Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3)

by Bev Pettersen

  “Neither do I.” Friedman’s words were squeezed through pinched lips. “But when a trainer moves. And claims my cheap horse. And visits my shop. And when a car starts following Otto—” His voice roughened. “Are you with the police?”

  “I’m a private trainer,” Kurt said, “and I work for whoever pays me. And that girl needs to get back to the barn. Everyone's looking for her. Go on, Julie.” He motioned at the door.

  “Not yet,” Friedman snapped. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  Kurt’s chest kicked in raw fear. “No.” He shook his head emphatically, his mind scrambling. “We won a race, celebrated together, a one-night thing. Nothing important.”

  He ignored her gasp.

  Friedman sneered. “She stays until we check your briefcase. Unlock it.”

  “That’s not mine.” Kurt tilted his watch and made a show of checking the time. “One of my owners left it. He’s dropping by soon to pick it up.”

  Friedman’s smile turned ugly. “Open it,” he said.

  “Maybe Jollymore left it unlocked.” Kurt masked his eagerness as he stepped toward the briefcase. And his gun.

  “Stop.” Friedman, no fool, waved him back and nodded at Otto. “You open it.”

  Otto thumped forward. His beefy fingers rammed at the catch, jarring the room with futile clicking. “It’s locked,” Otto said. “We’ll have to bust it open.”

  “Doubt that’s necessary.” Friedman’s narrowed eyes settled on Kurt, the gun steady in his gloved hand. “You can visit with the girl now,” Friedman said.

  Otto dropped the briefcase. The tip of his thick tongue protruded between his lips, shiny with saliva and eagerness. He lumbered across the room. The air clotted with the smell of tobacco, sweat and Julie’s fear.

  She cringed as Otto hauled her from the chair. He hooked a big hand over the front of her shirt and ripped. Buttons scattered, Friedman laughed and Kurt’s breath shredded.

  He jerked his head away, opening and closing his mouth, but his chest was caught in a vise, and simple breathing hurt. A button careened across the floor, a white, pristine button stark against the stained carpet. He tried to swallow his bile, tried to play the bluff.

  Clothing tore. A scream. Silence.

  His chest twisted in agony, and he couldn’t not look.

  One of Otto's hands plugged her mouth while the other mauled her breast. Her bra dangled in strips, and a piece of tattered lace drifted to the floor.

  Otto turned Julie toward Friedman, showing her like a prize. “I always wanted to get my hands on these tits.”

  She bit at his hand, but Otto only sniggered and yanked at her pants, jerking until the snap ripped. The tearing sound was louder than her muffled whimpers.

  “Can I fuck her now?”

  “That’s up to our friend.” Friedman brushed a languid hand over the knee of his pants, but his perceptive stare locked on Kurt.

  “4-6-11-22-12,” Kurt said.

  Friedman’s mouth curved in satisfaction. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to take it. You’re not the type. Enough, Otto. Come open the case.”

  Otto shot Kurt a glare but reluctantly dropped Julie back in the chair. He dragged an insolent hand over her breasts before swaggering across the room. She yanked her arms and knees to her chest, wheezing in shock, but couldn’t cover her nudity or the ugly handprints that blotched her skin.

  Spots jumbled Kurt’s vision. He jerked his head away, knowing he had to control his rage if there were any chance of getting her out. He steadied his breathing and worked on unclenching every rigid muscle in his body while Otto fumbled with the combination.

  A familiar click.

  “Open the case, Otto. Put it on the bed beside me.” Friedman's thin nostrils flared as he shuffled through the contents. “Unusual items for a horse trainer,” he said. “A gun, handcuffs.” He pulled out Kurt's laptop and dumped some papers on the bed. A moment later he sighed with discovery. “Otto,” he said, “move our cop friend to the chair. Cuff him beside the girl.”

  Kurt stiffened. Otto was strong but slow. This was his chance. Friedman stared then turned and deliberately pointed his gun at Julie. Goddammit!

  Kurt walked across the room and sat.

  Otto yanked his arms behind the chair and snapped the cuffs together. The man’s fist blurred, and Kurt’s head smashed against the wall.

  Pain ripped through his jaw, scalding the back of his head. His vision blurred, but he heard Julie’s gasp, Otto's triumphant grunt, Friedman's chuckle.

  He straightened the chair, corralling his pain, and Julie slowly came back into focus. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it burned the bottom of his face and felt more like a snarl.

  She managed a shaky smile through a mouth framed with finger-shaped bruises, and his teeth clenched as he fought his primal need to kick Otto's head in. Yet clearly Friedman and the gun were the real danger.

  Kurt turned to him, forcing his jaw to move. “Let her go. She isn't involved in this.”

  “She is now,” Friedman said, not looking up. He bent over Kurt’s laptop, pressed a button and the computer whirred to life. “What's your password?”

  Kurt’s hopes plunged. Pretending he didn’t care about Julie hadn’t gained a thing. Friedman didn’t intend to let her go, and now his hands were cuffed.

  “Password?” Friedman's eyes were flat as a shark’s as they flickered over Julie. “We can always watch. Otto does give enthusiastic service.”

  Otto’s belt clinked. He jerked down his zipper, his eyes glazing as he cupped his bulging crotch. Julie shrank with revulsion, her body trembling as she pressed against Kurt.

  “2-9-4-rebel,” Kurt said.

  “Wise choice.” Friedman's fingers swooped over the keys, and the laptop beeped in acceptance. “Not much here except horse files.” He shot Kurt a look of consternation.

  A muscle pulsed in Kurt’s jaw, a sliver of hope. But Friedman bent over the laptop and continued his search. “Ah, but this is interesting,” he said.

  Sweat tickled Kurt’s forehead. His shirt stuck to the back of the wooden chair yet he was oddly cold, every nerve chilled. Friedman wouldn’t do it here. Connor had been found in his car. There’d be another chance. Had to be.

  Friedman’s voice lowered with satisfaction as he recited from the screen. “Julie West and Otto Laing are persons of interest in the death of Corporal Connor O'Neil.” He looked at Kurt and shrugged. “It couldn’t be avoided. The man was kind enough to help Otto with a flat tire. Unfortunately he noticed a loose shoe and spotted the diamonds. I had to…dispose of him.” His voice hardened. “He shouldn’t have followed Otto to my shop. Shouldn’t have been sneaking around my alley.”

  His tone turned malicious as he looked at Julie. “My dear, did you know you’re a murder suspect?” His dispassionate gaze flickered over her broken necklace, one end now twisted around the lace of her bra. “That necklace was made in my shop but the stone's a fake, just like Mr. MacKinnon. How convenient he can claim all your services as expenses.”

  Kurt ignored her choke. Friedman’s ominous confessions chilled him. He had to get her out.

  “You're right. She’s an expense,” Kurt said. “Means nothing, knows nothing. Let her go. No need to make things worse.”

  “There's no mention of my involvement,” Friedman said. His gaze swung to Otto whose belt dangled around his open jeans as he stroked himself and stared, slack jawed, at Julie.

  “I’ve been reporting over the phone,” Kurt said. “We know the diamonds are hidden in the shoes. That they’re shipped into Canada so they’re harder to trace. That you're sending them to Antwerp as costume jewelry.”

  “But there's no proof.” Friedman leaned over the computer and scanned the files again. Muttered in German.

  Kurt groped at the cuffs linked through the back of the chair. Tight. And fifteen endless feet to the gun.

  Ring. Ring. The mundane sound of his cell sounded odd in the taut room. Julie straightened, staring hope
fully at the bump in his pocket, and a rush of optimism flooded him. Clearly she hadn't given up.

  Kurt looked at Friedman; their eyes clamped. No one spoke or seemed to breathe except for Otto, who panted like a rutting bull.

  Six rings, and the phone silenced.

  Friedman tightened his lips and rose. Adjusted his gloves, picked up a remote and pointed it at the television. A cooking show bubbled to life. Plump tomatoes were lined on a cutting board, and two men bantered about the sharpness of their knives.

  He turned the volume up.

  Jesus Christ! Kurt glanced at Julie, trying to grab her attention, but she stared, wide-eyed, at Friedman. He fought a rush of despair. Her courage was unquestionable, but this was asking a lot. She looked almost comatose and no wonder. He jabbed her with his foot.

  “Sit, Otto.” Friedman nodded at the desk. “Let’s make a note for Mr. MacKinnon to copy.”

  “But when can I fuck the girl? You said I could—”

  “After,” Friedman said, his voice strangely gentle.

  Otto squeezed in the chair by the desk. He picked up a pen, the tip barely visible in his hammy fist.

  “Write, ‘I am sorry. Everything went wrong and I killed them all.’ You misspelled ‘killed.’ No, never mind,” Friedman said. “Actually that's perfect. Don’t change it.” His voice hardened as he watched Otto struggle to copy the words. “Now sign your name.”

  Comprehension jerked Kurt upright. The chair clunked behind him. “No, Otto!”

  Friedman pressed the barrel above Otto’s eyes. The gun coughed, and Otto slumped back. A neat hole, blue around the edges, stained the middle of his forehead.

  Julie gagged.

  Friedman jerked the gun around, stopping Kurt's rush. “Get back,” he snapped, motioning with the gun.

  Kurt’s jaw twitched spasmodically. He backed the chair up and sat.

  “Move to the bed, girl, and take off the rest of your clothes,” Friedman snapped. “Quickly now.”

  Julie stared, disbelieving, a cold numbness settling into her limbs. Otto looked smaller. His head lolled back like he was asleep but there was an acrid odor: urine, feces and the coppery smell of blood. Her gaze scrabbled around the room. This couldn't be real. Friedman’s mouth moved. He was looking at her, but his voice was an incomprehensible drone.

  Kurt elbowed her in the ribs. Someone in the room whimpered. Oh, God, had that helpless sound come from her?

  “Take some deep breaths. It’ll be okay,” Kurt said as he watched her suck in uneven breaths. He turned to Friedman, grimacing and rolling his eyes. “Typical female. She always falls apart. We ran into a bear, and she reacted this same way. Utterly useless. Give her a minute, and she’ll do whatever you tell her.”

  Julie felt Kurt’s elbow dig in her ribs. Something hard squashed the top of her foot. His words made no sense, no sense at all. But his jabs were sharp, the pain an anchor in her fog.

  “It's going to be okay.” His gaze bored into her. “Remember the bear—same situation.”

  She stared at him, trying to understand, but her mind and body seemed paralyzed. She wiggled her fingers, watching as they twitched in bizarre directions, as though controlled by someone else.

  Yet Kurt just sat there, so calm, so unruffled, and her fear hardened with resentment. He was probably used to this kind of stuff. She shook her head, struggling to understand. He was a cop? Friedman and Otto were killers? He had been so interested in the dead cop. In Otto’s horse. In Otto, too. Now it made sense.

  Her gaze drifted over Otto’s body, back to Kurt. Bile clogged her throat.

  “I love you, honey,” he said softly.

  She averted her head, sickened by his handsome, lying face, swept with a growing fury. Now she understood why he’d come to Calgary. Everything had been a lie. Rage gutted her fear.

  “Take off your clothes, girl,” Friedman snapped, “and move to the bed. Now!”

  She grabbed her resolve and rose. Her legs felt like concrete slabs but she didn't want to be shot like Otto, unresisting, sitting in a chair. It took fifteen pounding heartbeats to struggle out of her ripped shirt, and she fumbled even longer with the torn waistband of her jeans. At Friedman’s impatient jerk of the gun, she pushed the pants over her hips and stepped out.

  Kurt saw the stubborn tilt to her chin, the battle set of her shoulders and marveled at her courage. He jerked his gaze away, desperate to draw Friedman's attention.

  “This isn’t necessary, you know,” he said. “They’ll pick you up at the airport.” He tilted forward a fraction. Braced his feet. There’d only be one chance.

  “Won't matter. No witnesses, no proof.” Friedman’s eyes flickered over Otto’s body and settled on Kurt. He barely looked at Julie. “Come on, girl.” He gestured.

  She edged around the desk, balling her shirt and jeans in front of her, avoiding Otto's sad, ruined head. “Please let me go,” she whimpered, pausing in front of Friedman, fumbling with her clothes.

  He didn't deign to answer. Just smiled, gleaming with unholy anticipation as he turned and leveled the gun at Kurt.

  She dropped her clothes, straightened her arm and pressed. The pepper spray smacked Friedman square in the face. His hands flew to his eyes, his screech drowning the pop of the gun.

  Kurt charged across the room, ignoring the burn in his neck. Kicked the gun from Friedman’s hand then kicked again and again and again, until Friedman stopped moving and curled, helpless and groaning, on the floor.

  Kurt booted the gun across the room. “Call 911, then get out and wait in the office. Jesus, Julie, you were wonderful,” he added thickly. He didn't look away from Friedman but heard her vomiting in the bathroom, heard her stumbling voice as she spoke on the phone, but it was distant, apart from him, and his rage darkened as he waited for Friedman to move, waited for a reason to hurt him again. For Connor, for Nick, for her.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said as she hung up the phone.

  “It’s only a graze. Just get out of this hellhole. I'm so sorry. Jesus, I'm sorry.”

  She tugged on her jeans and one of his too-big shirts, averting her eyes from the body slumped at the desk.

  “So it's true?” She struggled with the buttons and the enormity of his deception. “You really are a cop?”

  “RCMP. I’ll explain everything once the police arrive.”

  “I think that man with the gun explained things perfectly.” Her voice wobbled, and she dropped her arms, apparently giving up on trying to force the buttons into the holes. Clasping the front of the shirt, she opened the door and walked out.

  Her shattered expression ripped at him. What a fuck-up. He jerked helplessly at his hands, still cuffed behind his back. Wanted to wipe his eyes. Goddammit, it stung, and the blaring television hurt his ears. A man with protruding white teeth smiled stupidly from the screen as he demonstrated the best way to chop an onion.

  Fuck! Kurt slammed his boot into the television screen. Glass shattered but now the room was silent except for Friedman's moans, and he felt marginally better.

  Minutes dragged. Where the hell were the police? Friedman had put a nasty slant on everything and the longer she agonized over his deception, the worse it would be.

  He stared at the man on the floor, willing Friedman to move, to twitch, to do something. He even encouraged him, prodding with the toe of his boot, but the chair cuffed to his back unbalanced him, and he staggered. Something tickled his neck. He glanced down, surprised at the blood that drenched his shirt.

  A wailing siren grew louder then cut to abrupt silence. Car doors slammed. Seconds later two policemen with anxious eyes and flak jackets edged through the doorway. Their guns were drawn.

  “RCMP,” Kurt said. “ID’s on the hidden pocket of the briefcase. Turn the panel to the right.”

  “Don't move,” the first officer warned. He retrieved Kurt's identification, his wary gaze darting from the ID to Kurt's face. “Okay, uncuff him,” he finally said. He pulled the key from the panel of
Kurt's briefcase, tossing it to his partner before moving to Friedman.

  “What a stink.” The second officer swiped his watering eyes and stepped behind Kurt, struggling with the key.

  At the click, Kurt shook the cuffs off. The chair toppled to the floor. He knocked it aside and lurched toward the door. “I'll be right back,” he said. “Call this man.” He called out Archer's number and rushed from the room, ignoring their protests.

  He barged into the motel office. A wide-eyed clerk was taking pictures through the window but immediately backed away.

  “Was a blond lady in here?” Kurt asked.

  The clerk nodded, cringing behind the counter.

  “Well, dammit, where is she?”

  “She left when the cop car showed up,” the clerk squeaked. “Please…we don’t keep any money here.”

  Kurt shook his head, trying to focus, but the rushing in his head disrupted his vision and the clerk’s face blurred. “Which way she’d go?” His thickened tongue balled the words, and the clerk just shook his head.

  A figure materialized in the doorway, and his hope spiked. But it wasn’t Julie, only another police officer. The man looked familiar though and Kurt stared, fighting his dizziness.

  The man rushed closer. Kurt recognized the notebook officer from the barn. But he didn’t have a notebook now, and he didn’t ask any stupid questions. He just hollered for an ambulance as Kurt’s legs buckled.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The nurse swiped Kurt's skin with a chilly antiseptic, and a needle pricked. “Doctor says you can leave tomorrow. Your neck will be sore, but you're lucky. If that bullet had been a shade to the left, you wouldn't have made it.”

  She straightened his hospital gown, fussed over the sheets and sashayed from the room.

  Archer chuckled. “Strange how all the women love your hairy ass. Hey, don’t give me that scowl. I’m one of the good guys.” His voice turned serious. “This didn't go down the way we planned. Too bad about Otto, but at least we got Friedman.”

  His smug tone grated. “What the hell went wrong?” Kurt asked.