“Maybe he didn’t have any other choice.” The words were spoken with a softness that made them almost inaudible. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. She had, indeed, done her homework. He felt the panic rising inside him. “What made you decide to do a book about that case?”
“First, the case is still open, which means I can put any type of ending to my novel that I want since I’m only using it as a base for my fictional story.”
He stared intently at her. He did not like the direction any of this was taking. “And second?”
“What do you mean, and second?”
“Any time someone makes a point and prefaces it with the word first, that usually means there’s at least one more point to follow.”
She noted the very intense expression on his face and the way his intelligent hazel eyes seemed to be searching inside her. The power of his stare caused a tremor of apprehension to dance up her spine—apprehension of what, she did not know. The conversation had taken a very strange turn. Once again, the discomfort welled inside her. It was more than her undeniable attraction to this stranger. There was an inner tingling sensation nipping at her senses, telling her that things were not as they appeared. It was an instinct she had learned to trust.
She nervously bit at her lower lip as she ran her fingers through her short auburn hair, brushing the soft curls away from her face. “Well, that’s very astute of you. You seem to have a very logical thinking process.” Her gaze darted around the room, then lit on the kitchenette. “I was about to fix myself something to drink. Would you care for some hot spiced cider?”
Whatever was going through his mind was hidden behind his dazzling smile. “I’d like that. Hot spiced cider will taste real good on a day like this. Thanks.”
“Make yourself comfortable and I’ll have it ready in a minute.” She silently acknowledged that he had been correct, there had been a second reason. Obsessed was probably too strong a word. She preferred to think of it as having become preoccupied with the missing witness, James Hollander. Was he not the honorable man he had originally seemed to be? Had he allowed himself to be bought off? Or was there something else, something her research had not uncovered? It was a real-life mystery in itself and one that she wanted to solve.
Jim took off his wool cap, removed his jacket and sat on the couch. He watched her as she busied herself in the kitchenette—opening the bottle of cider, selecting the spices from the cupboard, setting out two mugs. He was unable to pull his gaze away from her graceful movements—the way her jeans hugged her hips and the curve of her bottom when she bent over, the way her sweatshirt stretched across the fullness of her breasts when she reached up to take something from a shelf.
She was not at all what he had expected when he was told a lone woman had checked into a cabin for an indefinite period of time. She looked to be in her early thirties. Faded jeans encased her long legs, and a touch of color dotted her lips. A light sprinkling of freckles dusted her nose and cheeks. He forced his attention back to the blaze in the fireplace.
“Watch it—it’s very hot.” Andi handed the mug to Jim. Ribbons of steam curled around the cinnamon stick that protruded from the top of the cup.
He took it from her. “Thanks—smells good. Just the thing to take the chill out of the bones.” He watched as she took a sip. Her long, slender fingers wrapped around the mug as she raised it to her lips. He closed his eyes, driving the image from his mind. Unexpected and potentially dangerous new matters required his attention, things far more vital than the way this woman drove his senses crazy without seeming to realize it.
As he watched Andi sipping the hot cider, he felt the first honest stirrings of emotional desire he had experienced in many years. He inwardly snorted his disgust at his wandering thoughts and yearnings. She represented life-threatening danger, yet he sat there fantasizing about her. Cabin fever, that was what it was. He had been alone for too long-alone and lonely.
“Tell me more about your book. Do you have some kind of an outline I could look at?”
“That’s what I’m working on now...or at least trying to work on. I don’t seem to be accomplishing much.”
He chose his words carefully. “There must be several more interesting cases you could have selected for the basis of a mystery novel. You know, something like a big-time bank robbery or some sort of serial killer. A toxic-waste case seems kind of boring. Of course, you know your business—know what would be commercial.”
“I chose it because the missing witness makes it a true mystery. I see it as a character study, a psychological story more than an action one. The ordinary man thrown into extraordinary circumstances. Not only is he blameless as far as any wrongdoing is concerned, he hasn’t even been accused of anything. Yet in spite of that he still becomes the hunted man, on the run even though he’s innocent. Where does he go? Who does he turn to for help? How does he spend his time? Did he manage to lose himself in the anonymity of a large city or did he seek a small rural community where he could just blend in, and after a couple of years no one would pay any unusual attention to him? He could be the short-order cook at a coffee shop, the clerk in a liquor store, the mechanic at a garage...” She gave him a thoughtful look. “Or maybe the winter caretaker of some cabins in the woods.”
It took every bit of composure he could muster to keep from visibly reacting to what she had said. He told himself that she was just making conversation, not making accusations. At least that was what he wanted to believe. He forced an awkward chuckle. “Or he could pretend to be a mystery writer researching his next book.”
She laughed. “Touche! You’re right, of course. He could be anyone and no one would know the difference.” Her expression turned serious again. “I’m really interested in the missing witness. Why would he have put himself in the precarious position he did by bringing Buchanan’s activities to the attention of the authorities, then turn around and disappear the very day before he was supposed to testify? I want to know everything there is to know about him—his likes and dislikes, his hobbies, his family. From that maybe I can formulate a scenario that will extend a logical conclusion to an unfinished story.”
She silently admitted that she also wanted to know more about Jim Richards, this intriguing stranger who had suddenly entered her life and caused her heart to beat just a little faster.
Jim shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He tried to project a casual exterior, but the tension coursing through his body would not allow him to sit still. He stood up, forcing himself to move slowly as he carried his mug of cider to the fireplace. He carefully formulated his words. “But wouldn’t the government have already done a psychological profile on him? Figured out the most logical place he would have gone or what he would be doing—assuming that you’re correct and he’s still alive?”
Something tugged at her instincts, something was not right. It almost seemed as if he were trying to talk her out of the project. She tried to dismiss the thought as being ridiculous, but just like the other thoughts this one also refused to go away.
Her curiosity about him increased. “Well, enough about me. Tell me about yourself. This seems like a pretty isolated existence. I would imagine it’s very busy in summer, but this time of year is different Do you spend the winter here alone or—” she hesitated, not quite sure how to word her question “—is your family with you?”
“I have no family.” The words were uttered softly in an almost expressionless monotone.
The silence hung heavily in the air. For a moment she almost imagined she felt the hidden despair his tone of voice revealed. She reached out and touched his arm, trying to offer a gesture of comfort and understanding even though she did not know what had caused his apparent sorrow. Her words were spoken just as softly as his, as if she were fearful of intruding into his private world. “I’m sorry.”
He placed his hand on top of hers for a moment, then withdrew from the physical contact. “So am I.”
He quickly recovered his composure a
nd tried to shift the conversation away from himself and back to her and her book. He adopted a teasing manner, hoping to make the conversation sound light and casual. “I assume that Wayne Gentry lives in a stereotypical writer’s loft in New York, but where does Andrea Sinclair live?”
She laughed at his question. She had never heard it asked in quite that manner before, giving her and her pseudonym separate identities and life-styles. “Wayne Gentry is a resident of the world. He lives wherever his desires take him. Andi Sinclair, however, is a little more conventional. She lives in a restored turn-of-the-century beach bungalow in San Diego—actually, just a little north of there, in La Jolla.”
He liked the way she laughed, the way her nose crinkled. He gestured out the window at the snow. “And you traded southern California’s sunny weather for this?”
She flashed him an ingratiating smile. “You’re right, it does seem a little silly.”
JIM STRETCHED HIS LONG legs out in front of him as he sat on his couch sipping a brandy while staring at the roaring blaze in the fireplace. He had returned to his cabin an hour ago, after spending a somewhat disturbing couple of hours with Andrea Sinclair—Andi, as she had insisted he call her. The more he tried to get her to talk about the book, specifically her research, the more she seemed to resist his efforts. He hoped he had not pressed her too much for information, causing her to become suspicious.
He felt fairly confident that she was who she claimed to be, not really comfortable but more at ease with the situation than he was when he first read the crumpled piece of paper. He furrowed his brow. If only he could figure a way to get his hands on the rest of her notes, determine how extensive—and accurate—her research was. There had been two books written about the case shortly after it happened, then the furor finally died down. The last thing he needed was a new book to stir everything up and once again focus attention on him and resurrect speculation about where he might be.
His mind drifted to thoughts he had long ago relegated to the darkest corners of his mind. There had been that very lucrative cash offer, tendered personally by Milo Buchanan with all the trappings of a top-secret clandestine meeting. All he had to do in exchange for the money was disappear before the trial. He had refused the offer and had reported the attempted bribe to Frank Norton, the Assistant U.S. Attorney working on the case.
Shortly before the trial was to begin, a car bomb killed his wife and put him into the hospital for two weeks. If he had been the one behind the wheel, the one who had turned the ignition key to start the engine rather than opening the door on the passenger side, then he would be the one who had been killed. The government put him in protective custody until he could testify and pressed him to enter the Witness Protection Program after the trial. He had reluctantly agreed, but the decision had been an uneasy one.
Then the day before he was to take the witness stand there was a second attempt on his life.
He had drifted into an uneasy sleep on the sofa while watching television. A sound—he didn’t even know what—startled him awake just in time to see a large shadow of a man and the glint of a knife blade. Then a raspy voice, one he knew he’d never forget, told him Milo Buchanan sent his retards. The next few minutes were a blur in his memory. Somehow he managed to connect a solid kick to the intruder’s stomach and escape through the back door. No one was supposed to know where he was...no one, that is, except for the government agents involved.
He did not know who he could trust. There was no one he could turn to for help. He was the only one who could testify to Buchanan’s personal involvement in the dumping of toxic materials and about the bribe offer. Somehow he had to stay ahead of the people attempting to kill him while trying to figure out the identity of the person who had sold him out. For five yeas he had been running and hiding—doing what he needed to do to stay alive until the day he could see Milo Buchanan put away.
His thoughts turned to Andi Sinclair the woman. He abruptly rose to his feet and tried to shake the disturbing images from his head. He grabbed the fireplace poker and angrily jabbed at the burning logs. He could not deny his attraction to her, but a man in his position could not afford to become emotionally involved. It would be too dangerous for him. He thought back to the car bomb that had killed his wife. And too dangerous for Andi, too.
Chapter Two
Just as Jim had been consumed by thoughts of the time he had spent with Andi, she had also been unable to shake the disturbing thoughts that circulated through her mind.
She stared at the blank page in her typewriter. She had been staring at it for fifteen minutes without putting her fingers on the keyboard. Every instinct she possessed told her he was not who he appeared to be, that he was hiding something. She allowed a fleeting thought about her unexpected attraction to him but just as quickly shoved it aside. The last thing she needed was to become involved with a mysterious stranger she met one snowy day in the woods.
She had turned one particular thought over and over in her mind, though, and had finally made a decision. First thing in the morning, whether it was still snowing or not, she would venture out to find a phone. She was sure she could find one at the resort office. She allowed a slight frown. That might be a little tricky. It was probably where Jim spent his time, but she would just have to work it out somehow. She needed to make the call.
If anyone could get the information she wanted, it would be Steve Westerfall. Not only was he a top investigative reporter, he also owed her a couple of favors and she intended to call them in. She would soon know exactly who this Jim Richards really was—if that was, indeed, his true name.
She visualized his face, tried to imagine what he looked like without the beard and mustache. What was there about him that seemed so familiar? Again, her mental image focused on his eyes, his nose, the shape of his face. Her mind drifted to the moment he had taken off his cumbersome jacket. She had been able to more clearly discern his athletic build—his broad shoulders, long legs and good looks. When he had removed his knit cap it had tousled his hair, giving him the very inviting appearance of someone who had just crawled out of a warm, rumpled bed.
She recalled the warmth of his handshake and the moment of poignancy when he had placed his hand on top of hers. A little tremor of desire shivered inside her, an unwelcome reaction to her thoughts. He was an enigma, a puzzle with many layers and facets. Did she have the right to pry into his private life? Her sense of integrity said no, but her instincts kept tugging at her with a different answer. She decided to go with her instincts. She would make that phone call first thing in the morning. She would soon know exactly who he really was.
“STEVE? ANDI SINCLAIR. I need a favor.”
The man’s voice on the other end of the phone teased her. “I’m fine. Andi. Thanks for asking. And how are you doing this fine day?”
She laughed. “Sorry. How are you doing, Steve? How are the wife and kids? Is the dog getting along okay? Did you ever get the cat fixed or is he still the terror of the neighborhood? Is that enough pleasant chitchat?”
“Stop already!” Steve Westerfall’s good-natured laugh filled the phone line between New York City and the small resort on Vancouver Island. “Just once it would be nice if you started a conversation with something other than those dreaded words, ‘I need a favor.’”
Her voice conveying a clearly teasing manner, she replied, “You aren’t going to force me to remind you who entertained your sister and her family three years ago when they vacationed in California, are you? The trips to Disneyland, Sea World, Universal Studios, the San Diego Zoo—”
He returned her challenge, obviously enjoying the open banter that usually permeated their conversations. “Isn’t this the fourth favor you’ve requested in exchange for the privilege of having my charming relatives in your home for that very short period of time?”
Andi affected a hurt tone of voice, as if she had been unfairly accused. “Of course not...it’s only the third.”
Steve’s jovial tone fell
soft and a hint of melancholy came through. “Yes, that was the last trip they were able to make before little Johnny...” He did not finish the sentence. There was a moment of silence before he recaptured his upbeat manner. “Enough already, I give up. What do you need?”
She quickly became all business, indicating the seriousness of her request. “This is probably going to be a tough one, Steve. I need a positive identification on someone, and I have very little information to give you beyond a name—Jim Richards—and I’m not even sure it’s his real name.”
She concluded her phone conversation as quickly as possible, telling Steve she would call him back in two days. Even though Jim was not in the office where she had found the pay phone, he could return at any minute. She did not want him to know she was suspicious of him. She did not want to alert him in case something was amiss, and if it did turn out to be just her overactive imagination...well, she did not want to embarrass him or herself, either.
JIM STARED OUT HIS KITCHEN window, keeping an eye on the door where he had seen Andi enter the office. Sometime during the night the weather had cleared. The morning was bright, the sky a brilliant blue with the sun glinting off the fresh cover of pristine snow. He had seen her slowly wade through the accumulation. He watched to see where she was going so early in the morning that was important enough to warrant fighting her way along the uncleared path. When she did not immediately leave upon finding the office empty, he assumed she must be using the phone—there was nothing else there to detain anyone.
He would have to take the chance. It would be risky, but too much was at stake. He quickly pulled on his heavy jacket, grabbed a snow shovel and started toward her cabin. Once inside, he kept a watchful eye out the window as he searched for her research notes. They were surprisingly easy to find, but then he reminded himself that there was no reason for her to have hidden them. There were three large envelopes, all marked Buchanan Chemicals/James Hollander. He opened the first one and quickly scanned the pages. He did not like what he saw.
Secret Lover Page 2