"I didn't want to tell you while we were down in that ravine."
"Why the hell not?"
"I didn't want to take a chance on you falling apart on me."
She choked out a laugh. "Yes, the helpless female. Christ, you would think that, wouldn't you?"
"That's not what I thought. But with bad weather moving in, I didn't want to spend any more time down there than we had to. I know this is an emotional issue for you. I figured you might want to ... talk about it."
"So you kissed me instead."
He ground his teeth. "I didn't plan for that to happen. It just ... did." Oh, that was just brilliant, he thought sourly. When she remained silent, he added. "I made a judgment call."
"God." Turning away from him, she stared out the window at the snow piling up on the windshield. "Are you telling me someone killed them?"
"I don't know for sure, but it looks that way."
"Oh, God." She sighed. "How do you know?"
Randall scrubbed a hand over his face, refusing to acknowledge that he felt like a bastard for having to be the one to tell her that. "Let's get inside and we'll talk."
She didn't respond, didn't look at him.
"Addison ?"
She cast him a cool look, her eyes contrasting darkly against her porcelain complexion.
"You got a key?" he prodded.
With a nod, she picked up her purse and began fumbling inside. Randall watched her, and he hated seeing her look so incredibly sad. On impulse, he reached out and touched her lightly on the arm. "We can try the interstate if you're not up to staying here."
"I'm up to it."
She wasn't happy with him and it showed. But even unhappy and angry, she was still utterly lovely. He resisted the sudden, overwhelming urge to touch her. To skim his fingers over her velvet cheek. Touch that lush mouth. First with his fingertips. Then with his lips.
Reining in his thoughts, he reminded himself that women like Addison Fox didn't fall for men like him. How would she react if she knew about his post-traumatic stress disorder? If she knew he'd botched a decent career because he hadn't been able to hack it and spent the last six months consoling himself with his bottle of bourbon? How would she react if she knew the thought of going back to his job in D.C. sent shivers of fear up his spine?
The last thing Addison needed in her life was a man like him. Hell, the last thing he needed was a woman in trouble. He had enough problems just taking care of himself these days. But Christ, she looked good sitting there, looking wild and inviting and vulnerable all at once.
"Let's go." Tearing himself away from her, away from thoughts that would do nothing but bring him grief, he opened the door.
The snow was driving hard, coming in from the west like a frozen tidal wave. Visibility was down to zero, and Randall knew they'd made the right decision by stopping. They wouldn't have made it to Interstate 70, just twenty miles to the north.
Keeping Addison in sight, he jogged toward the front door. She came up beside him a moment later, out of breath, snow sticking to her hair and clothes like confetti. Without speaking, she jabbed the key into the lock, twisted, and swung open the door.
The cabin was small, yet designed with a flair that was distinctly Colorado. The first thing Randall noticed was the three-way stone fireplace that dominated the living room. It was constructed of river rock and jutted from pine flooring and ran all the way to the rough-hewn beams of the vaulted ceiling.
"Colorado stonemasons don't mess around," he said in admiration.
The living area was huge and largely bare. Most of the furniture had been draped with sheets. A camelback sofa faced the fireplace. Next to it, a heavy pine end table bore a single, oversized lamp.
The place smelled of old pine and mothballs. But the most pressing issue was the temperature. It was above freezing, but barely. "Where's the furnace?" he asked, rubbing his gloveless hands together in a futile attempt to warm them.
When Addison didn't answer, he turned to find her at the double set of French doors overlooking the cedar deck. Beyond the wall of snow, he knew, were thousands of trees and a spectacular view of Hoosier Pass. Concern inched through him. Her hands were knotted in front of her, her shoulders set and rigid. For the first time he realized just how difficult coming here was for her.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She nodded, but her eyes were wistful. "My mom always loved snow. They loved this place. This house was their dream, and they worked their entire lives for it. I hate it that they're not here to enjoy it."
Awkwardness crept over him. He was a whiz at partaking in an occasional argument, but light-years out of his element when it came to dealing with emotions, particularly the female variety.
She continued to stare out into the blinding snow. "I've only been here a couple of times since they died. I thought it would be easier this time. I mean, it's been ten months."
He watched her from across the room, reading 'her as best he could, not knowing what to say or how to comfort. "Pain is a part of life, Addison. But so is healing. It takes time."
"I can't believe how quickly the months have passed. It seems like just yesterday when ..."
Slowly, cautiously, Randall came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He felt the tremors rising up inside her. He wasn't sure if it was from the cold or the grief or, perhaps, a combination of both. "We didn't have to come here."
"Yes, we did." Shaking off his hands, she turned to face him. "I did."
"It's okay for you to grieve."
"I can deal with the grieving."
"Can you?"
"Yes." For the first time he noticed the anger smoldering in the depths of her eyes, crowding out the grief. "What I can't deal with is that they were taken from me. That somebody murdered them. My parents. They were good people. How could someone just wipe out their lives?"
For her sake, he wished he could dispute the truth. He wished he could tell her that Patty and Larry Fox hadn't been murdered. But he couldn't. He might be able to lie to himself, but he couldn't lie to Addison. He'd never been able to lie to someone he cared about, and he'd always been able to live with himself because of it.
Her tears came in a flood and with the same violence as the storm raging outside. Turning away from him, she slammed her open palm against the door. "Damn!" Her shoulders began to shake.
Something akin to panic swirled in his chest. He didn't know how to deal with tears. His instincts told him to walk away. But with Addison, he knew he couldn't. He wanted to comfort, to protect, though he wasn't quite sure how to approach this angry, hurting woman. The only thing he was certain of was that he wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her and make her pain go away.
Cautiously, he reached for her, feeling her stiffen an instant before he turned her to him and pulled her close. His arms went around her. Her head fell against his shoulder. The clean, sweet scent of her filled his nostrils and titillated his senses.
When her arms went around his waist, he closed his eyes, rested his head against hers, and forgot about everything except the moment between them. She felt like heaven against him. Soft and small and ... precious. He was acutely aware of her warmth, her scent, the way her body conformed to his with such utter perfection.
"Go ahead and cry if you need to," he said.
"I didn't want to lose it like this." She sniffed. "I hate crying."
"You're entitled."
"I didn't realize how hard this would be."
"You don't have to hold it in. Not for me. Not for yourself."
A sigh shuddered out of her. "Thank you."
"As long as you realize I'm a little out of my element here."
She choked out a laugh: "You're doing a good job. The hug is a nice touch."
Uncomfortable, he shrugged, wishing she'd stop looking so damn sad. "We need to talk about what we found today."
"And what we're going to do about it." She gazed up at him, tears glittering in her eyes.
He stared at her, willing himself not to want her when she was at her most vulnerable. Lust, he thought, shifting from one foot to the other to accommodate the ache in his groin.
It's just lust.
Damn, lust had never done this to him before.
Giving himself a mental shake, Randall reminded himself that she wasn't the only one who was vulnerable at the moment. His life wasn't exactly in order. He couldn't let himself get tangled up with a woman and spend the next year pining for her from D.C.
Chapter 12
"I found soup!” Bent over a large corrugated moving box, Addison snatched up the can and waved it.
"What kind?"
She looked up and spotted Randall stacking the last of the firewood next to the hearth. "No label." Twisting the manual can opener, she walked into the living room and sniffed the open can. "Chicken noodle, I think."
He grinned. "I was hoping for alphabet soup."
"Sorry." It wasn't easy rummaging through the boxes she'd packed at the height of her grief. Her heart clenched each time she ran across an item that stirred even the smallest of memories. The wicker napkin holder she and her mother had bought at a nearby antique shop. The electronic chess set that had kept her father entranced for hours while she and her mother had cried buckets over Titanic.
Shaking off the memories, she looked up to see Randall pull an old cast-iron skillet out of a box. He hit her with a devastating grin. "Will this do?"
Unable to keep herself from it, she grinned back. "Perfect."
Despite the mussed black hair and five o'clock shadow, he looked almost domesticated standing there in his jeans, T-shirt, and gray flannel shirt. He was too damn handsome for his own good, she decided. Granted, a little rough around the edges. Edges could be smoothed with just the right touch.
Knowing they were dangerous thoughts leaping through .her mind, she carried the soup to the hearth, with its furiously burning fire, where Randall was digging through another box.
"Some spoons would be nice," he said, setting a toaster aside.
"Or we could just slurp."
They spotted the unopened bottle of cognac simultaneously. Randall froze, staring at it. His hands gripped the sides of the box so tightly his knuckles turned white. Several seconds passed before he moved. He reached for the toaster, set it back inside the box, and closed the flaps.
Addison's heart skipped a beat as the significance of his reaction dawned on her. He'd wanted a drink, she realized, wanted it badly. And a pang of concern for him tightened her chest.
"I think I saw a package of plastic spoons in the kitchen drawer," she said quickly.
His gaze swept to hers, and a silent understanding passed between them.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah." He looked away. ''I'm fine."
''I'm glad." She smiled, then went to get the spoons.
She returned to find the skillet full of steaming soup. He'd arranged napkins and two mismatched glasses on the coffee table. The setup couldn't have looked more appealing. They'd gone most of the day without food. After the grueling trek into the ravine, she was famished.
They sat on the floor with the coffee table between them. Addison hadn't let herself think too much about what had happened to her parents. But now, having set her emotions aside, a hundred questions rushed at her like daggers. Questions about her parents' deaths and how that was going to change the case. Questions about the dark mystery she faced back in Denver. And questions about the troubled man sitting across from her.
"You're quiet."
She looked up to find him studying her intently. "I'm still grappling with what happened to Mom and Dad. I never would have imagined ... murder." She didn't like the way the word felt on her tongue. The ugliness of it aggravated the slowly healing wound in her heart.
He stopped eating and watched her carefully from across the small table. "I'm sorry it worked out this way. And I'm sorry you have to go through this."
"It's okay I needed to know the truth." She ate some of the soup, but her mind wasn't on eating. "What exactly did you see down in that ravine that makes you think someone forced their car off the road?"
"There was white paint on the bumper and on the left rear quarter panel," he said. "Had I not been looking specifically for that, I would have missed it, just as Sheriff White had."
"The paint was from another vehicle?"
He nodded. "I took some photos and scraped off a paint sample to take back to Van-Dyne for the lab. I'm going to try to get the Denver PD interested in this case."
"Isn't this out of Denver's jurisdiction?"
"Yeah, but you're not. Neither is Bernstein's case."
She bit her lip, struggling to put aside the uneasiness slicing through her. It still hadn't quite sunk in that someone had murdered her parents. That the same murderer had shot Jim Bernstein. Or that the same someone might be trying to kill her. The notion was so outrageous her mind just couldn't absorb it.
"I need to know why," she said. "I can't accept any of this until I know who's responsible and why."
"My guess is that someone doesn't want you to know your birth parents."
His words ricocheted around inside her head like a stray bullet, shattering the illusions of safety and security she'd held her entire life. Simultaneously, a new and infinitely terrible thought engulfed her. "Do you think they've also murdered my birth father?"
"It's possible—"
"He could be in danger."
"My priority right now is to keep you safe."
"My god, we have to find him. We have to warn him—"
"If anyone can find him, Jack can," Randall cut in. "Trust me. He's good at what he does."
Half-heartedly, Addison picked at the soup. "So, we're relatively certain whoever killed my parents is the same person who murdered Agnes Beckett and Jim Bernstein," she said, thinking out loud.
"And tried to kill you at your coffee shop," Randall reminded her.
"The common link is my adoption."
''That's the only connection I can see."
''Why now?" The next thought struck her like a blow. "Oh, my god."
Randall's eyes narrowed. ''What is it?"
"I keep trying to think of an impetus. Why this happened now." She looked at him, felt the pain and guilt slinking through her like a fast-growing cancer. "My search. I'd just begun when my parents were killed. Oh, God. Oh, Randall, you don't think—"
''This isn't your fault."
"If I hadn't started searching for my birth parents, maybe none of this would have happened." The words were too ugly, too horrible to comprehend. It was bad enough losing her parents. But to know they had been murdered in cold blood because of something she may have done was infinitely worse.
"Don't go there," he said firmly.
"Four lives snuffed out in cold blood because of—"
"Goddammit, don't do this to yourself."
She stared at him, stricken.
"It's not your fault," he said fiercely.
Addison looked down at the soup, realized her appetite had vanished. ''Why would somebody go to such lengths? What could they possibly have to gain? I don't understand."
"That's the ten-thousand-dollar question." Setting his spoon aside, he slid the skillet in her direction. "Eat. While it's still hot. Then I'm going to see to that cut on your face."
She ignored the soup. "My parents were decent, hardworking people. They never hurt anyone. They didn't have enemies."
''This wasn't personal, Addison." He spoke softly, as if expecting her to shatter if he said the words too harshly.
She wondered if he'd stick around to pick up the pieces if she did.
"I need to know why, Randall. I can't rest until I know why this happened. I can't accept it. I won't—"
"All right," he said. "Maybe your mom and dad knew who your birth parents were. Maybe someone didn't want that information getting out." He contemplated her from across the table. "After a baby is put up for adoption, som
etimes the adoptive parents are allowed to meet the birth mother. It depends on the agency involved and, of course, mutual consent. But it happens."
She mulled over the possibility that her parents had met with Agnes Beckett all those years ago. She wondered what seeing a tiny, unwanted newborn had been like for them, if they'd loved her instantly, if they'd been anxious and afraid about taking her home.
The Perfect Victim Page 15