by Terry Odell
“Will you?”
“No. When Torrie was born, I put the property in her name. A trust company handles everything.”
“What did Brian say?”
“Nothing. I haven’t told him. I gave him free use of it, since I’m never here.” He nuzzled her neck. “It’s almost dawn. We should get some sleep.”
Kelli wriggled against him, pulled his arm over her waist and sighed. He listened to her breathe, surprised when he relaxed, then drifted off to sleep himself.
When Blake awoke, the sheets were cold and empty beside him. He knuckled the grit from his eyes and stepped into his boxers. A blast of profanity from down the hall had him wide awake and on the run. Crap, nobody could have found them.
Kelli sat at the desk, pounding its oak surface with her fists. Otherwise, the room was empty. He took a few deep breaths and waited for his pulse to slow. “Shit, Kelli, you scared me half to death.”
She never took her eyes from the screen. Her hands alternated between the keyboard and the mouse. Her cell phone sat next to the mouse pad. Blake stepped behind her, looking over her shoulder at the screen, which displayed what he assumed were someone’s bank records.
“I can’t believe I was so stupid. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”
“Whoa.” He put his hands on her shoulders and she jerked around.
“Geez—don’t sneak up on someone like that.”
“I think you were on another planet. I didn’t sneak up on you.” He noticed a mug of coffee on the desk and picked it up. Cold. “How long have you been up?”
“Couple of hours I think. All of a sudden, it came to me. I was looking in the wrong places.”
He grabbed the back of the oversize leather desk chair and rolled it away from the desk enough so he could swivel it to make Kelli face him. “Let’s slow down here. In words of one syllable, please. What did you find out?”
She ran her fingers through her hair. From the way it spiked up, she’d been doing that a lot. “It finally got through my thick skull you’d said Hollingsworth was looking for me on the sly. So I stopped looking at Hollingsworth Industries, the company and started looking into Dwight Hollingsworth, the man.”
“Can you tell me this over breakfast? I’m starved.” He pulled Kelli to her feet and wrapped her in an embrace. She squirmed away.
“But don’t you see? If he—or anyone else—was looking for me in connection to Robert, or whatever his name was, they’d be looking for Karen Abbot, not Casey Wallace or Kelli Carpenter. When I was with Robert, that’s the name I used. I didn’t become Kelli until after Robert—”
Blake cut her off before she had to deal with the rest of that thought. “I think I see. If not breakfast, at least coffee? Please?” He ran his thumbs along her cheeks, noting the shadows under her eyes. How long had she slept? He glanced at the computer monitor’s clock. Nine. If she’d been up for hours like she said, she’d barely napped. He’d been totally out—hadn’t noticed her leaving.
She looked over her shoulder at the computer. “In a bit.”
She wouldn’t stop, no matter how much it ran her down. “Whatever you’re doing can wait awhile. After we eat something, I’ll go into town and get some supplies and you can hack away to your heart’s content.”
“All right. Two minutes and the computer will be doing a search.” She leaned into his chest and wrapped her arms around him. “But I’m going to make you a list. I don’t like peanut butter.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kelli rubbed her eyes. When she heard a car’s engine shut down, she realized its approach must have awakened her. Twisting a kink out of her neck, she crept to the window and saw the green Chevy pickup parked by the service porch door.
After a breakfast of toaster waffles and coffee, Blake had gone armed with her list to buy some food. She’d soaked in a warm tub while her computer ran another program, then she’d settled down in the recliner in the office to rest her eyes for a minute. She looked at her watch. An hour ago. A glance told her the computer was still working, so she went to help Blake unload the bags.
She smiled as she laid things on the kitchen table for Blake to put away. Charles had always deviated from the list, too. Funny—she didn’t get that ache in her chest anymore when she thought of Charles.
She put the milk and eggs in the refrigerator. “I don’t remember putting chocolate chips on the list. Or brown sugar. Or baking powder. Did you have something in mind?”
“I felt like cookies.” Blake stood behind her and buried his face in her neck. His beard tickled and a pleasant shiver ran down her back. He said, “I read the recipe on the bag of chips.”
“And which of us did you think was going to bake? Don’t tell me the store didn’t have ready-mades.”
When she turned to face him, he gave her a puppy-dog grin. “Please? I’ll help.”
“Lick the bowl is more like it. But I wouldn’t mind some chocolate chip cookies myself.” She furrowed her brow and tried to look stern. “You have to do the cleanup.”
“Sold.” He reached into another bag. “Vanilla ice cream, too.”
“Sounds like a party. What are we celebrating?”
She saw a flash of something cross his face, then heard her computer signal it had finished its search. She squeezed his hand before dashing from the room. “Leave a stick of butter out,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She hurried to her computer.
“It’s about time,” she muttered to the screen. “All, right, Dwight—let’s see what you’re made of.” She put her hand on the mouse.
“Find anything? What about John Smith’s phone number?”
She looked up to see Blake leaning against the doorjamb, thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. She had to remind herself to breathe. Shit, he was one major distraction.
She stared at her monitor, avoiding Blake’s gaze. “No luck with that—seems to be a disposable cell, like we’ve been using. But I got into Hollingsworth’s banking records—I’ll need some time to dig.”
“I never said … last night … you … “ He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and started again. “Thanks. You helped. A lot.”
She looked up at Blake. His face wore the same expression she’d seen in the kitchen and this time she recognized it as sadness. His voice had held a somber edge as well, she realized. Not what she’d expect from someone eager to bake chocolate chip cookies. Abandoning thoughts of Dwight Hollingsworth, she released the mouse and pushed away from the desk.
“Memory lane’s a rocky path, isn’t it?” She crossed to him and stroked his beard. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I guess.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and brought her to the recliner. Perched across his lap, she waited for him to go on. When he did, his voice was thick.
“It just hit me. Like someone jammed a two-by-four in my gut.” His hands gripped the arms of the chair and she saw his knuckles whiten. “I had this memory … of my mom.”
She put her hand over one of his, gently massaging it. “You said she died when you were three. That’s not too young to have memories.”
“She used to bake chocolate chip cookies. Bri and I would help—but mostly I got to lick the bowl.” He gave a quiet snort. “You were right about that.”
Her own memories intruded—her and Luke in the kitchen together, laughing and making messes when he’d tried to help. She lowered her head into Blake’s chest.
His voice resonated through her. “Once she let me stir. The dough was so stiff and I sent the whole bowl crashing to the floor. Smashed into bits. Bri pitched a fit, but Mom told me it didn’t matter. She cleaned up, made another batch of dough and put the bowl in the sink for me, so it wouldn’t go anywhere.”
“Sounds like she loved you.”
“I don’t know why that came back. I opened the bag of chips and—wham.”
“The sense of smell is a powerful trigger for memories. That and everything else you’ve been thinking about—family—you
know.”
“Guess so. But I think there’s another problem.”
“Hmm?” Thoughts of Dwight Hollingsworth and people trying to kill her were fading away. She snuggled into Blake’s lap and noticed he probably had something else on his mind. He adjusted her so their eyes met. Her breath quickened.
He touched his lips to her forehead. “I’m in love with you.”
* * * * *
Blake held his breath, waiting for Kelli’s response. All the possibilities swirled through his brain.
She’d laugh.
She’d run back to her computer.
She’d tell him she couldn’t deal with his job.
Or the big one—she’d tell him she liked him, but as a friend.
When there was only silence, he tried to ignore the new ache inside. He shouldn’t have said anything—not yet. Not while they were still trying to figure out why someone wanted to kill her—or him—or both of them. She’d think it was an emotional reaction to an even more emotional situation.
He was so busy running what she might say through his head that he almost missed what she did say. “I love you, too. I have since you ran up ten flights of stairs for me.”
Relief and even more love swamped him. “I knew it by the second floor.” His lips found hers and he kissed her with a passion that built as though nothing could consume it, only feed it.
Their tongues entwined, searching, tasting, hungering for more. Gasping for breath, he reached under Kelli’s t-shirt, feeling nothing but bare skin. Hot skin, already filmed with the fire of passion. His fingers found her breasts, brushed her nipples to taut peaks.
She squirmed in his lap, fumbling for his zipper. Clutched him, already swollen with desire, through his shorts.
From somewhere, he found a thread of control. Took her hand from him. Broke the kiss. More than anything, he wanted this to be special for her. Last night, she’d given. Before, he’d let her take what she’d needed. It was his turn to give and he was going to make damn sure they were both making love to each other. As partners.
He scooped her up and walked down the hall, her arms around his neck, his face buried in her hair, inhaling the scent of shampoo and soap mixed with whatever made it smell like Kelli. Lowering her to the unmade bed, he took her hands. Looked into her eyes, grey now. No pretenses. He kissed her fingers. “I want you. All of you. I want to touch you. Smell you. Taste you.” He pressed his lips to her neck. “Love you.”
He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged out of it and peeled her shirt over her head. “Lie back.” Watching her eyes for any signs of apprehension, he settled down beside her. Her fingers reached for his belt buckle.
He placed his hand over hers. “Wait. There’s time for that later. Let me enjoy you for a while.”
Lips, tongue, fingers explored her. Gentle strokes. Gossamer touches. His own desire skyrocketed with each moan of her pleasure. His kisses found her belly and she squirmed with delight. He unbuttoned her jeans and she lifted her hips. He tugged the denim free.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered. “Where do you like to be touched?”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
He kissed her thighs while he continued to lower her jeans. Kissed her knees, her ankles. Jeans on the floor, he moved back up her legs. She let one knee fall open. Squirmed when he kissed the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Kicking, she clutched at his hair. “Stop.”
Like he’d been struck by an arrow, he jerked away. He searched her face and saw a smile, not fear.
“Tickles.” Her eyes held only pleasure. “The beard.” She grinned and pulled his face to hers and kissed him long and deep.
“Consider it gone.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “Did you mean this minute?”
“Later is fine.” She ran a fingertip across his lips. “I don’t seem to be ticklish above the waist.”
He lowered his head to her breast, swirling his tongue around an already taut nipple. Sucked. Scraped. Nipped.
With his hand, he reached between her thighs, working his fingers between sleek satin and her soft curls.
Her hands clutched at his, struggling to free herself from her panties. With an almost frantic desperation, she wriggled out of them, then grabbed at his belt once again. “I want you. Inside me.”
“All in good time.” His fingers caressed, circled and cajoled until he saw her eyes start to glaze.
Panting, she gripped his wrist. “Blake. Please. Together. I love you.”
Her words destroyed his resolve. He yanked his belt open and unfastened his jeans. His erection popped free. Slow and easy went out the window. Shoving and kicking, he lowered his jeans down his legs and off. He exhaled a quivering breath and tore open a condom packet.
“Wait,” she said, reaching for him. “Come to me.”
She took him in her hands. Her warm fingers cupped him and she smiled as he tightened under her touch. She encircled his hardness. She ran her fingers up and down his shaft, thumbing the drop of moisture collecting at its tip until he thought he’d go mad.
“Oh, God, Sweetheart. Take it easy. This was supposed to be for you.”
“For us.” She took the condom from his fingers and rolled it over him. Settling back on the bed, she opened herself to him and guided him inside. Rocked him as they discovered their rhythm, tempo building until he couldn’t wait any longer. Thunder pounded in his ears as he thrust, faster and faster into that final moment of oblivion-filled release.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Golden late-afternoon sunlight cast a glow over the office. Kelli took another cookie from the plate on the desk, got up and closed the curtains, getting rid of the glare on her monitor. If she eliminated Robert as the reason someone was after her, she had no place to start. Back to Dwight Hollingsworth, her only lead at the moment.
Blake sat sprawled sideways in the recliner, cell phone to his ear. When she heard his voice, she stopped to listen. From his tone, he was obviously leaving a message.
“Mrs. Madison, this is Blake Windsor. Please let Dwight know I’m out of town—a personal matter. Not exactly sure when I’ll be back, but I can work on the Whittaker account from here, so things should remain on schedule. He can call me on my cell if he needs me.”
Blake set the phone down and clicked the release on the recliner, stretching his legs along its length. He closed his eyes. “You want to join me?”
“I heard you—you have work to do and so do I.” She glanced back at the screen. “Wait a— What’s this?” She grabbed the mouse and highlighted one of Dwight Hollingsworth’s bank records.
She asked Blake, “Do you remember Hollingsworth having plastic surgery a year or so ago?”
Blake sat up, his eyes wide open. “No, I don’t. I think I’d remember. Why?”
“Because he paid some major bucks to Doctor Trevor Einsel—the same doctor who did my surgery before I started Berkeley.”
“If he had anything done, it wasn’t visible.” Blake got up and crossed to the desk, leaning over Kelli’s shoulder. He smelled clean and spicy. She reached up behind her and ran her fingers down his freshly shaven cheek.
“Guess I’ll dig a little more.” Kelli picked up the mouse.
“Can you get into a doctor’s files?”
“This one, yes. I created his system for him—in exchange for my operation. One final job for CompSecure and my last appearance as Casey.”
“I thought you made systems people couldn’t get into.”
“Back doors, Windsor. I always leave myself a way in.” She turned her face to his, allowed herself one moment in the chocolate depths of his eyes. “Now, go. Let me work. You’re distracting me.”
But she didn’t stop him when he kissed the nape of her neck.
“I’ll get my papers and work in the kitchen,” he said.
She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the view as he left the room. Definitely a nice ass.
Stop it, she admonished. Someone was trying to kill her. She need
ed to forget about the way Blake made her feel and get back on task. Brushing cookie crumbs from her shirt, she turned to the keyboard.
She went back to the medical records. Georgette Hollingsworth had been the patient. Probably Dwight’s wife. Face lift. Made sense. Disappear on a vacation, come back looking well rested. Really well rested. And Dr. Einsel was known for being one of the best. His client list included some heavy-duty VIPs.
All of a sudden, she was back in his waiting room, thumbing through book after book of before and after photographs. What would she bet she was in there? At the time of her own surgery, she hadn’t given it a second thought. She wasn’t creating a disguise then, only taking advantage of a needed surgery to help escape her past with a new image. No names with the photos, but if Hollingsworth had recognized Casey Wallace in a “before” photo, he’d know what she looked like now.
Shit. Why did everything happen on weekends? She couldn’t call Dr. Einsel until Monday, unless—she started clicking through phone directories, drumming her fingers on the desk while she waited for each search to run. Office number. At least he was still practicing in the same place. No personal listing for him, but it wasn’t unusual for a doctor to have an unlisted number.
Wait. She’d had dinner with him once while she was designing his computer system. His wife had come along. A walking ad for her husband’s skill. Big into charity work. Kelli pounded the desk. What was her name? She stared at the ceiling, willing the answer to appear. Nancy? No. Natalie. She grabbed the mouse again and hoped Natalie had her own phone listing.
There was an entry for an N. Einsel. “Yes!” She gave a quick fist-pump and dialed the phone.
“Einsel residence,” answered a cultured female voice.
She forced herself to relax her grip on the receiver. “May I speak to Dr. Einsel please?”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”