Hannah’s fingers tightened around the receiver until they were numb. She’d heard of the Mabel Bassett Correctional Center for women, heard it was a hellish place even by prison standards. It would break Sylvie’s heart to see her there, even if—especially if—she knew Hannah was innocent.
“You know, for a woman Sylvie’s age, all that heartache and disruption and loss just might be more than she could bear. It just might put her in an early grave. And it would all be your fault, Hannah.”
“I won’t tell him anything,” she whispered stiffly. “I swear, Brad. But I can’t stop him from figuring out things on his own.”
Tired of waiting in the doorway, Mick crossed to Hannah in two strides and placed his hand over hers, pulling the receiver far enough away from her ear so he could hear, too. What he heard made him sick. It stirred a helpless, furious anger deep inside.
“You’d better stop him,” Brad said, his voice easily recognizable to Mick after so many years of working side by side. “You’re too young and pretty a woman to spend the rest of your life in prison, and you’re much too young to die.”
The line went dead. Mick pulled the receiver from her numb fingers and hung up. He’d had several reasons for calling Brad. He’d known that, if Hannah’s story was true, Brad would call her—had figured, if the story was true, that call would include threats. He’d wanted to frighten her, to convince her that her best chance was working with him. He’d succeeded at one. She was scared. But scared enough to cooperate?
She sank into the chair and buried her face in her hands. Her hair—long, silky, pale blond—fell to camouflage her face. How easy it had been to change her appearance. A temporary color rinse, a curling iron, makeup and skintight, nothing-to-hide clothes. Even knowing the truth, he found it difficult to reconcile sexy, sultry Elizabeth with scrubbed-clean, straight-haired, baggy-clothed Hannah. But the voice was the same. The feeling was the same. In the dark he would know the woman was the same.
Snagging a low stool with his foot, he drew it close and sat in front of her. “Let me see if I have this straight. You’re telling me that Brad sent you to the bar—”
She looked up sharply. “I’m not telling you anything.”
She had promised Brad that. Soon Mick would persuade her to change her mind, but not now. “All right. I figured out that Brad told you to spend Saturday night with me here while he got Sandra out to the site, where he killed her. You said last night that you didn’t know he was going to kill her. What did you think he had planned?”
Her sigh rippled through her whole body. “He said you were in the middle of a nasty divorce. That Sandra knew you’d had a number of affairs but had no proof. That if she could get proof, she could get a better settlement.”
“So you were supposed to spend the night with me, disappear from my bed, then show up in court as the whore with whom I betrayed my wife.” His choice of words made her flinch and her cheeks turn pink. “So Sandra would get at least a portion of my half of the company, and through her Brad would get control of the company, and you would get...?”
“I owe Brad some money. I’ve missed the last four payments. Sandra was supposed to pay him for my help, and he would cancel the note.”
“How much money?”
Her face turned pinker, and her voice dropped to a murmur. “Ten thousand dollars.”
He laughed. “Oh, sweetheart, you were good, but you were nowhere near that good.”
Her only response was to close her eyes. She looked ashamed. Vulnerable. Defenseless. That one simple act made him feel like a bastard for his laughter and the scorn that had accompanied his insult.
“So you believed Brad.”
She nodded miserably.
“When did you find out the truth?”
“When I came back to the motel yesterday afternoon. Sylvie told me about Sandra’s death. I called Brad, and he—”
“Admitted it?”
“—said he would frame me, too. He’s got plans ready to set in motion to implicate me if I try to clear you.”
“And you believe he’ll do it.” He didn’t need her nod. Of course she believed it. After hearing Brad’s threat on the phone, he believed it. “Even if you do everything Brad’s way, you’re still screwed. What happens to you after I’m convicted and sent to prison? Do you think Brad’s going to write off your note, go away and let you live here in peace? Do you think he’s going to trust that you’ll never have a change of heart, that your conscience will never get the better of you? Do you think he’s going to take even the slightest chance that a year from now, or five or ten, you could ruin things for him?”
She stared sullenly.
“He’s already lied to you once. He told you that all you had to do was spend the night with me, and your note would be paid in full. But he still has the note, doesn’t he? You upheld your end of the bargain, but he didn’t. He’s still holding it over you. And what can you do? Take him to court? Testify that sleeping with me was supposed to relieve you of a ten-thousand-dollar debt? Darlin’, you’re screwed, and so am I, unless we can prove that Brad’s behind this whole mess.”
For a long time she gave his words serious consideration. When she finally responded, though, it was with a shake of her head. “I can’t help you. I know I can’t trust Brad to leave me alone if I cooperate, but I can trust him to destroy me if I don’t.”
The look Mick gave her was pitying. “You’re a fool, Hannah. If he can murder a woman in cold blood, burn down the project that was to be his personal triumph and threaten you and your family, all to get rid of me, then once he’s succeeded, he will almost certainly kill again to protect himself.”
Still looking stubborn, she refused to meet his gaze.
“Your cooperating with Brad has already gotten me in a world of trouble. It’s going to get you killed. How will your mother and your grandmother deal with that? Who will take care of them then?”
Still no response.
Muttering a curse, he stood up and returned to the open doors. “You are a fool, Hannah,” he repeated. “One of these days all too soon, you’re going to be a dead fool.”
Chapter 3
The dining room was three-quarters full when Mick walked in an hour later. Hannah was waiting tables. She sent a dark scowl his way as he slid onto a stool, but didn’t come to take his order. Instead, her mother, moving as if it were a lazy, slow day and he was the only customer in the place, brought him a menu. “Good morning. What can I start you with this morning?”
“Coffee.”
She returned in a moment with a heavy white mug, a spoon and a dish of plastic-packed creamers. “I’ll be back in a minute for your order.”
While looking over the menu, he reached for the coffee. Though he normally used a free hand with both sugar and cream, this morning he could use a dose of straight black caffeine to jolt his system. Unfortunately the cup was empty, and there was no sign of either Hannah or her mother.
The man two stools down leaned over the counter and picked up the coffeepot, then passed it along. “Sometimes Merrilee’s a little forgetful,” he said in explanation. “If Hannah’s not too busy—that’s her daughter, the blonde—she keeps an eye on her. If she is busy, we sort of take care of ourselves.”
Mick filled his cup, then returned the pot to the man. Just as he was taking his first sip, Merrilee returned from the kitchen with a cheery smile and set a plate in front of him. “Here you go. If you need ketchup or anything, just holler.”
“But I...”
She was gone again before he could say more. Only a moment later, though, Hannah scooped up the plate. “That’s not your breakfast.”
“I know. I haven’t ordered yet. What do you recommend?”
“That you eat someplace else. Yates has several restaurants. They’ve got a pretty good motel, too. You would probably be a lot more comfortable over there.”
“I’m comfortable here. I’ll have the number 3.”
That sullen look was bac
k in her eyes. “You know, I don’t have to serve you.”
“So what are you going to do? Call the sheriff and have him remove me from the premises?”
“He’d do it, no questions asked.”
Leaning closer, he lowered his voice so no one else could hear. “You think so? A suspect in a murder case, at the motel where he claims he was at the time of the murder, and a woman who, except for the hair, perfectly matches his description of the woman he was with at the time of the murder. You don’t think he’d have a question or two about that?”
Scowling fiercely, she yanked the order pad from her apron pocket. “One number 3. How do you want the eggs?”
“Over easy. With bacon and hash browns. And a Coke.” He grinned as she stalked off, irritation obvious in every stiff line of her body.
“That Hannah’s a pretty one, isn’t she?”
Mick took a deep drink of coffee before swiveling to face his neighbor. “Yeah, she is.” Not like Elizabeth, who was all pure, hot and fluid sexual heat, but not plain, either, as he’d thought yesterday. So she made little effort with her hair, pulling it back in a ponytail or letting it hang straight and silky. So she dressed with the complete opposite intention of Elizabeth, to conceal, instead of reveal. So she didn’t bother with one bit of makeup. She was still pretty—a sort of basic natural beauty that was innocent and sweet, even though he knew beyond a doubt that she was neither.
“She’s a good girl. She works hard around here. It’s a real struggle keeping the place going, but she’s managed since it passed to her after her father died. Most girls her age would’ve refused to give up all their plans for school and a different life, but not Hannah. She’s devoted to her family, and with the Clarks, that means being devoted to this place.”
Hannah Clark. He had frightened her, threatened her, insulted her and had sex with her, and that was the first time he’d heard her full name. It fitted her—sort of old-fashioned, sort of plain. Sort of pretty.
The kitchen door swung open, and Hannah, still scowling and balancing four plates, came through. She delivered the other three first, then brought his, setting it down almost hard enough to crack the heavy dish. “One number 3,” she said defiantly, and one look at the plate showed why. Instead of over easy, the eggs were fried almost to a crisp. The bacon was sausage, and the hash browns were biscuits and gravy.
He grinned. “Lucky for you, I’m easy to please. Of course, you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Her face flushed. He had been easy Saturday night. He’d been celibate so long that the mere prospect of sex had been painful. The first couple of times had been quick, desperate, needy as hell, but she hadn’t minded. She’d been needy, too. The last two times had been lazy, a slow, killing buildup of hunger and heat, a leisurely exploration that had sharpened, intensified, then shattered. The first two had been easy satisfaction. So had the last two.
She set a glass of pop in front of him, then left. He watched her while he ate—clearing dishes from tables, running the cash register, checking out guests, delivering orders from the kitchen. In the forty-five minutes until the dining room was empty, she didn’t slow down for a second. Even when he was the only customer left, she didn’t stop but swept the floor, washed the counter, restored order to the menus tossed in a basket—anything to avoid dealing with him. That was all right. He was incredibly patient.
Finally the kitchen door opened, and three women emerged—Merrilee, Hannah’s grandmother Sylvie, and a round, white-haired woman who would have looked the perfect granny if not for the sour look on her face and the unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. Two of them walked on past, but Sylvie stopped short when her gaze settled on him. “What’s he doing here?”
Hannah, refilling napkin dispensers at the end of the counter, refused to look up. “He’s having breakfast.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Yes. He’s a guest.”
Sylvie’s eyes widened. “Huh-uh. Not in my motel.”
“Need I remind you that it hasn’t been your motel since you and Granddaddy signed it over to Mom and Dad?”
“That murder I was telling you about? This is the man the sheriff believes did it. The man who claims he was right here with some mystery woman while someone was bashing in his poor wife’s skull. We don’t need his kind here.”
As Mick watched, a dozen napkins fluttered from Hannah’s trembling hands to the floor. Grabbing them up, she dropped them in the trash, then shoved her hands into her pockets. “His kind, Sylvie? You mean the kind with money to pay? It’s. pretty obvious looking around here that we haven’t been catering to that kind of guest for a good long while.”
“Hannah, we don’t need trouble.”
“For heaven’s sake, Sylvie, we’re renting him a room. That’s all.”
That wasn’t quite all. Of course, he couldn’t blame her for not wanting to go into more detail with her grandmother. Sylvie might be an old woman, but she still exercised a fair amount of influence, and Hannah obviously cared a great deal for her. She was risking her life for her.
Turning her back on Hannah, Sylvie came to stand in front of him. “Why are you here?”
“The sheriff doesn’t want me going back to Oklahoma City just yet.”
“Why can’t you stay at the motel over in Yates?”
“Because I didn’t spend the night with Elizabeth at that motel.”
Without taking her gaze from him, she directed a question to Hannah. “You know anyone named Elizabeth with red hair and loose morals?”
Hannah looked right at him and lied, plain and simple. “No. No Elizabeths. No redheads. No loose morals.”
“There. You’ve got your answer. Now leave.”
Mick picked up the bill Hannah had shoved under his coffee cup a half hour ago, got to his feet and pulled a handful of small bills from his pocket. “Sorry. I’m paid up for a week. Hannah, how about ringing me up?”
She left the napkins and dispensers and crossed the dining room to the registration desk. Her movements were jerky, so different from the easy, graceful way she’d seduced him. Once arousal had overcome nervousness, every small gesture, every action, every move, had been womanly, pure sensuality. If he hadn’t already been hard, he would’ve gotten so just watching her.
She announced the total, took his money and counted out the change on the counter, instead of in his hand. It seemed she would do anything to avoid touching him—and too often, touching her was all he could think of.
He added a couple of ones to the change and slid it toward her. “Keep it.”
“No. I deliberately screwed up your order, and the service was nothing to reward.”
He picked up the money, rolled the bills around the coins and pressed it into her hand. “Take it. If I’d realized our little interlude Saturday night was a cash deal, I would have tipped you then—though a hell of a lot more than two and a half bucks. But since I was the idiot in the dark...”
She leaned across the counter, practically nose to nose with him. “Would you stop it!” she hissed, then sagged back, looking vulnerable again. “Keep your money. Here, keep all your money.” Fumbling in the drawer, she pulled out the five one-hundred-dollar bills and threw them on the counter. “Just please stop.”
She went into the room behind the desk, then came out with a housekeeping cart and made a quick exit. He watched until she was out of sight, then picked up the hundreds and tapped them together on the countertop. That reference to the money and the sex had been a low blow. He knew she was ashamed of what she’d done, knew she’d been desperate and believed she had no choice. He also knew that, while the money had gotten him into her bed, it hadn’t bought her passion. It hadn’t made her greedy and hot. She’d been alone a long time, too. She had needed the intimacy, too.
A thin, pale hand darted out and snatched the money from his fingers. He focused his gaze on Sylvie, who was looking at the bills as if they were funny money. “If you’re going to stay,
you might as well pay.” She gazed up at him. “You are going to stay?”
“You aren’t going to call the sheriff on me, are you?”
“You haven’t actually done anything deserving of it.” Then she clarified, “That I know of.”
“And I do have five hundred dollars cash. Or, rather, now you do.”
She returned the money to the drawer. “It’s been a long time since this place has seen that much cash at once.”
He bent to lean his arms on the counter. “Business isn’t so great, huh?”
“Nope. It’s never been too great, but the last six, seven years have been particularly hard. If that resort of yours had opened up, we’d’ve been out of business for sure.”
That was probably true. Eagle’s Haven had been a luxury resort, but with plans for separate units at budget prices. Brad had even remarked when he’d shown Mick the chosen site that they would most likely put the area motels out of business. At the time Mick had been too consumed with his doubts about the project Brad was pushing so hard that he hadn’t spared a thought for what that meant to the people who earned their living from those motels.
Obviously it meant a lot. The effort to hang on to this place had driven Hannah to borrow a tremendous sum from Brad, and it had put her in the mess she was now in. She’d sold her body, and before it was all over and done with, she might pay with her life.
“It was never my intention to put anyone out of business.”
“But it would have happened, anyway. It still might. This place is too much for Hannah to handle on her own, and all she’s got for help is poor Merrilee and three old women. She does her best, but she’s not too handy with tools, not like her daddy and her granddaddy were.”
He was handy with tools. In fact, there wasn’t much that could break that he couldn’t fix. He’d learned from his father down in Texas, from his grandfather and the people he’d worked with. If it was part of building a house, he could do it, and do it well.
The Overnight Alibi Page 6