by Joanna Wayne
Neither of them said a word until the music stopped. “See, that wasn’t so bad,” he said as he led her off the floor.
“Not bad at all,” she agreed.
The band started again, but this time the music was jumpy and the rhythm seemed disjointed.
“Can’t dance to hip-hop,” he said, “but I can stand out there and do this while you dance.”
He did some crazy moves with his arms and legs, and she laughed out loud. She’d forgotten how great laughing felt.
She linked her hand through his arm. “Why don’t we take a walk in the garden instead?”
“Only if you promise not to disappear on me the way you did last time.”
The thought had occurred to her. She might be forced to escape later, but not yet. She’d already crossed lines she’d thought impassable. She may as well keep the illusion going awhile longer.
Once they were outside, he took off his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders.
“You’ll freeze,” she said.
“No. Cold doesn’t bother me.”
She wondered what did bother him. She wished she knew everything about him, but she didn’t dare ask too many questions. If she did, he’d feel free to ask her things she could never make him understand. She let her arm drop from his.
They walked past a row of perfectly manicured hedges. His hand swung beside hers for a second and then he caught her fingers with his and let them tangle. Like lovers. Like normal people with hopes and dreams.
She couldn’t go on like this. She had to tell him. But first she should at least know his name. “What should I call you?”
“Bart Finnegan.”
“Bart. I like it. It sounds like the name of an athlete.”
“I played a little football in high school.”
“So what do you do now?”
“Right now I’m a deputy with the local sheriff’s department. But I’ve done a bit of everything. Military. House painter. L.A. homicide detective.”
“What an interesting life.”
“It’s had its moments. Now let’s talk about you.”
“I’ve never really done anything.”
“Then let’s start with your last name.”
“Ah, but then I’d lose my aura of mystery. Better to just think of me as Katrina.”
“Will you tell me if I guess it?”
“And then you’ll take my firstborn, Rumplestil-skin.”
“No way. I don’t do diapers.”
She laughed again, so aware of him, she could barely keep from floating down the flagstone path.
“If you guess right, I’ll admit it.”
“Okay, let’s see. Katrina Smith?”
“Smith. You think I’m plain. Admit it.”
“Plain as dirt. Katrina Caruthers?”
“No, but I like the sound of that.”
“Then, let me think. Katrina…Katrina… Katrina O’Malley.”
She stopped walking. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“No, it wasn’t a guess. How do you know?”
“I saw a photograph of a woman who looked just like you in a book in the hotel library. She died in the first Fernhaven the night it burned to the ground, a victim of the tragedy. Her name was Katrina O’Malley.”
“You’re a smart man.” Still, he didn’t have it all figured out. If he had, he wouldn’t be here now.
“I’m just good with hunches. So who’s the woman in the picture who looks so much like you?”
She should tell him the truth. But if she did, she’d never see him again. And she wanted one more dance before that happened. A few more seconds in his arms. One last taste of what could never be hers.
“She’s my great-grandmother.”
He looked puzzled. “Really. I’m surprised you came to the hotel knowing she died in the original Fernhaven.”
“It’s the reason I came. The O’Malley family roots run deep.”
“They must if you had a necklace made to match the one she had on the night of the fire.” He trailed her neck with his fingers, then let them linger on the diamond-and-emerald amulet. “Or is this the original?”
“Yes.” The word was barely a whisper. His face was so close. She couldn’t fight this. The attraction was too unexpected and far too overpowering. “It was found and returned to us.”
“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
And then he kissed her. The world began to spin as if she were on a mad carousel. She kissed him back, over and over until every part of her was lost in the passion and need.
A siren sounded in the distance, growing closer and closer. Bart pulled away. “I have to go. Duty calls.”
She only nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Tomorrow night in the ballroom. Same time?”
She nodded again.
His hand trailed her arm one last time, as if he hated to leave her. Once he was gone, she hugged her chest, as if that could hold her together.
Bart Finnegan. She wanted to see him tomorrow night, and the night after, and the night after, and every night for as long as she could. But how long would he stay around once he knew the truth about her?
The answer was simple. He’d leave in a heartbeat.
Chapter Six
Bart took a shortcut, avoiding the ballroom and the interior of the hotel altogether. He reached the circular drive in the front just as Sheriff Powell pulled up in his unmarked car and killed the portable flashing lights and siren.
Something pretty big had to have broken for the sheriff to show up this far out of town at this time of the night. The easiest thing to do would be to rush up to him and ask what the hell was going on. But that would open a ton of complications, and make it impossible for Bart to work behind the scenes the way he was doing now.
Best to hang out of sight, but close enough to see and hear what was going on. That should be easy enough with the sheriff and his booming voice claiming all the attention. Powell ordered the valet to leave his car where it was easy to get to since he wouldn’t be here long. Before the sheriff reached the door, Rich McFarland came walking out.
“Is the doctor here yet?”
“He’s come and gone,” McFarland answered, conveniently walking toward where Bart was located behind a guest’s waiting limo. “He tried to get Carrie to go into the hospital for X-rays, but she refused.”
“Most hardheaded woman I’ve ever met,” Powell said. “But a damn good deputy. So, where is she?”
“She’s resting. Hotel gave her a room for the night.”
“They damn sure should have. If they screened their employees appropriately this wouldn’t have happened. We’d have known they had a man with a prior sexual molestation conviction working here and already had the guy in for questioning or at least had our eye on him.” Powell rubbed his hands together as if to warm them. “What’s your take? Is Carrie all right?”
“She’s got an impressive goose egg on her left temple, and the doctor says she has a mild concussion. He wants her to rest for a day or two.”
“She won’t,” Powell said.
“She might. She’s damn lucky,” McFarland said. “You’ll see how lucky when you see the car.”
Powell groaned. “Guess I can’t put that off any longer. Lead me to it.”
Bart felt like an outsider, as if he were watching from another dimension. It didn’t bother him as much as he’d expected, at least now that he knew Carrie was all right.
He had trouble relating with women. Always had—except for Carrie. They’d hit it off from the day he signed on as deputy and was paired up with her on a murder case. There weren’t a lot of murder cases in this part of the state, but some guy out on Kettle Road had killed his wife in a fit of rage over a burned steak.
He’d gone to a lot of trouble to hide his tracks, but in the end, they’d got the evidence for a conviction.
Carrie was so green she could have passed for grass. She’d signed
on only a couple of months before him, just out of college with her crisp little degree in law enforcement framed and hanging on the wall in her tiny little office down at the department. But she was a good listener and a fast learner. Cute as a button. Outgoing. Enthusiastic.
Cheerleader with a gun, that’s what he’d called her.
He followed the sheriff and Rich to the spot where they’d parked the wrecked vehicle, out of sight of the people staying at the plush hotel. The right front fender was hanging on by a thread of metal and a prayer. The right front wheel was knocked a little cockeyed. The front bumper and grille were smashed in.
Powell let out a low whistle, then choked on the effort. “You guys will do anything to get a new car.” He rested his hand on the mangled fender and stooped to get a better look at the damage. “Hard to believe Carrie walked away from this.”
“Thanks to the air bags and a guardian angel or two.”
Bart stayed around until he heard the full story of what had happened when they’d gone to question Harlan Grant, alias Jason Peters. If Harlan was the murderer they were after, he might be on the run now. He could be anywhere. That could make what Bart had to do a lot more difficult. But then there was no proof Harlan was the man—or that he was gone.
Either way, the killer could still be in the area, perverted, dangerous. Already searching for his next victim.
Brash enough that he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a cop. And Carrie was putting herself right in the line of fire. She’d survived tonight. Next time she might not be so lucky. One more reason he had to work fast. Any cop worth his badge was there when his partner needed him.
And as far as he was concerned, he was still Carrie’s partner and this was still his case. He’d started it. He’d finish it. Department rules be hanged.
IT WAS MIDNIGHT, and Owen still wasn’t home. Selma paced the small house, hating the cold that crept under the cracks around the doors and windows and the regret that iced her heart. If she’d gone to see her mother that day or cleaned house or worked in the garden, nothing would have happened.
Owen had warned her that it was dangerous to hike the old trail down to Crater Falls alone. But she’d hiked the paths that snaked through the woods and up and down the mountains all her life. The worst she’d ever expected was a skinned knee from slipping on the trail. Never in all her life would she have ever imagined what happened that day.
She shuddered as the memories crept into her mind and the man’s touch seemed to slither along every nerve ending. And suddenly the walls of the house seemed to close in on her. She grabbed her parka from the hook by the back door and ran outside.
The cold slap of the wind did nothing to clear her mind. Instead the images grew more vivid. She could taste and feel and smell the day. It had been bright and cloudless. Crater’s River had rushed over the rocks as if it were in a hurry to reach the Pacific.
The area she’d stopped in was verdant with lush growth and the odors of damp earth and blossoms from plants that grew wild in the mountains blended into the kind of aphrodisiac that could only be found on a crisp fall day in the Cascades.
She’d stopped at the edge of the river and perched on a rock partly shaded by a young alder tree. Tempted by the lure of the water, she’d slipped out of her shoes and socks and dipped one toe into it. The cold shocked her so that she fell backward and scratched her hand on the rock as she caught herself to keep from falling.
She still remembered the blood trickling over the pattern the twigs made. She’d been staring at that strange, squiggly line when the wind had gusted and the temperature had seemed to plunge at least ten degrees. She’d reached to grab her shoes and socks she’d tossed behind the rock.
That’s when he’d stepped from behind the row of evergreens.
The day had been bright and sunny. Yet when she saw him in her mind’s eye, he was always shrouded in a heavy mist. His features were never clear; the sensations were frighteningly vivid.
As they were now.
She slid her hands between her thighs and felt the erotic ache that had become so familiar. Moisture pooled in her panties, and her breath came in tiny, heated, gasps.
She’d been on fire. Exploding with desire. Tasted passion like she’d never known existed. And then it had ended. She’d felt more satisfied and fulfilled than she ever had in her life. It had been more than sex. It had been an ethereal ecstasy beyond anything she’d ever felt before—or since.
The shame of what she’d done hadn’t hit until she’d started home.
“What are you doing out here in the cold?”
She jumped and bit back a scream. “Owen. You startled me. I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“Obviously.”
“I’m okay,” she whispered. “I just stepped outside to look at the moon and get a breath of fresh air.”
“And think about him?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
He didn’t believe her. She could see the distrust in his eyes and the cold, hard jut of his jaw.
He turned and marched back inside without waiting on her or giving any explanation of where he’d been. She followed him, hating herself for feelings she couldn’t escape and an experience that had no reasonable explanation.
Either she was suffering from anxiety and depression as the psychiatrist said or she was slowly going stark-raving mad. She was almost sure it was the latter.
KATRINA KNEW Carrie was in the hotel. Her arrival in the wrecked patrol car had created a stir that had spread up and down the long hallways. Katrina even knew what room she was in. The temptation was great to forego all the preliminaries and take care of things tonight.
But as much as she wanted to get this over with, the risk to rush and make mistakes was too high. She had to play by the established rules. Neither the game nor the game plan were her design, but the consequences of failure would all rest on her shoulders.
Still she was far too restless to sleep. She went back to the ballroom. It was empty now, but the music still seemed to echo from the walls, low and haunting, and if she looked really hard, she could see the reflection of dancers weaving their way about the polished floor. Holding each other, falling in love.
Love.
The word floated around her as if suspended in the air like one of the fake snowflakes. The letters were easily recognizable, but the concept was as foreign as happiness or fulfillment.
Deception. She knew that word well. Betrayal. Heartbreak.
Murder.
Those were the words that defined her. But not love. Love was impossible at this stage of the plan. Love and Bart Finnegan.
And yet she was consumed with him. She lifted her long skirt and twirled about the room, remembering the feel of his arms around her, the thrill of having him hold her close, the sweet, salty taste of his mouth.
It wasn’t fair. Temptation shouldn’t come now when it was too late to do anything about it. Desire shouldn’t touch her. Life shouldn’t matter at all.
Only it did.
TWO DAYS AFTER the car wreck and the debacle of losing the only real suspect they had, Carrie was still stiff and achy. The hematoma on the side of her temple where she’d glanced off the side window before the air bags had inflated had gone down considerably, but the bruises on her shoulder were becoming a work of abstract, psychedelic art. Fortunately, the art was hidden under the long sleeves of her uniform.
But she was sore and still tired from the lack of sleep she’d gotten the night she’d spent in the hotel. Her room had been just over the ballroom and the music had seemed to drift right through the floor.
But she had to get back on the job. A lot of things had changed with the case over the past two days. Powell had released the information about the note to Fernhaven’s general manager, though not to the press. The manager had promised the hotel’s full cooperation with the investigation and with keeping the note a secret.
And they’d requested that Rich and Carrie check out the facilities for any weakness in the
ir security. It was the first time they’d admitted that it could possibly be lax.
“Are you sure you feel up to this?” Rich asked, as they parked in front of the hotel about three minutes before their meeting with the head of hotel security.
“We’re going to talk. What’s there to be up to?”
“You could have taken a couple more days off.”
“I could have stayed on the road the other night and shot out Harlan Grant’s tires and kept him from escaping. So much for woulda, coulda, shoulda.”
He bypassed the valet and parked his car in the lot closest to the main entrance. They were in his personal car, an old gray sedan with over a hundred thousand miles on it and the dents and scratches to prove they’d been difficult ones. The department’s budget was too tight to have replacement patrol cars collecting bird droppings and waiting for an accident.
An excursion bus was parked in front of the entrance and Carrie and Rich had to wait for a group of teenagers carrying skis to push out the wide doors before they could enter.
“A great morning for the slopes,” Rich said. “But the storm’s expected to push in by late afternoon. Blizzard conditions predicted by tomorrow morning.”
“Maybe Harlan Grant will get stranded in it and freeze to death,” she said.
“The world should be so lucky.”
She walked inside, unzipping her parka as she did. “I just wish we had proof he’s the man we’re looking for. I’d feel a lot better putting all our efforts into finding him if I knew we weren’t letting the real perp go free.”
“Evidence is definitely leaning his way right now.”
“We had him in our hands,” she said. “And I let him get away.”
“We let him get away,” Rich corrected.
Now he wanted to be a team player. Go figure. “Do you think Harlan’s still in the state of Washington?”
“No way to say. Could be anywhere. There’s an APB out on him, but that doesn’t mean squat. Some men on the FBI’s most wanted list have avoided capture for years.”
Carrie led the way, past the desk where clerks were checking in newly arriving guests to the hall where the administrative offices were located. They opened the door marked business offices and stepped into a lavishly appointed reception area. The woman behind the mahogany desk was also lavishly appointed. Carrie was certain Rich appreciated the view.