by Tami Lund
He rolled his eyes. “I heard Frank say it. Now, where do you live?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to let you grab a few things before we head out of town.”
“You’re going to—excuse me?” she sputtered, staring at him.
“Look, we just went through this. Everything about that scenario was wrong. Including the fact that they shot Frank without—”
“They shot Frank?” Her head swam and her stomach churned. “Is he…?”
“Dead? I don’t know, but if I were a gambling man, I’d say yes. Now, where do you live? If you don’t tell me, I’ll just head out of town and you won’t even have a toothbrush let alone a change of clothes.”
“Out of town? Where are we going? For how long?”
“Yes. It’s best if you don’t know. And I don’t know. At least until I figure out what the hell is going on.”
“This is insane.”
“Yes, it is.”
She shifted her gaze to the windshield and watched suburban yard after yard zoom past as they drove down a residential street. What was she supposed to do? She didn’t have her phone, so she couldn’t call 9-1-1 or even a friend. Or how about her boss? This guy, Philip, said Frank had been shot, but was anyone else? Was the receptionist okay?
Stuffing her hands into the pockets of Frank’s coat, she scrunched down in her seat. The fingers of her left hand brushed something hard. She pulled it out to examine it.
It was black and rectangular and fit into the palm of her hand. It was dense and yet malleable, like Play-Doh. Several metal, pointy things had been shoved into it. They looked like the ends of earbuds you plugged into the computer so you could listen to music.
Philip glanced over and nearly sideswiped a car parked on the street. He quickly looked in the rearview mirror and then pulled over to the curb and shifted into park. “Give me that,” he snapped, snatching the little brick out of her hand.
“Hey!”
“Where did you get this?”
“From Frank’s coat.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re wearing Frank’s coat?”
“Somebody dragged me out of the salon without letting me grab my own, and it’s cold outside.”
Shaking his head, he said, “Give it to me.”
“What?”
“The coat.” He didn’t wait for her to comply; he started wrenching it off her shoulders.
“Hey,” she protested again. “Stop it.” She smacked at him as he tugged it off her person, rolled down the window, and tossed it out.
“Holy shit. Why did you do that?”
He shrugged out of his fleece and dropped it into her lap, then shifted into gear and took off again.
“What the heck, dude?”
“That coat could be bugged. And this”—he lifted the brick— “proves Frank isn’t the good guy everybody thinks he is.”
“How do you figure?”
“This is part of an explosive.”
“He works with pyrotechnics.”
“This isn’t the legal kind of pyro.”
Maecie thought back to the conversation she’d had with Frank in her chair. He’d been complaining about the government keeping tabs on him. And when she jokingly commented about him selling explosives to terrorists, he hadn’t exactly denied it. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now…
“Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?”
Chapter Three
Maecie had finally—and extremely grudgingly—given him directions to the tiny, two-bedroom ranch with an attached one-car garage she called home.
He wished he could leave her here because honestly, the last thing he needed right now was a tagalong who had no idea of the stakes of this game. Hell, he didn’t even know what was going on.
People like Frank Charles, who built his own business from the ground up and ultimately ended up making far more money than he probably ever expected to, often became greedy and started looking for other means to increase their bank balances. Most did it legally, whether that was diversifying their business offerings or getting into stocks and bonds or going public.
But there was always someone who thought they could get away with growing the almighty dollar via illegal means. And, apparently, Frank Charles had made that decision somewhere along the line.
“Why?” Philip mused. “He could have retired comfortably on what he’d already made.”
But for some, that wasn’t enough. And now the man was likely dead as a result of that greed.
Shaking his head, he pulled into a leaf-strewn drive and drove around the small garage and into the backyard.
“What in the world are you doing?” Maecie demanded.
“Hiding my truck in case someone is already looking for you. Come on, let’s get inside.”
“Not sure how you expect that to happen, since my keys are in my purse, which is back at the salon.”
Which was a problem, and one of several reasons he wasn’t leaving her here alone. Whoever stormed into that salon would figure out that she was Frank’s hairstylist, and a quick once-over of the place would unearth her purse and ID and home address. He didn’t know if those fake-FBI agents would do her harm, but he wasn’t taking the chance.
Reaching over her lap, he noticed her sharp intake of breath as he flipped open the glove compartment and pulled out his handy breaking and entering mechanism, which, to the naked eye, looked like a typical Swiss Army knife.
Yeah, she’d definitely been eyeing him back at the salon, and even though she was still half convinced he was kidnapping her, she was attracted to him.
He kind of liked it.
Besides being gorgeous, she was spunky, although that wasn’t necessarily a good thing in these circumstances. Right now, he could use a submissive, frightened woman who did whatever he commanded her to do. Not one who questioned his every single motive.
He wasn’t used to answering to other people.
“Come on. You have five minutes to pack whatever you think you’ll need. But no electronics.”
He herded her toward the door leading into the garage, then glanced around to make sure no one was overtly watching before flipping open the small instrument and making quick work of the flimsy lock.
“How did you do that?” she asked when the door swung open, revealing an interior packed with boxes and Rubbermaid tubs, save for a vehicle-sized space in the middle.
Ignoring her question, he walked over to the door that opened into the house and picked that lock too.
They stepped into a small, eat-in kitchen with clean, albeit ancient appliances. Straight ahead was a living room that was well-kept if aged. Three open doors to the left revealed bedrooms and a bathroom.
Definitely cozy.
He planned to take her to his cabin over on the west side of the state so they could lay low until he could get a handle on the Frank Charles situation. It wasn’t much larger than Maecie’s house, although he did have a bigger kitchen, and his appliances and furniture were far more modern.
“You managed to sneak us away from an FBI scene and now you’ve broken into my house, and you still insist you aren’t kidnapping me?”
He sighed and ran his fingers through his short cropped hair. “For the seven billionth time, they weren’t FBI and I’m not kidnapping you. I’m protecting you.”
“From what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She arched her brows, crossed her arms, and tapped her foot, like she was waiting for a better answer. Definitely had spunk.
He liked her hair, with that red streak running through the shoulder-length, blond tresses. She had pretty green eyes, too. And plump, rosy lips. Kissable.
He liked her style. That thin cardigan and those black leggings tucked into knee-high boots. They weren’t stiletto heels, but boots on a woman were sexy in Philip’s book, pretty much hands down.
“Pack,” he said, pointing at the row of doors across the room.
The middle one was a bathroom. He guessed the one on the left was her bedroom, since he could see the foot of a bed and he couldn’t see any furniture in the other room.
“For how long? For what sort of situation?”
Under normal circumstances, he liked a woman with her own mind. He needed to remember that.
“I don’t know how long. Let’s say a week, to be safe.”
She threw her hands into the air. “A week? I can’t miss Thanksgiving! Plus, I’m supposed to work this weekend. Do you have any idea how many clients I have scheduled?”
Of course he didn’t. “Just pack.”
“I really wish I had a landline, because I’d sure as hell call the cops right now,” she muttered as she turned on her heel and strode toward the bedroom.
He followed. Mostly because he was nosy, but he also wanted to make sure she didn’t stuff an iPad or laptop into her bag. Unless she knew how to cover her digital footprint like he did, those things could be tracked. And he wanted to make sure she was off the grid until he got some answers.
He stood in the doorway and watched as she pulled a rolling bag out of the closet. Her bedroom was decidedly feminine. Three walls were white while the fourth was covered with blue, flowery wallpaper. Her bed rested against that wall. The headboard looked antique with its scrollwork painted white—probably iron. The comforter was thick, downy, and matched the blue wall. A spindly, wooden bedside table, also painted white, looked like it was a relic from a previous century.
“You into antiques?” he asked as she threw clothes into her bag.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but this used to be my grandmother’s house. She passed away last spring and left it to me in her will. I haven’t changed much because it reminds me of her and I love and miss her.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” He meant it, too. All of his grandparents except for his dad’s father were still alive, and in fact, Grandma Bryant was coming for Thanksgiving this year.
Maybe he’d invite Maecie along with him, if he could finagle a way to go.
But first, he needed to get her to safety. “Three minutes. And no electronics.”
“I’m not a child, you know,” she called after him as he left the bedroom. He grinned and peered out the front window.
A black Jeep Cherokee drove past. Not something that would be particularly interesting, save for the way the vehicle slowed to a crawl as it passed Maecie’s house.
The smile slid from his face. “Time to go,” he yelled without taking his eyes off the SUV.
He had the camera on his phone ready, but when it got far enough down the road, he saw that the owner had one of those darkened plastic covers that made it damn near impossible to see their license plate from this distance.
And then he watched as it pulled into a driveway, backed out, and headed back up the road.
“Definitely time to leave,” he shouted, striding toward the bedroom but pulling up short when she stepped into the doorway with her hand gripping her luggage.
“Good,” he said with a nod, and then he grasped the handle and headed toward the kitchen. She followed, snagging a coat off a hook as she did so.
Once they were back in his truck, she tugged off his fleece and tossed it into his lap, replacing it with her own coat. Was it weird that he liked the way she looked in his fleece? He kind of wished she’d kept it on.
Shaking off the odd sensation, he pointed at the swath of trees that ran the length of her backyard. “What’s back there?”
“My neighbor.”
“Is there a fence?”
“No. Why? What are you—?”
He pressed the gas and drove through her yard.
“Are you crazy?”
“No. I’m trying to ensure we aren’t being followed.”
“By destroying my yard? And my neighbor’s?”
In truth, he only drove over a few feet of her neighbor’s grass before he hit their driveway and continued on to the street beyond. Plus, it was November and the grass was dormant, so really, how much damage was he actually doing? But maybe if he were a little forthcoming, she wouldn’t be so difficult.
“There was someone watching the front of your house.”
She immediately turned in her seat to look out the back window, but they were already heading down the next block toward the main road. “Who?”
“I have no idea.”
“But you knew someone was watching. How?”
“I saw the same vehicle drive by at least twice, and they slowed down when they were in front of your house. Plus, their license plate was hidden. Could be a coincidence, but given what happened at your salon, I’m not buying it.”
“I don’t get it. Why would someone watch my house?”
“I don’t know that either, but I’m guessing it has something to do with Frank Charles.”
“Oh God.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “I can’t believe he’s dead. He is dead, isn’t he?”
Philip shook his head. “I didn’t stick around to check his pulse, remember?”
“Yeah, but they shot him. They wanted him dead, didn’t they?”
Philip glanced at her, saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. He resisted the urge to reach over and give her arm a reassuring squeeze. “That would be my assumption, yes.”
“But why?”
“There’s suspicion that he was illegally selling explosives to terrorist groups.”
“Who suspects him?”
“You sure do ask a lot of questions, you know that?”
She lifted one shoulder. “Comes with the territory when you’re a hairstylist. Clients love to feel like you’re interested in their lives.”
“So you don’t really want to know the answers; you’re just asking because you’re trying to be polite?”
“Sometimes. But usually, I genuinely want to know about my clients’ lives.”
“Has Frank ever told you anything suspicious?”
She lifted her chin. “That’s client-stylist privileged information.”
He barked out a laugh. “Wrong profession, sweetheart. And by the way, that privileged information is the reason you’re in a truck with me, headed out of town.”
“Where are we going?”
“I can’t tell you.” Or didn’t want to. It was safer for all involved if she didn’t know.
“How are you going to keep me from paying attention to the turnoffs and stuff?”
He pulled a bandana out of the console. He used it as a sweatband when he was chopping wood for the fireplace at his cabin, but she didn’t need to know that.
“I’m going to blindfold you.”
“And you keep insisting you aren’t kidnapping me.”
He understood why she kept throwing it in his face, but damn, he was getting sick of the accusation. “Look, Maecie, if I hadn’t taken you with me, there’s a very real chance you would be dead right now.”
Her face paled as her eyes widened.
“So look at it this way: going with me is definitely your safest option.”
Chapter Four
Maecie had no idea if Philip really would have acted on his threat to blindfold her, but in the end, it didn’t matter. She slept for nearly the entire ride.
Yeah, she was one of those people who, if they sat anywhere in a vehicle other than the driver’s seat, were lulled to sleep almost instantly.
When she woke, she was covered with her own coat as if it were a blanket, with Philip’s fleece tucked between her head and the window she’d been leaning against. She didn’t want to think about how in the world he managed to do all that while still driving the truck.
They were bumping along what looked like a one-lane dirt road, surrounded on all sides by tall, slender trees. A quick glance at the clock on the dash told her that only a few hours had passed, yet the branches hanging over the road, even though they were devoid of leaves, were so thick that it was as dark as twilight.
So this man, Philip who wouldn’t giv
e her a last name and who insisted he wasn’t kidnapping her, had taken her about three hours out of the city, into what looked like a wooded area where no other humans had ever stepped foot.
“Yeah, not worried at all that you’re going to rape and then kill me and chop me up into pieces and eat me for dinner,” she muttered.
“That’s gross,” he said.
“Which part?”
“Rape, specifically, but, honestly, all of it. For the record, I’m not into forcing women or murder or cannibalism.”
Well, that was a relief. You know, if she could simply take his word for it. “What are you into?” she asked.
She needed to learn as much as she possibly could about this man. And then she needed to find some paper and a pen so she could write it all down. That way, if he did kill her, somebody would hopefully find her notes and be able to figure out who did it.
“What do you mean?”
“What are your hobbies? What do you like? What are you interested in?”
He tossed her a narrow-eyed glance before focusing on the road again. “Why are you asking?”
She waved at the windshield. “Apparently, we’re going to be spending a week alone together in the woods. Seems like we should get to know one another, don’t you think?”
Before he could respond, a dwelling came into view ahead. The wall of trees gave way to a clearing, with a cabin positioned near the edge, across from the two-track they were on. A garage and another structure, a pole barn she guessed, sat to the left of the house.
The cabin was made of wood, all the way down to the railing of the wide front porch that ran the length of the square building. A rocking chair, also wooden, was parked next to the front door. The roof was steel and then, of course, there were windows that looked brand-new, but otherwise, it was an old-fashioned log cabin.
And it was beautiful.
Not that she was about to tell this James Bond wannabe that.
He parked in the garage, then hopped out and came around to open her door, which was terribly chivalrous for a kidnapper.
With a sigh, he asked, “Would you stop looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”