by Sarah Andre
“He’s big on accepting responsibility for the choices we make in life—and the consequences. I faced both last night in front of the camera. If you want the full twenty-minute lecture, I’ve heard it so often I know it verbatim.”
“I wish I could help you somehow.”
“Pancakes. If it makes you feel any better, whip up some pancakes.”
Leo poured coffee into Lock’s cup, his mouth settling into a grim line. “No one can ever have a straight conversation with you, huh? They get the brush off, get called butthead, but by God, they never get inside.”
Lock bit back a retort, knowing he aimed his anger at the wrong person. “Look, I’m trying not to think about it. Mourning my career will just get in the way.”
He heard a rhythmic thump, obviously Jordan’s boot, and shot Leo a warning glance. “This remains between us, got it?”
He ignored his brother’s raised eyebrows. He had no clue why he’d kept his expulsion a secret from her last night or the need to continue the pretense today. It’d make international news once USSA sent the official letter. But for some reason, he couldn’t bear her knowing of his professional demise just yet.
Seconds later, she halted in the kitchen entrance, still swimming in Leo’s sweatshirt, yet pulling off those mega-sexy, sleepy vibes like on the hospital cot. Right before he kissed her. He gripped his mug hard, ignoring the burn to his skin.
“Good morning,” Leo said cheerfully, and she mumbled it in return, her voice husky as she pushed a tangle of black hair off her shoulder. Lock remembered the silky feel of it, and his blood pulsed hotly. Mentally he shook himself. She was off limits. It was the real reason he’d apologized for that kiss, words so completely foreign to him. Her PI connection might ease his petrified fear that he’d committed the crime. And stave off a life sentence. He couldn’t afford to screw that up by, well, screwing her.
And yet, why deny it? Despite all her secrets and lies, he still wanted her. How would he keep his hands off her these next few days?
Maybe by reminding himself of her doping article. The nightmare at the Torino games was ancient history, but reading her words last year brought back all the bitterness of his outraged protests falling on deaf ears. His fury at that blue-eyed reporter had lasted for weeks.
He watched her through hooded eyes as she took a limping step toward him.
“What were you guys talking about?” she asked.
Surprise. Right out of the starting gate with the one question he had no intention of answering: his expulsion. Lock and Load surged to the surface. “Sex, boobs, and sports. You didn’t miss anything important, Jesselynn.”
She flinched. “Now that we’ve stopped withholding information, just call me Jordan.”
“Have we stopped withholding, Jesselynn?” What happened in Alabama?
“I’m not kidding, Lock.”
Interesting how her other name got her back up. Obviously a reminder of her secret past. He resolved to use it if necessary, but nodded alongside his brother, who poured a third coffee.
She thanked Leo then swiveled back, glancing up through those long, black lashes, and his grip on the mug tightened further.
“Is there any way you can go down to my car after breakfast and get my backpack out of the trunk?”
Faced with that coy bedroom look, he almost promised cartwheels all the way down, but luckily Leo interrupted.
“Sorry, Jordan, a cop spotted the ripped guardrail last night and climbed all the way up here to see if I knew anything about the accident. When I told him you were in the hospital, he called for a tow truck.”
She squeezed her eyes shut like she was in pain. “Oh for God’s sake,” she whispered through clenched teeth, “let me catch one break.”
Lock frowned at the overreaction. “Clutch gave you a little bag of toiletries, and Leo can lend you more clothes.”
“I need my charger. I have extremely important information on my cell and no way to get at it.”
“Maybe mine’s compatible,” Leo said, “I have a S—.”
“Just what kind of important information?” Lock interrupted, paranoia rising like mercury in hell’s thermometer. Something about her cell phone obsession related to him, he just knew it. How long had it been in her possession before he found it up her sleeve? “I brought you back here to help investigate Vannini, but you’re sure acting like a reporter.”
“If I’m going to help you, I need what’s in there,” she snapped, all traces of sleepy softness gone.
He decided to cover his bases anyway. “How ’bout we make a business deal. You and your boss look into the Vannini angle, and you’re welcome to write about your accident and this stay in Leo’s cabin. I can assure you the article will sell out magazines around the world.”
There was a pause. He sensed her keen little mind turning the offer over and looking at it from every angle. This chick was sharp, and he’d better be on guard, which was difficult given the way those midnight-blue eyes kept slipping past his defenses. If he held his mug any tighter, it’d break.
“Here’s the deal,” she replied, as if one wasn’t already on the table. “You tell me everything about the night Tiffany died, not just Vannini in the parking lot. We don’t know what else you misinterpreted.”
He was about to tell her where she could go with that snippy reporter tone, when his brother named his cell phone, and no, it wasn’t compatible with hers. She swung back to him again.
“When you dropped in ten months ago, did you happen to bring a laptop?”
“No, but Leo’s got a computer.”
“Yes, you’re welcome to use it.”
She shook her head impatiently. “Thanks, Leo, but I need access for hours at a time, and I’m sure you’re on a deadline.” She glanced up at Lock. “It’s the twenty-first century. Who lives without a computer?”
That sure wasn’t the question he expected out of a PI assistant. “I’d only use it to go online, and anyone with half a brain could trace my IP address. I have a smartphone, but I took the battery out last May. I brought nothing but clothes and a toothbrush, Jesselynn.”
She blushed, either from him pointing out the obvious or from him using the name she hated.
“I was about to make pancakes, Jordan. Are you hungry?” Leo asked before she could one-up him.
Lock mentally rolled his eyes. Leo and his compulsion to dispel tension.
“Actually, do you have a house phone? I have some urgent calls to make.”
As his brother answered yes, Lock noticed how differently she spoke to Leo. So gentle and agreeable, not the bullheaded reporter. He turned abruptly and looked out the window, ignoring the coiled ache in his chest.
So she’d use him to get ahead in her career, what the hell. It’s just that these last few days he’d sensed a baffling connection between them. To realize it was one-sided and he was only a story? Well, it bites, that’s all.
He focused on the vista. Man, to strap on his K2’s and carve into all that fresh powder. To chase the gates. Adjust for icy patches. Brace for jackknife turns…
Life was so much easier in downhill racing.
Leo returned from directing her to his office, humming tunelessly as he banged around getting ingredients out. Lock watched a clump of snow slide off a pine tree and whomp a hole in the pristine white blanketing the ground. He sipped his coffee, wondering who she was calling and what she was saying. Maybe just reassuring someone she was safe, but that explanation sounded too ordinary for a shark like her.
On the other hand, she’d connected the Vannini doping angle when Parker’s investigator only confirmed the asshole’s alibi. Just because some woman said she’d spent the night didn’t mean the whole night, didn’t mean Vannini hadn’t slipped out while she slept.
Lock hated confessing one more damn detail to Jordan-the-Reporter, yet he couldn’t afford to shut Jordan-the-PI out with the cocky, elusive answers of Lock and Load. Which rendered him completely vulnerable to the one person he
instinctively knew he should hold at arm’s length. Christ, his options sucked.
…
“How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m fine, Jefferson, I’m in Leo’s cabin,” Jordan said.
“Last I heard you were on the way to the hospital. What the hell happened?”
She skimmed over the events of the last two days, casually listing her injuries so he wouldn’t worry, and thanked him for his quick thinking on fingering Vannini as a suspect. “You saved me from being dumped at the ER. Lock brought me back here to help figure it out.”
“He jumped on that theory like a drowning man.”
She told him about the parking-lot scene and Lock’s possible misinterpretation of Tiffany’s words. “I mean, ‘I won’t tell’ could mean a dozen things, right?”
There was a pause. “Do you think Lock killed her?”
“I was certain of it driving here.”
“I know. What changed?”
She frowned out the window. “The more I get to know him, the more implausible it seems. Don’t get me wrong, he can still be a jerk, but he’s not even remotely like the hothead he is with the media.” Or prone to raging violence like her father, and boy, had Lock’s temper been tested.
“Speaking of the media,” Jefferson said, “some newscaster interviewed him in the ER last night. A local station, but the segment went national immediately.”
Oxygen seeped from her brain. Weakly gripping Leo’s swivel chair, she sank into it. “What did he say?”
“Not much. Gave pretzels to a little boy. Answered the reporter in that cocky way of his, and drove off into the night. Rebecca’s checking to see if that small snippet meets the criteria for the tabloid reward.”
She gulped air until the dizziness eased. Why hadn’t Lock told her about the encounter with the newscaster? Or that he’d lost his position on the team.
Then again, why would he? First, he had no clue her goal was a tabloid reward. Second, he didn’t know Leo had told her about the expulsion threat.
She rubbed her face, surprised at her distress that his career was over. Maybe it was because he’d sacrificed it to get her medical help. But how hypocritical of her to feel guilty when achieving her tabloid goal would’ve led to the same penalty.
“Jordan, I know you’re worried about the money,” Jefferson said gently, “but we’ll find a way to get your mom the tests and surgery she needs. You focus on getting better, okay?”
“Okay,” she whispered, wanting to double over at the burden of this atrocious lie. “Thanks.”
“So given all this, do you still want to pursue the Vannini angle or get the hell out of there?”
Surging memories of the real Lock cut her to the quick: how he carried her like she was priceless treasure; how his genuine smile lit up his eyes; but mostly last night’s sweet, gentle kiss.
She bit her lip. The smart choice? Go home to Mom and figure something else out before Monday. But what if she could help Lock? What if the quarter million dollars was still in play?
“Let’s pursue,” she murmured.
“Okay. First step is to keep an open mind. It may or may not be Vannini. I just threw that out there because skier-boy seemed to think we had a theory.”
“I may have mentioned something.”
“Second, I’ll search Tiffany’s social networking. See if she had any stalkers or people who went ballistic with her stand on the environment or wearing fur or something. If you can get me any phone numbers and email addresses, I’ll hack into those.”
“And more details on Vannini’s alibi?”
“Piece of cake.”
She believed him. He’d probably have the information within the hour.
“Vannini’s got to be back in Colorado, don’t you think?” she asked. “Witness for the prosecution? If you could find out where he’s staying, I bet I could call and pitch him a Sports Illustrated article. He’s a press whore. But call me at this number, my cell is dead.”
“You need to rest and recover, Jordan. I’ll get his alibi, and we’ll start there.”
Today was Thursday. She had four days to pay off her father, or while Lock sat through jury selection on Monday, she’d be sitting in a Prattville cell. “I’ll rest later, Jefferson. Tell Rebecca to call me here, too. I want to check on Mom and also need to know if I still have a shot at that reward.”
She hung up and followed the mouthwatering syrupy-cake smell into the kitchen. Leo stood at the stove flipping golden brown discs, and Lock sat at the table forking a stack onto his plate. He paused and glanced up from under the mop of golden hair. His guarded eyes searched hers for a long moment, then dropped to her mouth, then quickly back to his plate. She released a long, silent breath, surprised to find she’d been holding it through that sexy, lingering perusal. Knees trembling, she sat with a graceless thunk.
“How’d your calls go?”
She slid over the yellow legal pad and pen she’d found on Leo’s desk. “Jefferson will comb through her email and phone records. We need her information.” At least her voice sounded professional.
His fork clattered on the plate, and he grabbed the pen and scribbled without expression.
“And if it’s all the same to you,” she added, taking the pad back, “I’d like Leo to sit in on these interviews.”
“No.”
“His research expertise will help us, Lock.”
“It isn’t necessary to include him too.”
“Why not?”
Lock’s eyes hooded, and Leo’s back stiffened. What was with this fraternal relationship? And why did Lock still keep that night a secret from his own brother?
“You have nothing to lose,” she pointed out. “I don’t understand your reluctance.”
Another minute went by where he just stared at his cooling pancakes, lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line. Finally he shrugged and picked up his fork.
“Fuck it. Let him help.”
Leo took longer than necessary turning off the gas stove. His expression was just as inscrutable when he brought over another platter of steaming pancakes. They went to waste, because neither brother ate a single thing after that.
Chapter Thirteen
“Tell me about the night Tiffany died,” Jordan said. “Start with the argument at the bar.”
Since she’d grabbed the armchair, Lock kicked back on the sofa beside his brother and thumped his feet on the cocktail table. He grabbed a throw pillow, tossing it lightly, then rested his arms around it, trying to outwardly channel unconcerned Lock and Load for this. One problem. The pillow smelled of her, like a forest on a warm summer day. It made him want to jump up and pace.
Leo cleared his throat expectantly, which brought his thoughts back to the here and now.
“I kept trying to get her out of there because someone was filming us with his cell phone.”
“The YouTube video.”
He nodded. “Her grandmother warned her about all the excessive drinking and partying. It’s expected when you’re a celebrity, but there’s this invisible line you cross where the public tunes in to entertainment shows just to see what an ass you’ve made out of yourself, and Mrs. van der Kellen was concerned Tiff’s escapades were headed in that direction. So when I walked into the Avalanche and saw her condition, I tried to help.”
“Help meaning: grabbing her and manhandling her out of the bar?”
He fixated on a cobweb in the rafters until his irritation eased. “Help meaning: finding any means to get a drunk woman who wouldn’t listen to reason back home.”
“Besides her not wanting to leave, what else did you fight about?”
Lock shook his head, eyebrows knit. Even now it was all so stupid. “She chaired some van der Kellen event that afternoon. After the fashion show, there was a live auction, and I was supposed to be one of the items.”
“Come again?”
“You know, bid on a date with me?”
He glanced over and caught the ghost of a gr
in on the reporter’s face. Five minutes ago, she’d taken her boot off and propped her ankle on a pillow atop the coffee table, socked toes inches from his. Evidently he was the only one distracted by that.
Her pen flew over the pad, head bent in concentration. Beside him Leo sat stiffly, eyes on his lap, but his expression was one of complete absorption. Lock grimaced. That expression would change drastically once his brother heard about the blackout.
“And,” Jordan prompted.
“And as I drove to the auction, my coach called and demanded my presence because of this dumb prank I pulled on the team newbies. On a Saturday! I knew I was fucked, but I still went to his office thinking it’d be a short lecture.” He shook his head. That whole day had been such a complete disaster. “It was a full-frontal smackdown that ran on so long I missed the event. Coach was so damn pissed, I didn’t dare whip out my phone and text her.”
“So from her point of view, you stood her up.”
When he didn’t respond, she looked up. The helpless girl with the vulnerable blue eyes he’d rescued was long gone. This chick culled herds and devoured the weak. “Guess so,” he said with care.
“If you didn’t text, how did you meet her at the Avalanche?”
“I didn’t.” Memories like crawling slugs agitated him into a sitting position. He tapped a foot on the rug. “After personally apologizing to each member that I hazed, I needed a drink.”
“What time was it?”
“Close to eight.”
She motioned for him to continue.
“I didn’t know she was there. I figured out later her cousin Marcy brought her.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, the second I walked in, I knew Tiffany had been drinking for a while.”
“Then what happened?”
“The stuff you saw on YouTube.” He fought the need to rock back and forth. Everything about that entire day sickened him. How many times had he played the “If Only” game? If Only he’d been at the stupid auction. If Only he hadn’t wandered into the bar. And the big one: If Only he hadn’t blacked out.
Leo leaned forward. “When did you see Roberto?”
“When she left. He followed her out.”