The Runaway Heiress

by Meg Tilly

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  Mick stood on a sidewalk that had seen better days, the constant L.A. traffic streaming past, the noise a steady thrum in his ears. He could taste the slight tang of fear on his tongue, and smog and car exhaust. And an overwhelming sense of relief as well. He stood with his heart and his arms full of a woman he knew nothing about. And yet in a fundamental instinctual way, he felt that he did. Rachel was no longer sobbing. Thank God. The intensity of the storm seemed to have passed. Slight tremors shuddered through her slender frame, accompanied by little hiccuping gasps of breath. A skinny teenager on a skateboard with a mop of long hair whizzed toward them on the sidewalk. “Hey, guys,” the kid called as he breezed past. “Get a room.” The skateboarder crouched low, jumped the curb, leaned his body to the left, rounded the corner, and disappeared from view.

  Rachel straightened, wiped her eyes with her hands, and then took half a step back. His arms fell away from her body, missing her already as she dug into her purse and pulled out a tissue. “I’m so sorry. I was totally out of line, never should have struck you. I just . . .” She blew her nose. “I freaked out. Everything got jumbled, mixed up in my head, and you weren’t Mick anymore. You became someone else . . .” Rachel exhaled, her breath still shaky.

  “Rachel, you know we can’t go on like this?” He kept his voice gentle. Didn’t want to spook her. “Who are you?” She froze for a heartbeat. “What are you running from?” Avoiding his gaze, she slowly, carefully placed the tissue in her purse. Took a long time closing it. He waited patiently, wasn’t sure if she would answer. “I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is. And, obviously, I need more information to make an informed decision whether it’s safe to let you reside at my house.” She stumbled another half step back, torso compressing inward, as if she had taken a body blow. Made him feel like a brute. “I will pay you for the time you’ve worked. I’m also prepared to put you and Charlie up in a short-term rental for two weeks to give you time to find a new job and accommodations.”

  Her eyes lifted from her purse to study his face. “Why would you offer to do that? I’m practically a stranger. You owe me nothing. Less than nothing.” Rachel stilled, her breath seemed to catch, and then there was a flicker of something that looked like sorrow or self-loathing. “God.” Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I’m . . . I’m sorry about your face, for”—she exhaled—“for flipping out like that.”

  “Forget about it. I have. You asked why am I offering to help?” He shrugged. “There’s been times when I could have used a random act of kindness. I want you to have options, to not feel pressured to tell me more than you are comfortable with. However, you have to understand, if you can’t trust me with the basic truths like your name, why seeing the cop freaked you out, I, in turn, will be unable to trust you.”

  She nodded slowly, still searching his face. He could see the fear and indecision in hers. A minute passed, then another. Finally, she seemed to come to some sort of decision because she squared her shoulders, her chin lifting slightly. Such bravery in spite of the fact that her body was trembling again. “My name”—her voice was clear, determined—“my real name is Sarah.” She tore her gaze away from his, exhaled, pressing a fist to her chest. Then she lifted her gaze to look him straight on once more. “Sarah Rainsford.”

  Her name. She’d told him her name. He hadn’t been aware that he’d been holding his breath. “Thank you.” Her face was blotchy and her blue eyes swollen and bloodshot. Her nose was red, and yet he’d never seen anyone so beautiful. There was truth shining out from her face like a beacon of light. The walls were down. There was vulnerability, and behind that he could see inklings of hope and the tender shoots of a cautious burgeoning trust.

  It started to sprinkle, a light misting rain. There was something about the smell of rain on dry concrete that felt to Mick as if God were washing away all the sins of the world, making it fresh and clean again. New beginnings. “Sarah Rainsford?” He tried her name on his tongue, and it felt right.

  She nodded, her eyes welling up. “Dammit.” She swiped her eyes dry. “I never cry. Seriously. It’s just . . .” She exhaled, then smiled shakily. “It’s been four years since anyone has called me by my real name. Didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

  “Suits you.” The rain had transitioned from mist to large splattering droplets.

  Sarah nodded again, appeared to be bracing herself, her breath coming out jagged and slightly shallow again. “I’m . . . I’m on the run.”

  “I guessed as much.” She was looking pale, as if she might keel over. Has she eaten lunch? It hadn’t crossed his mind to check when he’d barged into the kitchen and demanded that she help out at his office. Mick tipped his head toward the strip mall. “I could use a coffee and a bite to eat. How about we get out of this rain? We can continue the conversation inside.”

  She glanced around, eyes widening. The expression on her face made Mick smile. Clearly she hadn’t noticed the rain until now. “Lunch is on me. We’ll sit down, chat inside, where it’s nice and warm and most importantly . . . dry.” She smiled then, and he felt like a king because it was a real smile that lit her up from the inside, and the beauty of it, of her, hit Mick hard, like a blow to the solar plexus.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” she drawled, the shadows momentarily banished from her eyes. “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s raining out here.” And the impish expression on her face caused laughter to come for the second time that day. Unexpected, it rumbled upward from his belly, a stew of laughter and joy. The rain was now thundering down. Running was pointless because they were already soaked, but he snagged her hand in his and they ran anyway, hand in hand. And Mick felt young, like how he’d imagined love would be before he grew up and realized love was for fairy tales and fools. They ducked into the first restaurant they came to and dripped on the rubber mat by the front door.

  “Hope Mexican’s okay with you?” he said, wiping the rain from his face, taking in the decor and the smells of cooking that had permeated the premises.

  “It’s the perfect food for a rainy day,” Sarah replied. The waitress bustled over, guided them to a booth, and placed worn menus on the Formica tabletop. The seats were red pleather. A strip of black gaffers tape covered a tear in the material, but the food coming out of the kitchen smelled good, as if it were made with care. They slid into the booth facing each other. Sarah shoved her hands in her rain-plastered hair and ruffled it in an attempt to corral her hideous haircut into some kind of shape. The movement of lifting her arms above her head stretched her shirt taut across her chest. The rain had rendered the cream-colored fabric see-through. Holy crap. He whipped off his WWII worn leather flight jacket, his arm getting tangled in his haste, and thrust it across the table. She’s your fucking employee.

  She jumped, startled.

  “You were . . . uh . . .” He croaked, his mouth and throat suddenly parched. A few droplets of rain fell from his jacket and splattered on the tabletop. He was reluctant to tell her that her blouse was see-through. She would be embarrassed and was vulnerable enough as it was. “You were shivering,” he growled. “Put it on.”

  “Are you sure? You aren’t cold?”

  “Hell no.” Put it on. I’m dying here. “I’m running hot right now.” No lie there. And who the hell made her so skittish? She’d flinched when he’d first extended his jacket, as if she were expecting a fist. “Go ahead. Put it on.” He picked up the menu with his other hand, flipped it open, and studied it intently, trying his damnedest to be a gentleman, but it was too late. The image of her pert, uplifted breasts was permanently imprinted on his brain. The delicate lacy bra she was wearing beneath her blouse. He would have thought she’d go for more sensible undergarments, but no . . . He exhaled, trying to erase the knowledge that her areolas were a dusky rose, that if he glanced up he’d get another glimpse of her nipples straining against the fabric,
hardened from the cold and the wet, seeming to be begging for the warmth of his touch, his mouth. He shut his eyes, stifling a groan, could hear her sliding his jacket on.

  “Oh. Nice.” She exhaled like a woman who had just been satisfied. “It’s warm from your body. Feels so good.” He could hear her snuggle into his jacket, and he wished it were him she was snuggling into. “Thanks.” Her voice was breathy, slightly husky.

  “Do it up.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The zipper,” he said, his voice gruff. “Will keep the heat in.”

  It was with regret and gratitude that he heard the zipper travel upward. He opened his eyes. Needed to blink to bring the menu in focus.

  “You okay?”

  It took him a second to order his thoughts before he was able to glance up and hold her gaze with a neutral expression on his face, as if he weren’t sporting the monster boner of all boners under the table. She was looking at him quizzically. “Couldn’t be better,” he said, congratulating himself on managing a reasonably normal tone of voice. Thankfully, the waitress appeared at their table, tugging Sarah’s attention to her.

  “What can I get for you?” the waitress asked, her order pad at the ready.

  “Oh.” Sarah flipped open her menu and waved at Mick. “You order first.”

  “I’ll have . . .” Mick glanced at his menu. “The number four combination plate. You want to share a tamale, some guacamole?”

  “For sure.” Sarah shut her menu and handed it to the waitress. “I’ll have what he’s having and some hot coffee.”

  Hmm . . . I don’t think that’s physically possible—the image of Sarah sporting a gigantic boner under the table made Mick grin—but I’d be happy to share.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “I’m not laughing.” Mick passed his menu to the waitress as well. “Ditto on the coffee. Please. Thanks!” The waitress nodded, tucked the menus under her arm, and completed writing down their order as she headed to the kitchen.

  “You are internally,” Sarah replied, looking at him inquisitively. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Ah.” Apparently that answer didn’t suffice because Sarah had raised her slender eyebrows. “Guess I’m just delighted to be out of the rain.” Truth was Mick was feeling obscenely happy to be sitting there, soaking wet, across the table from her.

  24

  Kevin followed Detective Luna as he stumped through the West Side LAPD car lot. The man was covering it well, but his gait was uneven. He favored the left leg. Kevin was sure the cold rain thundering down wasn’t helping matters. The man’s head was tucked into the collar of his jacket, as if that would help keep the wet at bay.

  “You mind me asking why you towed it?” Kevin would have preferred if the LAPD had left the car where they had found it. He could have lain in wait at the grocery store parking lot, and if the car was Sarah’s, eventually she would have shown up again. By towing the vehicle, they made it highly unlikely she’d use that store again. She had proven to be a worthy opponent in the game of chess they had embarked on.

  “The vehicle was unregistered and had no insurance.”

  Kevin didn’t want to put Luna’s nose out of joint, but Jesus Christ, the incompetence needed to be addressed. “Out of curiosity,” Kevin inquired politely. “A BOLO was placed on this individual for a reason. Rather than impounding the car, why didn’t the officer use the car as bait to lure the individual into police custody for questioning?”

  Kevin veered to the left to avoid a lake-sized puddle. Detective Luna plowed doggedly through it. “Officer Hatley stayed at the site for several hours. The grocery store has a two-hour parking limit. This car exceeded that. The parking lot attendee was preparing to call a tow company. Officer Hatley made the decision to bring the vehicle here.”

  “Has anyone contacted West Bureau to inquire about the vehicle?” Highly unlikely, but he had to ask.

  “Not yet.”

  Figures. If it was Sarah, and she’d seen the officer sniffing around her car, odds were she would have slipped away. A more optimistic scenario was perhaps Sarah had used the grocery store parking lot while shopping at chichi boutique stores nearby and had lost track of time. Returned to discover her car was missing. But even in that innocuous scenario, Sarah wouldn’t be stupid enough to sally into a police station to reclaim her vehicle. The lack of registration and car insurance meant the owner of the car was probably using fraudulent ID. Things would be much more difficult if the car was indeed Sarah’s and she’d realized the cop’s appearance meant Kevin had knowledge of her whereabouts, her vehicle, and plates. It wouldn’t be a big leap for her to conclude that he also knew about the changes she’d made to her appearance. And she would be right. Kevin had commissioned a sketch artist to create a new composite drawing, which he had uploaded the day after the BOLO was put in. If this was her car, chances were she realized he was closing in. She would change her look and run again. Kevin needed to move fast before her trail got cold.

  Detective Luna stopped and jerked his chin toward a gray Honda Accord. “That’s it, there.” The car was wedged between a lime-green Lamborghini and a rusted-out white 2005 Chevrolet Express.

  “Thanks. Appreciate it,” Kevin replied. He eyed the two-door, gray Honda. It was an older model, maybe 1995 or ’96, a piece of junk. Had a hard time imagining Sarah behind the wheel.

  “No prob.” Detective Luna slapped a thin metal tool into Kevin’s hand. “Lock it up when you’re done and drop the slim jim at my desk.” Detective Luna didn’t wait for a response. Turned on his heel and headed back through the parking lot full of impounded cars toward the building. Kevin didn’t blame him. It was pissing cats and dogs.

  Kevin stared at the vehicle. He could feel his blood pressure rising. He’d taken a leave of absence from the job, been flying since the crack of dawn. Two flights for this? He’d been so goddamned certain he was closing in on his prey. What a laugh. Kevin felt like beating the crap out of someone. He walked to the back of the car and glanced at the plates. The numbers matched with the information he’d acquired on Solace Island. He shook his head. This was looking more and more like another wild-goose chase. Sarah had exquisite taste. She wouldn’t be caught dead in this rust-ridden beater with its peeling paint and dent in the rear fender. He felt the acid rising in his gut, stuck his hand in his front pocket and flipped another Rolaid off the roll with his thumbnail, popped the disk in his mouth, and ground it into a chalky powder on his back molars.

  He watched Detective Luna disappear into the building, then ambled to the driver’s door. Dead end or not, he was there. Might as well check the damned car out. Unlocking the door took thirty seconds max. That was the beauty of those old cars’ locks, so easy to unlatch. He opened the door and got in, more for protection from the rain than anything. It was pelting down at an angle, so he slammed the door shut behind him, leaned back in the worn seat, and exhaled long and loud. He swiped the rain from his face, refilled his lungs, and that’s when his instincts started tingling. At last! Adrenaline rocketed through him. The last four years of searching were finally paying off, because he was pretty damn certain he was sitting in Sarah’s car. He turned, slid down, his knees hitting the floor so he could press his face into the seat. He inhaled again, long and deep, his eyes narrowed, focusing hard. Yes. He could smell the scent of her embedded in the upholstery. She must have been driving this old clunker awhile. He settled back into the driver’s seat, laughed out loud, feeling as though he’d just snorted a line of pure cocaine. His wife was in the Los Angeles area . . . and so was he. It was only a matter of time.

  Kevin shook the rain off his briefcase. Then he snapped the locks open, pulled the fingerprint set out, and got to work. His gut told him it wasn’t necessary, but additional confirmation never hurt.

  25

  Sarah tucked herself deeper into the warmth of Mick’s jacket, which smelled
of leather and rain. A delicious, beautiful, impossible pleasure, to have the fabric warmed from his skin, the spicy, clean male scent of him encasing her. It was as if, through his jacket, he was caressing her shoulders, her arms, her breasts, back, and chest, her belly and hips. She was tall for a woman, but being in his presence made her feel petite, delicate. The sleeves of his jacket covered all but the very tips of her fingers.

  Sarah knew she was going to have to explain her situation. That was the deal, and even though she was dreading it, she knew it had to be done. Underneath the dread was a weary relief as well. She was tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of living a lie. Once the waitress had left, silence descended, and the laughing lightness had vanished from Mick’s face. He seemed to be struggling with something. Was he angry with her? Sarah didn’t blame him if he was. The man had wanted a simple life, an assistant to type up some notes, an organized house, a few homey comforts, and what did he get? Sarah shook her head. A lunatic. A liar. He had been nothing but kind, and how had she repaid him?

  Sarah exhaled shakily, snuck a glance at him through her lowered lashes. His head was averted. Probably the sight of her lying face made him ill. His jaw was clenched. Holding back a slew of angry words, no doubt. She had gone crazy punching, kicking, and clawing at him, and for what? Why? He’d done nothing to harm her. Had only shown her a gruff sort of kindness. Sarah squeezed her eyes shut as embarrassment and regret roared through her. Something inside had snapped when he’d run her down. It was as if a fuse had blown in her brain and he wasn’t Mick anymore. He had somehow morphed into a weird mutant combination of Kevin and that madman Guillory and she was hurled into the past, but this time she was fighting. Fighting for her life.