by Anne Stuart
“What do you think he’s used to?”
“Deserts. Sand. Maybe airports,” Phil said.
“He might be used to Northern Ireland. Doesn’t it snow there?”
“Not like it does in Colorado.” Suddenly the headlights loomed up behind them, and this time the impact wasn’t a kiss, it was an outright assault. The Chrysler went spinning dizzily out of control, sliding sideways across the narrow road, heading for the side of the mountain.
The state of Colorado clearly didn’t believe in guardrails on steep mountain roads. The only things that stood between oblivion and safety were Phil Grayson’s rusty driving skills. Sam glanced at him, at the grin plastered across his friend’s face as he wrestled with the big car. He looked in the rearview mirror, at the headlights receding, turning off, convinced the job was done. You don’t know Phil Grayson, Sam thought. He looked at Elizabeth, though he didn’t want to, and noticed that one of her slender hands was clutching the door handle very tightly. He found himself grinning. Whether she knew it or not, she cared whether she lived or died.
And, damn it, so did he. He hadn’t thought it mattered, not since Amy Lee had died, not since life had taken such a nasty, hopeless turn. But somehow, sometime, he’d changed his mind, just as Elizabeth Hardy had changed hers. He wanted to live.
“Can’t you control this damn car?” he demanded of Phil as they skidded, sliding toward the edge of the cliff. “Stop fooling around.”
“But I’m enjoying myself,” Phil protested, wrestling with the wheel. Beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead; strain etched rigid lines on his face, and his eyes were lit with amusement.
“For God’s sake, how can you joke about it?” Elizabeth finally demanded from the back seat.
“Easy,” Phil said, stomping on the accelerator and yanking the steering wheel in the direction of the cliff.
Elizabeth shrieked and covered her eyes, clearly unable to face her upcoming demise. Sam watched, with both admiration and complete assurance, as the oversize tires of the Chrysler caught just on the edge of the cliff, and Phil pulled smoothly onto the road, with all the aplomb of a father out for a Sunday drive. They drove for almost a mile, at an absurdly sedate pace, before Elizabeth recovered enough to look up.
“You knew he’d make it,” she said, her accusation directed at Sam.
“He’s the best driver I know. If he couldn’t do it no one could. I think, swami, that you’ll know when your number is up. And you’ll probably let your fellow passengers know, too. As long as you didn’t seem ready to meet your demise and Phil was at the wheel, I figured I was in good hands.”
By the time they reached the highway the Toyota was long gone. “I hope that bastard didn’t dent the car,” Phil grumbled cheerfully as they pulled into the sparse traffic. “I’ve only had it three months.” He glanced over at Sam. “You didn’t happen to get the bugger’s license plate number, did you?”
“You’re the cop. Why didn’t you?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I was busy driving.”
“No license plate,” Sam said. “At least, not on the front of the car.”
“Definitely a no-no,” Phil said. “When I meet that gentleman again I’m going to be forced to give him a ticket.”
“Sounds well deserved. You think you’re going to meet him again?”
“I expect so. The Corporation tends to be thorough. Mistakes aren’t common. I expect our friend will do everything he can to right his error.”
“I expect so.”
“What are we going to do about Elizabeth?”
Sam felt himself stiffen, but he refused to turn around and look at her, refused to meet her gaze in the rearview mirror. “What do you mean?”
“Do you still think it’s safe to leave her alone? That she’s not in any danger?”
“I think she’s safe,” he said stubbornly. “If it makes you feel any better you can get a policewoman to stay with her.”
“Tomorrow. You won’t be flying out tonight anyway. Not in this weather.” Snow had started to fall, the sky going from empty to blizzardlike conditions in a matter of moments. “You can stay there tonight.”
“There’s no need,” Elizabeth said.
“I told you, I have things to do . . .” Sam said at the same time.
Phil was having none of it. “What are you afraid of, Colonel? Think you can’t handle it?”
Sam’s reply was short and succinct, knowing he was beaten. He, a man who didn’t know the meaning of the word coward, was scared shitless at the thought of spending one more night in close proximity with Elizabeth Hardy. She was skinny, neurotic, plain and unfriendly, and he couldn’t look at her without wanting to get her into bed. It made no sense, and the sooner he got away from her the sooner he’d be sane once more. He didn’t want to spend one more night snowed in with her, but the more he protested, the deeper the pit he dug himself into.
“I can handle a dozen psychics with my eyes closed,” he drawled. “I’m just tired of baby-sitting. But I can do it for one more night. As long as she doesn’t decide to hold a séance in the living room.”
“Go to hell,” Elizabeth said.
“First thing tomorrow morning, swami,” he replied, flashing her his sweetest, most irritating smile.
“It won’t be soon enough,” she said between her teeth.
She was lying, and he knew it. “Same goes for me,” he said, echoing her lie.
And Phil Grayson just shook his head in mocking disbelief.
THEY DIDN’T SPEAK to each other when Phil dropped them off at Elizabeth’s house. The temperature inside was frigid, and Sam swore under his breath as he jacked the thermostat up and then set to work on making a fire in the fireplace.
“Electricity costs money,” Elizabeth said pointedly, ignoring the bloodstained shoe Sam had brought with him. “I keep the thermostat at fifty-five on purpose.”
“I don’t see you hurting for money,” he muttered, not bothering to look at her. “Where does it come from, anyway? The Denver police don’t pay you anything for your services, and as far as I can tell you don’t do anything besides go into trances. So how do you support yourself?”
“What makes you think the police don’t pay me? Don’t you think I offer them anything worthwhile?” She was rubbing her hands along her upper arms. It was cold, too cold, in the house, but she’d be damned before she’d admit it to the obnoxious, too-handsome man making a botch of a simple wood fire.
“I did the obvious thing,” Sam said, blowing on the tiny flame. Blowing it out. “I asked. But it only made sense—any taxpayer worth his salt would scream holy murder if there was a budget listing for psychics.” He turned his head, and his dark blue eyes speared into hers. “And no, I don’t think you offer them anything but paranoid fantasies and half-baked new-age garbage.”
“What about the shoe?”
“A coincidence. Or maybe a plant. Maybe you’re just a sick, lonely woman desperate for attention.”
“I’d like to be a lot lonelier,” she said pointedly. “And if you think that about me, then why are you here?” Her voice was low and taunting, furious.
He rose, towering over her, and the stubborn fire caught. “Damned if I know,” he said. “Maybe, despite my better judgment, I’m open-minded enough to consider that I could be wrong.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help it, she laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. No one’s ever going to mistake you for someone with a sense of fair play.” She turned away from him, but he caught her arm, jerking her around to face him again, and he was too close.
“You’re lucky you underestimate me,” he said after a long, tension-filled moment.
“Am I?” His hand felt like a vise on her arm, and yet she knew he wasn’t holding her that tightly. It burned her, yet she knew his skin was as cold as hers in the chilly house. For a moment she considered the unexpected erotic appeal of him, of his strength, his implacability, his damn narrow-minded sureness in a w
orld that was far from certain. And then something else came through, a vision, slicing through her semiconsciousness.
He blinked, his dark blue eyes suddenly dazed, and released her abruptly. “I’m going out,” he said, spinning around and leaving her alone in the center of the room. “Lock the door.”
She wrapped her arms around her narrow body, no longer worried about hiding the shivers that were racking her, at odds with the rising temperature of the room. She was only vaguely aware of the slamming of the door, the distant sound of an engine starting. Her mind was no longer on her unwelcome guest. It was on that brief, transient vision. A vision of blood and death.
MUHAMMED ALI Reza didn’t often make mistakes. He’d made too many on this last project, and he knew the best way to wash away mistakes was with blood. It had been a simple matter to follow the man who’d outdriven him. He’d dropped the other man and the woman with the devil eyes at the cold house, and then driven away. Ali Reza followed him, always keeping a few cars between them. There were plenty of Toyotas around Denver, but any man who could drive like that couldn’t be underestimated.
He’d take his time with him, he thought. He’d find out just how much they knew, how much they suspected. He was very good at finding out information from even the toughest sources, men and women who had thought they could endure the torments of hell before they told him what he wanted to know. It didn’t take long before they learned that he was adept at offering just that, the torments of hell. And that he enjoyed his work.
This whole mess had dragged on too long. He’d finish it tonight and get back to warmer climates, to something new. This had been in the works for too long; he was getting impatient for the culmination.
A bad sign, he warned himself. Emotions clouded judgment. Patience. Patience was the watchword. He’d be patient when he killed Phil Grayson. Slow, deliberate and very patient.
SAM DROVE FAST. Too fast. His palms were sweating, his heart racing, and his sense of horror and dread kept building. It was crazy. He’d been around Elizabeth Hardy too long, and he was having a walking nightmare because of it. This was all a paranoid fantasy, brought on by listening to that damn woman’s craziness, and he was nuts to go racing out into a snowy night on a fool’s errand.
He couldn’t help it. That sudden sense of panic had been smothering. He couldn’t even look at Elizabeth, touch her, breathe the same air she was breathing. He had to get out, to get to Phil, to make sure he was all right.
He’d been feeling restless, uneasy, all day, but he’d ignored the symptoms, telling himself he was sick of wasting his time in the mountains of Colorado when all the action was in Washington right now. Even finding that bloody shoe hadn’t helped; it had only increased his sense of restlessness.
Hell, he had to be going nuts. He wasn’t going to spend one more night in this damn state, blizzard or not. He’d have no trouble finding someone to fly him—there were enough crazies still in the service who had something to prove. Thank God he wasn’t one of them.
It didn’t matter that escaping from Colorado was getting too close to cowardice. It wasn’t his life or safety that worried him. It was his mental health, and that was something a little more ephemeral. He wanted to forget about Elizabeth Hardy and everything she stood for. He wanted to be back in his apartment, away from snow and psychics.
He’d just make sure Phil was okay. Not that he really had any doubts. No one had any reason to kill Phil Grayson, and that sudden panic had been crazy. No, he’d drive to Phil’s, share a final pizza and beer, and head off for the airport, leaving Elizabeth to Phil’s tender mercies. Phil clearly thought the girl was another daughter, and that was fine with Sam. Phil missed his own girls too much—he could mother Elizabeth. She needed mothering.
But that wasn’t his worry. He just needed to prove to himself that he’d been getting too-little sleep and that his sudden, irrational fear was for once completely off the wall. By dawn he’d be back on the East Coast, away from loonies and psychics and gullible cops.
The roads were slick, icy, as the new falling snow hit the warmer pavement, melted and iced up again. He wasn’t used to driving in snow, and his mind was too caught up with other things. He took the next corner fast, too fast, and the car began to slide. He tried to steer in the direction of the skid, but it was too late. He felt himself slip, with a sickening certainty, until the big rental car finally came to a stop in a ditch with a crunching of metal. He sat there and cursed, knowing that he didn’t need to worry about rushing anymore. He knew he wasn’t going to be going anywhere for a long time.
At least he didn’t have to worry about Phil. That sudden, mindless panic had been both overwhelming and absurd. While Phil sat in front of the TV and ate a frozen pizza, Sam would be out in the snow freezing his butt off. He’d even left his gloves behind in his hurry. It wasn’t fair, and it served him right. He climbed out of the car, noting with grim satisfaction the bent frame, the flat tire, the hopelessly crumpled fender. At least Phil was safe. For the next few hours he could concentrate on getting himself the hell out of there. Then he could worry about what had sent him on such a wild-goose chase.
IT WOULDN’T COME into focus. Elizabeth stoked the fire, turning it into a roaring blaze that threatened to turn her tiny house into a sauna, but her body was still racked by shivers. She kept the electric heat up high, piled on sweaters, but the chill wouldn’t leave. And the vision, that brief, bloody flash, wouldn’t come back.
Phil didn’t answer the phone. She tried not to let that worry her. He hadn’t actually said he was going home, had he? Maybe he’d thought of something and gone in to the station. Maybe he had to report that they’d found the shoe. But not if Sam Oliver had his way, and Sam had a habit of getting his own way, she thought.
Where had he gone, anyway? Maybe the two men were out in some bar, watching football and drinking beer, as the snow piled up outside and she sat alone, struggling to recall something she didn’t really want to see. Damn them. Damn all men anyway, she thought, shivering.
Sam had left his gloves on the floor by the fireplace. He’d been so eager to leave he hadn’t taken them. Mistake number one, she thought smugly. You didn’t go out in a blizzard without gloves.
She picked them up. They were leather, with a fur lining, and they were very old and soft. They were warm, probably from their proximity to the fire, but she couldn’t dismiss the notion that they still held his body heat.
Her own hands were cold, icy. Without thinking she slipped his gloves on, her small hands disappearing in their soft warmth. For a moment a sense of comfort swept through her, heat and safety and peace. Followed, a split second later, by the clearest, most horrifying vision of all. Phil Grayson, lying in a pool of blood. And Sam Oliver kneeling over him, the large hands that should have been safe inside these gloves now red with Phil’s blood. A quiet moan of horror broke the silence of the room, and she threw the gloves into the fire.
It took her less than half an hour to drive to Phil’s modest ranch house. She paid no attention to the icy roads that usually would have terrified her. She ignored traffic, visibility, her own racing heart. Over and over she whispered beneath her breath, a combination of prayer and despair.
“No,” she whispered as she drove. “No, no, no.”
The lights were on at Phil’s house. There was only one car parked in the snowy driveway, Phil’s Chrysler. No sign of Sam’s rental car. No sign of anyone else.
She was past hope. This had happened too many times for her to think she might be mistaken. Too many times she had dreamed of horror, then found it to be true.
The kitchen door was unlocked, open a crack to the icy night air. She pushed it open the rest of the way, following the light. The television was on, too loudly, and for a moment she breathed a sigh of relief. Until she realized it was a game show. Phil hated game shows.
The living room was dark, lit only by the flickering light of the big color TV. Phil was lying on the dark carpet, unmoving, and Sam w
as kneeling over him. But Phil’s carpet was pale beige, not an oval of deep red, surrounding him like an aura of death. And when Sam looked up and saw her, his face was twisted with such savage fury that she knew she was looking into the face of murder.
Chapter 7
FOR A LONG moment Elizabeth didn’t move, paralyzed by shock, horror and a numbing sense of déjà vu. She had known what she’d find when she got there—the visions had teased through her brain, ignoring her efforts to push them away.
At first she could feel nothing but fear. Fear of a life spinning impossibly out of control. The man kneeling over Phil’s lifeless body rose, slowly, stiffly, and she wanted to run away, as fast as she could, away from the smell of death and the face of murder.
He made no movement toward her, and her eyes met his, recognizing and accepting the hopeless fury in their black depths. If he believed she was responsible for Phil’s death he’d kill her without hesitation. He hadn’t trusted her for a moment during the past few days. Had his distrust pushed him far enough to believe she’d had a hand in this?
She should run. She should turn and race out of that house, away from him, before his damn judgment pronounced a death sentence.
And then she looked down at Phil. The only family, the only friend, she’d allowed herself, and he’d been ripped away with a savagery that was beyond shocking. And then there was no room for anything but grief, waves and waves of deep, slashing misery that tore through her. She stood there, trembling, and then she couldn’t stand it anymore. She ran, but she didn’t run away. Instead she went forward, stumbling into Sam Oliver’s arms, clinging desperately, as she began to cry.
It had been years since she’d allowed herself to cry. The tears were harsh, painful, coming from deep within, and she felt Sam’s arms around her, sensed their hesitancy, but she didn’t care. She needed comfort; she needed the feel of a warm body, of life. She needed anything she could get, even the grudging solace of a man colder than the Colorado nights, as she wept through the storm of rage and despair that swamped her.