NO ESCAPE
Hiding from the past, jumping at shadows... Welcome to Jenna Harper’s life ever since her ex decided murder was the way to punish her for moving on. Yet Jenna survived—and continuous survival means eluding her attacker: no unnecessary risks, no credit cards and definitely no men. But despite her cautiousness, Jenna can’t deny her attraction to Beau Travis, the rugged carpenter fixing up her B and B. Neither can she ignore the recent mishaps that could blow her cover. Are the two connected? A troublemaker in high school, Beau was never the dependable type. Is he a suitor or a suspect? The answer could mean her life.
“We’re bein’ invaded.”
Jenna exchanged a smile with Beau, and dropped her voice. “Invaded by whom, Elmer?”
“Hippies. See that fella across the way there? The one with the black cap and orange hair? The one readin’ the newspaper?”
Jenna’s breath froze in her lungs as the man with the shaggy, orange-streaked blond hair and dark beard shadow slowly raised his head and seemed to stare straight at her. Cold fear drizzled down her spine and, like a deer in the headlights, she couldn’t look away from his long face and pointed jaw—his narrow shoulders. Then the man tossed some bills on the table beside the paper, and a moment later, he was heading toward the door.
Jenna’s rapid heartbeat began to ease a little as Elmer continued to speak. He couldn’t have been Court—not dressed like that.
Her hand shook a little as she reached for her coffee, and her cup rattled against the saucer. Get a grip, she commanded herself, refusing to look up when she felt Beau’s heavy gaze on her. Elmer’s hippie was simply a man passing through, who’d stopped to get a meal and would be moving on. He wasn’t a threat to her. He wasn’t.
Books by Lauren Nichols
Love Inspired Suspense
Marked for Murder
On Deadly Ground
At Any Cost
LAUREN NICHOLS
From the time Waldenbooks bestselling author Lauren Nichols was able to read, there was a book in her hand—then later, in her mind. Happily, her first attempt at romance fiction was a finalist in RWA’s Golden Heart Contest, and though she didn’t win, she’s been blessed to sell eight romance suspense novels, and dozens of romance, mystery and science-fiction short stories to national magazines.
When Lauren isn’t working on a project or hanging out with her family and friends, she enjoys gardening, geocaching and traveling anywhere with her very best friend, her husband, Mike. Lauren loves to hear from readers. You can email her at [email protected] or through her website, www.laurennichols.com.
At Any Cost
Lauren Nichols
The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid? In times of trouble
He will shelter me; He will keep me safe in
His Temple and make me secure on a high rock.
—Psalms 27:1, 5
For Ann McCauley, Lindsay Randall
and Karen Rose Smith for your unwavering encouragement and friendship. I love you guys.
And always for Mike. You’re my everything.
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
DEAR READER
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
PROLOGUE
Impatient to begin, the man sat in an idling, early model beige sedan outside a diner advertising Wi-Fi, his features hidden behind tinted glasses, a knitted black watch cap pulled low on his forehead. Outside, the mid-November snow was blowing sideways, sending a chill through him despite the blast of heat coming through the car’s vents. He abhorred his appearance, detested his scruff of a beard. But the deception was paramount to conceal his identity.
Scowling, he consulted his wristwatch, saw that it was 9:00 a.m., then turned to the woman beside him and handed her a disposable cell phone. Usually slender and strikingly attractive, she wasn’t much to look at now—not the way she was dressed today. The bulky winter jacket, mousy wig and owlish glasses had leeched every ounce of her appeal. Ridiculous pewter peace sign earrings swung from her earlobes. He’d been told that she was a woman of many names and talents. In fact, he suspected that even the name she’d given him was an alias. But according to the man who’d introduced them—a friend of a friend of an acquaintance—she was worth every cent he was paying her.
Opening his laptop, he snagged an internet connection from the diner and located an online building supply house that carried top-of-the-line power tools. He turned the screen toward her—pointed out two items.
“Kindly order the planer and the radial arm saw—and tell the salesperson there’s no rush. Regular delivery will be fine.” A hint of sarcasm entered his tone. “I wouldn’t want to drain Ms. Harper’s bank account.”
“No flowers this time?”
“No.”
Smiling, the woman who’d given her name as Deirdre Alaimo tapped the company’s number into the phone, then accepted the business card he offered. As she’d done with the three purchases she’d made late yesterday, “Deirdre” gave the salesperson who answered Jenna Harper’s name and address, placed the order, then turned the business card over and read the credit card number scrawled on the back.
“And may I have those items delivered to a different address so I don’t have to transport them myself?” she asked sweetly. “They’re a gift for someone special.”
The driver heard the salesman’s booming reply. “Of course, Ms. Harper. Where would you like to have them sent?”
She read the name and address on the front of the card, then tucked it into her pocket. A minute later, she said a cordial thank-you, then ended the call and turned to her employer. “Another purchase?” she asked coyly.
“No, I believe four trips to the well will be sufficient.” The driver closed the laptop, then swiveling around, he exchanged it for the small overnight bag lying on his backseat. He handed it to “Mrs. Audrey Bolton.”
“Everything you’ll need is inside. Twenty-five hundred dollars in cash—a small portion of which you shouldn’t mind using for your accommodations—a plane ticket and another set of credentials.” The driver removed his glasses and sent her a cold, blue stare. “Naturally, you will destroy ‘Mrs. Bolton’s’ credit card and photo ID as soon as you’ve accomplished your task and contacted the others.”
“I’ve been doing this for a long time,” she said, returning his chilly look. “I don’t make mistakes.”
“Good.” Turning his head, he stared through the windshield where heat poured from the defroster, melting swirling snowflakes on contact. “Goodbye, Deirdre.”
“Deirdre” didn’t reply. She simply got out of the car and shut the door. Lifting his gaze to the rearview mirror, the driver watched her walk back to her rented blue Ford, climb inside, then start the car and pull around him onto the street. Her brake lights flashed briefly as an old woman wearing a plastic rain bonnet hurried across the street in front of her. Then the car was swallowed up in windblown flurries and he was alone with his thoughts.
It was good to have money, the driver decided, turning on the wipers and easing away from the curb. A person with money could buy interesting services, do interesting things. Anything except reclaim what she’d taken from him—what he’d held most dear.
Now it would be his pleasure to return the fav
or.
ONE
At 10:30 a.m., Beau Travis drove up the slight incline to the small blacktopped parking lot beside the Blackberry Hill Bed and Breakfast and parked his truck. Wind-whipped snow flurries rode the crisp morning air. He wasn’t a fan of snow, but in Pennsylvania’s Allegheny Mountains, from mid-October on, it was only a matter of time until it showed up—and it was November now. Leaving his jacket on the seat, he swung out of his charcoal-gray Ford F-250, slammed the door and grabbed his heavy toolbox from the truck’s bed. Wind tunneled down the neck of his navy sweatshirt as he hurried up the walk to the sprawling gingerbread-trimmed, pink-shingled Victorian’s white porch. He preferred to get an earlier start on his jobs, but Jenna didn’t like having her late-sleeping guests rousted from their dreams by power tools.
As always—particularly for the past two weeks since he’d been working here—Beau felt an airy anticipation in his gut as he stamped the snow from his boots, rang the bell and waited for someone to buzz him inside. The door latch clicked, and he entered. No way was he in the market for a relationship. But he was a thirty-six-year-old red-blooded American man, and he still enjoyed looking at a beautiful woman. Jenna Harper was that and a whole lot more.
He closed the glossy oak door with the side lights and etched glass inset behind him, then paused in the foyer where the registration desk took center stage. The aroma of freshly baked pastries filled the air. Jenna was on the phone, and in the second it took before he noted the anxiety in her eyes, his mind absorbed everything about her. Everything from the pretty sun streaks in her shoulder-length ash-blond hair, to the soft pinkish-lavender sweater she wore with cream-colored wool pants. Her tone and the nervous way she fingered the gold cross at her scooped neckline spiked his awareness.
“No. No, the charges aren’t mine,” she said. “I haven’t used that credit card in two years. Are you certain this wasn’t an accident? Someone could have juxtaposed the numbers when they—” Her voice rose shakily. “I see. How many charges were there?”
Beau took his time wiping his boots on the mat. This was none of his business, but he hesitated just the same. Generally, he kept his nose to the grindstone and his eyes straight ahead—didn’t get involved in other people’s concerns and kept his own little dramas to himself. But she was different. She intrigued him—had since she’d been an underclassman at their high school. She was incredibly beautiful, but didn’t date. She was friendly, yet there was a wariness about her that she couldn’t hide. She shared bits of her life, but quickly changed the subject when his questions approached anything close to personal. And now that he thought about it, he rarely saw her out and about except for Sunday services at St. John’s.
When she spoke again, her voice trembled. “There were flowers delivered to three different funeral homes?” She pressed her free hand to her stomach. “No. No, I don’t have family members in those cities.”
Nodding to her and receiving her tense nod in return, Beau followed the carpet runner past the formal parlor toward the dining room. Okay, she’d been the victim of identity theft. It was a growing crime, but most credit card companies didn’t hold cardholders responsible for some hacker’s criminal bent. But unless his radar was all messed up—or unless he was linking her reaction to her lifestyle—she was afraid. That made him afraid for her, and an unexpected jolt of protectiveness hit him squarely in the chest.
With a nod to Jenna’s great-aunt Molly who was fussing with table settings beyond the dining room’s French doors, Beau turned right, stepped through a doorway, and tried to focus on the sitting room he’d be restoring. He’d finished the bedroom upstairs. Today he needed to remove the molding and aging wallpaper in here, then size the walls. He scanned the room. The drapes were down, and snow blew past the long window that had been exposed. The sill would have to be replaced. He’d stored small pieces of furniture in the attic yesterday, then ripped up the carpeting and moved the larger furniture to the middle of the room. Jenna had draped them in plastic: two rose-colored camelback settees, a highboy and a couple of small tables. He set his toolbox on the floor next to his Shop-Vac, then unable to shake his concern, glanced back through the doorway and the trouble he’d sensed at the front desk.
Tiny, feisty Molly Jennings strode inside, a pixie grin in place, her feathery cap cut as white as the flurries outside. “Late for breakfast again,” she teased, shaking a bony finger. “What am I going to do with you?”
Beau chuckled. “I told you. I don’t eat breakfast. I had a cup of coffee at the Quick Stop before I came over.”
“A cup of coffee is no way for a big, strapping young man to start his day,” she insisted, then linked her arm through his. “There are a few cranberry muffins left, and they’ll just go to waste if you don’t help me out.” She continued before he could refuse again. “Besides, we still have an expectant mama upstairs who might like to sleep a little longer. She won’t be able to do that once you start banging around in here.”
Grinning, Beau let her drag him into the Victorian’s dining room. Molly Jennings—who’d been “Aunt Molly” to him since she’d bailed him out of a mess during his teenage years—was singing the same song she sang every day when he walked in. Today he’d accept because he wanted to ask about Jenna. “Okay. I’ll have a muffin if you do, too. Then I have to get to work.”
Aunt Molly parked him at a table that was already set with cups, saucers and condiments, then scooted over to a courtesy table that held beverages for the Blackberry’s guests, and grabbed a carafe. She plucked two muffins from the warming basket and put them on fancy china dishes.
Beau smiled, watching her add knives and pats of butter to the plates. She was still a pint-sized dynamo at eighty-something, and looked perfectly at home in a room outfitted with silk flowers, antique dolls and cream-and-roses wallpaper. As always, she wore period clothing and high-button shoes. Today’s outfit was a floor-length dark green skirt and a high-necked, white blouse that puffed at the shoulder, then molded her matchstick arms down to the wrist. It was well known that from the time she’d opened the Blackberry Hill Bed and Breakfast fifty years ago, Molly Jennings had delighted in creating a slice of history for her guests. That hadn’t changed after she’d sold the B and B to Jenna two years ago.
“Here you go.” She handed him a plate, set hers down, then returned for the carafe. She carried it back to the table. “Now grab a chair and tell me what’s on your mind.”
With a curious tilt of his head, Beau pulled out her chair, waited for her to sit, then took the seat beside her. At six foot two, he was a giant sitting next to her four foot ten—a giant in a room too feminine and fussy for a man of his proportions. “Why do you think something’s on my mind?”
“Because for the past two weeks, I’ve been trying to get you in here for breakfast, and until today, you’ve refused.”
He grinned. “Maybe you just wore me down.”
“And maybe I’m sweet sixteen and waiting for my prom date. Now, out with it.”
He was trying to come up with a subtle way to ask why Jenna was so guarded about her past when she came inside. The agitated look in her wide blue eyes hadn’t changed since that phone call.
“Good morning,” she said, seeing him and quickly calling up a smile.
Beau stood. “Good morning.”
“I see Aunt Molly finally nagged you into accepting some breakfast.”
Molly headed back to the china cabinet, her reply drifting airily. “I don’t nag, dear, I simply suggest. Who was on the phone?”
Beau watched Jenna take an unsuccessful stab at nonchalance. “My credit card company. Apparently, someone has my account number, and they’ve been having a lot of fun at my expense. Literally.”
There was no point in acting surprised. She knew he’d overheard part of her conversation. “I imagine the card company’s investigating,” he said.
“Yes. That’s why they called. I guess when charges are made out of state on an account that’s been dormant for t
wo years, it raises a red flag.”
There was a rattle of china as Molly fumbled with a cup and saucer, then smiling a little too brightly, she carried them to their table. “You cancelled the card, of course.”
Jenna nodded soberly. “Yes, but I should’ve done it a long time ago. The woman who called said there could be charges that haven’t posted yet, but they’ll refuse payment. I’m not liable for them. As of now, my fraudulent friend’s fun is over.”
But Jenna was more upset than she should be, all things considered, and Molly seemed to be feeling a bit of that, too. Picking up his muffin, Beau wrapped it in a napkin and hid his concern behind a smile. It was time for him to leave. Jenna obviously needed to speak to her aunt alone. “That’s good news. Glad things worked out.” He nodded toward the open doors. “Now I need to get busy. You’re not paying me to socialize.”
Jenna hurried to put him at ease. “No, please stay and enjoy your breakfast. Don’t let me chase you away.”
“You’re not,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “The fear that I’ll be pulled into a girl-talk session is.” He shifted his attention to Aunt Molly. “I’ll keep the noise down. Scout’s honor. No power tools until noon.”
But there was no feisty comeback from his tiny boss, only a smile and a nod—and his concern grew.
* * *
Jenna watched him go, then rose to close the French doors and turned to her aunt. She didn’t like hearing the fear in her own voice, but there was no way to stop it. “It’s him, Aunt Molly. I think it’s him.”
Molly’s brow lined as she left her seat, then took Jenna’s hand and guided her back to the table. She scooted her chair closer to Jenna’s. “You don’t know that. Identity theft is running rampant these days. It’s all the talk on TV. Now, it’s been two years, and he knows the police are looking for him. He wouldn’t do anything to call attention to himself.”
Jenna shook her head. “He has money. A lot of money. The man was the CEO of a huge financial conglomerate. People like Courtland can have things done without putting themselves at risk.”
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