by Rebecca York
While his back was turned, Brady came up behind him, shoving him hard. He made a groaning sound as his face slammed into the wall.
People had turned to stare at them, and he spotted a security guard approaching.
“Go,” he shouted to Grace.
She gave him a shocked look, then sprinted toward the door, past a woman being pushed along in a wheelchair.
A cab was waiting for the patient, and Brady made sure he got there first. “Sorry. My wife’s ex is threatening to kill her,” he shouted, pushing Grace into the back of the cab and climbing in behind her. “Go. Get out of here,” he told the driver.
The cabbie looked confounded, but he pulled away from the curb. Brady leaned forward. “Drive away. Hurry. Before he starts shooting.”
Looking through the back window, Brady saw that the thug had recovered and was standing on the curb, staring at the cab, his hand inside his jacket as if he was reaching for a gun. But he apparently decided not to risk a shot in the hospital driveway, not with the security guard bearing down on him.
Whirling, he charged toward the parking lot, and Brady prayed that he wasn’t going to get his vehicle before they were out of sight.
The cab tore down the street, then rounded a corner. “Drive to the downtown area,” Brady ordered. A few months ago, he’d been hired by a wife who was sure her husband was having an affair. He’d followed the guy around Frederick and found out that he was seeing someone else. Not another woman but a man. They’d met at several local restaurants, so Brady was familiar with the city.
“I don’t want any trouble,” the cabbie said.
“We’ll get out as soon as I know we’re not being followed.” In the backseat, he started pulling off the medical garb.
Grace did the same.
“What the hell are you doing? Getting undressed?” the driver demanded.
“Just getting into civilian clothes.”
“You smell like you’ve been in a chimney.”
“We were in a big-time fire drill,” Brady answered.
They headed for the restored area at the heart of the small city.
“Okay. This is what I’m looking for,” Brady said when they’d driven a couple of blocks past shops and restaurants.
The driver pulled to the curb, and they both got out, leaving the scrub suits in the backseat. Brady paid the fare, then took Grace’s arm, ushering her toward a restaurant. When the cab was lost in traffic, he stopped short.
“Other way.”
“Why?”
“He dropped us off here, and, if anybody asks, this is where he’ll say we went.”
Switching directions, he led her down the block and around the corner to a small hotel that the two men had used on some of their trysts.
As he walked toward the door, Grace asked, “What about the smoke?”
“We can’t do much about it yet.”
They both stepped into the small reception area, and Grace hung back, holding the door open.
A woman came bustling out from a room marked Office.
“Can I help you?”
Brady kept his voice even. “We’d like a room for the afternoon.”
The woman looked him up and down, then eyed Grace. “I don’t do less than twenty-four hours,” she said.
Brady nodded.
“That will be a hundred and ten dollars.”
He wanted to object.
Grace came forward and pulled out her wallet, then counted out the money.
The woman sniffed as she pushed the register book toward them. He wrote “Mr. and Mrs. James Stewart,” gave 43 Light Street in Baltimore as the address, then took the key to room 207.
“Second floor, turn to the right,” the woman said.
She kept her eyes on them as they climbed the stairs.
“She made me feel like a criminal,” Grace said when they’d closed the door to the room behind them.
It was furnished with a relentless antiques theme, with tiny prints, wicker furniture and a clunky old television on the antique bureau.
As he looked back at Grace, he saw she was shaking. She’d been through a lot in the past few hours. She more than he.
The vulnerable look in her eyes made his insides clench. He reached for her, wrapping her in his arms, holding on to her. He’d started something earlier in the supply closet. Something he couldn’t finish there. But now they were alone in a bedroom, and he pictured himself lowering his hand to her bottom, so he could press her more firmly against himself. Somehow he hung on to enough sanity to keep his hands above her waist.
She didn’t have to stay in his arms. She could have pulled away, but she didn’t move, didn’t stir. Instead, she raised her face to his, putting her mouth a few tempting inches from his. The invitation was too much to resist. With a sound deep in his throat, he lowered his head so that his mouth brushed against hers.
The light contact wasn’t enough for either of them. Within seconds they were tasting, sipping, nibbling.
Unable to keep his hands still, he let them rove restlessly over her back, her shoulders. The more he touched her, the more frantic he became to take in as much of her as he could.
The bed was only a few feet away. They could be off their feet in seconds. He tried to tell himself he didn’t know her well enough for that—until her hands began to stroke over his back and shoulders in a restless rhythm while the kiss turned more frantic.
Conscious thought left him as blood pounded through his veins and pooled in the lower part of his body.
He had been alone for a long time because that was the way he’d wanted it, and it hadn’t been all that difficult. He’d simply made sure that he wasn’t in a position to get close to anybody. Until he met Grace.
As he kissed her, he silently acknowledged that he needed more, so much more, from her.
More than she was willing to give?
No. She was warm and pliant in his arms, as caught up in the emotions of the moment as he was himself.
Through two layers of fabric, he could feel the points of her nipples abrading his chest.
Erotic images assaulted him. His fingers ached with the need to stroke back and forth against those tight points. Or better yet, pulling up her blouse and lowering his head so that he could suck her into his mouth, and circle one of the tempting nubs with his tongue.
Somehow he kept from going that far, but he couldn’t stop himself from bringing his hands inward to press against the side of her breasts.
The world had contracted to a small space—with room for only himself and the woman in his arms. Yet some impulse toward sanity made him lift his head. Or maybe it was mistrust. He still didn’t know how Grace fit into his brother’s murder, and he was going to find out before he got any more involved with her.
“We can’t,” he managed to say in a strangled voice.
Her eyes blinked open, and she stared at him—confused and then wounded looking. Yet he saw resignation, too.
When she took a step back, he dragged in a breath and let it out.
Perhaps because she didn’t know what else to do, she picked up the TV remote, flipped on the set and started running through the channels.
“Stop.”
She lifted her finger from the button, and they both stared at a news feature on John Ridgeway—the man whose death had started this whole crazy episode.
He stared transfixed at the screen, seeing shots of a younger John Ridgeway—shots that looked a hell of a lot like Kevin Parsons, the young man John had asked Brady to locate.
Yeah, Parsons must be his illegitimate son, all right. Only now John was never going to get a chance to meet him. Brady thought about his own less-than-ideal childhood. He knew Parsons had been raised by loving adoptive parents who had sent him to an Ivy League college. Probably if he told the kid about his real father, that would only add a disruptive element to his life. Better to leave well enough alone.
Another thought struck him, and he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Lydia was p
robably watching this program, too. Over and over, the way they repeated news items on the cable channels. Probably he could risk a short call to her.
“I should call my sister-in-law,” he said to Grace.
She nodded. “I’ll be washing off the smoke smell.”
She stepped into the bathroom, and he heard the shower running. When he clicked on the phone, he found a dozen messages from Lydia. She answered his return call immediately.
“Brady, where are you?”
“I ran into some problems.”
“Why aren’t you here?”
He wasn’t going to tell her that men were trying to kill him—and it all went back to John’s death.
“I would be if I could,” he answered.
He heard her voice rise. “You’re John’s brother. He left you a lot of money. The least you can do is show up for his funeral.”
“He did?” Brady asked in surprise.
“A lot more than you deserve.” She laughed. “You’re a millionaire.”
“I don’t want his money.”
“Too bad. If you weren’t so focused on your own pitiful life, you might be able to enjoy it.” She switched back to her own agenda. “Everyone’s going to wonder where you are.”
Right. Appearances were important to Lydia.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m tired of making excuses for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he answered, struggling to keep his voice even.
“Are you holed up somewhere drinking?”
“No! I’m trying to find out what happened to John.”
“You found that woman—his mistress?”
He glanced toward the bathroom door. “If you mean Grace Cunningham, I found her, but she’s not his mistress.”
Lydia scoffed. “She spun you a story and you fell for it.”
“No. We’re investigating John’s death.”
“We? She’s with you?”
“I can’t talk about this over the phone.”
“Then come give me the support I need.” He could tell now that her voice was slightly slurred. If anyone had been drinking, it was Lydia.
He sighed. “The investigation has put me in danger. If I come to your house, it will put you in danger, too.”
She gave a nasty laugh. “That’s a pretty pitiful excuse for doing exactly what you want to.”
“It’s the truth. Lydia, I’m sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“In time for the funeral?”
“I hope so.”
“Well, if you can’t get here to bury your brother, don’t come at all.”
He’d planned to make the call short. Instead he found himself apologizing to his sister-in-law and trying to make her understand that he’d be there if he could.
Finally, he hung up, knowing that she was still mad as hell. And there was nothing he could do about it.
When he’d clicked off the phone and looked up, Grace was watching him. She’d taken a quick shower and washed and dried her hair. And she’d freshened up her clothing.
“I take it that call didn’t go well.”
“No,” he muttered, unwilling to go over it all over again.
“What are we going to do?”
He looked down at his Rolex. “I can pawn my watch and get some cash.”
“I brought cash.”
“We need a laptop computer—and a car. And some fresh clothing.” He kept his gaze fixed on her. “And we need to have a serious talk.”
Her expression turned resigned. “I know.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
She swallowed. “It’s complicated.”
“You’ll feel better if you just come clean with me.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’ll give you some time to think about it.” He stepped into the bathroom, thinking he should press her, yet hoping she’d start talking on her own. To give her some space, he took a quick shower, then shook out his shirt and pants and climbed back into them.
When he stepped back into the bedroom, Grace was staring at the television.
“Ready to talk.”
“Yes.”
“What were you to my brother?”
“His research assistant, like I told you.”
“What were you to Karen Hilliard?”
She hesitated before she spoke. “She had some information for me that I couldn’t ignore.”
Before she could say anything more, a knock sounded at the door.
Like in his apartment. Only this was different.
He glanced at the door, then at the window and froze. Two men were standing on the porch roof right outside—pointing guns at them.
Chapter Ten
Grace watched in horror as one of the men raised his hand and smashed the butt of his gun against the windowpane, which shattered under the impact. At the same time, the door burst inward and another gunman filled the doorway. She’d seen one of the men before, at the hospital, but now he had reinforcements.
Brady moved to her left, his arm sliding around her waist and pulling her protectively against his side, but he said nothing.
The guy in the doorway gave Brady a smirking look. “I guess you should have gotten off the phone a little faster.”
Brady answered with a curse.
“We’re getting out of here. If you give us any trouble, your girlfriend gets it first. Got that?”
Grace cringed.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“You look pretty cozy. You want me to shoot her now?”
She gasped. “Don’t.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Where?” Brady demanded.
“Where we can have a nice chat.”
A chat? Was that what they wanted? Or were they going someplace private where these guys could do anything?
One of the men on the roof reached through the ruined window and turned the locking mechanism. Then he pushed up the sash and stepped inside.
Grace could feel Brady tensing beside her, and she hoped he wasn’t going to try anything heroic because the odds were not in their favor at the moment.
“In case you’re hoping for some help, the lady who owns this place is out. So we’re all going to walk downstairs, then out the front door and get into the car that’s pulled up at the curb. Got it?”
“Yes,” Brady answered in a low voice. His lips were set in a grim line, and she knew he was angry with himself for calling his sister-in-law.
One man walked in front of them. The two from the porch walked behind. They all proceeded down the steps, then out into the late-afternoon sunshine.
Grace kept hoping that someone on the street would see what was happening and call the police. But there was nobody to witness the strained procession.
Two cars waited at the curb. When the men ushered her toward one and Brady toward the other, she felt panic rise in her throat. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized how much she’d come to depend on him. She was sure his bodyguard offer had started off as a ploy. But he had a way of making her feel safe, even when she knew it was only an illusion. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do for her now.
The thug pushed her into the backseat and followed her inside, keeping her covered with the gun.
One of the men in front pulled out a cell phone and began to talk in a low voice.
“We’ve got them…. Yeah. Okay.”
Who was he taking to? She strained to hear the other side of the conversation, but it was muffled.
Her focus was on the man talking, and before she realized what was happening, the guy beside her pressed a cloth over her nose and mouth. She tried to fight him off, but the vapors coming from the cloth robbed her of strength. Then the world went black.
SHE DIDN’T KNOW how much time passed. Sometime later, she swam back to consciousness.
“Grace?”
“Um?”
When she opened her eyes, she was lying on a narrow bed, and
Brady was sitting beside her, chafing her hand. “Finally.”
“How long was I out?”
“A few hours.”
“Oh Lord,” she answered, fighting to put strength into her voice. “They didn’t do it to you?”
“No. Are you all right?”
She took a mental inventory, flexed her arms and legs. Her head still felt a little fuzzy, but she answered, “Yes. Are you?”
“Yes.”
When she tried to sit up, her head spun and she flopped back against the thin pillow.
“You’re not okay,” he muttered, stroking his fingers against her cheek.
“I’m just a little dizzy.” From where she lay on the narrow bed, she looked around. They were in a small bedroom, about ten feet by ten feet. The walls were rough wood, and she got the feeling they were in a vacation cabin. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know. They put a hood over my head. But I’d guess we’re a couple of hours from Frederick. In the mountains. Maybe a vacation cabin.”
“Why didn’t they put you out, too?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can we get away?”
“I don’t know,” he answered again.
He squeezed her hand, then climbed off the bed and walked to the small window. Following him with her eyes, she saw that there were bars on the outside of the glass. Could they break the glass and remove the bars? Probably not.
Beyond the window, she saw what appeared to be a forest.
As she switched her gaze back to the room, she saw that there was no furniture—apart from the one bed, which was bolted to the floor. To the side of the bed was a metal bucket, which she assumed was going to be their toilet.
While she tried to come up with a plan, a noise at the door made her head jerk in that direction. Pushing herself up, she let her feet drop to the floor as two of the thugs stepped inside the room. Both of them were holding guns. Four men had picked up her and Brady at the hotel. Were the others gone?
Both of the men gave her a long look, then focused on Brady. “Start talking,” the closer one said.
“About what?” Brady shot back.
“Time to tell us what you know.”
“You mean that Grace was in the next room when my brother died—and now you’re after the two of us.”