. Ten months’ growth had turned his golden, layered hair into a lion’s mane. His mouth, relaxed in slumber, clashed with the sharp angles of his face and the troubled slant of his brows. The effect was a sweet harshness. Like a fallen angel. Why was he hiding?

  She frowned and felt the pull on her forehead gauze. This man was absolutely not the same guy she’d interviewed last year. The hideous, five-minute debacle had been for the only freelance article she’d ever sold to Sports Illustrated. That Lock and Load, notorious for hating the media, had been an arrogant, narcissistic jerk. This “Good Guy” couldn’t have killed Tiffany van der Kellen. Sixteen years of living with her bastard father had made her an expert at pinpointing brutes a mile off. Violent men had a certain glint in their eye, and Lock didn’t display so much as a glimmer of abuse in those gorgeous grays.

  None of this made sense. And yet so much evidence pointing to Lock had been collected at the scene of the murder that homicide had closed the case in record time. For the last ten months, every media outlet in the nation had yammered obsessively about the clear-cut means and motive. The entire nation speculated on the dichotomy of a defendant entering a not-guilty plea, then vanishing like a thief in the night. Why? Innocent people stood their ground.

  She’d overheard a little of Lock’s courtroom strategy when she’d come to, but if he thought that would clear him, he was in epic denial.

  She shook her head, setting off vertigo that woke the nausea. She stilled, swallowing several times. Too bad he turned out to be so sweet. It sure would’ve been easier to write this exposé if the arrogant, bad-boy persona was the full extent of his personality. But she had no choice; the hefty Starr News reward for interviewing Lock was her only lifeline. And she better remember that when faced with his Good Guy charm once he awoke.

  Still, seeds of doubt nagged her, and she chewed on her bottom lip. She’d been so certain of who he was and what he stood for before her car accident. But would a killer who disappeared from public risk saving a stranger? Unlikely.

  Would egotistical Lock and Load put aside his self-absorption for a heroic deed? Highly doubtful.

  So if he wasn’t a killer and he wasn’t a playboy, who exactly was Lock Roane?

  …

  Jordan awoke again with a lung-sucking gasp, the remnants of her nightmare evaporating like mist on the Charles River. It was one of the old dreams of being carried through the sliding doors of yet another hospital. The sound of her panicked sobs still echoed in her mind as did the churning childhood fears: the helplessness of being carried into the place she hated, the agony of this fresh pain, and the unholy terror her father threatened her with if she ever told someone what really happened.

  She clutched the afghan and on instinct, ran through her old mantra: I’m safe. I’m in control. I’m safe…

  Her injuries came from a car accident, not a beating. She lay on a sofa, not a hospital bed. Her heartbeat began to slow.

  She hadn’t dreamed of her father in years, but between his threatening phone calls or her battered body being carried by Lock…twice in one night.

  The hiss and pop of a crackling fire and murmuring voices in another room seeped into her thoughts. Oh God. How many days left?

  She sat up cautiously, wincing at the stabbing pain in her side. The cabin was so small, Lock and Leo must be in the kitchen. Oops. Bob and Leo.

  Thank God Lock hadn’t recognized her from their horrendous interview about the urine test that had gotten him kicked out of the Torino Games. All these years later he still adamantly denied cheating, and it took only a hint of that subject to set him off. She’d learned that the hard way two questions in, when he’d ripped her pad in half and stalked out. But his picture shared the same page as her byline and a photo of her holding a syringe.

  Last night as Bob, he’d been adorable, affable, and engaging, up until she’d asked him who the victim was when he’d carried her upstairs. So even the hint of being recognized shut the “nice guy” down. She couldn’t chance “Bob” hiding behind that horrible Lock and Load persona, which meant not alerting him to the fact that she recognized him. And never letting him know she was that freelance reporter. Her mother’s life literally hung on keeping that a secret.

  But how much to reveal? What would get Lock to open up about that night last May?

  She pulled the hairband from her ponytail, wincing. Even her scalp hurt. Her brain still pounded like the hangover from hell, but she was clearly on the mend. If she didn’t remember anything, they’d get suspicious. And to pretend amnesia to get the story? That really crossed an ethical line.

  What if she gave Lock and Leo her old name? Granted, she’d have to work hard not to cringe every time they used it, but at least Lock definitely wouldn’t connect her with her byline.

  With infinitesimal care not to tweak her rib, she leaned toward the kitchen, straining to hear what the men were saying.

  Chapter Five

  Leo sighed and hung up the wall phone again. “Still down.” He checked his cell with the same fruitless expression. “How often did you wake her last night?”

  “Three, four times.” Lock reached over his brother’s shoulder to grab a mug out of the cabinet. “She was so groggy, her answers were hilarious.”

  “But did she remember anything about herself?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you make sure she drank water each time?”

  He’d completely forgotten about the water. He turned his back and poured coffee, muttering incoherently. Hopefully she was no worse off for that bone-headed oversight.

  “If her amnesia has lasted this long, we need to get her to Franklin ER as soon as the blizzard lets up.”

  Once again Lock’s chest tightened at the prospect of sauntering out in public. “If I pull up to the entrance, do you think you can handle taking her in from there?”

  Leo waved the spatula. “The media isn’t sitting around hospitals waiting for you, pal.”

  “Stick with me here, crime writer. Five days before my trial, I waltz into an ER carrying a battered female. That doesn’t seem the slightest bit newsworthy to you? One anonymous call and—”

  “Fine, Lock. I’ll go in with her.”

  And here we go. Lock cut his gaze to the window, where snow fell thick and steady. He honestly couldn’t remember one argument that didn’t end with the same damn message: if Leo had been born the superior athlete, look at the good he’d do. God gave the wrong brother all the health and talent, and they both knew it. Yeah, those words were never spoken, but the implication in Leo’s tone was a stealthy shank to the gut every time.

  As usual, guilt burned through him, and his face flushed. “Leo…” He stared at the floor. “The World Cup is in a couple of weeks, and it’s killing me not to be training for it. I can barely survive this USSA suspension, so forgive me for not totally screwing my career for some stran—”

  A cough that ended in a whimper in the next room stopped him cold. He excha
nged a startled glance with his brother. They’d kept their voices low, but how much had she heard…again? His pulse jackhammered as he followed Leo into the den.

  She’d managed to sit up and lean against the back cushions, rumpled and sleepy in that wanton female way, and even in wariness, he found it tough not to gawk. Just like the times when he’d woken her last night, those midnight-blue, doe eyes set off a niggling recollection, just out of reach. He’d definitely met her somewhere before.

  “Good morning,” she said. Her voice held the sultry huskiness of last night too, which he felt right down to his toes. Her black hair tumbled around her shoulders, one tantalizing strand curling over her right breast. She pushed the afghan aside, and he saw a strip of creamy, curvy skin where the black turtleneck had come untucked from her jeans.

  He fought the instinct to swallow like a schoolboy, which floored him. From a flash of skin? He hadn’t been with a woman for months, that’s all this was. Yet the impulse to hold her in his arms again turned into an irresistible need.

  “Do you want to go upstairs?” he asked, bluntly. “Maybe take a bath?”

  “Excuse me?”

  What in the hell had just come out of his mouth? He tried for a save. “You know, to wash off any blood. Feel refreshed…” His thoughtful suggestions petered out at his brother’s incredulous expression.

  “Never mind him.” Leo bent over the sofa and clasped her wrist. “How do you feel this morning?”

  “A whole lot better. I still have a headache, but I’m not dizzy or nauseous.”

  Lock frowned. The soft Southern accent from last night had up and vanished.

  “Good to hear,” Leo said, holding up the glass. “But you didn’t drink any water.”

  She reached for it with a sweet smile. “Thank you for all your help, Leo. You’re a real lifesaver.”

  Lock strolled past them to throw another log on the fire, itching to remind her he’s the one who saved her first. The log hit the embers more violently than he intended, and he grabbed the tiny broom to sweep the scattered ashes back in the grate. How pathetic to admit their constant fraternal rivalry now covered rescues too. But it really sucked that she singled out Leo to gush her thanks to.

  “Have you had any recall?” Leo asked.

  “Yes. My name’s Jesselynn Clair.”

  The name stiffened Lock’s spine, followed by a healthy dose of paranoia. He swung around. “You told me last night it wasn’t Jesselynn.”

  Those deep, blue eyes burned vivid and shocked into his. “I did?”

  “Yeah. You said ‘Jesselynn Clair. No, that’s not right.’”

  “I…I was mistaken.”

  “And in shock,” Leo added, holding open her eyelid and flicking a flashlight in and away. “Look straight ahead. That’s it.”

  Lock waited until he was through and her gaze swiveled back to him. He didn’t bother to hide his disbelief. Why lie about her name and drop her accent? Was his cover blown? After hiding this carefully? Christ, if she was a reporter…

  The deflective shield of Lock and Load slid into place. “So where do you come from—Jesselynn?”

  “I think the West Coast.”

  “What happened to your Southern accent?”

  “What?”

  Even Leo threw him a quizzical look. Had he imagined it? “Well, what are you doing in Colorado?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Why drive in the middle of a blizzard?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Quit cross examining her!” Leo stopped fussing with her forehead gauze to glare over his shoulder.

  Lock studied her intently, trying to fathom what lay beneath the carefully blank expression. This chick was hiding something, and she was familiar. Maybe paparazzi with an outfit like TMZ? Panic and dread slammed into him like twin sledgehammers.

  “You’re improving remarkably fast except for this.” Leo pointed to the ankle wrapped in pillows and propped on cushions. “And I’m concerned you never drank that glass of water last night. Didn’t Bob hand it to you every time he woke you?”

  “He did. I wasn’t thirsty.” Without batting an eyelash, she lied straight to his brother’s face, and Lock found himself both stunned at her deceit and admiring her skill. She’d just saved his ass, and they both knew it. And something about the two of them sharing a mini conspiracy against Leo and all his bossy rules made his heart thrum.

  “We’ll get you to the ER once the storm lessens,” his brother said.

  A shadow flitted across her face. “No hospitals. I’m much better.”

  “We’ll see.” Leo smiled. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  “Thank you, just toast and coffee.”

  “No coffee. Finish your water, and I’ll get you a little toast. ” Leo limped to the kitchen.

  Keeping the skepticism on his face, Lock waited for her to look up, but she studied the fringe on the blanket, combing it with her fingers. She resembled a little, lost girl, which didn’t fool him in the slightest. He re-hooked the fireplace broom with deliberate care and strolled over.

  “Mind if I sit here?” he asked, propping himself on the sofa’s edge without waiting for an answer. Their thighs touched, and again he felt the jolt of a schoolboy reaction. To a jean-covered thigh? Man, this was messed up.

  The fringe she kept combing looked about as straight as a store display, so he reached out and clasped her hand, feeling her palm trembling and childlike small in his. Something protective surged through him, and he ignored it.

  “So, you’re Jesselynn. From the West Coast.” He kept his voice low and intimate.

  She met his gaze then, chin tilted higher than necessary. “Yes.”

  He stroked his thumb lightly across her palm. “And you’re sure you don’t recall anything else?”

  When she tried to snatch her hand back, he gripped it tighter.

  “Hold still, I’m taking your pulse.”

  “My pulse is here.” She pointed to her wrist. “And everyone knows you don’t take it with your thumb.”

  He threw her a dazzling smile. “Aw, come on,” he purred. “What’s your real name?”

  Her palm grew damp, and her cheeks reddened. When she wrenched her hand again, he let go, and she held it in her other like it burned. Her eyes spit blue fire, which surged through him like an electric current.

  “My name is Jesselynn Clair. I’m telling you the truth.”

  And she said it with such conviction, he suddenly found himself believing her. Maybe suffering from shock last night made her think it was the wrong name. Seemed odd, but bottom line, she clearly didn’t recognize him, and that was all that mattered. Her reaction would be a whole lot different if she knew Lock Roane, celebrity-athlete-turned-murderer sat here, thigh to thigh.

  Leo headed their way with a tray, and Lock stood up, figuring he had at least twenty-four more snowy hours before digging out Sam’s truck and driving her to the hospital. And this half-pint mystery girl crashing into his life would make for his first interesting day in ten months.

  “Listen,” he said kindly, “how ’bout when the snow lightens up, I go down and search your car for anything that’ll give us a clue about you?”

  Horror dawned in her eyes, and his gut whiplashed back to suspicion. This chick was hiding. Just like him.

  “You don’t need to do that, Bob.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure. Jesselynn.”

  Strange, how he thought himself alone in the dark solitude of secrets and lies and the abhorrent hiding. Yet here sat his match, this tiny woman with the big, wary eyes. Even not trusting her now, he felt a strange attraction to her—a bizarre kinship.

  “Well, the snow won’t let up for hours,” Leo said, handing the tray off to him and turning to Jesselynn. “While you eat, I’ll find you some clean clothes, and then Bob can take you upstairs for that bath.”

  Lock turned away, annoyed how his heart instantly leaped at his brother’s itinerary. He had a hell of a lot more i
mportant things to do than focusing on the mysterious Jesselynn Claire.

  He walked to the window, squeezed his eyes shut, and wondered once again what had happened after that horrendous argument with Tiff. After he’d sat up in her bedroom drinking himself into oblivion. Had he killed her in a drunken rage? Was the blackout monster inside him still alive and kicking after all these years?

  Chapter Six

  Jordan gingerly crossed her arms as Lock marched her up the stairs. As sore as her bruised body felt, her heart hammered in equal parts nervousness and excitement at being alone with him again.

  His suspicion over her name had awoken that awful Lock and Load personality, and she had no idea how to reestablish trust or get back in touch with “Good Guy” Bob. Had she not needed to pee so badly, she’d have insisted on crawling up here alone to give herself time to think.

  Should she tell him part of the truth? That her full-time job was as a private investigator’s assistant from Boston? As long as she hid behind her childhood name, not the one associated with the Sports Illustrated article, he’d never suspect her real goal, even if she admitted to recognizing him.

  But what if that sealed the permanence of the playboy persona who skirted questions? She needed a foolproof strategy. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake. A long, hot bath might help loosen these foggy cobwebs the car accident had caused.

  At the top of the stairs, Lock turned left once again and carried her with the greatest of ease down a short hall and over the same threshold as last night. In daylight, Leo’s bedroom was tidy and stark. A queen bed with a red, quilted bedspread and no headboard centered the room. Other than the matching pine nightstands, armoire, and dresser, nothing here was homey or warm. No picture frames, no art, not even a mirror.

  What was the relationship between these men? Why on earth would Lock choose to live in a cramped crime writer’s cabin all these months…on a sofa? And they certainly seemed to get on each other’s nerves a heck of a lot more than normal friends.

  “How long have you known Leo?”

  “A long time.”