by Terry Odell
You sure nobody knows what you’re doing? he typed.
Excuse me? This from Accounting.
Of course not. She should be able to cover her tracks. She must have logged into his home computer and figured out how to access his office system.
Gotta run. Make yourself at home, he answered.
He spent the better part of the next hour catching up on Hollingsworth’s new buyout project, Whittaker Candies. A small, family-owned company that manufactured specialty confections, it was struggling to make ends meet. He found the files in his inbox and started reviewing the financials, looking into the key players. At nine, unable to concentrate, he headed back up the stairs and ducked into an empty meeting room. At nine-fifteen, he heard Hollingsworth’s voice from down the hall bidding Mrs. Madison a good morning.
Nothing beat a good offense. He adjusted his tie, shot his cuffs and marched down the corridor, giving a polite nod to Mrs. Madison, whose mouth opened for an instant when he strode past her desk into Hollingsworth’s inner sanctum. He wished he’d had more time to enjoy the fleeting look of shock as he bypassed her sentry duty. Nobody saw Hollingsworth unannounced.
“Good morning, Dwight.” He gave a friendly smile, his eyes fixed on Hollingsworth’s face. Some of the surprise would be from his barging in, but he studied the man’s expression.
The man leaped to his feet from behind his desk. “Blake. My God, man, where the hell have you been? And what’s with the—” His fingers stroked his jaw. “Never mind. I’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve called your cell a dozen times. I heard about the murder on the news and I was afraid you’d been caught in it.”
He leaned his hands on the desk and peered at Blake. “You didn’t get caught in it, did you? I mean, you were there incognito. It might have been … awkward.”
Right. For whom? You or me?
“No. Nobody knew I was anything but a handyman.” Except Kelli and some hired killer, but what did they matter?
“I’m glad. Glad you’re all right, of course.”
The man seemed sincerely upset. But was he channeling his surprise that Blake was alive into this display of concern? Blake tried to imagine this at a takeover meeting. He’d lay the odds at sixty-forty Hollingsworth was sincere. Not good enough. He hadn’t brought up Kelli yet.
Blake said, “Sorry I didn’t call sooner. There’s no cell reception in the woods. And, by the time I got into range, I realized I’d forgotten the charger.”
Hollingsworth lowered himself into his chair and motioned for Blake to take a seat. “You were due back yesterday.” His face was deadpan now. All business.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, but we were delayed. There was a storm, power went out, roads closed.”
“We? You found her? Did you bring her back?” No more deadpan. Hollingsworth leaned forward, an expression of eager curiosity on his face.
Shit. He’d almost blown it. Blake waited a moment to gather himself. “She’s not the woman you were looking for. But I did give her a lift out of there. She’s on her way to her next project.”
“You’re sure?”
“Short of a lie detector test or a DNA sample, which you didn’t ask for, yes, I’m sure. You sent me because you trust my judgment, don’t you?”
“Of course. It was—never mind. It’s over and I appreciate your efforts. I hope roughing it wasn’t too much of a strain.”
“No, sir.” He fingered his midsection, where he was still wearing butterfly strips. “May I ask why I was looking for this woman?”
“Consider it an old man’s dream. Nothing more. I’ll have your payment this afternoon.” A slight narrowing of the eyes, a glance away from Blake, and then the neutral expression of an executive were the only indications Hollingsworth might be keeping something to himself.
“How’s the Whittaker account coming?” Dwight asked.
Back to business as usual. “I’ve been reviewing the files. I’ll be ready for the meeting next Thursday.”
“Excellent.” The intercom buzzed and Dwight gave Blake a dismissive look. Blake nodded and left the office, not quite closing the door behind him, hearing Mrs. Madison tell Hollingsworth that Mr. Griffith had arrived and Dwight asking her for five minutes.
Blake stopped by the door. Mrs. Madison’s back was to him. A man who had to be Vance Griffith was resting a hip on Mrs. Madison’s desk, his attention on her, oblivious to Blake’s presence. And was the imperturbable Mrs. Madison blushing? He saw the faint trace of pink rise to her neck below her upswept silver hair.
“Now, Rebecca, you know I’ve told you to call me Vance.”
She giggled.
Rebecca? Blake didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone use Mrs. Madison’s first name. Almost as if she didn’t have one. And giggling? Who was this man, and what had he done with the unflappable, staid Mrs. Madison? Fascinated, he paused.
“All right … Vance.” She toyed with a pen. “Mr. Hollingsworth asked if you’d give him five minutes.”
“I heard. No problem, as long as I can spend them with you.”
“Stop it.” Blake saw the pink brighten to red and spread from her neck to her ears.
“Rebecca, I’ve told you. When Dwight’s governor, you’re going to be right there with him. I’m going to insist you stick with him as his personal aide. You’ll love it in Springfield.”
“I think Mr. Hollingsworth is the one to make that decision.”
“He’s going to—and you don’t have any ties to Chicago now, do you?” Blake watched Vance Griffith move even closer to Mrs. Madison, so his face was inches from hers. “Seriously, Rebecca. Your husband’s been gone for years. You’re an attractive, vibrant woman. Don’t hide behind this desk.”
Good Lord, was he going to kiss her? Right here? Still reeling a bit from what he’d seen and heard, Blake examined the man more closely. Early fifties, he guessed. Probably a little younger than Mrs. Madison. Sorry, but he’d never be able to think of her as Rebecca. Griffith wore an expensive dark suit, monochrome blue shirt and tie combination. A long, angular face and prominent forehead gave him a look of intelligence. Tawny hair with a touch of gray at the temples. Strong chin, clean-shaven. Camera-ready.
Mrs. Madison’s intercom buzzed and Blake jerked to attention. He straightened his tie, pulled the door shut with an audible click and strode forward.
“Good morning,” he said to Griffith. He extended his hand. “Blake Windsor.”
“Vance Griffith. Nice to meet you. Dwight’s spoken of you.”
“Nothing too terrible, I trust?” The man’s handshake was firm, but without warmth. The practiced touch of a flesh-presser, but the way he studied Blake’s face was more than he expected from a casual meet.
“Not at all.” Griffith smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. “I’d like to touch base later. I might have a position for you.” He stepped past Blake, knocked once on Hollingsworth’s door, and went into the man’s office.
Blake took a moment to compose himself before approaching Mrs. Madison. “Good morning,” he said. He tilted his head toward Hollingsworth’s door in a question.
Mrs. Madison put the pen down and picked up the computer mouse, obviously wondering how much he’d heard. “They’re busy tying up loose ends before he officially files his candidacy.”
“He looks more like the politician himself, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe so, but he seems content to direct the action. Did you enjoy your vacation?”
“Very much, thanks. But I’m behind, of course. I’d better get back to work. You have a good day.”
“You, too.”
He had gotten to the door when she called after him.
He turned. “Yes?”
She gave him a smile, genuine and friendly. “I—I like the beard, Mr. Windsor.”
Holy shit. He’d gone away for a while and come back to an alternate universe. What the hell. He grinned and winked at her, then walked toward the elevator, resisting the urge to whistle.
* * * *
*
Kelli sat at Blake’s computer, a cup of instant coffee at her elbow. You’d think a man would at least have a real coffee maker. She’d downed a reheated slice of pizza and found a box of not-totally-dried-out raisins. A decent night’s sleep had left her relaxed and clearheaded.
Trusting Blake would call her once he’d confronted Hollingsworth, she sucked in a huge breath and plunged into a search engine. Although her palms sweated, she wasn’t hyperventilating. Maybe it was simply the right time. Maybe after five years, the scars were thick enough, so she could deal with what she’d done. Or maybe it was because she was wearing one of Blake’s shirts.
An hour later, she pushed the chair away from the desk and stretched. She’d gone back five years, starting with the Ensenada newspapers, and had found absolutely nothing indicating anyone had found Robert’s body in Mexico. True, her Spanish wasn’t particularly good, but she knew enough to recognize any articles on the discovery of a body. Short of revisiting the burial site, which she would never do, she’d go on the assumption they’d never discovered him.
Maybe she could trace his family. They must have done something when he didn’t reappear. She sighed and called up the San Francisco newspaper sites. Still nothing.
Good for her, but how had Dwight Hollingsworth found out? She fixed another cup of instant coffee and typed “Robert Kilian” into another search engine.
Frustration built as she plowed into one dead end after another. She’d been in such need of friendship it had never occurred to her to dig into his personal life while they’d dated. He’d been warm, charming, full of surprises, and she’d accepted him at face value. Who asked a date for ID or proof of employment? But her searches either gave her thousands of generic hits, or none when she tried to narrow things down.
When the phone on the desk rang, she jumped. Two rings later, her heart was back in her chest where it belonged and she saw Blake’s name on the caller ID.
“Lunch?” he said.
She breathed a sigh of relief. His note had said he’d call and say, “Airport” if things went sour. He hadn’t left a translation for “lunch” so she assumed it meant the usual.
“Sure.”
The connection closed. He must be coming to pick her up. Probably didn’t want to talk in case he’d be overheard.
In Blake’s spacious bathroom, she stood at the sink, peering into the mirror. She’d changed into an Emily outfit she’d brought with her—dress slacks, a thin silk turtleneck and a wool blazer. Her complexion still reflected the week’s stress, but the bags under her eyes were faded to the point where a little concealer would disguise them. Mascara, some shadow, a little blush. She lifted her lipstick and twisted up the creamy cylinder of coral.
It wasn’t simply being Emily, she realized. A week ago she’d thought nothing of appearing in front of Blake in sweats, no makeup, unkempt hair. Somewhere, he’d changed from the handyman to a man. A man she wanted to show herself to as something other than a frump. Her hand shook as she applied a thin coating of lipstick, then blotted most of it away, leaving a layer of tint which she covered with lip balm for a little sheen. She was here in Chicago because she was tired of being alone.
The glint of gold next to the soap dish caught her eye. Charles’ wedding band. Of course. Blake wasn’t Bill anymore. She tugged hers off and waited until the pang of sadness in her chest went away.
Slow down. They were having lunch. Forget that Blake was drop-dead gorgeous. Like hell she could forget. Not even if they ate in total darkness. But somehow, somewhere in the last week, he’d rearranged something inside her. It was as if he’d locked Robert away so deep that she could look at Blake the way a woman looks at a man, without all the terrifying memories.
Unable to sit and wait, she paced the apartment, her Emily shoes clicking on the tiles, then going silent on the carpeting. Annoyed at herself for being so nervous, she tried to resume her internet and database searches. That turned into an exercise in futility. Maybe she should download Snoods onto Blake’s computer. He might enjoy blasting them, too.
When the door opened, she felt that rush of anticipation. Then Blake stepped inside and he took her breath away. Literally. She’d seen his closet full of designer clothes, but there was no comparison with the way they looked on his body instead of on hangers. Dressed all in black, he stood just inside the doorway. He reached behind his head and his hair tumbled free. She stood, reminding herself to breathe. Moving would have to wait. So would speaking. Breathless. Speechless. Rooted to the spot. Any more clichés?
“Wow,” was all she could say.
“Cab’s waiting,” he said. He dropped his briefcase inside the door.
“Yeah. Right.” Her brain finally figured out how to make her feet move and she stepped toward him, tugging on the blazer to hide her stiffened nipples.
He took her hand. “Or, we could cancel it?”
She shook her head. “I think I want to see you dressed like that for a while.”
With a finger crooked under her chin, he lifted her face so their eyes met. “You’re pretty wow yourself.”
While they strolled to the elevator, she said, “So, Hollingsworth’s not out to kill us?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t think so? You mean you’re not sure?”
“Let’s talk over lunch. You have any preference?”
“Anything but pizza’s fine.” She fell into step beside him as they walked to the waiting cab. Blake opened the door for her, then walked around and got in on the other side. Even across the distance between them, there was an almost tangible connection.
“Middle Eastern?” Blake asked.
“Sounds good.”
“Phoenician Garden,” Blake said to the cabbie. He put his hand, palm up, on the seat between them. She dovetailed her fingers with his and they rode the rest of the way in self-conscious silence.
When Blake opened the restaurant door, the aroma of exotic spices dominated. There was a sizeable lunch crowd, their voices a low rumble underneath the drum, bouzouki, and cymbal rhythms resonating from overhead speakers. They waited inside the entry. A hostess dressed in a flowing silk dress approached with a wide smile. A little wider than an ordinary customer might expect, Kelli thought.
“Mr. Windsor. So good to see you again. It has been a long time.” She took his hands and Blake planted a kiss on her cheek. “The two of you?” She gazed at Kelli with curiosity. “I have a booth in the back, if you’d like.”
“That’ll be perfect,” Blake said.
The hostess picked up two menus and swiveled, weaving her way through the maze of tables to the rear of the restaurant. She moved with a fluid grace and Kelli suddenly felt dumpy and awkward. She imagined herself and the hostess standing in line at the grocery store. There was no doubt in her mind which of them Blake would approach—assuming he even knew what a grocery store was.
Glad for the reality check, she followed the hostess and slid across the banquette. After they were seated, the hostess flashed Blake another bright smile and swayed her hips to the front of the restaurant.
Kelli picked up the menu, staring at the choices without comprehension. And a lot less appetite than she’d had a few minutes ago. A dark-haired waiter appeared with a small platter of carrots, celery and assorted olives and a basket of fragrant, hot pita. “You would like hummus?” he said.
“Please,” Blake said. “And some baba ganoush.” He winged his eyebrows at her. “That okay with you? Not too much garlic?” He grinned.
“Don’t see a problem if we’re sharing.”
The waiter came back with plates of their spreads. “Would you like the house lunch special? Portions of tabbouleh, grape leaves, falafel and lamb korma?”
“That sounds like a lot,” she said.
Blake grinned again. “That’s the idea. Leftovers for tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
Blake offered the pita basket to her. She broke off a piece and dipped it in the hummus. Bla
ke followed suit.
“Good, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s got a nutty flavor.”
“That’s the tahini,” she said. “Middle Eastern peanut butter to you—made with sesame seeds instead of peanuts.”
“Guess that’s why I like it, then.” He cocked his head. “Is something wrong?”
“No, of course not.” Carrying on with gorgeous women was his lifestyle. She shoved her feelings back where they belonged and asked what he’d discovered.
“I’d say Hollingsworth was surprised to see me, but not because he thought I was dead. I believe he was truly worried something had happened. I told him you weren’t Casey and he accepted it, no questions asked. I got a hint there was something more, but nothing like guilt that he’d sent someone to kill us.”
“Did he say why he thought I was Casey?”
“Nope. He said it was an old man’s dream and sent me back to work. You sure he doesn’t have some other reason to want to find you? Long-lost relative?”
She’d been running through every possibility for days. “No. I can’t imagine anyone wanting me, except about Robert. He didn’t mention him, did he?”
“Not at all. He went right to his meeting with Vance Griffith, his campaign manager.”
“That’s a good sign, I guess. So he’s moving forward on the political front. But it doesn’t answer the Scumbag question, does it?”
“I guess not. But he’s in jail, so that should be the end of it.”
She sipped her water. “Maybe. But like the detective said, he has expensive lawyers. He could get out on bail.” The thought of that sent a shudder through her.
“Hey, even if he is, he’s not stupid enough to come after us again.”
“What if they send someone else?”
“I think by now they know someone’s investigating and they’re going to lie low. Three attacks in three cities would ring a lot of alarm bells.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Blake lifted a finger in a gesture of silence when the waiter brought their lunch. When he’d left, and they’d filled their plates with portions of the assorted dishes, he continued. “What did you find out? I gather it wasn’t difficult to get into Hollingsworth Industries’ system.”