by Adrianne Lee
Feeling as though the devil himself stalked her, Tia fled in the direction she’d seen Stewy going earlier. The rest rooms were in a dark corner of the warehouse behind several stacks of cartons. She slipped into the narrow pathway. The hair on her nape prickled. She moved more quickly. Bumped boxes. Made herself slow down. She wouldn’t get back to Mac at all if she hyperventilated and passed out.
A hand landed on her shoulder. Her heart stopped for two full beats. She was spun around.
“Buddy. Damn you.” She glared at him.
“Hey, T. A little jumpy, huh?”
She drew a ragged breath. “I’m understandably edgy. Too much coffee and too little sleep. After all, my fiancé lost his brother yesterday.”
Bud Gibson winced as though she’d struck him. “Mac Coy was one good guy.”
Tia hugged herself. “Did he know what a ‘good guy’ you are?”
Bud’s eyes darkened. Fear slithered through Tia. It was one thing to have pushed his buttons when he was a scrawny kid, but he had grown into a man who could overpower her within seconds if he chose. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut?
He grasped her by both upper arms.
Tia yelped.
He leaned close. His breath smelled of onions. “No one here knows about my record. And I want it to stay that way. You understand?”
Tia recalled the gun he’d had earlier. How had a convicted felon gotten hold of a gun? Would he use it to make sure she kept silent about him? “You’re hurting me, Buddy. Let go.”
“Not until you promise to keep your mouth shut about me, T.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” He released her and stepped back. “You don’t tell Mr. Coy about me and I won’t tell him about you.”
Chapter Six
Mac stood stock-still, listening to the bustle of work going on all around him, drawing solace in its reassurance that life continued despite the worst of blows. Despite death. But for all the activity, all the people within shouting distance, he felt utterly alone.
Stripped of his own identity, he had nothing in common with his employees. Knew nothing personal about any of them. Not that this was a bad thing at the moment. The less dialogue between himself and them, the better. He couldn’t afford to slip and say something wrong. Something to give himself away.
But it was damned difficult to keep remembering what he wasn’t supposed to know. To keep his mouth shut in the face of a blatant lie—like Suzanne’s. He’d really wanted to protest when she said she’d visited the factory in Mexico several times. There was only the one time he knew of. Why had she exaggerated? And why had Tia looked worried when she’d asked the question?
A chill swept over him, through him. He shifted around, half expecting to find Grant’s killer standing behind him or watching him intently from close quarters. But no one was nearby. In fact, as far as he could tell, the only person looking at him was Tia. She hurried toward him, frowning, her face ashen. Alarm shot through him. What was wrong? Then he realized she was frowning at him.
He tensed, and as he did, he realized he’d slipped into his usual slouch. Damn. He had to stay alert. Watch his posture. His stance. His mannerisms. Doing the walk he’d practiced throughout the night, he started toward Tia…and stepped right out of one of the oversize loafers. He stubbed his toe on the hard concrete, stumbled, lurched forward, arms flailing. Cursing, he caught himself before he landed on the floor like a clumsy oaf, but not before his ears burned.
“Are you all right?” Tia looked frightened—as though she thought he’d been shot. Her concern stoked the burning in his ears and warmed his heart.
“Stepped right out of the damned shoe,” he grumbled, retrieving the offending loafer and slipping it on again.
“Oh.” She bit the sides of her cheek to keep from laughing with relief.
Heat climbed his neck. “This suit is uncomfortable enough, but these shoes…I have to keep my toes curled to keep them on.”
“We should have put tissue in them.”
“Tomorrow.” He touched her elbow, enjoying the sensation of holding her delicate arm so possessively, wondering what it would be like to possess this woman, to be possessed by her. The idea enfolded him, started a fierce smoldering in his belly. But self-loathing chased the fire from him. She’d been his brother’s fiancée. He had no right to her. Not now. Not ever. “Come on, let’s talk to Fred.”
Mac forced his mind to the possible guilt of his operations manager. He’d known Fred for five years. Considered him a loyal and responsible employee, a trusted friend. But then, he’d thought that of all his managers. And one of them was a traitor and a murderer.
But how easy would it have been for Fred to lay his hands on the blueprints? Or on one of the precious prototypes?
Fred Vogler sat with his back to them, his rotund body perched on the center of a stool, a phone to his ear. Mac cleared his throat. Fred tensed, then spun around. A wooden matchstick hung from the corner of his mouth, and his bullfrog eyes, the watery green of a lily pad, swept Tia and “Grant.” He cut off his conversation so abruptly it seemed it might have been personal.
But he said, “Just a client who needed reassurance about the delivery of the bears.”
Mac stiffened. Another lie from one of his trusted. Fred’s job entailed arranging for warehousing of merchandise before it went out and for the shipping, who took what to where. He never talked to customers. Not unless a shipment needed tracing—then he’d turn the actual tracing over to Stewy. Who had he really been talking to? Mac supposed he’d have to check the company phone records.
Meanwhile, maybe he could figure something out now. He glanced at the notepad near Fred’s elbow. Someone had drawn what looked like teddy bears all over it. “What’s that?”
Fred followed Mac’s gaze, his froggy eyes opening a tad wider. He snatched the sheet of paper from the pad and stuffed it into his pocket. He gnawed the matchstick. “Nothing. Just some doodling of Stewy’s. He thinks he’s going to be the next Gary Larsen—you know, the guy who draws those funny animal cartoons?”
“Nothing wrong with ambition,” Mac said. “As long as he’s not seeking this new career on my time.” Or ripping me off.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Coy. I keep Stewy hopping.” Fred smiled at Tia, making no attempt to hide his blatant admiration. But it was the hint of lust in the bulgy eyes that got to Mac. He inched toward Tia, that sense of possessiveness rearing inside him anew. Or was he actually worried she needed protection from this man because he was a killer?
Mac couldn’t be sure. After all, if the doodling on the paper was Stewy’s, why had Fred stuffed it into his pocket? Fred was a frustrated artist. His paintings had never taken off. Was he trying something new? A series on teddy bears—much as Red Skelton had painted clowns—hoping to capitalize on Holly Beary’s success? “What’s the shipping schedule looking like?”
Fred shifted the matchstick to the other side of his mouth and studied Mac a beat too long. Mac’s pulse wobbled. Had his question been a bit too knowledgeable? No. Sooner or later anyone would have thought to ask the man responsible for getting merchandise shipped to the consumer whether or not the new schedule could be met.
Fred consulted a clipboard beside the phone. “I’ve been getting the expected grumbling about the closed window time. Three weeks before Christmas everybody’s scheduled to the max. But my ducks are lining up. We’ll get it done.”
TIA AND MAC slipped into the elevator, grateful for the immediate warmth it offered and the privacy. Mac’s brow was knit, the gleam in his eyes distant. She touched his arm. “What do you think?”
He made a face. “I think both Fred and Suzanne are jittery. Both lied. Nothing major. Nothing worth the hassle of lying.”
“So why do it?” she asked, understanding his wonder.
He told her what they’d lied about. Tia frowned. “You’re right. Both of those things are easily checked out. We’d only have to call the factory in Mexico. Only look at the phone
records here to see who Fred called. Yet both took the chance ‘Grant’ wouldn’t know they were lying.”
“But why lie at all?” He shook his head. “Fred could have said he was speaking to a freight company. Suzanne had no need to say anythi—”
He broke off, his gaze pinning Tia as though he’d just remembered something. “Suzanne didn’t lie until you pushed her about the factory in Mexico. Why? And why did you look so concerned about how often she’d visited?”
Tia felt the heat drain from her face. She hadn’t wanted to tell him her concerns about sweatshops until she could brace him first. But before she could form an answer, the elevator doors swung open at the second floor. A woman stood there, looking frazzled.
“B—er, Ms. Novak?” Concern etched Mac’s face as he stepped from the elevator.
“Bijou, please. I can’t stand the formality. It goes against everything Mac stood for.” She didn’t even blink, apparently not registering the fact that ‘Grant’ could only be more formal if he wore a tuxedo.
Bijou carried a good twenty-five pounds of excess weight. Her frosted hair was twisted into a French roll with pencils poking out at both sides of her head like a pair of chopsticks. Dark circles underscored her aqua eyes. She twisted her hands together. Stressed? Or distressed? Tia eyed her curiously, trying to figure out which.
“Mac’s” death had hit several of his employees hard. But a murderer might be feeling stress, too. The stress of getting away with it. Was this woman a loyal company representative…or a cold-blooded killer?
Apparently misreading Tia’s look of curiosity, Bijou blurted, “I’m head of sales. I work with the retail buyers. Toys R 4 Kids, Discount-Mart, Jmart, Bullseye, Cee-Say Toys. Those are the biggest toy retailers.”
Tia nodded but said nothing, waiting for Mac’s lead. He seemed not to know what to say, or else he feared he’d say too much. He straightened his cuffs, tugged at his tie. She would have smiled if she didn’t know how uncomfortable he felt.
Their silence had Bijou fidgeting, twisting her hands together more agitatedly. “We’ve shown the toy four or more times this past year to the buyers from each chain—at the varying stages of its development. They were all highly impressed with the finished product last February.”
“February?” Tia asked, pulling her gaze from Mac’s arresting face, something she found harder to do as the day progressed.
“Yeah, the annual Toy Fair in New York City,” Bijou explained in an incredulous voice, as though anyone who hadn’t heard of the Toy Fair was an alien from outer space. “Don’t you people know anything?”
“Not much,” Mac said. “We’re talking to each department head and learning as quickly as we can.”
Bijou bit her lower lip like a petulant child, as though she feared this whole mess would just get worse with these two amateurs at the helm. “I suppose you were coming to see me next?”
They hadn’t been, but Mac lied, “Yes.”
Guilt flashed in Bijou’s aqua eyes. She pushed up a stray strand of hair at the nape of her neck, managing to look like a person in dire need of a cigarette. “I just stepped out into the hall for a minute. I had to get away from the damned phones. They’ve been ringing off the hook.”
Mac frowned. “I told Ms. Rice to take care of that.”
“If the only people calling were concerned customers, then maybe one person could handle it. But everyone’s been calling to express their condolences, from the mayor of Renton to the governor of the state. Mac would have been touched to know how many people cared about him.
“Can’t imagine anyone would miss me.” She sniffed and turned aside, then quickly back toward them. Her eyes were dry. “Anyhow, I told Nancy to put the customers through to me. Don’t want them canceling orders and going with that ripoff firm in Asia. I’ve been calling my own list and taking the calls from those buyers who get to me first. Not everyone has heard. But the toy world is a small community in many ways. News will travel fast. Mac was well respected in this industry.”
Tia saw “Grant’s” ears redden and knew he was embarrassed by the praise. Maybe even surprised. However, how much he was liked in this industry was the least of his concerns. Always the toys and the children came first. Her heart warmed, speeding delicious tendrils of longing through her. She resisted the ache, the urge to move closer to him, holding her muscles rigid. She feared her growing attraction to him almost as much as she feared the killer finding out Mac was still alive.
Bijou ran her gaze over Mac.
Mac squirmed beneath her perusal. Bijou was that rare breed who could size a person up while talking rapid-fire, a talent few developed and fewer honed. She was a great salesperson.
She took a deep breath and wrung her hands some more. “Is there anything else I can tell you?”
“I can’t think of anything.” Mac gave her his best Grant stare, narrowing his eyes as he’d seen his twin do when recanting a tale of questioning suspects. “But if I do, you’ll be available?”
“Of course.” A grin pulled the corner of her mouth, and he realized he’d sounded like some TV cop. His ears warmed. He started to reach for his glasses, but caught himself in time. He was an idiot in an Armani suit. God, how had Grant carried this off? His shortcomings threatened to unnerve him. He struggled to maintain his posture. Grasping his anger helped.
Bijou poked at one of the pencils in her hair. “At least assure me the bears will go out on time.”
Mac gave her Grant’s finger-thumb gun gesture, feeling more like a failure than ever. “According to Fred Vogler, there’s no problem.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fred? Hah! I’ll trust something he says when pigs fly.”
Mac’s stomach fell. “You think Fred lied to me?”
Bijou’s brows shot up. She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t listen to me. I’m in a foul mood. It’s been that kind of morning. Guess I should get back to my desk.”
“Why don’t you take a few minutes in the lunchroom?” Mac suggested. He’d swear she was more high-strung than usual. He could understand the stress, but what was with the doom-and-gloom attitude? It was almost as though she expected disaster at any moment. Did she know something he should be told? Anxiety struck his heart. Would she tell him if he asked? Or would she lie to him, too? Was every one of his handpicked employees someone other than the person he thought him or her to be?
Bijou looked taken back at his suggestion, as though she hadn’t heard him correctly.
“Really,” he said. “Your phone ear probably needs a rest. Have something to eat. Freshen your coffee.”
Bijou studied him intently. “For a minute there—you sounded just like Mac.”
Mac blanched.
“Oh, there I go again upsetting the applecart. You’re probably nothing like Mac at all. Are you?”
Tia and Mac stepped back into the elevator. Bijou stood where she was, studying Mac with those shrewd aqua eyes until the doors closed.
“God, Mac, does she suspect?”
“I don’t know.” His jacket felt damp everywhere it touched his skin. “I could use some lunch myself. Why don’t we get away from here for a while—run out to Issaquah and eat at Gilman Village?”
“Wouldn’t you rather go somewhere you can kick off those shoes for a while? Take off that tie?”
He sighed. “That sounds like heaven, but where?”
“I know just the place. My place. We can call from the car phone and have a pizza delivered. I need to pick up some clothes and check my mail and phone messages.”
TIA’S APARTMENT COMPLEX overlooked the expanded shopping area near Gilman Village. She let them through the security gate and then to a three-story building near the end. “I’m on the top floor.”
“Do you live alone?” Mac asked as he pulled the Porsche into a spot near the switchback stairs.
“Yes.” Tia had discovered the undesirability of having a roommate during her two years at Crimble Industries. She’d moved out and moved on. Move
d into this secured complex. It gave her a moderate sense of protection. Nevertheless, she kept her personal items to a minimum—just in case someone slipped past the safeguards and into her well-ordered life.
One such invasion would last her a lifetime.
“No pets, either?” He asked as they reached the third-floor landing.
“With my schedule I’d have to constantly farm out pet chores to others, and that doesn’t seem fair to them or to a pet.”
“Good point. I’d have a dog, but when I’m working on a toy, I sometimes forget to eat. Couldn’t do that to an animal.”
Tia laughed, the sweet tinkling sound floating on the crisp air and wending straight to his ravaged heart. She grinned up at him. “More likely the dog would remind you to feed him and then you’d remember to eat too.”
He smiled wryly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
She unlocked the door. “Here it is. Home sweet home.”
The apartment was neat and small, like Tia. But there the similarity ended. The decor had the feel of something selected from a catalog, every piece a perfect blend of tone and hue, every item complementary. All the washed blues and pale peaches and timid creams blended into something inoffensive and pleasant, but somehow plastic.
It startled Mac. He’d have thought she’d go for bolder colors—something deep and green like her mesmerizing eyes. And why were there no photographs or knickknacks or magazines adorning the tables? Not even a plant, silk or real. He supposed plants might fall into the “pet care” category, but a cactus would have thrived in the room.
“Make yourself at home,” Tia said, shrugging out of her coat. “The pizza should be here any minute.”
She headed into the short hallway. To her bedroom, he supposed. He wanted to follow, to see if that room was where he’d find the real Tia. But along with the temptation came a slamming jolt of desire. He kicked off Grant’s shoes, loosened the tie and slipped off the jacket. His shirt felt as though someone had damppressed it to him. He undid the top button and tugged the shirt from his skin, then dropped onto the sofa. He’d really like to take off the shirt and let it dry out, but the thought of being half-naked in Tia’s apartment weakened the reins he’d tightened on his hunger for her. As blood began pooling hot and hard in his groin again, he groaned softly. Man, he couldn’t recall a more uncomfortable morning in his life.