The Secret Sister

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Is that what you were doing tonight?” he asked. “Stealing a look ahead of the competition?”

  “You’d probably like Hutton’s new designs,” she said, not quite answering the question. “Anasazi motifs all the way.”

  Cain bent over the snifter, swirled the liquid gently, and inhaled the aromatic fumes of the brandy. After a moment he tilted the crystal and let a bit of the tawny liquor slide down his throat.

  “Anasazi?” he asked casually. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The usual way.” She sipped. “I saw the designs.”

  “When? In the house?”

  “In the barn.”

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re here to cover Hutton’s latest fashion twitch, but when the show began down by the barn you weren’t there.”

  “I missed the formal show, but I saw some of the fabrics earlier. Grays, black, whites. Unusual geometries in the designs. Like that bowl on the worktable.”

  “Late Pueblo,” he said.

  But his eyes said he knew she was changing the subject.

  “Very striking,” she said. “There was an odd, curving stick figure too. Many of the designs revolved around it.”

  “Kokopelli.”

  The barely leashed intensity in Cain’s voice and glance told her that there was more to the matter than a simple design. Then she remembered Johnny using the word “Kokopelli” to summon Autry. And Peter Hutton.

  Apparently Kokopelli was some kind of code word.

  She wondered if Jo-Jo knew it too.

  Quickly Christy ran through the few facts she had. Johnny had used that word. Cain thought Johnny had shot him. Hutton was connected to Johnny. And to Jo-Jo.

  Is that why Jo-Jo is afraid of Cain? Is he why she’s hiding?

  “What does Kokopelli mean?” Christy asked.

  “He’s the Anasazi Pan. A hunchbacked, oversexed flute player.”

  “A fertility symbol?”

  Cain smiled slightly. “More like a symbol of unleashed sexuality.”

  “An odd choice for women’s clothing designs.”

  “Not with Jo doing the modeling. Hutton knows what he’s selling, and he knows just how to sell it.”

  The shades of scorn and something worse in Cain’s voice made Christy feel cold in spite of the brandy and the cheerful hearth fire. Yet she wasn’t afraid of him. Not really, not in any personal way.

  Wary, yes.

  Watchful, yes.

  Off balance, certainly.

  But she was positive at some primitive level that he wouldn’t hurt her physically. He wasn’t the kind of man who took pleasure in giving pain.

  Yet he’d killed someone.

  And someone might have tried to kill him.

  Suddenly she realized that the silence had gone on too long. Cain was watching her with amber eyes that saw much too clearly. She started talking about the first thing that came to her mind that didn’t have to do with death, near death, and Jo-Jo.

  “Fabric isn’t as rigid as clay,” Christy said, “yet Hutton’s designs work very well. They’re mysterious, enigmatic, and primitive, while being sophisticated in the timeless way that balanced asymmetry often is.”

  Cain didn’t say a word.

  “After all the pastels and cloying designs he’s been flogging these past few seasons,” she said, “it’s refreshing.”

  “You don’t like Peter Hutton, do you?”

  She was dismayed by Cain’s insight. Usually people couldn’t read her that well. Or maybe it was just that she usually hid her reactions better.

  “It’s my job to write about Hutton’s fashions,” she said, “not to like or dislike him.”

  “Have you met him face to face?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  Cain’s smile was thin and cold. “Most women come into heat when they get that close.”

  “I’m not most women.”

  “No, you aren’t. You’re the woman I caught running flat out down the hill while Hutton’s guards beat the underbrush.”

  She took a sip, stalling. Real soon she’d have to stop fencing with Cain and tell him the truth or tell him to go to hell. Of the two, she’d rather tell the truth. She was more used to it. And she couldn’t fight the growing certainty that she could trust Cain—up to a point.

  That point was Jo-Jo.

  The heady fumes bathing Christy’s face were almost as intoxicating as the liquor itself. She took another sip and then another. The tawny Armagnac burst softly inside her, sending shock waves of warmth through her chilled flesh.

  Distantly she realized that the top of her head had come off, drifting, floating, flying….

  Uh-oh. Altitude, alcohol, and an adrenaline jag are a bad mix.

  Deliberately she set aside the snifter, but it was too late. The gleaming crystal was empty.

  He leaned over, took the snifter, and poured another two fingers in.

  “No, thanks,” she said quickly. “I’ve had enough.”

  “‘In wine is truth,’ which means I don’t think you’ve had nearly enough yet.”

  She gave him a wary glance. “I’ve had as much as I’m going to right now.”

  “So give me as much truth as I’m going to get from you right now.”

  She blinked, then smiled slowly. Not all the truth and no outright lies. The reporter’s way.

  “I was looking for Jo,” Christy said.

  “Why?”

  “Some people in New York told me she and Hutton weren’t as close as they had been,” Christy said, choosing her half-truths carefully. “I thought she might be able to give me some—um, new insights into Hutton’s character.”

  “Why were you looking for her in the house?”

  “She wasn’t in the barn with the rest of the models. Where else would she be?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Some people hinted that she had a new lover,” Christy offered.

  Cain drank. Whatever he was thinking didn’t show on his face.

  “Do you know who it is?” she asked.

  “Half the state of Colorado.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

  “With Jo-Jo?” he asked sardonically. “No way. She doesn’t have a personal bone in her body.”

  Jo-Jo.

  Shock cut through the Armagnac’s glow, shaking Christy. She was the only person who’d ever called Jo by that childhood name, which meant that no matter how much Cain might scorn Jo-Jo now, he’d once been close to her, so close that he knew about her childhood. If he knew about that, he could well know about the older sister who’d given Jo-Jo her nickname.

  My God, what have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 16

  Without thinking, Christy reached for the snifter again. She took a reckless sip, swallowed, and blinked away the tears drawn by the powerful liquor.

  “Jo-Jo?” Christy cleared her throat. “Is that what people call her?”

  “It’s what she called herself,” Cain said.

  “Really? Any special reason?”

  “Jo-Jo didn’t need reasons. She thought just being sexy was a good enough excuse for everything she did.”

  “Did she tell you anything else about herself?”

  “Why would she?” He breathed in the aroma of fine brandy. “Like I said, nothing personal. She just wanted to see if screwing a murderer would feel any different.”

  Christy shuddered, relieved and horrified at the same time. “You hate her.”

  It was an accusation, not a question.

  He sipped, swallowed, and lowered the snifter, revealing the grim lines of his face. “Okay, Red. You didn’t find the divine Jo-Jo in the house. What did you find that scared you?”

  “I saw—” Her voice broke as she remembered. “The guards. They beat Johnny.”

  The memory of the blows with pistol and fists, and the blood and the pain, made her feel cold all over again. Sh
e closed her eyes and took another swallow of the fiery liquor.

  “They beat Johnny in front of you?” Cain asked skeptically.

  “They didn’t know I was there.”

  “Where were you hiding?”

  “Jo’s closet.”

  “Why were they beating him?”

  “He tried to break into a room down the hall,” she said. “He spent several minutes working on the lock. Then he heard a guard and ran into Jo’s bedroom to hide. I heard him coming and hid first.”

  “Must have been a hell of a lock.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Johnny went to postgraduate burglary school—three years in jail.” As always, the mention of jail made Cain’s expression even more bleak. “What did the guards want from Johnny?”

  “They wanted to know what he was after.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He didn’t tell them.”

  “So they beat him.”

  “Yes.” She sipped more brandy. Too much, but she couldn’t stop herself. The remembered taste of fear was too strong in her mouth. “I think they were afraid of him. Physically.”

  “Smart men. Johnny’s a famous brawler. He can take a lot of hammering. He can give even more.”

  “Tonight, he was taking it.” Christy swallowed. “They hit him in the face with a pistol.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Hammond.”

  “It was the other one. He liked hitting Johnny. I could see it. He…”

  She took a quick drink, covering the taste of fear and nausea in her mouth.

  “Then what?” Cain asked, but his voice was more sympathetic than his words.

  “Johnny got scared. He wanted to talk with one of Hutton’s aides.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Mr. Autry.”

  “Bringing Autry in would be like throwing a drowning man an anchor.”

  “He seemed pleasant enough when I met him,” she said, “despite his drugstore cowboy clothes.”

  “Autry is a retired FBI agent.”

  “I can see how a man in your position wouldn’t think much of him.”

  “‘A man in your position,’” Cain quoted coolly. “As in ex-con?”

  She took refuge in another sip of brandy.

  When she looked up again, he was watching the fire. She’d never seen such raw intensity in any man as she saw in him right now. Automatically she lifted the brandy to her lips, trying to drive away the persistent chill that had begun with Jo-Jo’s call and had done nothing but get worse the closer she got to her sister.

  “Red?”

  She looked up.

  “Why were you really up in Hutton’s house?”

  While Christy tried to figure out what to say, he watched her with a curious expression on his face. It was like they were on a first date and he was trying to decide whether or not to kiss her good night. But his eyes were measuring rather than playful. He knew she’d been lying to him. What he didn’t know was why.

  She closed her eyes.

  Big mistake. Alcohol, altitude, and the aftermath of an adrenaline jag made her sway. Chills chased over her. She was cold. Shivering cold. Bone-deep cold.

  Instinctively she wrapped her arms around her body and held on, trying to hold in her own body heat.

  “Are you going to faint on me after all?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, her voice ragged. “I’ve never fainted. Ever.”

  She struggled to her feet and stood with her back to his, swaying slightly.

  Before she could take another breath, his hands were beneath her elbows, steadying her. He was close, almost as close as he’d been when he grabbed her in the stand of trees. She remembered the strength of his grip then. It was just as strong now.

  And just as careful of her softer flesh.

  “What kind of trouble are you in, honey?” he asked gently.

  “I’m cold. That’s all.”

  And she was. All the way to the marrow of her bones.

  Cold.

  Cain’s fingers tightened for an instant before he let out a long breath and accepted that she wasn’t going to trust him tonight. Maybe not ever.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll play it your way for a while. Sure as hell my way isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means if you’re cold, I’ve got just the thing for you. Can you walk or do you want me to—”

  “I can walk,” she cut in quickly.

  “Damn. And here I was looking forward to carrying you.”

  His lazy, teasing tone startled her. She gave him a swift look over her shoulder. His smile was as warm as the firelight reflected in his eyes.

  “Don’t look so worried,” he said, amused. “I may be an ex-con and a Moki-poaching son of a bitch, but I’m a gentleman where good women are concerned.”

  She smiled uncertainly. “You forgot the bit about high-grading.”

  Cain laughed and shook his head at the same time. “You’d sass Satan himself, wouldn’t you?”

  Her smile widened.

  “What is a high grader, anyway?” she asked.

  “Someone who skims the best of a mine’s ore and leaves the rest for the legal owners.”

  “Oh. The mineral specimens?” Christy looked at the golden sunburst radiating up through natural crystal spires.

  “Yeah. They’re legal, by the way. I have a permit to hunt specimens in a lot of the old mines around here.”

  “And the Moki poaching?” she asked neutrally.

  “I have permits for that, too. Digs on private land are perfectly legal. Ask Hutton.”

  “Why would he know?”

  “My best stuff came from the old Donovan ranch before Hutton bought it, fenced it off, and started digging himself.”

  She remembered the fantastic artifacts she’d seen that afternoon. The “stuff” must indeed have been good. She didn’t blame Hutton for wanting to keep it to himself.

  When Cain led her out into the night, the cold air bit right through her silk blouse and jacket.

  “This is going to warm me up?” she said.

  “Trust me, Red. On this, at least.”

  She looked up into the darkness but could see only the dense black silhouette of a tall man. The width of his shoulders blocked out part of the starry sky. His eyes were hidden. So was his expression.

  But the hand beneath her arm was patient, not demanding. He was waiting for her decision. She could go back into the house and the certainty of a fire in the hearth, or she could trust Cain and follow him into the cold night.

  “All right,” she said simply.

  Chapter 17

  Christy sensed rather than heard the long breath Cain let out. His fingers curled caressingly around her arm for a moment, then relaxed.

  “The moonlight should be bright enough,” he said, “but if you want a flashlight, I’ll get one.”

  She looked out at the silvery light flooding the mountainside, making the world both beautiful and unreal. Far above timberline, patches of white snow glistened like quicksilver against the darker peaks. Nearby, black groves of spruce whispered and sighed beneath the breeze.

  “No flashlight.” Then she added in a tone of surprise, “I’ve missed the night.”

  “Too many city lights?”

  “Yes.”

  Where the path entered a spruce grove, there was a sudden rustling in the underbrush.

  “Are you afraid of dogs?” he asked quickly.

  “No.”

  An instant later she wondered if she’d spoken too soon. The animal that appeared in the moonlit path wasn’t a tail-wagging puppy-friendly critter. Big-boned, long-legged, rangy, the dog looked more like a wolf than man’s best friend.

  “Hey, Moki,” Cain said as the dog trotted forward. “I hope you caught dinner, because I didn’t bring any for you.”

  A long bushy tail waved in response to Cain’s casual ruffling of the anim
al’s ears, but it was Christy who was the center of the dog’s attention.

  “He won’t bother you unless you ask,” Cain said. “Maybe not even then. He’s been on his own since I got shot.”

  “You left him to fend for himself?”

  “Better hungry and half wild than locked in a pen,” Cain said flatly. “Moki wouldn’t have lasted more than a month at the end of a chain.”

  His voice said more than his words. The time he’d spent in jail had given him a hatred of being penned, locked up, chained.

  She shivered, but it was from the thought of being in a cage, not from the cold.

  In the moonlight, Moki looked lean and predatory. Yet there was something endearing about the set of his ears. She dropped to one knee and held out her hand.

  “Hi, Moki,” she said softly. “I don’t blame you for being wary of strangers, but you’re okay with me. I won’t hurt you or tie you up. I’d even feed you if I had anything worth eating.”

  Drawn by her low, calm voice, the dog came to her like a black ghost, sniffed her hand, and then nudged her palm with his nose in a frank invitation to be petted.

  She laughed lightly and gave the dog his due.

  “You sweet old fraud,” she said. “You’re not a big bad wolf after all, are you?”

  Moki grinned, showing double rows of gleaming teeth.

  She laughed again, not at all afraid. Talking quietly to him, she scratched his ears and down his muscular chest, enjoying the warmth and the sensation of lean, sinewy health the dog radiated. It had been years since she’d touched anything but city dogs with fine pedigrees and the kinds of neuroses that come from living in tiny apartments and walking on cement.

  “Come on, Red,” Cain said after a time. “Moki will soak up that kind of loving until you go numb from the cold.”

  “He’s warm.”

  “So am I. Want to scratch my ears?”

  She laughed and stood again. When she started forward into the brush, Moki fell in along her left side. Bracketed by lean male animals, she felt both amused and safe from whatever the darkness might offer.

  From the path ahead came the sound of running water. As they approached, spruce trees gave way to a clearing where a small stream murmured and dreamed in shades of silver through the night. Water tumbled down the rock face of a little ledge, crossed the clearing, and disappeared again in the trees.