by Diana Miller
Mark just sat there, his face impassive.
Her blood was boiling. She shook his arms. “They couldn’t tell me they were with the government, instead let me think I was about to be killed? I made so many bargains with God I think I’m obligated to join a convent and spend the rest of my life in Africa helping the poor, and you say it was all to protect me?” She shook him harder, knew she seemed hysterical, but she couldn’t help it. He’d not only run out on her, but he’d subjected her to this?
“See why we had to subdue her?” Across the room, Alex chuckled. “She’s a real wildcat.”
“I told you to get out of here.” Mark caught Jillian’s hands and removed them from his arms. “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have happened like that.”
After what she’d gone through, she was in the custody, protection, or whatever, of the United States government? “Why didn’t Andy’s friend know about this? He’s with the Justice Department in Denver and said the feds don’t have anything going on in Colorado.”
Mark released her hands. “Why did you go to Justice?”
“Because I’m not stupid.” She scooted away from him. “When I was shot, had my car blown up, and was shoved in front of a bus, all within a week of meeting a man who’d disappeared, I got suspicious. Especially when Andy didn’t find you as a New York CPA. I assumed you’d given me a fake name because you’re married or that you didn’t really live in New York. Then Andy talked to the Keystone police and discovered you’d given them the same name and a fake New York address. He also learned a Mark Jefferson flew from New York to Denver, but never back to New York.”
“How did Andy find this out?” Mark asked.
“He has sources. Including a guy who told us the government has nothing going on in Keystone.”
“Andy’s source wouldn’t have heard about it. It’s too confidential.”
“You have answers for everything, don’t you?”
“This is the honest truth,” Mark said. “I didn’t run off because I wanted to. I left because we know I’m the target of someone dangerous who might also have targeted you.” He let his words sink in. “For the record, my wife really was killed six years ago.”
Mark’s gray eyes were unchanged from Keystone, which was perhaps how she’d recognized him. They didn’t mesmerize her now—anger was clearly a powerful antidote. “Your marital status is irrelevant to me. All I care about is why I’m here. From your story, I assume it’s so you can tell me to be careful. Are you planning on having me tailed, too?”
“We tried that after the shooting. Someone still blew up your car and—”
She threw up her hands. “You knew I was in danger then? Why didn’t you tell me? Kristen might still be alive!”
“We didn’t think a threat to you was likely.” He leaned toward her, so close his warm breath puffed on her forehead. “And would you have been able to do more to protect yourself than the professional we had watching you? Would telling you have done anything besides scaring you out of your skull?”
“You certainly accomplished that today.”
He straightened. “I said I was sorry about that.”
“Fine.” Jillian got to her feet. “I promise to be careful. I’d like to leave now.”
He stood beside her. “You’re staying here until further notice. Your clothes are in one of the bedrooms.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Someone broke into my apartment and stole my clothes?”
“No, someone entered your apartment to pack your clothes for you.”
“I’m sorry someone went to all that trouble since I’m not staying. I have to work.” She picked up her purse.
“You’re on indefinite leave from your job. It’s not a problem.”
“It’s not a problem because I’m leaving.” She adopted the tone that worked on both cops and thugs in the ER. “I want myself and my clothes driven back to Denver. Now.”
Mark pushed her back onto the sofa then sat beside her, holding her arms. “The snow’s too heavy to leave now, even if we wanted to. Which we don’t, since unless you’re here, we can’t guarantee your safety.”
“I don’t want you to guarantee my safety. I decline protection.”
“You can’t. Your leaving would also jeopardize a federal investigation.”
“That’s a bunch of crap. I’m calling Andy.” She opened the front flap of her purse. It was empty. “Where’s my phone?”
“You’ll get it back when this is over,” Mark said. “I assume this Andy you keep mentioning is Andrew Dawson. Do you frequently spend the night with ex-boyfriends?”
So they had been following her. “At least they don’t disappear without an explanation.”
He had the grace to look away. “That couldn’t be helped.”
“You couldn’t take two minutes to call me and say ‘Hey, it’s been fun, but I have to leave earlier than expected’?”
He met her gaze. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
God, she’d become immune to those eyes of his. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was worried you’d left because you’re married, and I never, ever sleep with married men. But hurt me?” She gave him a disparaging look. “You weren’t that good.” She sipped her remaining water and pretended to study a brass Kokopelli statue on the end table.
He didn’t say a word.
After a moment, Jillian turned back to him. He was staring at the empty fireplace grate, his expression placid, his posture relaxed, and his splayed hands resting on his thighs. Clearly not a bit concerned about a damn thing she’d said.
She’d been right. Total pond scum. “So is Devlin going to give me an entirely different story since I didn’t fall for yours?”
He didn’t answer.
“The man who’s in charge of this.” This silent treatment was really annoying. “The Devil, I guess he’s also called?”
“I’m Devlin.”
She must have heard him wrong. “What?”
“My name’s Paul Devlin.”
She slammed her empty glass on the coffee table. “You didn’t even tell me your real name? Not even your first name?”
He shrugged. “I was using an alias. It wasn’t personal.”
Obviously to him, nothing about their time together had been. “So let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You come on to me under a fake name, tell me all sorts of lies to get me to sleep with you even though you’re dangerous to be around. When I’m shot, do you warn me? No, you disappear. As a result my car’s blown up, my best friend’s killed, I’m nearly crushed by a bus, and then terrified by a frustrated Nazi who drags me out here, you claim to protect me. And you expect me to stay and do what I’m told? You must think I’m crazy. Or you are.”
“It’s late, Jillian.” Paul’s tone was maddeningly calm. “Get some sleep, and we’ll discuss this in the morning.”
“Under the circumstances it’s Dr. Rodgers, and I do not want to get some sleep.”
“I do.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Sam!”
Sam appeared in an instant.
“Show her to her room,” Paul said. “Lock her in.”
“Lock me in?”
Paul’s eyes were cold steel. “Do you want me to have Alex do it? I’ll bet he’s got more of those drugs. Maybe even a pair of handcuffs.”
“You can’t hold me prisoner.”
“Take her away, Sam.”
Jillian got to her feet and looked down at the man she’d thought she’d known. Without a beard and mustache softening his features and with hair as black as an endless night, he resembled the devil he’d turned out to be. “You bastard.”
She followed Sam to her room.
Chapter 10
When Jillian opened her eyes the next morning, she wasn’t the least disoriented by the Southwestern-style bedroom. She knew exactly where she was and why. And she was as furious as when she’d gone to bed.
The digital clock on the nightstand
showed 9:07. Surprisingly, she’d fallen asleep within minutes of lying down last night. She hadn’t needed one of the sleeping pills her captors had brought, along with her suitcases and practically everything else in her bedroom. All her underwear and casual winter clothing, plus makeup, toiletries, and her blow drier. A variety of prescription and non-prescription medications including two packets of birth control pills. Two. How long were they planning to keep her here?
She walked to the collection of black Samsonite in the corner. Their plans were irrelevant since she was leaving this morning, as she’d make clear to Mark or Paul or whatever his real name was.
She yawned, stretching her arms over her head. Right after she had some coffee.
* * * *
The living room shades were closed and the narrow rectangular windows on either side of the fireplace had been papered over, like a London flat during the World War II air raids. A decorating statement guaranteed to bring out the cabin fever in anyone.
Paul was sitting on the sofa typing on a laptop, seemingly oblivious to the gloomy, claustrophobic décor. “Coffee’s in the kitchen,” he said without looking up. “There’s bread, cereal, yogurt, and some fruit. Help yourself.”
Jillian headed to the kitchen, located directly off the living room. White and yellow with large windows on two walls, it was obviously intended to be a bright, cheery place. Unfortunately, the closed blinds shut out every bit of sunlight. The kitchen appeared immaculate, not even a dirty knife in the sink or a toast crumb on the counter. Mark’s townhouse had been immaculate, too, but she wasn’t going to think about that. As she filled a cup with coffee, she spilled several drops on the counter. She pointedly left them.
She sipped her coffee. At least Mark—Paul—made good, strong coffee. She remembered that from the time she refused to think about.
Except she needed to think about it. Being here was bad enough, but Paul’s presence made it much worse. She’d thought she was over him, but her grief about Kristen had obscured her feelings. Enough remained that the callous way he’d treated her last night had hurt.
His presence strengthened her resolve to leave ASAP. She hadn’t been able to convince him last night, but thanks to the drug, anxiety, and exhaustion, she hadn’t been at her best. Today would be different. The caffeine was already kicking in. She topped off her cup, took another bracing sip, and then strode into the living room.
Paul didn’t glance at her, not even when she sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “You said we’d discuss this further this morning. I’ll start the discussion. I’m leaving.”
“You can’t.”
“I’m not asking permission, I’m telling you.” She waved her coffee cup. “Last night I was groggy from the drugs, which is why I gave in so easily. We both know you can’t hold me against my will.”
Paul finally looked up from his work. “Any side effects from the drugs today?”
From the lack of warmth in his tone, he wasn’t asking out of concern for her health. “Worried I’ll sue the government?” she asked. “Which I will, if you don’t let me go.”
“You can’t go. You also can’t sue the government for this.”
“Excuse me if I don’t take your word for it.” She set her cup on a sandstone coaster beside the bear and pine lamp. “I’d like to call Andy. If you won’t have someone drive me home, I’m sure he’ll be happy to come and get me.”
“You can’t call Andy.” Paul closed his laptop. “Don’t you understand we’re trying to keep you safe?”
He sounded exasperated, but nowhere near as exasperated as Jillian felt. “Don’t you understand I don’t want your protection? I’ll sign any release you want, which means you can’t keep me here. I know that even if I didn’t go to Harvard Law School. Although I assume you lied about going there.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You’ve lied about everything else. Including about being with the FBI.”
He set his laptop on the coffee table beside a yellow legal pad and pen, crossed his legs, and leaned back against the sofa. “What makes you think that?”
“Because FBI agents don’t work in Bolivia.” Calling his bluff might be a mistake, but that placid expression of his bugged her.
“Why do you think I was in Bolivia?”
“Alex talked about your adventures there, although I didn’t realize the great Devlin he mentioned was you. Who are you really with?”
“At the moment, I’m technically working for the FBI.” He uncrossed his legs and straightened. “What did Alex tell you about me?” His voice had an edge.
Finally a reaction. “That your nickname the Devil fits. And that you’re a real ladies’ man, although that couldn’t be what you wanted with me, since I’m far below your usual standards.” She gave him a disgusted look. “Alex was clearly impressed with your sexual escapades, but Sam shut him up before he elaborated.”
“I was a lot younger when Alex knew me.”
“People’s character rarely changes.”
He sipped his coffee, regarding her dispassionately over the rim of the cup. “You’re probably right.”
“Do you do this all the time?”
He set his cup on the coffee table. “Do what?”
“Haul people in off the street and pretend you’re keeping them in custody for their own protection. Is that how you jack up your expenses so your budget doesn’t get cut every year?”
“As I told you last night, our reason for keeping you here is—”
“To keep me safe and because I might jeopardize a federal operation, although you won’t give me a hint what that is.” She slapped her palms against her thighs. “My God, what do you think I am, some no-brain who hears the words federal operation and salutes and does whatever you say, no questions asked? How could I possibly jeopardize a federal operation?”
“As I also told you last night, someone is apparently devoting considerable time and energy to killing you,” Paul said. “One possibility is you’ve been targeted because you were with me. If that’s true, the government’s obligated to keep you safe.”
“Even if I don’t want—”
“That seems a drastic response to simply being seen with me. Someone might be after you for another reason and target me because I was seen with you. Since the government needs to identify all possible threats to me, they’ll hold you at least until they know why you’ve been targeted.” His features could have been chiseled in stone. His eyes were smoky crystals. Trying to change his mind would be as worthwhile as negotiating with Mount Rushmore.
Jillian let out a long breath and sank into the sofa’s soft leather. “So basically my life is a disaster because I got involved with you.”
“Basically.”
“When I make a mistake, I make a doozy.” She picked up her cup. “How do you intend to figure out why someone’s after me?”
“That’s where you can help us.”
She choked on her coffee. “Why would I help you? I don’t want to be here.”
“Because the more help you give us, the faster you get out of here and back to your life.”
Until she came up with an escape plan, she might as well try to shorten her sentence. “What do I do?”
Paul picked a manila envelope off the coffee table and removed a stack of glossy and newspaper photographs. He sorted through the pile and pulled out several pictures he handed to her. “Tell me if you recognize anyone.” He returned the rest of the pile to the envelope.
Jillian flipped through the photos. “I’ve never seen anyone before.”
“Jillian, this is important. Look at them carefully.”
“Dr. Rodgers, please. Since our relationship is strictly professional, Mr. Devlin.”
“Don’t call me Mr. Devlin,” he said sharply.
“Why, isn’t that your real name either?”
Paul raked his fingers through his hair. “Call me whatever you want. Just look at the damn pictu
res.”
She went through the dozen pictures again, this time more carefully. They showed people individually and in groups, primarily men ranging in age from thirty to seventy. A few photos were posed, the men in black ties. Others were more candid, shots on a sailboat, sipping drinks on a patio, standing in a parking lot.
“I don’t recognize anyone.” She held the pictures out to him.
He ignored them. “You haven’t seen anyone in the photos around your neighborhood or in the ER?”
“Not that I remember, and I’ve got a good memory for faces.” Since he wouldn’t take the pictures, she set them on the coffee table.
“Sometimes people look different when they’re in unusual surroundings or clothing. Like the guy you pass jogging every day and then see in the grocery store and don’t remember how you know him.” Paul picked up the pictures and offered them to her. “Look again.”
“Usually those people seem familiar, though you can’t think why. No one seems at all familiar, and I don’t need to look again. Who are they, anyway?”
In response, Paul stuffed the pictures back into the manila envelope.
“Now what?” Jillian asked. “Since I’m apparently not allowed to ask questions, and I failed the ID the photo section of this quiz.”
“I ask you questions.” Paul grabbed the legal pad and pen. “Do you have any enemies?”
“Just you.”
“I’m not your enemy. Have you received any threats or witnessed any altercations at work?”
She rolled her eyes. “We treat everyone who comes in. You think they all act like altar boys when they’re injured?”
“What happened?” He held his pen poised over the legal pad.
“Nothing serious, at least not while I was on.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He nodded once, hopefully satisfied. The last thing she wanted were Alex and Jones harassing her co-workers.
“Were you robbed or attacked before you were shot at on the chairlift?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did you witness any crimes, robberies, assaults, even a purse snatching? Or any traffic accidents?”