by Lisa Jackson
By the time she’d eaten half her salmon, Nikki thought she might burst.
“So where is Trent tonight?” her father asked as he pronged a potato and studied it. “Why couldn’t he join us?”
“He’s working late. Lots to catch up on.”
“A private investigator…. Ah, well, I thought you’d marry someone…” He searched for the right word, and Nikki felt her temper start to simmer.
“Someone more conventional?” she asked. “Someone like Dave Neumann.”
Her father lifted a big shoulder. “He’s not a bad guy, but, hey, since you’re married, let’s leave him out of the conversation.”
“Good idea.” Nikki picked at the pieces of pink salmon flesh, but her appetite had disappeared. She felt like a fool and a fraud, defending a man who had not one ounce of compunction about lying to her.
Her father asked about her amnesia, tested her and, satisfied that her memory was intact, nodded to himself. “Glad you’re feeling better. I was worried about you, Nicole.”
“I know. But I’m okay. Really.” They smiled at each other and some of the old feelings of love between them resurfaced. She remembered trusting him implicitly, never questioning his ultimate wisdom.
Finally, her father shoved his plate aside. Rosie, as if she’d been hovering nearby waiting, swooped down and swept up the dirty dishes. She asked about another round of drinks, but neither Nikki or her father was interested. When she finally left, Ted set his elbows on the table and tented his hands. “Aside from the honeymoon and the accident, how was your trip?”
“Salvaje’s an interesting place. Semitropical. Warm. I’d like to go back someday.”
Her father’s lower lip protruded. “What about Jim Crowley?” Nikki’s insides jelled and she looked up sharply, but her father just seemed to be making conversation as he swirled the remainder of his ale in his mug. “I know he was down there at the same time as you. I thought you might be dogging him.”
“I was on my honeymoon, Dad,” she said. “I didn’t even talk to him.” Nikki’s tongue felt thick and twisted as she tried to evade the issue without lying to her father.
“He’s…well, he’s not really a friend of mine, but I know him. I’ve done business with his law firm for years. I deal with his son, James, Jr. Hell of an attorney. Smart as a whip.”
“What you’re saying, Dad, is that because Jim’s son is a great attorney, I should back off on any story dealing with the senator. Especially if it shows our favorite son in a bad light?”
“Just don’t hound the man, Nikki.” Ted tossed back the remaining drops of his dark beer. “You people with the press, always digging, always looking for dirt.”
“He’s a politician, Dad.”
“So he asked for it?”
“So he’s got to keep his constituents’ best interests at heart. He can’t be playing to special interest groups and he’s got to keep his nose clean. It comes with the territory.”
“I think he’s a good man, Nikki. I wouldn’t want his reputation destroyed on some drummed-up charge. It wouldn’t be fair and I wouldn’t want my daughter a part of it.”
“I’m a reporter, Dad.” Her chin inched upward a notch in pride. “I try my level best to write the truth without being biased or opinionated. Now, that’s tough given my gene pool, but the best I can promise you is that if Crowley’s nose is clean, I won’t harass him.”
Her father sighed. “I guess that’s the best I can expect.”
“Damn straight.”
Her father paid the bill and walked Nikki to her car. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and wondered how they, who had been so close, had drifted so far apart politically. Age, probably. Disillusionment.
She drove to her apartment and had the uncanny feeling that she was being followed. Again. Lord, she was getting paranoid. If she didn’t watch out she’d end up on some shrink’s couch, paying big bucks to find out that she was insecure because her parents had split up when she was young.
And because a man deceived you into believing that you were married to him.
Oh, Lord. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and told herself that she should never see Trent again. Let the memories fade on their own. Let sleeping dogs lie.
As far back as she could remember, she’d never let one sleeping dog slumber in peace. Her curiosity, her sense of justice, her desire to set wrong to right, overcame her good judgment. She’d never been one to take the easy way out, or pussyfoot around an issue, and she wasn’t going to start now. If she planned on being the best damned reporter that the Seattle Observer or, for that matter, the New York Times had ever seen, then she’d better quit thinking like a coward.
Sliding her jaw to the side in determination, she threw her convertible into Reverse, turned around and, tires screaming in protest, headed for Lake Washington. She was going to have it out with Trent McKenzie, right or wrong.
* * *
She drove with her foot heavy on the throttle, moving quickly in and out of traffic, suddenly anxious to see him. For weeks she’d been shackled by her injuries, by her amnesia, by Trent’s lies and by the love that she’d begun to feel for him, but now she was in control, her life in her own hands again, though those very hands shook a little as she clutched the wheel.
A part of her still loved him. That stupid, female, trusting section of her brain still conjured up his face and thrilled at the memory of his touch. “Idiot,” she growled, honking impatiently as a huge van pulled into the lane in front of her.
What would she say to Trent when she confronted him? She didn’t know. Scowling, she caught her reflection in the rearview mirror and decided, when she caught the worry in her eyes, that she’d have to wing it. She’d done it before.
She ran a yellow light and turned off the main street. Pushing the speed limit, she drove onto the curvy road that wandered over the cliffs surrounding the lake. Steeling herself for another painful session, she wheeled her sporty car into the drive of his house.
The sun, already hidden by high clouds and clumps of thin fog, was beginning to set and the tall fir trees surrounding the rambling old house seemed gloomy and still. She slid to a stop near the garage and bit her lip. Trent’s Jeep wasn’t parked where he’d left it the previous night.
“Wonderful,” she muttered, then walked to the front door and rapped loudly. No answer. She pushed hard on the doorbell, hearing the chimes ring. Still no footsteps or shouts from within.
She rubbed her arms and felt an overwhelming sense of disappointment. “Stop it,” she chided herself. He wasn’t going to weasel out of this showdown, not after she’d worked up her courage to face him. She walked to the back of the house and found a note on the back door, which she read out loud. “‘Wait for me.”’
Her throat squeezed. He’d expected her. Or someone. The hairs on the back of her neck raised as she opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. Snapping on a few lights, she felt better, but the sight of the bedroom made her stomach wrench. The huge bed was made, the fire long-dead, the curtains drawn, but in her mind’s eye she saw the room as it had been. A warm fire threw red and gold shadows across the bed that was mussed and warm. Trent’s body, so hard and taut, was stretched over hers, his lips grazing her breast, his eyes gazing deeply into hers.
Love or lust?
She bit her lip in confusion. What she’d felt had been love. She’d welcomed his kisses, embraced his lovemaking, given her heart to him, and she’d do it time and time over, if she ever got the chance again. Sick at the thought, she realized she’d become one of those women who are inexplicably drawn to the wrong men, men who will only hurt and use them, men who are careless with their love, men who can never truly let a woman touch their souls.
Welcome to the real world.
The sound of a car in the drive brought her out of her reverie. Trent! Annoyed at the quick spark of anticipation in her pulse, she strode to the front door, intent on greeting him in person and giving him a healthy piece
of her mind.
“Where the devil have you been?” she demanded, jerking the door open.
Standing on the front porch, his eyes a brittle blue, his expression a mirror of her own surprise, was Senator James Thaddeus Crowley.
Her insides shredded. “Oh,” she whispered.
Crowley leaned heavily on his cane and his face was lined and weathered. A man stood next to him, one step back, and as Nikki’s gaze moved to his face, her stomach clenched. She faced her own death. This tall man with the short-clipped black hair, feral eyes and long nose was the man who had been chasing her, the man whose swift steps had followed her through the steamy undergrowth of the jungle on Salvaje. In a blast of memory, she recognized him as the man who had placed his meaty hand on her shoulder and given her a shove. Oh, God!
“Miss Carrothers,” the senator said smoothly, recovering as she began to sweat. “Well, well, what do you know? First on the island and now back here.”
“What do you want?” Danger sizzled in the air around them and she looked for a chance of escape, but the two men blocked her way to her convertible and the senator’s silver Mercedes was parked nearly on her car’s bumper. No way out.
“I’m looking for McKenzie.” Crowley’s frigid eyes narrowed a fraction. “Your husband? Or is that just an ugly rumor?”
“He’s not here right now,” she said, trying vainly to calm the racing beat of her heart. Her fingers were slick with sweat where she still touched the edge of the door.
“No?” Crowley slid a grin of pure evil to his compatriot and said something in Spanish that caused Nikki’s skin to crawl. She didn’t understand the language, but the meaning was clear and deadly. She slammed the door shut, threw the deadbolt and tried to remember where all the doors in the house were. Oh, God, she couldn’t. She didn’t know how many entrances there were, how many ways a murderer could get into the house.
Trapped. Fear brought a metal taste to the back of her throat. Barely able to breathe, she ran to the bedroom, found the phone and dialed. “Please help me,” she whispered as the dispatcher answered. “My life’s in danger and—” She saw the face of Crowley’s goon in the window and dropped the phone, running to the far end of the house. She heard a door creak open and her heart plummeted. She hadn’t locked the kitchen door behind her.
It was only a matter of time until he tracked her down.
Fear, like ice, seemed to clog her blood and keep her feet from moving, but she forced herself to run. She found the door to the basement, left it open and quietly ran up the stairs to the second floor. On the landing she waited, her heart thudding loudly, her blood thundering in her ears. Holding her breath, waiting for her doom, she heard him. Inside. Walking like a predatory cat.
Trent, where are you?
She heard the steps creak and the door to the basement bang open farther.
She moved quickly, silently, diving into the first room she found. A bedroom with twin bunks and a window. Without thinking, she threw open the sash and stepped onto a shingled roof that was pitched gently. On her rump, she slid down the shakes, catching herself on the gutter. She had no choice but to jump. Wrapping her fingers on the sharp metal near a downspout, she lowered her body, heard the gutter groan in protest and dropped, landing in a crouch. She had no plan of escape, only hoped that she could run to a neighbor’s house. But the neighbors on this stretch of the lake were few and far between, separated by dense forest or a long stretch of water.
Sprinting across the backyard, she raced into the thick shrubbery that rimmed the lake. In the distance she heard a car’s engine roar to life and she thought that the senator had only been bluffing, that he was leaving. Through the leaves she saw the flash of silver. His Mercedes. Thank God. But her relief was short-lived. In the upstairs window of the house, the very window she’d opened, she spied the henchman, his face set in an ugly anger, his eyes searching the grounds.
“God help me,” she whispered silently, realizing that Diamond Jim had left this cruel man to do his work. He’d make tracks, be far from the scene when her next accident occured. Heart in her throat, she concentrated. Think, Nikki, think! Use that damned brain of yours!
She couldn’t risk running to the front of the house. From his eagle’s-nest view, the would-be assassin could see her. Her only chance was the forest. Surely she could make her way through the thicket to the next house.
Running quickly, shoving aside branches and berry vines, she plowed through the undergrowth. Dry leaves and cobwebs clung to her face, vines and sticks tripped her.
She heard a shout in Spanish and her heart turned to mush. He’d seen her! Run, Nikki, run for your life!
A limb behind her snapped. Oh, God. He was closing the distance. Her heart was beating like machine-gun fire. Run! Run! Run! Her legs couldn’t move fast enough.
Déjà vu! This is how she’d felt in Salvaje and in her nightmares. Running, running, being chased by the evil. Footsteps pounded behind her. Closer. Closer. “Please, God, help me!” Her lungs felt ready to explode.
A gunshot cracked and she stumbled, scraping her knees and scrambling back to her feet.
She broke through the thicket and found herself on the edge of the cliff, looking down at the lake, far, far below. “No!” she cried as the footsteps plowed closer.
In terror, she looked over her shoulder and saw her attacker, large and looming, his face, cut by twigs and thorns, twisted into a hideous snarl.
“Now you will not escape,” he said, smiling and breathing hard.
Nikki stepped backward, felt her feet teeter and shifted her weight.
He lunged and she stepped to the side. “You bastard,” she cried, kicking at him as she began to fall.
“Nikki!”
Another blast from a gun, the charge roaring in her ears as her attacker fell. Screaming, she felt strong arms surround her, saving her from sliding down the cliff. Trent dragged her back to safety. “You’re all right,” he whispered, his gun outstretched in one hand, his other arm a steel band around her middle.
“Oh, God, Trent!” She clung to him, sobbing, holding him as a spreading stain of dark red seeped from beneath Crowley’s man. He groaned in pain and writhed.
“Don’t move!” Trent warned him, and Nikki, collapsing, buried her face in his shoulder. He smelled of leather and sweat and gunpowder and he was shaking as violently as she. “Hang on, Nikki, I’m here,” he whispered across her crown. “And I always will be.”
She couldn’t let go. Trembling, she clung to him as if to life itself. Time stretched endlessly, the minutes ticking by, her heartbeat slowing, the man on the ground moaning pitifully.
She listened to Trent’s uneven breathing as, in the distance, sirens screamed loudly, people shouted and eventually the police and neighbors arrived. The events played out in slow motion in Nikki’s mind. She remembered Trent talking to one of the officers, taking a drag from a cigarette and pointing toward the house.
A female officer took her statement, and Nikki was surprisingly calm as she gave it, though her mind seemed disjointed and she kept watching Trent. She was aware of the helicopter and the paramedics who life-flighted the attacker away, over the serene waters of the lake, to be deposited in a nearby hospital, but the events seemed surreal and confused and she was grateful when Trent helped her into his Jeep and they drove to the police station.
Under the harsh lights, answering harsher questions, Nikki drank several cups of bitter coffee, explaining over and over what had happened. There was talk between the officers, as if they found her story preposterous then finally believable. The man in the hospital had been willing to spill his guts, it seemed. He was going to survive, and his story corroborated Nikki’s and Trent’s.
According to the would-be assassin, Crowley had known that Nikki had followed him to Salvaje with the express purpose of gathering information to expose him. Crowley had ordered the “accident” to end her life even though he knew her father. Nikki was too determined, too dogged and Crowl
ey recognized her for the enemy she was. The senator had learned of her obsession to expose him from a friend of his…good ol’ Max who worked at the Observer and was jealous of Nikki’s ambition and hard work.
Eventually, hours later, she and Trent were allowed to go home.
“You all right?” he asked as he tossed his jacket over her shoulders.
Bone weary, she offered him the shadow of a smile. “I think so.”
He helped her into the passenger side of the Jeep, then slid behind the wheel, but he paused before jamming the key into the ignition. Closing his eyes for a second, he turned to her, and when his blue gaze caressed hers, he sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, touching her cheek.
“For?”
“Everything. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“You didn’t have a choice. I had to go to work. I have a life. You couldn’t have followed me minute by minute.”
“I should have.” Guilt slid stealthily over his features. “I’d hoped you’d come back, but I wasn’t sure, so I left the door open and went to your apartment. When you didn’t show up there, I got worried, returned home and saw Crowley hightailing it out of there. Your car was in the drive and I thought…” his jaw clenched convulsively “…I thought I might be too late. Nikki, if anything would have happened to you…” He leaned heavily back against the seat. “That bastard will pay. He’s come up with an alibi, you know. Good old slippery Diamond Jim.” Trent’s lips curled into a line of satisfaction. “However, his alibi isn’t that airtight. I know the guy who claims to be having drinks with him, and he can be persuaded to tell the truth.”