Donovan sat hard on the snow beside the body, defeat sweeping over him. Nothing had gone right since that last urgent message from Wally. Jessie damn well better have the answers he needed, because lives depended on it, and this man wouldn’t be talking ever again.
…
Jess nearly jumped out of the leather armchair at the sound of the doorbell. She’d been dozing, but now alarm tingled through every nerve ending as her nostrils flared, senses alert and pulse pounding—the exact sort of reaction that Dr. Epstein explained was a hypersensitivity to the unknown and a tendency to invent threats where there were none. Classic paranoia.
Except she hadn’t invented the attack by a knife-wielding lunatic.
Would a lunatic ring the doorbell?
She rose shakily to her feet and stood there, frozen by indecision, weighing the facts. It was nearly eleven at night. Who would come to her father’s house this late? No one knew she was spending the night at the house, and if Donovan hadn’t been so intent on pillaging her father’s possessions, she wouldn’t be here, trying to figure out which of her mom’s paintings she could smuggle out without him knowing it.
Besides, she didn’t know anyone in Nipagonee Rapids. Even a stranger wouldn’t arrive unannounced at this hour, would they? Unless the sheriff had new information for her. That was possible. Not probable, but…
The doorbell sounded again, a double, insistent ring. Jolted out of her mental fog, she took a deep breath and imagined Dr. Epstein’s advice—stop inventing dangers. Just because something was unexpected didn’t make it threatening. Answer the door.
She did, but stealthily. Peeking through the curtained window beside the door, she frowned at the figure illuminated by the porch light. It was Donovan, wearing that same leather jacket and looking impatient, casting glances at his watch, the surrounding woods, and the closed door in front of him. Also looking cold, with his hands stuffed in pockets, shoulders hunched, and dark hair glistening with melting snowflakes.
Maybe not a lunatic, but not anyone she wanted to see. Making no move to open the door, she yelled out, “What do you want?”
His head whipped toward the door, that piercing gaze fastening on hers at the window. “I need to talk to you. Let me in.”
She almost snorted with laughter at the request. He must be used to giving orders and getting his way if he thought that would work. “I don’t think so. Come back tomorrow.” Preferably after ten, when she’d be gone.
“It can’t wait,” he snapped.
As if a bad attitude would convince her to open the door. “If it’s about the guy who attacked me, you need to speak to the police. And if it has to do with my father’s job, talk to the college.”
“It’s not—”
“Look, I don’t really know you, and I’m not letting you in tonight. Now go away.”
She swished the curtain back in place. He immediately began pounding on the door. “Jessie. Open up, goddammit.”
The sheer forcefulness and command in his tone made her shiver in fear. He desperately wanted in, which only served to arouse her paranoia. “I have a gun, and I’m not afraid to use it.” she yelled.
Sudden silence.
Ha. She should have thought of that sooner. Letting out a shaky breath, she walked back to the chair and huddled into the soft leather, pulling an afghan around herself. Confrontations were upsetting, but overall she thought Dr. Epstein would be pleased with the way she’d handled that one. She’d stood up for herself without panicking, and she’d been just as forceful about it as the man outside. The next sound she’d hear would be his car starting up as he left.
She listened, the ticking of the mantle clock loud in her straining ears.
A soft click sounded, followed by the front door opening, then shutting hard against a gust of wind. Jess jumped to her feet, her heart slamming back into panic mode.
Donovan’s wide, angry stance was imposing in the small entryway. Broad shoulders filled the black leather jacket, and she swallowed nervously when he flexed his gloved hands at his side. His jeans and boots were marked with wet smudges of dirt and what looked alarmingly like blood on one thigh. Everything about him screamed danger.
He scowled at her as he marched across the Oriental rug, leaving wet prints on the hardwood floor before tromping onto the huge Persian rug that covered most of the living room. His gaze darted over her, then her chair. “Where’s the gun?”
She stared, first at him, then a quick glance at the front door, unable to process what she was seeing. The dead bolt had been locked, she was sure of it. She made one false try at talking before her voice managed to squeak past the lump in her throat. “You broke in.”
Reaching past her, he felt beside the chair cushion, then grabbed the afghan and shook it. Her book tumbled out. He tossed it aside with a disdainful look. “I sure hope that’s not loaded.”
His sarcasm roused a spark of anger and she used it, shaking from the inside out. “Get out.”
He sighed wearily. “Look, Jessie, I told you who I was.”
His use of the name her father had used didn’t help; the warm feelings it recalled hadn’t been her reality for fifteen years. She didn’t want to be reminded of it now. “I don’t care what your name is. Get the hell out of this house.” She pointed at the front door for emphasis, her hand trembling only the slightest bit.
His brow furrowed in obvious puzzlement. “Wally didn’t mention me?”
“Who?”
“Wally,” he repeated more slowly. “Your father?”
Her father was Walter Shikovski. Wally sounded like someone’s golden retriever, friendly and happy. The kind of man who would never reject his only child and shut her out of his life. “No,” she bit off. “He didn’t.”
“Damn it,” he mumbled, obviously irritated. “He said he would.”
It was probably a good time to press her advantage. She blew out a breath, gathering her outrage. “Listen, Mr. Donovan. I haven’t been on speaking terms with my father in fifteen years, so no, he didn’t mention you. And call me crazy, but I don’t care for men breaking into my house in the middle of the night. Now, are you leaving, or do I have to call the sheriff?”
She lifted her chin with determination and hoped he didn’t know about the miserable lack of cell phone service out here, or the fact that she’d already had the phone company disconnect the landline, not thinking she’d need it. Bright move, Jess.
Her threat to call for help didn’t appear to bother him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a key and dangled it in front of her with exaggerated patience. “Call if you want. It’s not breaking in when you have a key.”
She blinked as he slipped it back into his pocket. “Why do you have a key to my father’s house?”
“Because we were close friends.”
“Professor Drake said my father didn’t have any close friends.”
“Oh, for…He left me the contents of this house, didn’t he?”
“Yes, very suspicious, seeing that no one else at the funeral seemed to know you.”
He looked annoyed at having to explain himself. “Our friendship wasn’t exactly public knowledge.”
Not public knowledge?
Oh! The implication registered with a jolt, and Jess felt her mouth open in surprise as the real reason for her parents’ divorce became clear. Poor Mom, abandoned for a male partner, and a much younger one at that. She stared at the man who seemed a perfect example of what women found attractive. You just never knew.
“You mean you and my father…” she began.
Donovan scrunched his eyebrows momentarily, then gave her an incredulous stare. “Not that kind of friendship. Jesus.” He shook his head in apparent disbelief. “Look, Jessie—”
“Stop calling me that. It’s Jess.” Jessie was Daddy’s little princess, his pride and joy, and that part of her life had died long ago.
“Fine. Jess. Are you sure Wally didn’t contact you in any way? Send something in the mail, maybe a
map? Leave a message on your phone? A note with his lawyer?”
She shook her head in stubborn annoyance. “I told you, we’d been out of touch for fifteen years. No notes, no calls.” It wasn’t exactly true. She paused, then decided the whole truth, no matter how personal and private, might help convince him that things hadn’t gone the way her father had led him to believe. “Okay, he did stop by to see me a few days ago,” she admitted, then immediately held up a hand to ward off the excited look on his face. “No, wait. It was a brief visit, two hours tops, and he never mentioned your name. He didn’t talk about anything important. Not his work, not current events, not anything relevant. The fact is,” she said, then hesitated, an attempt to soften the blow. After all, he had been her father’s friend, “he didn’t make much sense, as if his mental abilities had deteriorated. It was sad. He never gave me anything, either, so I can’t possibly have whatever it is you’re looking for.”
She’d swear he hadn’t heard anything after the first sentence. He stepped closer, close enough that she smelled wet leather and the faint scent of pine, as if he’d been rolling around under the trees. On him, it was disturbingly manly. He reached for her, closing one gloved hand around her arm, holding it a little too tightly in his intensity. She shrank back at the big dose of alpha male, more imposing than any man she’d ever met. The fact that her rapid breaths were due to a thrill that most definitely was not paralyzing terror must mean she’d made progress with her therapy.
“If Wally spoke to you, he told you,” he insisted. Satisfaction and anticipation at getting what he wanted filled his dark eyes.
She blinked hard, startled by how compelling that look was, knowing it shouldn’t feel so damn sexy. It was smoldering, for God’s sake. Something was wrong with her. The combination of fear and anger must be messing with her hormones. Clearing her throat, she mentally reached for the point where she’d lost their conversation. “Told me what?”
“Whatever it was he wanted me to know. I don’t know. You tell me.”
She shook her head, as much to clear it of the overwhelming sense of drowning in a sea of pheromones as to tell him he was wrong. “He didn’t say anything. Not unless you’re expecting a message about furry woodland creatures.”
“What?” Confusion made him squint as his hand dropped away. She told herself the sudden sense of loss did not mean she missed his touch.
“That’s what we talked about. Bunnies and beavers and a wolf. Characters in a children’s fairy tale.”
“There has to be something else. Think.”
“There isn’t.”
He shook his head with annoyance. “Wally wouldn’t go to the trouble of diverting through Houston when he was…when he was so pressed for time, just to discuss drivel like that.”
She noted the hesitation, as if he’d changed what he’d been about to say, but that wasn’t the part that made her temper flare. “That drivel is my career, Mr. Donovan. I write children’s books. Good ones, award-winning books. My father was talking about ideas for a story. It just proves his loss of contact with reality. I’m sorry to tell you it was a reversion to childhood, the kind of thing you see with dementia. My first book was based on a story he’d told me when I was growing up, and apparently he knew that. He was reliving the past.”
Donovan was unmoved. “No he wasn’t. You’re talking about your childhood, not his.”
She frowned. “Whatever. It had nothing to do with anything.”
“Impossible.” His gaze pinned her as if he might draw information straight from her mind. Their depths were mesmerizing and far too close for comfort. She tried to focus on something else. The stubble on his cheeks drew her gaze until she realized her fingers itched to touch the purely male roughness. Not appropriate. The scar on his chin was safer, until she imagined smoothing her thumb over the indentation. Annoyed at having another tactile desire, she frowned and looked away, wondering what was wrong with her. Good Lord, would she have to add split-personality disorder to her long list of psychoses?
“Why did you agree to meet him?”
“What?” She pretended puzzlement, embarrassed to admit she knew what he meant. Resenting her father had become more than a habit; it was almost a comfortable state, hating him for rejecting her rather than allowing herself to feel perpetually hurt.
“You don’t seem to like him, so how did he get you to agree to meet him?”
“Curiosity,” she admitted, shrugging to minimize its importance. “He said he had a great idea for a story. A writer can’t afford to reject great ideas.” Saying it reminded her not only of the story her father had told, but his eyes as they drank her in, noting her every move and occasionally going dreamy and distant. His wistful looks had tugged at those old, fond memories, and hurt more than she wanted to admit.
Forget it, forget it. “I think he just said it to get me to meet him.”
Donovan’s face lit up with a smile, causing her stomach to do strange flips. “So he used the story as a lure so he could give you the information he needed me to have.”
The thought of her father tricking her into a meeting didn’t sit well. “That’s not possible. I told you, he didn’t say anything important.”
“You didn’t recognize it as important. But he said it, believe me. Think. Every word he said.”
She huffed her irritation. “I don’t have an eidetic memory, and I was distracted. I can’t recall every single word. I’m sure he made a comment about the weather, or about the menu, but so what?”
“There.” She nearly jumped at his exclamation. “That’s it. We use code phrases about those exact things. I knew it.”
“Who is we? And why the hell do you use code phrases?”
Donovan’s joy lasted another two seconds before his abrasive personality kicked back in. “Look, this could take some time. Right now I need to get you out of here.”
He moved to take her arm again, but she shook off his hand and stepped backward. “Oh, no, I’m not the one leaving. You are.”
“You can’t stay here, Jessie. The same people who killed your father are after you, and they know where you are.”
She tipped her head, as if shifting the words in her brain might help them make sense. She’d actually started to wonder if what he claimed was true until he got to the part about killing her father. Donovan was either operating under a misconception, or he was more paranoid than she was. Or…“You can’t wait to get rid of me so you can go through this house, can you? You probably already have buyers lined up for the Persian rugs and antique hookah pipes. There must be a small fortune in the furnishings, and they mean nothing to you but a nice windfall.”
He waved her accusation aside. “There’s nothing in the house I want. I’ve already checked.”
“You what?” Her outrage rose to squeaky levels. “You went through this house without my permission?”
“Key, remember? I checked the files and computer logs; it’s not here. Whatever your father wants me to know, he left with you, just like he said he would in his last message. You can have the rest.”
“I… Do you mean you don’t want the rugs? Or the paintings?”
“It’s all yours. Right now I just want to save you from the people who killed Wally and who are trying to kill you, too.”
The paintings were hers. Her elation lasted several seconds, until reality crept back in. He was still operating under some paranoid delusion of murder and intrigue. “You’re mistaken,” she said, a gentle way of saying the more accurate phrase: You’re crazy. “My father died of a heart attack; the sheriff told me so when he first called.”
“I spoke with the coroner and the sheriff yesterday evening, Jessie, and I examined Wally’s body. Your father was injected with a drug that stopped his heart. He was murdered.”
Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s true. He was killed after a day of questioning and torture. Since the men who did it have already
tried to kill you twice, I’d say you’re next on their list. I’m taking you someplace safe so we can figure out the information Wally died to keep secret.”
It was too much, even for a woman who dabbled in paranoia. At least her delusions of the dangers that lurked in everyday situations were more realistic. This guy was a freaking nutcase, possibly as crazy as the man who had attacked her. What in the hell was happening in Nipagonee Rapids?
A bin of lunatics was running loose in the north woods, that was what, and she fallen into the middle of them. The theory made as much sense to her as his absurd claims about torture and murder.
“You’re crazy,” she declared. When he didn’t loosen his grip, she went back to the tactic of pacifying the lunatic. “Look, Mr. Donovan, I’m grateful for your concern, but I’m perfectly safe here. No one even knows I’m here, because I’m still registered at the Valley View Motel.”
“I found you, didn’t I?”
She frowned. “Yes, but—”
“I’m not the only one.”
The hardness in his eyes made her pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ask the dead guy in the garage, the one who came to kill you. Where’s your suitcase?”
“What?” It felt like he’d socked her in the jaw, it took so long to get her mouth working. She licked her lips. “What dead guy?”
He didn’t wait for her response, ducking down the hall into the first bedroom. “Three suitcases?” His incredulous voice carried back to her. “For three days? Are you fucking kidding me?”
He reappeared with her carry-on bag slung over his shoulder, rolling two stacked suitcases behind him. “Come on, let’s go.” When her frozen feet didn’t move, he grabbed her hand and tugged her along like a fourth piece of luggage.
It had to be awkward pulling all that weight plus a resisting woman, but he made it seem effortless. She tried to plant her feet but his hand held hers in an iron grip and she ended up staggering after him. “Let go. You can’t do this.” she insisted, fear edging into her voice, as she made a futile grab at the kitchen counter.
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