by Terry Odell
“Sweetheart, everything we’ve done has been Swiss cheese. Why don’t you get dressed and think about it? If you can come up with another plan, I promise to listen.”
“Give me a little computer time. If Hollingsworth hooked me to Robert, I need to know how he connects.” She flashed a wry grin. “Maybe Robert was his love child and he wants vengeance.”
“Speaking of Robert, what have you found out? Anything new?”
She shook her head and broke her gaze. Her expression changed. Shame? Embarrassment? There was more.
He pressed. “What happened after he … died? You must have followed the reports.”
“No.” Barely whispered.
He laughed. “Oh, don’t tell me the computer queen couldn’t find out what the police—even the Mexican police—made of a dead body in the middle of nowhere.”
“I never looked.”
“What?” He thought he was used to surprises by now, but this one floored him. “Why not?” And then he saw the tears glistening on her lashes and he felt like he’d been stabbed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to joke about it. I thought—the way you’ve been digging at everything else—you’d have been on top of that one.”
She pushed up from the chair, nearly knocking him over. “Well, I wasn’t. I’d just killed a man with my own hands. I didn’t exactly want to think about it. Ever.”
She crossed the room and leaned her hands on the desk, talking to its polished wooden surface. “I’d killed a man and no matter how many times I told myself I had no choice, the pain wouldn’t go away. I told you, I ran. Stopped being Karen Abbott. Took over Kelli Carpenter’s identity.”
When he touched her shoulder, she tensed, but let his fingers stay. He felt her take a long, deep breath. Then another. Four. Five. He waited.
She went on. “Until that night in the motel with you, I don’t think I spoke his name. Not when I was awake, anyway. I can’t even type his name into the computer without a major panic attack.”
He turned her around to face him. Ran his finger down her nose. “Do you think you could do it now? Since I already know, maybe it won’t be so hard. I’ll be right with you. Or you could tell me what to do and I’ll do the typing.”
“Maybe.” When she looked at him, he saw trust, not anger or fear.
Her eyes closed and she tilted her head up a fraction. The phone on the desk rang and Blake’s heart jumped another notch.
“Go ahead. Answer it. Bill.”
Once again, she’d cloaked her vulnerability with her strength, disappearing into Emily. Bill. Right. Back in character. “Hello?” he said.
“Mr. Cranford, there’s a package at the front desk. Would you like me to send someone up?”
And who might be carrying that package? “What kind of package?”
“FedEx. I can have a bellman deliver it.”
“Umm … no, no that’s not necessary. I’ll be down shortly.”
“FedEx,” he said to Kelli. “I’ll go. Are we expecting anything?”
“Our temporary Florida driver’s licenses. Maybe that’s a sign we should go to Chicago. I’ll see about scoring some plane reservations.”
“You’re ahead of me again. Driver’s license? You just said we were flying.”
When she gave him The Shake, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he tried not to hug her.
“You can’t get on an airplane without government-issued ID,” she said. “That, plus our EnviroCon photo IDs should get us through security.”
“Right. I knew that.” With all his travel, of course he did. There was something about being around Kelli that left his brain two steps behind.
She nudged him toward the door. He saw her glance around the room until her eyes caught the duffel sitting at the edge of the couch. “You were going to go no matter what I said, weren’t you?”
Chapter Seventeen
Kelli buckled her seat belt and focused on the safety video, wondering if the flight attendants would be so smiling and collected in a genuine emergency. The only last-minute seats available were in first class, not that she objected. To be honest, even more than the larger seats and extra legroom, she was thankful for the oversize stationary console between the seats, putting a physical barrier between her and Blake.
For the first time since Blake had dropped the news he was going to confront Hollingsworth, she allowed herself to relax. When she’d suggested she might be able to pick up some more information closer to the source, he hadn’t argued. Besides—maybe the attack on Jack was supposed to lure her back to Spokane, where someone would be waiting. Better not to take the bait.
They’d spent the morning packing, getting everything but her essentials shipped to EnviroCon for storage. She’d miss the security of her thirty-eight, but if they were flying, it wasn’t an option. She hadn’t heard from Jack, which had done nothing to ease her anxiety. Afraid to call for fear the cops might be monitoring his phones, she tried to reassure herself he was all right. He’d call if he had news. Until then, she’d have to wait.
She twisted in her seat and cast a sidelong glance at Blake. His beard had filled out and with his long hair, he had an unnerving sexy charm, something not lost on the flight attendant, judging from the solicitous way she’d made sure he had everything he needed. Blake seemed oblivious—he was as tired as she was and had to be planning his upcoming confrontation with Hollingsworth.
Moments later, they were airborne. She reached under the seat for the bag containing her computer and notes, but when she pulled out the envelope, Blake touched her hand.
“Take a break,” he said. “You’ve been going almost nonstop for days.”
Maybe he was right. Sometimes things came together when you didn’t think about them. Let the mind float. She put the envelope back.
“Get some rest,” he said and reclined his seat and closed his eyes.
She fished the airline’s earphones out of the seat pocket and found a classical music station on the dial. Exhausted or not, sleep did not come easily for her on airplanes, and her mind refused to slow down. She stared out the window into the late-afternoon sun, watching the plane’s shadow drift over the clouds below, until she slipped into that nebulous realm on the outskirts of sleep. Images whirled, people danced in juxtaposition with little regard to time. She was back at Berkeley, but Jack was there, too. Blake and Robert faced off in a duel, using ball peen hammers that shot fire. Karen Abbott floated in wearing a a big red clown nose, laughing, holding a broken wine bottle.
She struggled against the dream, telling herself to wake up and it would go away. Yet the images wouldn’t fade and she could no longer be certain she was dreaming. Scumbag was there, dangling her over a cliff. She battled, but he gave a wicked laugh and dropped her. Her stomach flew to her throat as she fell—down, down, into a circle of flames.
“Due to turbulence, the captain has illuminated the seat belt sign and all passengers should return to their seats. Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened,” rang out from the heavens.
Kelli broke out of the dream with an audible gasp. Heart racing, she fumbled with her seat belt to make sure it was snug. She located the bottle of water she’d put in the seat pocket and unscrewed the cap, downing half the contents in one pull. Blake stirred, repositioned himself in his seat, but didn’t open his eyes. His face was relaxed and a tiny smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Dreaming, no doubt. Something pleasant. No nightmares.
She picked up the in-flight magazine and tried to lose herself in the best places to ski in France while she cursed those who could drop into a peaceful sleep, seemingly at will. Charles had hated flying. He was always good for distracting conversation. First class had the additional perk of meal service, but after two bites, she poked at her chicken and moved the rice and vegetables around the plate. Blake grunted and shook his head when the flight attendant came by, but Kelli doubted he had awakened.
When the captain announced their final descent, Blake’s eyes popped open
and she watched him become aware of his surroundings. He worked his mouth back and forth and she offered him what was left in her water bottle.
He took a drink, stretched his legs and torso as much as the seat permitted and rubbed his eyes. He looked at his watch. Shook his head. “Guess I was out, huh?”
“Like the proverbial light.”
“You?”
“Fine.”
He raised his eyebrows, then gave her a scrutinizing look. She couldn’t lie to those eyes. “Okay, so I don’t sleep much on planes. I rested. Some.” And thought and thought and tried not to think anymore.
“Sometimes it seems I get half my sleep on planes.” He reached over, laced his fingers through hers. “I’m glad you’re here. Did you eat? I’m starved.”
“Not my fault you wouldn’t wake up.”
“There are some decent all-night spots. We can grab a bite on the way to my place.”
His place. That was something else she’d tried not to think about. Staying with him in his condo shouldn’t be any different from sharing hotel rooms, but somehow, it seemed more … intimate, somehow. Ridiculous. Hell, for the money he paid, he had to have plenty of room. Maybe an entire guest suite. Probably more privacy than she’d had in days. She pulled her fingers from his and stared out the window, watching the city lights grow brighter.
Even at ten-thirty, O’Hare was filled with people. She followed Blake’s confident stride until they were ensconced in a taxi. The cab made its way out of the airport, passing cranes, scaffolding, and heavy machinery.
“Do you think there’s a law requiring airports to be under construction at all times?” she asked.
Blake chortled. “Come to think of it, I can’t recall being in one that wasn’t. Maybe you’re right.”
She watched the lights fly by for a while and then Blake was shaking her awake.
“Guess not sleeping in airplanes doesn’t carry over to taxis,” he said. “Let’s get you into bed.”
She tried to shrug off her grogginess, but her thought processes were dragging at least two feet behind her. “Did we stop to eat?”
“I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I’ll find something in the freezer.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Blake paid the driver, hoisted his duffel and her gym bag over his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her to the glass door of a towering high-rise. A uniformed doorman held the door open and greeted him by name. She wasn’t too tired to notice the look of surprise, quickly covered, on the man’s face when Blake escorted her through the doorway.
“Guess he doesn’t approve of me,” she said once they were in the elevator. “I’m sure I don’t look like the women he’s used to seeing with you.”
Blake let the bags slip onto the floor of the empty car. He pressed a button, then turned toward her and cradled her face in his hands. “Sweetheart, he’s never seen me bring a woman here.”
Still pondering Blake’s statement, she followed him to a door at the far end of the carpeted corridor. He worked through a ring of keys, selected one, and unlocked the door.
“Here we are. Make yourself at home.” He pushed the door open and stepped aside so she could enter first.
She tried to remember that Blake was, in fact, a corporate executive. Still, the vast expanse of chrome, glass and leather made her stop. A cross between a loft and a studio apartment. Masculine, yes, but there was no personality here. Sterile.
Sleek gray tiles with a couple of area rugs on the floor. Living space to her left. There was a glass-enclosed fireplace which she surmised, from the lack of any wood stacked nearby, was gas. In front of it forming a U was a black leather couch and two matching chairs. A glass coffee table sat in the center of the U, bare except for a colored glass bowl. Not even a magazine. Framed abstract prints on the walls.
The drapes were closed, but she imagined a view of the city lights below—they’d come up to the sixteenth floor. She took a few tentative steps into the apartment. Blake had dropped the bags next to the couch and gone straight into the open kitchen on the right. Steel appliances, a tall bar-height counter with chrome and leather stools. No dishes by the sink, nothing on the counter.
A six-foot-high L-shaped glass block wall divided the overall space, affording privacy to what she assumed were bed and bathroom areas.
“Not much here,” he said from behind the freezer door. I’ve been on the road a lot.”
She watched him rip open a carton and stick a pizza in the microwave, then come back to join her. “Bathroom and bedroom are around the corner.” She nodded and headed in that direction.
An elevated platform held a king-sized bed covered in black satin, a lacquered armoire and chest of drawers. A louvered door led to what she assumed was the bathroom. And that was it. No fancy guest quarters. No separate guestroom. Sensing his presence behind her, she turned.
“You want some pizza?” he asked. “I’ve got some beer, too. Not a lot else, but there are some bagels in the freezer for tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “Well, for breakfast, since it’s already tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” she said.
“Fine. If you didn’t sleep on the plane, you must be exhausted—the ride from the airport wasn’t long enough for a decent nap. Why don’t you crash? I’ll take the couch.”
“No, that’s all right. I’m smaller—I’ll be fine out there.”
“Don’t be silly. I slept on the plane and I’m going to have some pizza and a beer while I plan my strategy for tomorrow. I’ll be up early—I want Hollingsworth to find me at the office when he arrives. You can sleep in.”
“I want to see him—hear his voice. I could pretend to be—I don’t know—a delivery person? A temp from another department? Maybe I’ll recognize him. And if I do, I’ll … I’ll—”
“Sweetheart, no.” His hands crossed his chest, his full lips thinned to almost nothing.
For an instant, his eyes darkened and she felt what it would be like to sit across a boardroom when he was closing a deal. He’d made a simple statement, but there was no disputing it. Furious with him, she stood there, head bowed, too tired to argue. About anything. Bed, couch, confrontations with men who might have hired someone to kill her.
Let him go. She should never have come to Chicago in the first place. Should have been strong enough to leave him, go somewhere new.
She raised her gaze. He hadn’t moved. He just stood there, being so—there.
Her breathing accelerated, and she told herself she was exhausted, confused, and angry at his stubbornness, knowing perfectly well it wasn’t anger she was feeling. Except maybe at herself for getting into this situation. She started to push past him, to get her bag. He stood his ground and she stopped, feeling his heat feed hers.
“There’s something here. We both know it.” Blake’s voice came from deep in his throat. He pulled her into his chest and ran his fingers down her back.
“But what’s the something?” She rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the thudding of his heart. “We’ve been relying on each other for survival. That’s not normal.”
“I want to wake up beside you, Kelli. I want to know you’re there next to me. If you have a nightmare, I want to be there for you. But not until you’re ready. Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll take the couch.”
“Blake, I—”
“Get some sleep.”
Chapter Eighteen
Well before eight the next morning, Blake sat in his office, trying to busy himself going through accumulated emails while he awaited Hollingsworth’s arrival. Earlier, Blake had taken the stairs up two flights to Hollingsworth’s office, but as always, it was locked. Mrs. Madison would have placed a neatly printed schedule for the day on his desk before she’d left yesterday. He’d looked at her desk, but true to form, she’d cleared it of all but a bud vase with a single rose.
At eight-thirty, she’d arrive and replace the r
ose with a fresh one, hang her suit jacket on a padded hanger from the coat tree in the corner of her office, and turn on her computer. While it booted, she’d make a short trip to the break room down the hall for coffee and then she’d be back at her desk, ready for the day by eight-forty-five.
He thought of Kelli. Even in that short window, he’d bet she could have logged into Mrs. Madison’s computer and found Hollingsworth’s schedule. But he wasn’t taking any chances by letting Kelli be here. He’d left her a note telling her to reach him via his cell. He gave it a gentle pat through the fabric of his trousers. The thought of her activating that buzz at his thigh made him smile. After a restless night on the couch, he’d left her, sound asleep in his bed. She’d not even stirred when he’d showered and gotten his clothes from the dressing room closet.
He ran a finger around his collar. Aside from the confines of a tie, he luxuriated in the touch of expensive fabrics next to his skin, especially the silk boxers instead of cotton briefs, enjoying the feeling of power, of control he gleaned from a black Armani suit perfectly tailored to his body. He’d dressed with extra care this morning—a black silk shirt, a black tie with an underlying silver sheen. The butter-soft leather of his Italian loafers felt like bedroom slippers compared with the work boots he’d been wearing. After careful consideration, he’d kept the beard, neatly trimmed. Maybe some of Kelli’s identity shifting had rubbed off on him.
At eight-fifteen, he heard the ding of an incoming intra-office email. Puzzled that someone knew he was here, he checked his computer. From Human Resources. He opened the file.
Morning. Need anything? Emily.
He laughed, then choked it back. People were arriving who might hear him.
Morning yourself. Don’t suppose you can give me Dwight Hollingsworth’s schedule?
Ten minutes later he knew Hollingsworth had a nine-forty-five with Vance Griffith, apparently in Hollingsworth’s office, since there was no other location given. Blake searched his memory for the familiar name. Dwight’s campaign manager.