by Lucy Farago
“Mostly. There are two small bedrooms, but they have their own units. If you’re still cold, I can get something else for you to wear.”
“Maybe later.” Taylor snuggled deeper into the blanket.
Without thinking, Monty leaned forward and touched a hand to her forehead, lingering longer than necessary. He couldn’t help it. Her skin was like silk.
“What are you doing?” she said without so much as a flinch.
“Just making sure you don’t have a fever.” The climb up that steep hill could have set her back. “You look a little flushed.” Then again, she was kneeling on a rug over one hell of a cold floor.
“It’s just nice that you’re not tossing me out on my butt.”
He grabbed an oversize pillow off the sofa. “I wouldn’t do that.” He wasn’t afraid to admit—to himself—that people made him uncomfortable. It took a long time before he enjoyed their company. But she was in trouble, so he’d get over it. He passed her the pillow. “Finish your story.” It was time he knew who he’d rescued.
“Thanks.” She cushioned her knees off the floor and continued. “A few weeks ago, I received a notice that I was being audited. I had nothing to hide, but I’d hired a new bookkeeper a few months before and was worried he wouldn’t be able to answer their questions. I asked him to get a head start. To make sure everything was in order, he was to give me a preliminary report on income. Then one day he upped and quit on me, just didn’t show up to work. I got stuck getting the files ready on my own. That’s when I noticed the database totals for the past two years weren’t matching up. I had more clients than paid registrants.”
“People were using the site for free?”
“I didn’t know. You see anyone who signs up is given a temporary passcode to set up an account. No passcode, no account. Then we invoice and, once you’ve paid, the passcode gets activated and you’re live. I can tell you exactly how many passcodes we’ve given out. And because of all the personal information, I make sure the system is secure. At least, that’s what I thought. I needed to get to the bottom of it because if I didn’t, it’d look like I was planning on defrauding the government by not reporting fees.”
She brushed a lock of wet hair off her forehead and continued. “My computers are programmed to assign an ascending numeric number to each profile when the passcode becomes active. Even if it’s someone trying the free week we offer. We can pull all kinds of stats that way. When someone ends the contract, their profile is erased, but not the number assigned to them. That way we have a permanent record of usage. Except for birthdays, all personal data, names and addresses, and phone numbers are deleted, but not the activity assigned to that number.”
She’d end up with a fairly good demographic idea of what worked and didn’t work for her service. “I bet you could write a thesis on the data you collect.”
“If I was so inclined. Which I’m not. I hate to admit it, but I’m not that smart.”
Somehow, he doubted that.
“Anyway, you’re not the first person to think like that. A month ago, I had an intern ask if I’d consider loaning him the data for a paper. Coincidentally, it’s due this week. So, I compiled the information for him. That’s when I discovered another discrepancy. Numbers were missing, numbers that should never be missing.”
“Someone tried to delete them?”
“Deleted. The numbers were gone.”
“Nothing is ever deleted.” And if he had her computers, he’d prove it.
“That’s what my IT guy said. I was out of the office last week with a client. When I returned, there was a message on my machine asking me to call him.”
“And did you?”
“He wouldn’t pick up his phone.”
Wouldn’t or couldn’t? “Are your ITs on retainer?” Some companies didn’t keep tech help on staff. “Could he have been busy with something else?”
“No. I run online dating. I don’t know enough about the system should it shut down, so I have two techs on duty, around the clock.”
“You weren’t able to track him down?”
She shook her head. “His wife filed a missing persons. I was hesitant to put someone else on the matter. It could be something…or nothing. I did some digging on my own, but I only know the basics. I can’t trace IP addresses. I was able to track every client I didn’t have records for. All young women,” she said, her expression too grim to be good. “Then I started to go through their contact information. And I discovered area codes that didn’t match zip codes. I was in the middle of investigating when I saw that one of the girls with the wacky codes had vanished out of my database.”
Again, if he had his computer, he’d be able to help her. It was frustrating. Like having his hands tied behind his back.
“I didn’t like what I was seeing, but my gut was telling me this went beyond hackers using my program for free. I took a closer look at those women. Their profiles were pretty basic, nothing too personal or anything that would stand out. We encourage people to write details that will grab someone’s attention. These had none. I’m fairly certain my next move started this lovely horror flick I’m stuck in.”
Monty’s gut liked this less than Taylor’s. He’d seen shit like this before, and what she said next made him downright want to throw up.
“I used the profile pictures to Google the women. It took four until I got a hit. The girl’s Facebook picture matched.” The look she gave him answered his next question.
He asked it anyway. “And…?”
“Everything was Serbian. I had to translate. All the posts were about hoping she’d return…or be found. She’s a missing person. And not the only one listed on my site as wanting to find a love match. Why would someone use the pictures of missing women as their profile shot?”
He knew why.
She changed positions, sitting with her knees up, cocooned inside as she clutched the blanket closer to her face. “I could be wrong. I’m not a cop. Although,” she said, peeking up from under her tent, “I think you might know more about this kind of stuff than I do. I believe someone is using my site for human trafficking.” She waited for his reaction, and when he didn’t give her one… “Like I said, I think you’re better qualified to answer that question.”
“I’m not a cop either.” Far from it. But she’d hit the nail on the head with her theory. How much trouble she was in would depend on whose operation she’d stumbled on, and considering Daniel spoke with a Russian accent…
“You’re not a normal Joe Blow either.”
What could he do? Lie? It was too obvious. “No, I’m not. And you didn’t by any chance make a backup of your computer?”
“I did. Wise decision, right? Given people are trying to kill me.”
“Where is it?” Something like that needed to be kept safe.
She shook her head. “I’m not telling you.”
“Given that I saved your ass, mind telling me why?”
“No offense, but it’s a lifeline I’m not willing to part with. If I thought you were military, maybe I could trust you, but as it stands, I don’t know anything about you, Monty. If that’s your real name. And I’ve just told you something people want me dead for.”
Trying to put her at ease, he smiled and stood to sit on the couch instead. “Actually, it’s my middle name.” Why he trusted her with even that much, he didn’t know.
“You don’t like your given name?”
“It’s a reminder of a life I wish to forget.” A little bit of the truth wouldn’t kill him. “It’s also a little cliché.”
“You don’t look like a cliché of anything.”
“Not even with the glasses?” Removing them, he dropped them on the coffee table. He knew they made him look smart.
“You don’t need them to see?”
“I had my eyes fixed years ago.”
; “Then why wear them?”
Everyone on the team had a talent. It had been intimidating at first, all the muscle, but he’d come to learn while he may not be the biggest or the fastest, he was the smartest. And his teammates tended to forget that. The glasses were a cliché, but they also did the trick. He just didn’t think admitting to a beautiful woman that he’d once thought himself inferior compared to his buddies was a wise move. “How about you tell me who else knows what you found?”
“On staff? I’m not sure. Steven—that’s my tech guy—I believe he knew something was wrong. My bookkeeper quit, so if he found something, I wouldn’t know. And I didn’t even tell my secretary I had a meeting with the FBI. I only told the agent on the phone what I suspected. I was on my way to meet him when they grabbed me.”
“What was his name?”
“An Agent Riley. They transferred me to him when I called. Do you think…I mean, he knew where I was going to be.”
The feds had had their share of moles, and ICU had had dealings with Riley, but he was more dweeb than mole material. “Did you set up the meeting on your cell phone?”
“Yes. It was in the coffeehouse across the street from my offices.”
“If they suspected you knew something, in all likelihood they were having you watched.”
“Creepy. Like you wearing glasses you don’t need.” She flashed him her white teeth.
He wasn’t used to sharing anything about his life, but he needed her to trust him. The cabin and this location had been comprised. The odds of her finding her way back here were slim, but slim wasn’t good enough. And given who he suspected was after her, the odds of this entire situation going from bad to worse were not only not high but likely. “The lenses are glass. I’m so used to wearing them, I tend to forget to take them off.” It was one of two things Ryan himself didn’t know, and he was going to keep it that way.
Chapter 5
“Huh?” Exactly who or what had Taylor gotten herself mixed up with? It wasn’t bad enough that some really, really bad men were trying to kill her, she was stuck hiding out with Clark Kent?
“First impression. People see the glasses and don’t question what I tell them.”
“No offense, but that’s stupid.”
“Really? What were your first impressions of me?”
That she was hallucinating some hot, half-naked mountain man coming to her rescue. “I was too busy drowning to get a real impression.”
His eyes crinkled in amusement. She liked it when he smiled.
“You were hardly drowning.”
“I couldn’t get out of the water. What would you call it?” She really needed to work on coming off less snotty.
“Clumsy?”
Now he was teasing her? He was starting to look and sound almost sociable. “My shoes suck. No one told me what to pack for this little adventure.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “After I saved you from drowning, what was your impression of me?”
That he had the prettiest blue eyes she’d ever seen. A rich blue rim showcased black centers reminiscent of a solar eclipse. “I thought you were some kind of nutjob. You were half-dressed,” she reminded him.
“I was chopping wood when I heard you scream.”
Like that was an excuse. This was Alaska. “Sure, I guess freezing your nipples off is a good way not to overheat.”
“Exactly,” he said, as if she hadn’t just taken a jab at him. “Then, after you woke up, what did you think?”
She loosened her hold on the blanket, the chill finally leaving her bones. “Honestly, I didn’t know what to think. You were living in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. You had to be some kind of outdoorsman.” Hotness aside… “But, and no offense, you were a walking billboard for some of the more…intelligent clients I work with.”
“Nerds. You thought I was a nerd.”
“More like a geeky scientist.”
“Like there’s a difference?”
“Not all nerds are smart,” she pointed out. “I thought you were smart.”
“And now,” he said, zeroing in those David Beckham eyes on her.
She must be dehydrated because her throat stopped working and she couldn’t swallow. Her brain might be thinking smart, but the rest of her…would kill to see him with his shirt off again, and she wouldn’t mind him carrying her one more time either. She turned her head, afraid her eyes would give away her insanity. “Do you have any water here?”
“Sure.” He fetched her a bottle out of a full-length cupboard in the small kitchen and handed it to her. “Should be cold, considering the lack of heat. So, how about it? Am I still smart?”
She twisted the cap and took a sip. He was right about it being cold. Her teeth hurt. She picked herself up off the floor and sat next to him. The fireplace had removed some of the frost from the icy room. That, or remembering what Monty looked like half-dressed had warmed her from the inside out. “You’re smart. We’re in some kind of covert bunker. Whoever you work for, they wouldn’t have given the keys to a moron.”
He laughed. It was almost as nice as his smile, and he should do it more often. And suddenly the space was either not enough…or too much.
“Admit it, you were scared when you first saw me, but when you woke up, I was wearing the glasses. Your opinion changed. You thought I was smart. Most people trust someone they perceive as intelligent…and relatively harmless.”
“You mean nerdy. You wear glasses so people think you’re smart. Why is it you have to convince anyone of that?”
“I’ll admit I’m not a patient person. I don’t want to have to continually convince people I know what I’m doing. I…I did a lot of…convincing…when I was a kid. I won’t do it again. You asked who I was earlier. I’m a computer expert.”
Okay. “But not a normal techy.” Normal techies didn’t have underground hidey-holes. “So, what is it? Information officer for the military. Hacker for the CIA. What?” She’d feel a lot better if she knew he’d gone through some security clearance.
“You watch too much TV.”
“I don’t watch any television. Except for The Bachelor, and that’s purely for business.” That was her story and she was sticking to it. “And who else but the government would fund a place like this?”
He sighed like a man not used to people questioning him. “I work for an agency that specializes in search and recover. Every team member has a role. I’m the computer guy. Mostly, our job is to find…things.”
“Judging from the hardware out there, I’d say they don’t hire you to find their missing pet.” Of that she was certain.
“No.”
“And isn’t it the police’s job to find…things?”
“Sometimes,” he said.
“You with the police?” How much could she trust him?
“You’re asking too many questions.”
“Put yourself in my shoes.”
He got up and went into the kitchen. “How about some food? All you had was soup, and I haven’t eaten since this morning.”
Why didn’t he want to answer her? “Avoiding my questions when you’re stuck with me for who knows how long isn’t going to work.”
“I’m not avoiding. I’m hungry.” He opened a cupboard and pulled out a large can. “Chili? It says right on the can, fit for kings.”
“Sure,” she said, more to stay agreeable than actually looking forward to canned chili. She joined him. “You don’t work with the police. Do you work against them?” Although even to herself that sounded like a stupid question, because if he did—if what they did was illegal—he wouldn’t tell her.
“Not so much.” He opened a drawer, retrieved a can opener, and proceeded to make their dinner.
Fit for kings? Doubtful. “That doesn’t look like something a king would eat. Where’s the venison? Where’s the caviar?�
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“Oh, I don’t know. I have this friend. He’s sort of royalty, and for some reason, he can’t seem to get enough of peanut butter.”
“Does he live in the States?”
“Not anymore. He fell in love and decided to go live in his castle.”
“For real? A castle?”
“Mostly.” He emptied the contents of the can into a pot and lit the stove with a match from one of the drawers.
She remembered a headline from a while back. It read, The Aristocrat and the Showgirl. “The papers printed a story about an ex-stripper catching the heart of a Scottish lord. Was he your friend?”
“I don’t read the papers.”
“Ever?”
“I prefer to go by facts. I can do without the commentary.”
“I guess. Well, apparently, they had this great love story. She’d saved his life.”
“If you say so.” He found a spoon and stirred the chili, then put the lid on the pot. “How about you find us something to eat with?”
In a tiny kitchen, how hard could that be? She took two bowls out of a cupboard and located the spoons and forks. She liked eating chili with a fork. It was weird, but she didn’t care. “The couple, this duke and this dancer, were involved in all this heavy drama and still managed to fall in love.”
“Lucky them. I don’t want to lose my appetite, so can we change the subject?”
What was his problem? “Sure. We can go back to talking about what exactly it is you do, for whoever you do it for, and maybe then why they have this place I assume nobody knows about.”
“Why are you so interested in discussing this couple you’ve never met?”
The scent of tomato and meat began to fill the air, and she had to admit it smelled good. “I’m a matchmaker. It’s fascinating, and love is my business. I want to know what works and what doesn’t. And adrenaline can be a good aphrodisiac.”
“Bungee jumping isn’t exactly the same as being shot at.”
She didn’t need or appreciate his sarcasm. “As I discovered tonight,” she said, miffed that he’d brought it up. She’d like to forget the gunshot as it echoed through the mountains, the fear so cloying, breathing was a struggle. She set the bowls on the counter next to the stove. “What’s your problem?”