by Meryl Sawyer
The air was fraught with tension and an undercurrent of something she couldn’t define. Maybe this situation was too much for her and she was merely imagining things.
“Can’t the police—”
“Come on. I have an idea.” He took her arm and she was stunned at how reassuring it was to have him touch her. In a situation that seemed so unreal, this man was a lifeline.
They sat on the sofa again. Hayley looked down at her hands and saw they were smudged with the charcoal powder from where she’d touched things as she came into the dark loft. She self-consciously rubbed them on her raincoat. It helped a little.
He was studying her in that disturbing way of his. What was he thinking? His face was utterly expressionless. If he’d been a card shark, she wouldn’t have a clue if he held a winning or losing hand.
“Wait a few days before you tell anyone you’re alive. Otherwise you’re exposed and the killer might try again. There’s a really talented FBI agent who’s working on your case. See what he and I can find out. The task force might also be able to solve this without putting you in danger.”
“I’m not worried,” she fibbed. “I’m sure the police will provide protection of some sort.”
“For how long? Not indefinitely. If this isn’t solved, you’ll be looking over your shoulder until he kills you.”
He had a point, and she couldn’t deny it. Catching this maniac was essential for her safety. Even if she had protection, how could she live with someone dogging her every move? “All right. I’ll stay out of sight here for a few days.”
“Not here. Not only is the place a mess, the cleaning lady is coming tomorrow. It’ll take a couple of days to clean up this mess.”
“I’ll call my aunt—”
“No way. I’m the only one who will know you’re alive and where you are or you won’t be safe.” He said this with such conviction that she couldn’t argue.
“How will I pay for a hotel? Credit card activity can be traced, can’t it?”
“You’ll stay at my father’s place. No one will think to look for you there.”
“Good idea. If someone should be looking for me, I’m sure they’ll check friends and the hotel, not your father’s home.”
He stood up and reached out a strong hand to help her rise. She took it, wondering if she’d made the right decision. She shuddered, fear rising inside her like a rogue wave about to engulf her.
“Let’s get the things you absolutely need. Nothing more. We don’t want to tip off anyone by removing too much.”
CHAPTER SIX
MAYBE BLOWING up Hayley’s car so close to an airport hadn’t been the most brilliant idea. Who knew it would activate the Joint Antiterrorism Task Force, which included the FBI and every other police agency on the planet, including Homeland Security? They were asking endless questions, looking at all kinds of records and poking into things that were absolutely none of their business.
The good news was the arrogant pricks hadn’t discovered squat. They were convinced the car bombing was drug related and were currently pulling Surf’s Up’s records apart, examining every shipment, every business transaction.
The best news was Hayley Fordham no longer walked the earth. A car bombing might have been overkill but it did the trick. She was dust. There hadn’t been enough to bury.
The killer wasn’t worried that the forensic team would trace the bomb. The small device had been purchased in Mexico well before the killing. It had been tempting to use it immediately, but waiting and anticipating the murder had been more exciting.
If the authorities did ID the bomb, they would blame one of the Mexican cartels because one of their men had sold the bomb. Making contact with the sleazy Mexican had been a fluke. But fate was like that. It played into your hands, if you were intelligent enough to take advantage of the situation.
A smart person went with the flow. A smart person didn’t panic at such an intense investigation. A smart person concentrated on what was important.
Hayley Fordham was dead. That had been the goal. Mission accomplished.
THE FRAGRANT AROMA of coffee awoke Hayley on the morning following her return from Costa Rica. For a few seconds she didn’t recognize the room decorated in tan and black where she had slept. A partially open window brought in the rustling of palm trees and the whump-whump of waves battering the shore. She instantly remembered where she was.
Her limbs seemed leaden as she tried to get out of bed. It was like waking up in someone else’s body. Suddenly, she recalled the car bombing that had killed Lindsey. Her emotions unraveled like an old sweater as she stumbled out of bed and toward the adjacent bathroom.
A weariness so deep it went beyond the physical gripped her. Shell-shocked. Now she understood what that expression meant. Like a distant star, her past seemed faraway, untouchable. She felt adrift, empty.
She clutched the counter and gazed at the disheveled face in the mirror. Dark circles limned her eyes and her hair hung in tangled hanks around a haggard face. She didn’t care. Guilt had a stranglehold on her emotions.
Like a serrated blade, despair ripped through her chest. Lindsey was gone. Someone wanted Hayley dead and had killed her dear friend by mistake. She was precariously balanced on the jagged edge between anger and tears.
“Pull yourself together,” she told her reflection. “This isn’t helping.” She had a purpose—find Lindsey’s killer. And save yourself.
She relieved herself and walked back into the bedroom. She found the small suitcase with the few things Ryan had permitted her to take from her loft. Don’t let anyone suspect you’re alive, he’d told her. Take only what you absolutely need.
She’d allowed him to bring her to his father’s home, not knowing Ryan was living there as well. By the time he’d opened the door of the oceanfront house, her body had shut down, succumbing to weariness and anxiety. She’d realized Ryan was staying there, but she’d merely followed his directions and stumbled into the downstairs guest room while he’d gone upstairs to spend the night.
Hayley had crawled into bed in her underwear, surrendering to her body’s demand for sleep. Her eyes had closed immediately as she admitted to herself that having Ryan in the same house made her feel safe.
She quickly showered and brushed out her tangled hair. The situation didn’t call for makeup, she assured herself, but she brushed a little mascara on her eyelashes. She walked out of the guest quarters toward the kitchen area, now smelling bacon as well as coffee. Her stomach rumbled.
Ryan stood at the counter, his head tilted forward. Seen in profile, his nose and jawline appeared even more chiseled than they had last night. A hairline fracture in her self-composure opened and a knot of pure sensation formed in her chest. Last night had not been a reaction to her grim plight. Sexy didn’t begin to describe him. Ryan Hollister was an extremely appealing guy.
The faded blue T-shirt he was wearing emphasized shoulders even wider than she’d remembered. Well-washed navy sweatpants hung low on his narrow hips. She was fairly certain he wasn’t wearing anything beneath them. He had a great butt—tight, well rounded. At the thought, she felt herself blushing. Why? She rarely blushed.
Mentally she gave herself a hard shake. You’re in terrible trouble. Forget Ryan is a hottie. She was grateful for his protection. Nothing more.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked without turning.
“I was out the minute my head hit the pillow.” She walked into the room and saw he was beating a bowl of eggs with a fork. “I hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours.”
“Good.” He turned to greet her with a smile that would have tested a nun’s vows. “Coffee’s made. I’m working on scrambled eggs. That okay?”
“Sure. I’m starving. I was the only one on the jet. I didn’t want to make the flight attendant mess up the galley, so I just had a soda and yogurt.” Hayley hoped she sounded nonchalant but she felt incredibly awkward. Staying with a man she hardly knew—a guy too hot for words—made her uncomfortable.
“Fix the toast, will you? I’ll cook the eggs.” He moved over to the range and poured the eggs into a frying pan.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she placed four slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster. He seemed perfectly relaxed. Well, why not? A guy like Ryan probably had women over all the time.
“There are some newspapers on the counter,” Ryan told her. “I pulled them out of the recycling bin so you could read about the car bombing yourself.”
She moved to the stack of papers and stared at the picture of the charred remains of cars in the parking lot, then scanned the front-page article. Not that she doubted Ryan, but she wanted to see for herself what had happened. As she read, emotion gathered force inside her like a hurricane. So much damage! So many cars destroyed. It was a miracle only one person had died. Lindsey.
Another wave of guilt engulfed Hayley and she had to force herself to concentrate or she would dissolve into tears. Why? Why? Why? kept echoing through her brain. Why would someone want her dead?
“I’ll butter the toast,” Ryan said, breaking into her thoughts. She hadn’t heard the toaster pop.
“It’s okay. I’ll do it. I’ve read enough.” She turned, blinking back tears, and removed the slices from the toaster.
They sat at the kitchen table that was already set and had orange juice at both places. From the window, Hayley saw the storm was long gone. The air had been washed clean, the sky a resplendent blue above a wind-ruffled ocean. She’d bodysurfed this area so much as a child that she instantly recognized the stretch of beach near the Wedge. Wow! This was the Gold Coast of real estate. Ryan’s father must have made a fortune.
She looked down at her plate of bacon and eggs. Her appetite had suddenly vanished. All she could think about was Lindsey turning the key in the ignition. Hopefully Lindsey hadn’t felt any pain.
“Eat,” Ryan said. He was shoveling a heaping forkful of eggs into his mouth and holding a piece of bacon in his other hand. His dynamic eyes catalogued her every move.
She tried for a smile and speared some eggs. “Do you think Lindsey died instantly?”
“Yes. No question about it.”
Hayley told herself that she was thankful. If her friend had to die, at least she didn’t suffer. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Hayley forced herself to eat half the eggs, a piece of toast and part of a slice of bacon. The food seemed to lodge somewhere in her upper chest like a chunk of cement.
“Do you live with your father?” she asked to fill the silence. She knew Conrad Hollister had been at Twelve Oaks for at least two years because that’s when Aunt Meg had moved to the facility and Conrad had already been there.
Ryan shook his head and patted his lips with a napkin. “No. I work out of the L.A. office. I’m just down here rehabbing.”
Drugs? Alcohol? He didn’t look as if he had a habit but she’d been in Southern California her whole life and knew appearances could be deceiving. Chad Bennett had been hooked on “vitamin R,” as the college kids called Ritalin. It wasn’t a narcotic but Chad relied on it for a “brain boost” to improve his concentration as had many of her classmates.
When they’d been together, Hayley had told him that he didn’t need the so-called “smart pills.” But no matter how much she encouraged him to get off them, Chad hadn’t listened.
Ryan put one hand on the opposite shoulder. “Physical therapy for my shoulder,” he explained. “I had an old football injury that I reinjured in a multicar pileup on the freeway.”
“I see.”
Hayley gazed out at the blue expanse of water. The house was set back from the sea and separated from the public beach that stretched along the shore by a stand of wild grass, but the crystal blue of the ocean seemed to flow out to the horizon.
She’d come to this part of the beach often as she’d been growing up. Her father had insisted she learn to bodysurf. She’d loved it and took up board surfing at about the same time—to please her father. Even though he was dead, Hayley still felt her father’s power over her. Oh, how she’d longed to please him.
Ryan cleared their plates and put them in the sink. Hayley volunteered to rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. He told her to leave everything for now. She could work on it when they’d finished. He took a notepad from the nook beside the refrigerator and returned to the table.
“Okay. Let’s make a list of anyone who—for any reason, no matter how trivial—might want you dead.”
Hayley groaned and tried to imagine who would be diabolical enough to blow her to bits. “Honestly, I don’t know anyone—”
“Name anyone who just plain doesn’t like you.” His expression said only a fool would believe they had no enemies.
Someone had tried to kill her. She put her shattered illusions aside and tried to concentrate. “I guess Cynthia Fordham despises me. She’s Trent and Farah’s mother. She never forgave my mother for stealing her husband. She thought I got everything, while her kids never received enough from my father, although believe me, he tried to be fair.”
Hayley knew it was more than this that bothered Cynthia. Russell Fordham had been just another surfer with a small board-making operation when he left Cynthia for Hayley’s mother, Alison. Later the company had prospered, mostly due to the successful clothing line Alison designed. Cynthia had been left behind financially because the money had been earned after the divorce.
Cynthia had taken the whole situation very personally. The money seemed to be a huge factor, but there was also a vehement sense of betrayal. Hayley could relate; she still experienced a surge of anger when she thought of the way Chad had betrayed her—and they hadn’t even been married or had children.
“What about Farah and Trent?” Ryan asked.
“They’re like…oh, I don’t know. Cousins, I guess. They spent most vacations and every other weekend with us, when I was growing up.”
The width of the table hardly seemed sufficient to buffer Ryan’s penetrating gaze. “How did you three get along?”
Hayley considered this for a moment. “Trent and I were buddies. My father loved it. I was a good surfer and Trent surfed, too, but he became a junior skateboard champ.”
“What about Farah?”
Hayley shrugged. “Farah had no interest in sports. She never even tried. She got good grades and concentrated on getting a scholarship to college, which she did. She went to SC and became a CPA. She never looked to my father for anything.”
“Commendable, but how did you two get along?”
“Fine. There weren’t any problems,” she replied, but this man was far too perceptive. She added, “I guess I was a little envious because good grades never came easily to me. I was always more interested in art and sports.”
He tapped the pen against the pad. “No arguments with either of them?”
“Not really. I knew they resented me living in a big house when they lived in a small place in Costa Mesa. I went to a private school because it offered art classes while they went to public schools. I don’t think that mattered to them. Trent was a skateboard king no matter where he was. Farah qualified for a college scholarship because she was at a public school. But I think they envied the house, the cars.”
“What about your aunt? If you died, who would get her money?”
Hayley drew in a deep, shuddering sigh. After the death of her parents and now Lindsey, her throat tightened at the thought of losing Aunt Meg. “I don’t know. She told me that she’d split her money between my mother and me, but then Mom died. Aunt Meg reworked her trust. I honestly don’t know what she would do if I died.”
“But you don’t think Farah or Trent—”
“I can’t imagine it. They see each other only at Christmas and Easter when the family gets together.”
“What would Laird McMasters stand to gain if he bought Surf’s Up?”
Hayley remembered Ryan saying Laird had tried to buy their company but she had held up the sale, which wasn’t true. “Laird’s a r
ich kid who’s never acted like one. Believe me, I’ve known him all my life. He’s always been an overachiever. He was good at everything and excelled whenever he wanted. He went to Yale, became a successful businessman.”
“With a surf shop.”
“Right. He didn’t make boards, though. He imports them from China.”
“Why does he want to buy Surf’s Up?”
Hayley shrugged; she didn’t see what this had to do with Lindsey’s death. “Hurley, Quicksilver, Billabong—all the big-name surf companies have gone public. That’s meant huge money for the owners. Smaller operations like ours and Laird’s can’t really compete unless they grow larger.”
“Then one of the giants might buy them, right?”
“Exactly. They often do that to shut down competition. I guess Laird would like to cash in on the trend, but with the economy so slow…”
“At some point, it’ll pick up again and with your MMA line, Surf’s Up will have something no one else has.”
“We beat them to the punch on that one.”
“I understand you did it. Trent didn’t want anything to do with The Wrath.”
“True,” she conceded, not wanting to brag, but Trent had been short-sighted. It had taken a lot of convincing to get him to go along. “It paid off big-time. As long as The Wrath is champ, we have a corner on the market. Others can sell their designs but The Wrath is what draws the big bucks.”
“I think your Grim Reaper design has a lot to do with it.”
Hayley banked a smile. She wouldn’t have thought Ryan Hollister would have known what her signature design looked like.
“Tell me what you know about The Wrath.” There was an ominous edge to his voice. “Does he have drug or criminal connections?”
Hayley instantly shook her head.
“Really think about it. I know it can be painful to answer these questions, but just remember, your life is at stake here. The more I know about the people close to you, the better.”
CHAPTER SEVEN