What's in a Name?

by Terry Odell

  A handkerchief appeared in her hand and she daubed at her eyes. Through the blur, she saw the worry in Blake’s eyes. “I’m all right.” When the look of concern didn’t disappear, she stood up. She wobbled for a moment and he supported her with an arm around her waist.

  She removed his arm and squeezed his hand. “A little shaky is all. I’m fine, honest. What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. Something caught fire and there are a lot of flammables in the garage, but—” The look in his eyes wasn’t concern anymore.

  “But you’re not sure it was an accident, right?”

  “Dad was always a stickler for safety and Brian knows the rules. I might buy an accident except—”

  “Except we seem to be having a little too much—excitement—lately?” She chewed on her lip, trying to decide what to do. Her first instincts said to get the hell out of there, but even while she thought about packing up everything, she could hear the sirens in the distance.

  Blake pulled her farther from the garage, away from the house, toward the street.

  She tugged Blake toward the service porch door. “Wait. I want my laptop.”

  “Slow down, Sweetheart. I don’t think you should go inside.”

  Despite the heat from the fire, she shivered when the meaning behind his words registered. “You think the garage was a bomb? That there’s one in the house, too?”

  “I have no clue. If I’ve learned anything this past week, it’s you can’t be too careful, and nothing is what it seems. But tell me. Before we meet anyone, who the hell are you going to be?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Blake stood by the road and watched the fire engines drive away. There was an emptiness inside him despite the full breakfast. Kelli was inside the house making travel plans and packing up anything and everything that might betray her identity. The Fire Marshal had deemed the fire an accident caused by spontaneous combustion of some of Stacey’s paint rags. No bomb, no arson and nothing in the house. Fred Bozeman had shown up—an exploding garage must be big-time around here to get the police chief out on a Sunday.

  Blake had asked him to keep things quiet—no information one way or the other if anyone had been hurt in the explosion. If, like Kelli suspected, it hadn’t been an accident, he saw no reason to make it easy for someone to know if he’d succeeded. Given that the local paper was a weekly, he thought they’d be safe enough.

  Had it been an accident? Stacey should know better, but it wasn’t that big a stretch for her to have left the rags in a closed container. The fumes bothered her, the pregnancy could be weighing on her mind, Torrie could have been a distraction—any number of logical, reasonable explanations. The fact that there hadn’t been a single rag in Stacey’s studio lent credence to the theory she’d taken the container to the garage and left it where she shouldn’t have. And he hadn’t noticed. He’d checked the truck and hadn’t given a thought to the rest of the space. No matter how caught up in thoughts of Kelli, he should have given the garage a thorough once-over, not assumed everything was fine.

  He turned and took in the smoldering garage. In silent apology, he raised his eyes to the clear, blue sky. Sorry, Dad. I messed up. Again.

  You can’t uncut a board, son. When things don’t go right, you put them behind you and move on to the next.

  Move on. To what? The kitchen door banged shut, and he jerked around to see Kelli walking toward him, her steps hesitant, as if she sensed she was intruding. Seeing her filled him with a hopelessly tangled combination of longing and loss.

  Five feet from him, she halted. Wearing jeans and one of his sweatshirts, she wasn’t dressed for travel. He looked more closely. Her eyes were their natural gray. Afraid to get his hopes up that she’d changed her mind, he waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he took a tentative step forward.

  “They’re gone,” he said, tilting his head down the road. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “I can’t get a flight out of Champaign until tomorrow morning. Guess you’re stuck with me for one more night.”

  One more night. He reached for her hand and she stepped back.

  Why the hell didn’t his old man have any words of wisdom for situations like this one? Like, grab her in your arms and kiss her until she can’t bear to leave. Or tell her you love her and can’t live without her. Or just get down on your knees and beg. None of that came out. Instead, he heard himself say, “I should get busy.” Brilliant.

  She held his gaze for a moment and he, Blake Windsor, the quintessential people-reader, had no clue what was going on in her mind. One corner of her mouth twitched and she pivoted and wandered toward the house. He followed, three paces behind, watching the way her butt moved in her jeans. Wondering if he’d ever forget the way her butt moved in her jeans.

  And tomorrow, he’d drive her to the airport and she’d get on the plane and he’d come back here and he and Brian—

  Crap, he’d have to call Brian. He trudged into the house, trying to decide how to break the news.

  He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the phone. Sorry, Bri, but your wife burned down the garage. But that’s okay, because we caught it before it spread to the house. Yeah, right. No way would he lay any guilt on Stacey. The arson investigator had sworn spontaneous combustion didn’t work like a bomb—no way to rig anything to go off at a specific time. It was an accident.

  Tethered to the telephone cord, he paced a small semicircle in the kitchen. “No, Brian. I’m not filing an insurance claim. The garage needed to be redone anyway and I’m not giving them an excuse to raise the premiums.”

  “I’ll take care of it. I can put in some nights and weekends. You go back to your big city job.” Brian’s voice took on the tone he had always hated—the one that said Brian was the big brother and he knew what to do, and besides, he could do it right, unlike little Blake.

  Blake spoke through clenched teeth. “No. And that’s final. Save your nights and weekends for your family. They need you. I’ve got some things to wrap up in Chicago, but I’m going to handle this.”

  “You could hire it out, you know.”

  “Some of it, yeah. But I’ll still have to supervise. Do it yourself and you’ll know it’s done right.”

  A pause. “Amazing. You sound like Dad. I never knew you listened.”

  Blake snorted. “Like we could avoid it?” His jaw relaxed. “If you’d feel better, I can leave the pickup at your place until I get back. There’s nothing left in the garage to steal.”

  “What about Emily?”

  “Emily?” He stumbled for a minute. “Right. She has to go back to work tomorrow.” His mind whirled through the logistics. “We’ll leave the truck at your place and take a cab from there to the airport.”

  Plans were forming and they started with a knock-down, drag-em-out confrontation with Hollingsworth. He wondered if there would be a seat on the commuter flight. If not, he’d take the bus.

  He realized he’d missed half of what Brian was saying. “And besides, Stacey and Torrie would love time with you. I’ll be clear in a couple of weeks and we’ll all come over. Have an old-fashioned garage raising. I’ll get a crew and their families. Make it a party. Stacey’s a great cook—when she’s not throwing up.”

  “All the more reason to leave things to me, Bri. She doesn’t need to be around the noise, mess and smells when she’s not feeling well, much less be cooking for everyone.”

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Brian said and the conversation was over. They said their goodbyes and he lowered the receiver with a soft click and a vague sense of pride. Not that long ago, he’d have slammed it down—maybe thrown it against the wall. Or he’d simply have said, “Have it your way, then.” Such progress.

  A while later, Blake sprawled on the couch, trying to ignore the sounds of Kelli’s incessant keyboard clattering from down the hall. He’d tried not to picture her packing everything that would say she’d actually been here—in this house, in his life—before she disappeared. It hadn�
�t worked. He heard every footstep, every drawer opening. Every sound brought an image. He saw her folding her clothes, everything smooth and symmetrical before she packed them in the suitcase—the one he’d insisted she keep. She’d have something of his, at least.

  He sank his head into his hands. Until two weeks ago, the biggest challenge in his life was to remove the human factor from the job he did. Sure, his conscience twinged from time to time and there were the occasional sleepless nights, but as he always told himself, if he didn’t do the job someone else would and he took pride in doing the best job possible.

  Best job for whom? Himself? Hollingsworth? The companies Hollingsworth took over? But no matter how tough a takeover was, nobody pointed a gun at him, nobody stabbed him with a knife, nobody tried to rape someone he cared about.

  Now the Washington cops would find his blood and prints on a murder weapon and the Whittaker account wasn’t going away. Afraid to follow that train of thought, he segued back to Kelli, who was going away.

  He dug his fingertips into his temples. Maybe Kelli was right, and he should forget her and get on with his life. Back to the casual relationships that came without the strings that wrapped around your heart and tightened until you couldn’t breathe. If she could walk away this easily, what could she have felt? Gratitude, for one. Lust—the need to proclaim you’re alive after a trauma. Neither lent itself to the “until death do us part” scenario.

  A ball of ice hit his stomach when he realized Kelli had already lived that one. No wonder she’d backed away.

  He’d given her his best, but sometimes a deal wouldn’t close the way you wanted it to. When that happened, you swallowed your pride, stood up, shook hands and walked away from the table.

  He rose and twisted the kinks out of his back. A workout might help.

  An hour later, he was drenched in sweat and the aches in his muscles couldn’t overpower the ones that grabbed his chest. He came into the house, heading for the shower, shedding his shirt as he dragged down the hall.

  Kelli approached, several manila file folders in her hand.

  “These were mixed in with mine.” Her gaze was on his chest, not his eyes. Her fingers never touched his when she handed him the folders. In fact, she nearly dropped them in her obvious haste to release them.

  He gripped the papers, willing her to look at him. “Thanks. I need a shower.” Join me?

  “I was going to do a load of laundry. If you leave your stuff, I’ll take care of it.” She paused, then dropped her gaze to the floor. “Are you staying here? The sheets … If you are, then … “

  God, he didn’t want to think of her in bed with him, giving the sheets a good reason to need washing. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll do it. What time’s your flight?” Look at me, damn it. Or did you notice the fucking hard-on you gave me?

  “Nine-forty-five.”

  “I need to get back to Chicago tomorrow, too. What flight are you on? Maybe we can … I mean, if you’re flying out of Chicago … If there’s another seat.”

  God, he was stammering like a teenager. Damned if he’d beg. “I’ll take my clothes to the washer.”

  * * * * *

  Kelli lifted her eyes, admiring the view as Blake strode away. The man did have some great assets. An ache filled her chest as she thought of how she would miss so much more than his physicality. Although her heart longed for him, her brain said it would never work. Clean breaks were best.

  A scrap of paper fell from one of his files and she almost called after him. Instead, she waited until he was out of sight, then went and picked it up. A business card. She ran her fingers over the embossed surface as she walked back to the office. Vance Griffith, Esq. of Little, Franklin, & Moser. Vance Griffith. The man who wanted Blake to be on Hollingsworth’s campaign team. She dropped the card on the desk, making a mental note to tell Blake where she’d left it.

  Swiveling the desk chair, she let her gaze shift between computer monitor and the stacks of printouts on the desk. If only there were two of her. Should she recruit Blake? She’d lean over his shoulder, inhaling his scent as she showed him how to run some basic searches. Her cheek would brush against his—

  Stop. He’s a corporate negotiator who steals jobs from people. He’s only interested in the bottom line. His bank account. She dragged those images to the front replacing the ones of a gentle caring Blake. There had to be another solution.

  When the light bulb over her head flashed, she pushed aside the flicker of guilt and sent Justin Stockbridge an email asking him to run some searches.

  Nothing but legitimate search engines or I’m going straight to your dad.

  She still felt like she was giving a shot of whisky to an alcoholic, but she convinced herself it was fine—she hadn’t given him any reasons why he was doing the research, so he wouldn’t know what to dig for. It showed him she trusted him, right?

  And for the umpteenth time, she checked her cell phone to see if Jack had called. He’d had nothing to tell her when she’d given him her travel plans two hours ago. Cops had come and gone and they’d be in touch.

  What had the cops found and what were they going to do about it? Would Jack tell them about Blake’s little identity switch? His real job? Or would he play it as the unsuspecting CEO of a reputable company, trusting information from another equally reliable source?

  What was the point? Until her brain could let go of the Blake Windsor invasion that had blockaded all other thought pathways, she wasn’t good for anything. And it wasn’t only her brain Blake was setting on fire. She had one more night. Forgetting about doing laundry, not bothering to turn off the computers, she hurried down the hall, toward the sound of running water, shedding her clothes along the way.

  The bathroom door was half open. She hesitated at the doorway. Could she do this and still walk away in the morning? Two consenting adults, no strings? Oh, there would be strings, all right—but they were already knotted so tight only a sword could sever them.

  She watched his shadowy form through the translucent shower curtain. His hands moved from one shoulder to the other, under his arms, then began traveling down his torso. Her own nipples tightened as she watched Blake wash his chest.

  His hands continued downward, moving in circles. When they reached his groin, she bit back a gasp at the power of her own response. She took two steps into the room, poised at the back of the tub when she realized his hands were still moving, but no longer downward. One arm reached up to the tile, supporting his body. She heard his breathing over the sound of the shower.

  Carefully, she drew the curtain aside just enough to admit her to the tub. She stepped inside and slid her hand under his, moving with him. “Want some help with that?”

  He groaned. “Tell me I’m not dreaming.” He turned around and pressed their bodies together. “Or if I am, please don’t let me wake up.”

  “Maybe it should be a dream—because it’ll be over in the morning. I meant what I said. I have to leave. Are you okay with that?”

  He didn’t answer, simply pressed his lips against hers and she opened her mouth to a kiss that reached the depths of her soul. In a frenzy, he suckled her breasts, slid a finger inside her, stroking her, driving her up, up, until she clung to the wire-thin boundary between control and release, unable to breathe. He cupped her buttocks and she hooked a leg around his waist, her arms around his neck. They shifted so she was braced against the wall, the chill of the tiles turning hot against her back in seconds. He entered her in a single thrust, then froze. He tried to withdraw, but she wrapped her other leg around him and held him fast.

  His words came out in pants. “Kelli—stop. I don’t have anything. And if you move, it’s going to be all over.”

  “You’re not HIV positive are you?”

  “No, but what about—?”

  “I’m safe and I need you. Now.” She squirmed so he rubbed against that part of her that demanded release, pleasure rising to the brink of ecstasy.

  * * * * *

&n
bsp; Blake tried to fight back to a point of control, but it was a losing battle. He was now inside a woman, unprotected, for the first time in his life and oh, God, did it feel good.

  Once Kelli’s assurances had registered, he let go of any reservations and slanted his lips against hers, plundering with his tongue. He rubbed his hand, slick with soap, against her breasts and when she moaned with pleasure and began rocking her hips, he succumbed. Nothing could stop the pressure building within.

  He pulled back slightly, then thrust and her tight heat clamped around him. The shower sounds escalated to Niagara Falls. He slammed into her and exploded, his ears ringing with their mingled cries.

  They stood there, joined, for several long moments, neither speaking. When he could take a normal breath, he eased her off him, picked up the soap and caressed her as he washed her silken skin, her soft curves, her sculpted calves. She stood under the spray, eyes closed, a contented smile on her lips, letting him lather and rinse her.

  He reached behind her to turn off the water, which had turned lukewarm. “I hope nobody had a stopwatch on that one,” he whispered. “And please, no lies. I’m happy to owe you one. Or ten. You already know how much I wanted you. And without a condom, it was—”

  “Shut up,” she said and pulled his face to hers. “Or do I have to do it for you?” She nibbled on his lower lip, then put her hands behind his head and kissed him with such passion he felt himself responding again.

  Wrapped in towels, they made their way to the bed. He collapsed onto the sheets and pulled Kelli down alongside him. “I don’t know what to say,” he began.

  “Then don’t say anything.”

  She pulled the towel away from herself and he soaked in her body. She was fit, but definitely soft where a woman should be soft. He leaned over and nuzzled her breast, feeling the nipple stiffen under his tongue.

  Her breath was warm on his ear. “I … I saw you … before I got into the tub.”