by Sarah Andre
Oh yeah, she was definitely dealing with Lock and Load. Her questioning needed to be much trickier and more indirect. Since his alpha-hottie heterosexuality was infamous she’d tackle it from that angle.
“Oh,” she said. “So you guys are a couple?”
He looked so astonished, she almost burst out laughing.
“He’s my twin,” he sputtered.
Twin?! It was her turn to be stupefied. How had Jefferson missed that connection? All he’d said was there was no media footage of them together. Ever? She gathered her flustered thoughts as he sidestepped them into the tiny bathroom.
“How long have you been bunking on your twin’s sofa?”
And, surprise—there was the flinty glare. “Really? More questions?”
“Oh, for crying out loud. It’s a little question. It requires a two-word answer…two days? Seven years?” Saying all that provoked a sharp twinge from her ribs. She hid her wince.
He halted at the side of the filled tub, his expression hooded. “For a while.”
“When’s your trial?”
“See how one little question leads to another?”
“See how they all require short answers? It’s in two days…seven years?” This time she couldn’t hide her wince.
“What’s it to ya?” he asked rudely, unhooking his arm from under her knees and straightening.
She grabbed his shirt for balance. “I’m just making conversation.”
His lips thinned. Seconds passed. She was playing with fire. Why-oh-why did he look so sexy in his annoyance? A groove appeared and disappeared underneath the trim beard as he clenched his jaw. He avoided her gaze and held her lightly, like he couldn’t wait to let go.
“Jury selection begins in five days.” He spoke the words quietly to the floor.
She breathed a quiet sigh. That meant it was Wednesday, which gave her four more days to meet Monday’s extortion deadline. A flicker of determination torched to life. She was smart—resourceful enough to escape the hell of her childhood and make a good life for herself and her mother. She was in control, and by God, she’d protect her mother. But she had better start uncovering details about the night of the murder and send proof to Starr News that she was in Lock’s presence. Which was next to impossible, what with her camera phone in the car somewhere, Lock calling himself Bob, and her inability to gauge whether confessing part of the truth would help her goal or hurt it. Crap!
“I wish you’d tell me a little bit about your case,” she said softly. “After all, I am a captive audience.”
He looked up then, and she almost flinched under his scowl. “Your bath’s getting cold.”
“What if I was a private investigator or something? I can brainstorm ways to help you and your lawyer.” She held her breath, partly out of pain, partly waiting for a reaction to the PI hint.
“Thanks for the offer, Jesselynn, but I’m all set.”
The honeyed change in his tone startled her a nanosecond before his palms slid in little circles on her waist. Even though she knew this was a deliberate distraction, a thrill shot through her.
She gripped his wrists, halting the action. She had no interest in any sexual entanglements with Lock and Load, and that’s who stared back at her. His mask was so easy to spot. Those warm, gray eyes from last night were now slate colored, calculated, and utterly shuttered his soul.
It was obviously her questions that kept him on guard and clinging to that persona. She had to figure a way around this.
“Are you balanced yet?” A perfectly frank and appropriate question, only he murmured it so intimately her pulse stuttered. There was no doubt he knew exactly how to manipulate women into responding to his slightest whim, and she’d better be on guard.
“Yes.” She tried to think of another trial question, but despite her distaste for his celebrity persona, her mind was doing some kind of mushy meltdown on her. He stood too close for her to think straight, and although his eyes remained aloof, the intensity of his gaze pulled her like an asteroid-sized magnet. How badly had that accident scrambled her brain?
“Need any help undressing?” Despite her hands still clamped on his wrists, his thumbs were millimeters from grazing the undersides of her breasts. A white-hot rush of blood almost buckled her knees. She’d better get him out of here before she did something stupid.
“Uh, I can take it from here, thank you,” she said coldly. Only it came out breathless.
Stop acting like an idiot! Hooking up with Lock and Load? If she didn’t spend all her waking hours on her goal, she’d be sporting orange prison garb right about the same time he did.
“Okay,” he said with a shrug. “Call if you need anything. I’ll be right outside the door—or should we keep it open in case you lose your balance?” The smirk returned.
“Door stays closed,” she bit out.
“Suit yourself.” His humorous tone held an I-know-you-want-me inflection. Even his walk out the door was cocky.
She sat on the toilet, fuming at his correct interpretation of her reaction. Nice going, losing control of the conversation like some rookie reporter with a celebrity crush.
She struggled out of her clothes, every movement sending sharp pain through one part of her body or another. Shakily, she eased into the warm water. Once she felt strong enough to call out, she adopted a falsely pleasant tone. “So Bob, what do you do for a living?”
“Can’t hear you,” he called back, clear as a bell on the other side. “Hold on, I’ll come in.”
She squealed as the doorknob rattled, and clutched her rib, sputtering a few choice names under her breath when she caught his snort of laughter.
Damn it! She slapped the water. This was going nowhere, and she’d better establish some kind of relationship with the “real” Lock before the snow ended and he found her purse and business cards in the car. Her mother wouldn’t stand a chance of surviving if Jordan was dumped at the nearest bus stop.
“Leo wants to know if you like chicken soup,” he called through the door.
“Yes.”
Wait! His twin. Leo knew his brother’s version of what happened that night. Now how the hell could she get him alone?
She soaped the injured ankle propped awkwardly over the tub, mentally remapping her strategy and preparing her line of questions. Maybe a small amount of background on their childhood just to add depth to her article. Besides their parents, who in this world knew a famous athlete and famous crime writer were twins? Why the big secret? Why the different names?
And maybe Leo had more insight about who Tiffany really was, rather than the infamous gossip, photos, and Tweets dished to the public. She’d been paparazzi fodder since the age of nineteen, when they’d proclaimed her the It Girl among the gorgeous and wealthy party set who became famous just for being famous. What designer she wore, what premiere she watched, or who she chose as her newest boyfriend earned top billing on entertainment shows and magazine covers. When Tiffany sported custom-made, bling-covered Jimmy Choo stilettos, the market immediately churned out cheap knock-offs. When she wore a scandalous mesh-and-lace Versace gown to the MTV Music Awards, it set off a trend of barely-there dresses for any up-and-comer in Hollywood.
During her early twenties, Tiffany’s drunken antics and minor encounters with the law were rumored to be shrugged off by her grandmother, the formidable Carlotta van der Kellen. Personally Jordan believed it was because the grandmother would have been ridiculed calling the kettle black.
In the early 1950s, Carlotta, the actress dubbed “Elizabeth Taylor’s twin,” lived her own scandalous party life. Multiple divorces and the wreckage of many male hearts only made her that much more of a challenge worth capturing for staid conservative, John J. van der Kellen III.
She’d married him in 1958, the “Wedding of the Decade.” Perhaps leaving the Hollywood glitz changed her. Or perhaps John J. van der Kellen III had actually tamed his bride, but suddenly Carlotta directed her creative energy into his family’s diamond empire
. Using her famous spirit and hardheadedness, she became a formidable partner in amassing fortunes as a direct, ruthless competitor to the DeBeers family. When John passed away in 1998, the company stock barely suffered a blip, a testament to Carlotta’s business acumen.
Rumor had it she rode roughshod over her two sons’ wives and oversaw the raising of her three grandchildren: two girls, cousins Marcy and Tiffany, and Marcy’s younger brother, Johnny (the fifth), who tragically drowned in his teens.
Four years ago, when Tiffany and Lock got together, the media spun itself into an absolute frenzy for sightings of the über-beautiful couple. Given that the public now had cameras in their cell phones, many sexual displays or combustible encounters between the fiery lovers were captured and uploaded online. Like that last video in the Aspen bar.
Hours later, Tiffany lay brutally murdered, at only twenty-seven—way too young and too beautiful to die. As much as Americans had snickered at her sordid antics in life, in death she held their staunch outrage and sympathy. The poor girl never got the chance to mature into a powerful and charitable business leader like her grandmother.
Although interviews with the stricken older woman were few and very carefully selected, Grandmother van der Kellen was out for vengeance and undoubtedly wielded formidable power in the Colorado law and order administrations. Lock was pretty much a dead man walking, and his trial hadn’t even begun.
Jordan shook her head and yanked the plug. She may not like Lock and Load, but she had a hard time remaining absolutely convinced Lock had killed Tiffany. Hopefully his lawyer could pull off a miracle. Other than that, she had no time to ponder his innocence. The quarter-million-dollar reward was for anyone who could prove they’d found Lock, and uncover his version of the night of the murder before he went to trial on Monday.
How many people were out there looking for him? Jefferson was the best skip tracer she knew, but the contest was already four days old. She hadn’t even known about it until yesterday morning. She never would have considered doing something this idiotic before her father’s first phone call. While she bawled to her stoic roommate, one of two people on Earth who knew her awful secrets, Rebecca had dug the crumpled tabloid from the trash and pointed out the contest page. Even though she couldn’t understand why Jordan wouldn’t use the money to go fight the warrant still pending in Alabama, she’d helped fool her partner, Jefferson, into the skip tracing part.
How many more miracles would fall into Jordan’s lap? A way to pay off her dad, a best friend who covered for her at work, a boss who’d found Lock’s location, and the skier himself saving her life. Two more impossible tasks: tricking Leo into spilling Lock’s details and a way to find proof she was in this cabin with the twins.
She wrapped herself in a thick navy towel and eased weakly onto the edge of the tub. Bathing had sapped her energy, and her muscles ached like she had the flu. Too bad, push through it. Straightening her shoulders, she called out to Lock.
He walked in and placed some folded clothes on the lid of the toilet, then gently assisted her upright. She clutched him to catch her equilibrium, breathing in that delicious airy scent so unique to him.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asked, and she glanced up into genuine concern. Like the charming guy from last night. Hope rose.
“Yes,” she lied, “the bath worked miracles.” She had no time for illness.
He nodded to the clothes. “Leo dug those up.”
She eyed the pile. “I hope they’re his.”
“They are. Why would that matter?”
“Because if they were yours, you’d demand them back the next time I asked a question.”
“Good point.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And given your constant need to ask questions that might make for an interesting afternoon. Stay right here, and I’ll go grab some stuff.”
She caught the twinkle in his eyes and couldn’t stop her grin. When he returned it, his smile was authentic, like the one from last night when he’d tucked her in, not the playboy smirk from today. Such dazzling white teeth in a broad smile that squinted his eyes and lit his handsome face, and oh Christ, he was so damn hot!
A shiver escaped, and she barely felt the tweak in her ribs as she hugged the towel, mortified. His smile disappeared.
“Are you cold?”
“I’m perfectly fine.” She sounded like she’d inhaled helium.
Those gray eyes blinked once, languid and knowing, then shifted to study her lips. He leaned in, and her heart wedged itself in her throat, waiting for his embrace. It took a few seconds to realize he’d reached for something behind her. He shook open a folded flannel shirt and wrapped it around her bare shoulders, closing it over the towel she clutched. He didn’t let go of the shirt.
“How’s this?” he murmured, slanting his head a little, the way guys do just before they kiss. Holy smokes.
“Wait…” She didn’t need this complication. And she certainly wanted to make sure it wasn’t Lock and Load making these moves. She didn’t think so, but her mind was clouding up again.
The fingers of his other hand sifted into her damp hair and gently tugged a strand in back. Her face tilted obediently. Need darkened his eyes as he stared down at her with primitive determination. A sweet ache spread through her, the intensity of her mission fading like the last blinding seconds of a sunset.
“Better hold onto me for balance,” he whispered in that honey-soft voice, “’cuz we’re gonna be here a while.”
She gripped the strong hand still clasping the shirt around her. “I…I need to think.”
“Think about this.” He lowered his head.
“Wait L—” Shit, she almost said his name! “—eo,” she finished.
He froze a millimeter from her lips, his coffee-laced breath mingling with hers. “I’m Bob.”
She nodded. Thank God he didn’t catch the slip. “I meant Bob.”
“Too late.” His expression was stone-cold disbelief.
“I’m sorry. I…I guess I’m still confused.” Her disappointment in the aborted kiss was so great, she sounded genuinely contrite. But honestly, it was for the best. What was she doing? Her mother’s life and her own freedom were at stake! She couldn’t afford to lose focus.
“Whatev.” He stepped away, poker-faced. “Holler when you’re dressed.”
Christ, the budding rapport was demolished this time. “It won’t happen again,” she reassured his broad, retreating back.
“No. It won’t.”
The door closed softly behind him.
Chapter Seven
Lock snapped off a branch and whacked the cottonwood. Jarring vibrations shot up his arm and down his spine just as clumps of snow from the upper branches thumped onto his shoulders, trickling into his collar to freeze the back of his neck. Stupid move, but it fulfilled some primitive impulse. Just like bolting from that claustrophobic cabin to get a grip on himself.
Shrugging the snow from his neck, he eyed the highway below through the rapidly falling flakes. The gash in the guardrail now resembled a softly mounded snowdrift. Maybe the snowplows drove by last night without calling in the accident and her car was still there.
Energized, he plowed on in thigh-deep snow. Buffeting wind and groaning trees struck up a chant. Four more days. Four more days.
Parker had offered multiple times to file a motion delaying the trial, but Lock had remained adamant. Ten months to pull together an adequate defense to a felony murder charge was damn short for his lawyer, but in this hellish limbo, it was nine-and-a-half months too long.
Monday, when jury selection started, at least there’d be action. At least he’d be doing something to get his life back. Maybe then this chronic itch inside, like he wanted to jump out of his damn skin, would disappear.
He pushed on, ignoring the cold and muscle fatigue as he threw his whole body into moving just a few more feet. He was so damn tired of hiding from the world. So sick of worrying about whether he was a murderer. Exhausted from the endless n
ights fixated on the horror stories he heard about prison life.
Although last night, folding himself into that saggy club chair, he finally fixated on something besides his bleak future. He paused again, scowling.
Jesselynn.
Who the hell was she? How did he know her? And dropping into his life on the eve of his trial? He didn’t believe in coincidence or fate—this whole thing was weird, and he predicted an avalanche of trouble ahead, trouble with big blue eyes.
He shook his head. Why was he mesmerized by such a petite, mouthy girl anyway? She wasn’t even close to his type, yet something about her wiggled right in under his skin. Maybe it was the flash of vulnerability, or desperation, that shone from her eyes, even as she obnoxiously asked another “little” question. Maybe it was how she hid behind secrets, or her little-girl fear of hospitals. For whatever reason, this bizarre urge to protect her kept surfacing.
None of the women in his past were this complicated, and none had confused him like this. He didn’t appreciate it one damn bit.
He stared at the highway just yards away now, remembering the enticing scent of clean skin and the silky feel of her heavy, wet hair. How she snuggled into his arms even as her mouth said “wait.” Those soft, pink lips, half-open, ready to be kissed, right there—so close. Then she goes and calls him the wrong name…
A fresh burst of humiliation coursed through him. Jesus, that was an official first. No woman had ever called him another man’s name, much less his brother’s!
He stomped the mortification down into the deepest part of his soul, in sync with his stomping the snowdrift in front of him. So they hadn’t hooked up, big deal; not every woman fell for him. In second grade, Penelope Meyers thought he’d had cooties. And then Tiffany, beautiful, poisonous Tiffany, who’d loved him and hated him, and now she was dead.
Flashes burst unbidden before him. He’d been so angry that night. So fucking jealous. So wasted. The next morning, with that ringing, hammering hangover from hell, stumbling through the house half-awake, looking for coffee or aspirin. Calling out her name. Still angry. Still unforgiving. Ready for Round-Fucking-Two.