The Hideaway

by Meryl Sawyer

  “Yes, and I’m pissed big-time. This is a quiet little place. I don’t want a murderer living in my town.”

  “Who did it?” she asked.

  “Stegner claims you murdered Morrell.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” she shot back, but a fission of alarm lanced through her. Duncan was her arch enemy. And she’d been at The Hideaway until dawn. Worse, she didn’t remember what had happened.

  Zach jammed the panties into his back pocket. “It’s logical—even coming from a creep like Stegner. You and Morrell were rivals. He’d stolen your most profitable artist, right?”

  “I didn’t have a contract with Nevada,” she said, aware of the bitterness etching every syllable, but unable to soften her tone. She’d discovered Nevada while she’d been working in a Phoenix gallery, raising money to open The Rising Sun. She’d nurtured his talent only to have Duncan lure him away. “He was free to go to another gallery.”

  “Didn’t you accuse Morrell of selling phony lithographs?”

  She couldn’t deny it. “Yes, but I wasn’t the only one who suspected he was selling counterfeit prints. Other gallery owners had complained. Look, I despised Morrell, but I didn’t kill him.”

  “Okay,” Zach said, leaning so close she couldn’t miss the trace of citrus aftershave or the challenging glint in his eye. “I believe you, but your panties were found in the bungalow next to where Morrell was killed—along with your wallet.”

  “My wallet?” She vaguely remembered dropping her purse, in that dark room last night. Had her wallet fallen out? The air siphoned from her lungs in a dizzying rush. Her panties and her wallet. She couldn’t be that unlucky, could she?

  Two

  “It can’t be my wallet.” Claire dashed across the gallery to the alcove by the back door where she’d left her purse. She grabbed the hand-tooled leather bag and dumped the contents onto her cluttered desk.

  A checkbook, a Daytimer, keys and a few loose coins. No wallet.

  She dropped into her chair, groaning. Last night. So much of it was a blur. She was positive someone had put something in her drink. Snippets of memories whirled like dervishes through her brain, and she recalled the muffled thunk of her purse hitting the bed. Her wallet must have fallen out.

  Oh, Lord. What had she gotten herself into this time? The little bit she did recall about the previous evening frightened her. A dark room. A man. A door slamming shut, leaving her in the darkness with a total stranger.

  “Do I smell coffee?” Zach asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Help yourself,” she said, grateful for the opportunity to stall. How was she going to explain her wallet being in that room at The Hideaway?

  He was back in a minute, handing her a mug of coffee. “It’s black. Looks like you could use it.”

  She took the coffee without meeting his eyes, the aroma making her empty stomach rumble. “My wallet must have been stolen while I was dancing at Hogs and Heifers,” she said, deciding the sheriff might believe this explanation.

  Zach scooted some papers aside and leaned against her desk, one leg hitching over the burnished wood until he was half-sitting. “Really?” His insolent grin said hell would freeze over before he bought that bridge. “How much do you figure they stole?

  “I’m not sure how much money was in it.”

  “We’ve got mighty thoughtful crooks in these parts. They swiped your wallet but left the credit cards along with ten dollars and twenty seven cents. Then they planted it between the bed and the wall in one of The Hideaway’s rooms.”

  She held her ground, directing her gaze not to leave his so she wouldn’t appear to be lying. She hated it when people weren’t honest, but there was no way she could discuss what had happened last night with this man.

  “May I have my wallet back?” she asked, all innocence, extending her hand. Not only were his jeans tight enough to get him arrested for indecent exposure, his chambray shirt was rolled up at the cuffs, exposing his powerful forearms tanned by hours in the sun. The shirt stretched across massive shoulders and accentuated impressive biceps. It was perfectly obvious he didn’t have the wallet on him.

  He took a long, slow sip of his coffee before answering, his unsettling eyes peering at her over the rim of the cup. “It’s back at the station with the rest of the evidence.”

  “Evidence?” She shot to her feet. “Now just a minute—”

  “No, you wait. There’s been a murder in my town. The killer isn’t getting away with it. I’ll return your wallet—and your panties—when the case is solved.”

  “But I need my driver’s license and—”

  “What you need, sweetcakes, is an alibi.” The strange look he gave her set off a warning bell. “Do you have one?”

  Alarm rippled up her spine erupting in a film of moisture across the back of her neck. She didn’t have an alibi, but she mustered a sassy tone. “Why? Am I a suspect? Do I need a lawyer?”

  Zach infuriated her by taking his time, having another swig of coffee. “Call an attorney if you want.”

  “I have nothing to hide. I didn’t kill Duncan Morrell.”

  “Let’s start with your alibi. You came to Hogs and Heifers with Seth Ramsey, right?”

  Not trusting her voice, she nodded, then took a swallow of the high octane coffee. It jolted her queasy stomach and hurled through her veins, giving her a much-needed boost.

  “Why did you go to the club when you were feuding with Stegner over that damn bear?”

  “It was Seth Ramsey’s idea. He wanted to hear Flash and the Rusty Roots. They’re the best band to hit Taos in years. Too bad they were playing at Hogs and Heifers.”

  Zach’s eyes narrowed slightly, emphasizing the tiers of lashes framing his deep blue eyes, but he nodded, apparently buying her explanation. His expression never changed, but she was positive that he suspected she was hiding something. Fine. Let him prove it.

  “Did you sleep at Ramsey’s place or yours?”

  A flash of golden fur caught her eye, and she glanced up to see Lobo and Lucy out in the main part of the gallery. Lucy was circling a display case, the hitch in her gait more pronounced than usual, and Lobo was at her heels. She’d forgotten all about the dogs. Welcoming the distraction, she asked, “Just what is your dog doing?”

  “Lobo’s following your retriever, his nose up her tail.” A mocking grin carved his sensual mouth. “Dogs aren’t much different than men. Get a whiff of something they like and—”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Coming from you, that’s a compliment.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Lucy, over here.”

  The retriever limped to her side, followed by Lobo. Even though Zach’s dog was part wolf, he was superbly trained. Obeying a wave of the hand, Lobo sat at his master’s feet, but his eyes were still on Lucy.

  “You spent the night at Seth Ramsey’s place.”

  “No. I didn’t. I went home and slept—alone.” She didn’t volunteer that Seth hadn’t brought her home, or that she hadn’t returned until dawn, hoping the murder would be solved without having to reveal her secrets. “Am I really a suspect?”

  “I’ve got a laundry list of suspects. About five thousand people live here. I figure about half of them wanted Duncan Morrell dead.” He balanced his coffee cup on his knee. “Most murders fall into two categories, crimes of passion or crimes of greed.”

  “In addition to the suspicious print scam, Duncan was involved in shady real estate deals, too,” she told him. “Maybe someone was upset about losing money.”

  His stare drilled into her, and suddenly the back of her neck felt warm as he asked, “‘What do you think goes on at The Hideaway?”

  “Aren’t those like motel rooms you rent by the hour?”

  “Yes. You name it, and Stegner makes sure you can get it at The Hideaway. Drugs. Prostitutes. Kinky sex.”

  “Of course, you never caught Bam Stegner doing anything illegal.” The second her sarcastic comment left her lips, she regre
tted it. Why did she blurt things out without thinking? A smart woman would not antagonize a man like Zach Coulter.

  Zach’s eyes were no longer sparkling blue. Now they were bleak gray and as cold as the winter sky, reminding her that his hair-trigger temper was legendary and had been since his youth. He’d defended his alcoholic mother in fistfight after fistfight even when he had to take on older boys or a gang. Some people might tangle with the likes of Bam Stegner, but they did not provoke this man.

  “I’ve busted a few people for minor narcotics violations and arrested a hooker or two out there,” he replied, his tone lethally calm. “I just have T-Bone, my deputy, to help me cover the entire county. I’d need to have real good proof that something major was going down at The Hideaway before I call the state police for assistance.”

  She could have flung Khadafi at him again, reminding Zach how he’d failed to help the abused bear, but she sensed that she was in real trouble here. “So you’re saying The Hideaway is infamous for sex and drugs. Duncan’s murder was a crime of passion.”

  For a long moment, he again studied her in that disconcerting way of his. “I don’t know yet. Let’s start with who you saw at the club last night.”

  She clearly remembered walking into Hogs and Heifers, her heart beating with the wild pulse of the music, secretly thrilled to know that somehow—some way—Khadafi was going to be stolen. Before midnight.

  “Angela Whitmore and her—ah—personal trainer were at the table next to ours.”

  “Okay. Angie was there with a studmuffin young enough to be her son.”

  She wanted to defend her best client, but it was difficult. The forty-something woman was wealthy enough to buy the best art available. So what if she had a thing for younger men? Trophy wives abounded. Fair was fair.

  “Nevada was there with two women. I didn’t know either of them.”

  “The town stud in action.”

  Claire ventured a quick peek at the bulge in his jeans. Zach’s reputation—and his build—relegated an artist like Nevada to the minor leagues. Personally, she preferred a more sensitive man, but most women would have jumped at the chance to spend one night with Zach Coulter.

  “It was dark. The place was jammed. I saw Lowell Hopkins, who runs the gallery across the plaza. There might have been others I knew and didn’t see. The only light was the Silver Bullet sign over the bar and the candles on the tables.”

  She could have added that after her first drink, she was a little woozy. The second knocked her for a loop. Looking back, she was positive someone who worked for Bam had slipped something into her drink. But she had no intention of telling the sheriff the details unless she had no alternative.

  Zach rose to a standing position, an athletic movement that emanated barely restrained power. Lobo shifted to his feet, too, silently rising on all fours, his gaze still locked on Lucy. The retriever wagged her tail, which was unusual considering Lobo’s size and fierce expression.

  “I may have more questions later,” Zach said over his shoulder, heading for the front door.

  A thought suddenly hit her as she followed him. “Wait. I …”

  He suddenly halted, swinging around, and she bumped into him, her breasts pillowing into his chest. For an instant she felt his heart beating against her own. Her pulse thrummed noisily, painfully. The past rose, swift and sure from some hidden well-spring inside her. She lurched away and bumped into a display case.

  “You remembered someone else who was there?”

  “No, I …” She inspected the beaded toe of her moccasin. “Do you have to tell anyone I lost my wallet at The Hideaway? Do you have to mention me at all? I mean, it could be bad for business.”

  Zach hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, his silhouette etched starkly against the summer sunlight streaming through the gallery’s windows. Unexpectedly, her heart accelerated as she vividly recalled another day—years ago—when he’d stood, facing her, his back to the blazing sun.

  Memories stole past the barrier she had kept in place for so long, and she saw, not the man before her, but a much younger edition. The town bad boy. They were alone by a mountain pool. His back was to the sun, but the shadow cast across his face didn’t conceal the heartfelt emotion. Everyone else in town assumed Zach Coulter was as tough and unfeeling as the rugged mountains ringing the town.

  But she knew the truth, knew it in her heart and felt it in her soul. He could be hurt just like anyone else. So, she took him into her arms that summer day, a mistake that changed too many lives.

  “Tell the truth, princess,” he said, his words jarring her back to the present. “You don’t want Daddy to know.”

  “That’s part of it,” she conceded. “I took a stand against Bam Stegner over the bear, I would rather no one knew—”

  “You don’t want your father to find out that not only did you go to Hogs and Heifers, you were in The Hideaway. What were you doing there?”

  “I never said I was there. I don’t know if my wallet was lost or stolen,” she hedged. “I would prefer that this doesn’t hit the papers. It would be bad for business.”

  “Why should I help you?” His mouth quirked into a suggestion of a smile. “You wouldn’t spit on me, if I were on fire. Would you?”

  The bitterness in his tone made her shudder inwardly. She’d come back to town a little over a year ago. Zach Coulter had returned to his hometown a year earlier, but she made dead certain their paths never crossed. She’d thought he hadn’t noticed, but obviously, she was wrong.

  “I’m sorry, I …”

  “You treat me like shit, then you want my help.”

  “I didn’t do anything—”

  “It’s going to cost you.”

  “I don’t have any money. I didn’t take a nickel from my father to finance The Rising Sun. You—of all people—must know he would never want my mother’s gallery reopened. Another T-shirt shop in this building would have been his choice—and you know it.”

  A moment of silence stretched between them fraught with memories of the past. And thoughts better left unsaid.

  “I worked in Phoenix and saved enough money until I could open this gallery,” she added when the silence became unbearable. “I’m barely scraping by. This season will make or break me.”

  There might have been a grudging hint of approval in his intense blue eyes, but she couldn’t be certain. “I wasn’t talking about a bribe.”

  His gaze roved over her with deliberate slowness, tracking the curves of her breasts before dropping to the silver concho belt. The denim dress was smocked with elastic from beneath her breasts to the bottom of her hips. There it flared into soft folds which fell broomstick style to her ankles. Suddenly, the dress seemed to fit much too tight as he inspected the lines of her body.

  “There are laws against sexual harassment,” she said a little more angrily than she intended, but he infuriated her. Zach Coulter belonged on Mars where there was no sign of intelligent life. Once he might have had a vulnerable side, but time had erased every trace of it.

  Zach arched one black eyebrow questioningly, then he grinned. A second later he began to chuckle. Both dogs cocked their heads and stared at him. He moved closer until he was hovering over her, and she could smell the citrus scent of his aftershave. And see the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

  “Sexual harassment? Sweetcakes, I just thought you might say hello when we pass on the sidewalk.”

  Zach grabbed his Stetson off the majestic bronze of Wild Horse, an Apache warrior. He touched one finger to the hat in a mock salute, then strode out of the gallery, Lobo beside him. Claire closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the color flaming her cheeks and seething at how easily he had tricked her.

  “Making a fool of yourself is the least of your problems,” she muttered. A cold shiver spread through her as she remembered going into the pitch-black room at The Hideaway. Her behavior had been so out-of-character, so reckless. Under normal circumstances, she would never have stayed in a dar
k room with a strange man.

  Her foolishness now had her linked to a brutal murder.

  “Awesome! Truly awesome!”

  Claire opened her eyes to find Vanessa Trent breezing into the gallery. The actress was staring at Zach Coulter’s back as he opened the Bronco’s door for Lobo.

  “I assume you mean the dog,” Claire said. “He’s part timber wolf.”

  “No, I meant the 501s. The man is all wolf. Who is he?”

  “That’s the sheriff, Zachary Coulter,” Claire reluctantly answered.

  Vanessa Trent had the potential of being one of her best clients, but the actress was more interested in sex than art. She freely discussed her sexual escapades, even though she and Claire weren’t close friends. Claire couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. The actress had made her fortune on a top-rated sitcom about aliens who divided their time between a fast-food restaurant in the Bronx and a spaceship orbiting Mars. The show exploited Vanessa’s body, ignoring her talent.

  The actress had sex appeal in spades. Long black hair and sapphire blue eyes highlighted perfect features. Most women would have insisted Vanessa’s breasts were the work of some pricey Beverly Hills surgeon, but Claire doubted it. Vanessa was simply one of those women blessed by nature with striking beauty and a figure to match.

  “The sheriff? Really?” Vanessa managed to pry her eyes away from the tail pipe of Zach’s Bronco as it disappeared around the corner. “I thought the old guy—”

  “Ollie Hammond is the chief of police. He’s in charge of crime inside city limits. Zach’s the law in the county.”

  “The law, huh?” Vanessa ran the tip of her tongue over gloss-pink lips shaped like a full Cupid’s bow. “The sheriff looks like the type who would be into down-and-dirty sex.”

  Claire couldn’t deny it. Rumors about Zach Coulter were too prevalent to dismiss entirely. Like father, like son. An image appeared in her mind, startling in its clarity. She knew exactly what his magnificent body would look like without clothes. And how the angular, yet sensual planes of his face would look when he climaxed.