Guilty as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  She snorted. “That wasn’t a consultation. She wanted to give me an introductory session. To set up my program, being as how I was a beginner who was probably overdoing it.” She glared at him. “Just because a woman is feminine doesn’t mean she can’t handle herself.”

  “No worries.” He was grinning like a fool, he could tell. “You don’t seem quite as feminine at the moment.”

  “I don’t?” Now she was the one who looked gobsmacked. “I’m wearing tights with lace on them.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You are. And very nice they look, too. You think Kelli could be my stalker, then?”

  She got serious fast. “It’s possible. Although you’d imagine something more convoluted, wouldn’t you? You’re not exactly espionage material if you write mysteriously to somebody about the joys of kinky sex, and then talk to his workout partner a few hours later about how you’d like to have kinky sex with him. Unless… grandiosity? Narcissism? Thinking she’s being smarter than she really is? Maybe, though I think that’s more of a male-stalker thing. I’ll have to check personality factors on female stalkers.”

  “Thank you,” he said gravely. “I do write thrillers, you know. I’ve done a bit of research myself.”

  “I keep forgetting that. See, I believed ‘killer.’ I’m having a harder time with ‘writer.’”

  “Both.” He eased off some on the bike. He wanted all his attention for this. “So what exactly did she say?”

  “Oh,” Paige said airily, “I said you looked rough, like a guy who’d spank first and then go for the ropes, and she said that sounded good. Basically.” He was still reacting to that when she said, “One problem I’m having with her as your girl is that the thong isn’t her size.”

  “Can’t say I noticed.”

  She gave him a pitying look. “I thought you were a thriller writer. Doesn’t there have to be a babe? Somebody for the guy to have sex with and move on from?”

  He probably shouldn’t tell her that Sawyer had killed his latest bed partner. “I may mention the size of her breasts and the look of her legs. I don’t worry so much about the rest.”

  “Well, Kelli’s a small all the way. The thong was a medium. The writer makes a big deal about being blonde and curvy. Kelli’s the last thing from either.”

  “Throwing me off?” he suggested.

  “But why? If the point of the fantasy is you becoming crazed with desire for her, why would she write a body type she isn’t even close to? I’ve been thinking about that. The wrong hair color’s one thing. I could write that. I could imagine myself as a devastating blonde. But body type? No. You have to find me irresistible. I mean,” she added in a hurry, “that would be the fantasy.”

  “Except that you are blonde,” he pointed out. “As it happens.”

  He’d swear it took her a beat. “Yes. Right. Clearly. My point. I see, by the way, why you thought it was me. Here I am, your neighbor. There you are, brooding, hard, and mysterious, the perfect outlet for my inappropriate fantasies. My physical description matches. The thong’s even my size. And I’m a little quiet, a little shy.”

  He looked around him.

  “What?” she asked in alarm, looking around herself.

  “I’m just looking for this neighbor you’re talking about. The one who’s quiet and shy. We’ll take it as read that I’ve crossed you off the list.”

  Why wasn’t he considering her? She made perfect sense as his stalker. Especially that confusion over the blonde bit, as if she’d forgotten. But he had to trust his gut. His gut said, “I want you naked. Now.” It didn’t say, “Danger.” Not in that way. Not that she couldn’t kill him, but it wouldn’t be like that. He’d die of frustration, maybe.

  “I can be,” she said. “Quiet and shy.”

  “Yeah, right. Moving on. So if it’s not Kelli—who else do you have for me?”

  “Well, that’s the problem,” she said. “It could be anybody. We know ‘typical,’ but typical isn’t individual. Female stalkers are typically mid-twenties to mid-thirties, and they stalk older men. Which would put you in the right category. What are you, forty?”

  “Not yet. Thanks heaps.”

  “Well, sorry. All right. Women stalkers are opposite to male stalkers that way, which makes sense, as it follows male/female attraction patterns. Male stalkers are older and choose younger targets. And here’s the other interesting thing. Women are less likely than men to have had a sexual relationship with the victim. Some stalkers are exes, yes, but others have a casual relationship with the target that they magnify in their minds. ‘Our love is meant to be.’ Like an adult version of a teenage crush on an actor, but with a twist, which is going beyond the fantasy to violating the target’s boundaries. Getting into his house and his head, or at least getting her fantasies there. Telling you to put the envelope in the bed of your truck, so you think she’s watching even if she isn’t. But unless she does something we can see, all of that stays in her head, so how would you recognize her, other than things like the body type? You need to pay attention, because it could be your waitress at the coffee shop. It could be the meter reader.”

  “The meter reader’s got more beard than I ever did. I suspect he’s got hair on his back as well. He’s never getting into that thong. It’s not the meter reader.”

  “Oh. I never noticed. All right. My point stands, though. Unfortunately, you’re too attractive.”

  Luckily, he wasn’t taking a drink of water this time. He just laughed. “Unfortunately?”

  “For our purposes. Like I said—tall, dark, good-looking in a slightly scary way. Crush material for half the female population. Hard to narrow it down. But plenty of stalkers are exes. So since you and I are taking this seriously—what about that?”

  He didn’t answer for a minute, just kept pedaling, and she said, “Are we having an awkward moment? Am I supposed to know? Because I don’t know. If I knew, I’ve forgotten.”

  “You haven’t researched me, then. Here I thought I was meant to be so attractive.”

  She waved an airy hand and kept pedaling. On a low resistance, but pedaling all the same. “I’m damaged, that’s why.”

  “People who are actually damaged,” he told her, “don’t go around talking about how damaged they are.”

  “All right. You’re not my type. I thought the other thing would be easier on your ego.”

  He stopped pedaling. “I am exactly your type.” Wait. How many times had he thought that she wasn’t his type?

  “Sorry. I can go home and research, since you told me it’s out there, or you can save me the trouble.”

  He paused a long moment. He’d preferred the flirting. “I’m a writer.”

  “Yes. We’ve established that. Also a killer. Go on.”

  “Recently divorced.”

  “Promising, from an ex-as-stalker point of view.”

  “I make a lot of money. Am I your type yet?”

  “No, and you’re getting to the point awfully slowly. I’m hungry.”

  “Right, then. It’s not my ex. There’d be no reason.”

  “Hmm. Why not? And does she know where you live now?”

  “That was the point of the divorce, wasn’t it? And yes, she does. She came here with me. It’s where we broke up.”

  “Came from where?”

  “New York City.”

  “Whoa. That’s a change.”

  “It wasn’t to buy the cabin and go back to nature. That wasn’t in the picture. It was part of a very belated honeymoon. Or a last-ditch effort, take your choice. This part for me, and then Hawaii for her.”

  “Which means…”

  He sighed. “Right. Here you are, then. The writing was a success. The marriage was collateral damage. We’d been together a few years, and I’d done all right with the books. Fairly soon after we got married, one of them hit big, and then the others did. People came sniffing after the movie rights, and things heated up more. Caroline had grown up in Kansas and had always wanted to live in Manhat
tan, and we could afford it, and I thought, why not. It’s not my favorite place, but I’m working most of the time anyway, and I can do it anywhere, or I thought I could. So we moved, and we started wanting different things.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “She wanted to be part of some scene. Social scene. I get invited places. I don’t go. She wanted to go. I felt pressure to get more books out. I needed to work. And I didn’t really want to be in New York at all, as it turned out.”

  “You’re uncomfortable with crowds,” Lily said.

  “I didn’t say I was uncomfortable. I said I didn’t go.”

  “Uh-huh. Sudden noises? PTSD?”

  He whipped his head around and stared at her. “What?”

  “Commando, but got out? Working out at this minute at the end of the back row of machines with a clear exit route and your back to the wall? A writer, living alone in the woods?”

  A long moment, then he said, “I used to have some issues. It’s under control.”

  “Was the writing part of that? Part of the recovery?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m interested. I’ve… known some people who’ve suffered.”

  “Was it your ex? The cop?”

  “No.” Now she was the one looking uncomfortable.

  “Right,” he said when she didn’t go on. “The writing started as a recovery thing, yeah. A way to process, they said. I found out I could do it. I found out I liked it. I found out it helped. I found out I could make a living at it. And I didn’t have anything better to do. All good.”

  “Except that it broke up your marriage.”

  “No. The money broke up our marriage. Our priorities changed. That’s why I know Caroline’s not my stalker. We’re divorced. It’s settled. She’s got what she wants. Money, and a new bloke who likes to go to parties.”

  “Fast settlement.”

  “Because I gave her the apartment and half of the future paperback and ebook proceeds from the four books I wrote during the marriage.”

  “Wow. No wonder you’re bitter and grumpy.”

  This time, he laughed. “I wanted it over. I’ve written two books in the six months since she left. The first one has already made more than all those four combined. She should’ve stuck.”

  “Living well is the best revenge. And what’s your author name? Maybe I need to look you up.”

  “Oh, now you’re interested. Jason Black. And no. Revenge is the best revenge. But I don’t need revenge, not anymore.” It was true, he realized. When had that happened, exactly? “I’m good. It’s done. But she’s got nothing she needs from me, either. It’s not her.”

  Lily nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “You believe I can judge, do you? Even after all your research?”

  “Careful,” she said. “You’re getting testy again. But you’re right.”

  “A stalker’s somebody who doesn’t want to let go,” he said. “Not somebody who couldn’t wait to be gone.”

  Whoa, Paige thought. All righty, then. She said, “That’s helpful, anyway. Elimination’s always good.”

  Something else might have happened there, too, because Jace wasn’t looking nearly as closed-off as before. He asked, “About done?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” She stopped pedaling, slid off the bike, and her leg buckled beneath her as a jolt like a red-hot poker stabbed into her sciatic nerve. She staggered, grabbed at the seat, hauled herself upward as smoothly as she could, then tried to smile and said, “Definitely time to go.”

  He’d been off his bike the moment she’d started going down. Reflexes like lightning. Now, he was at her side, his hand at her elbow. “All right?”

  “Oh, yeah.” The muscles in her butt and hamstring had seized up now, and she’d started to sweat. Damn it. She should have stretched more today, but she hadn’t had time, what with Jace, the store, and… Jace.

  “Paragliding, huh,” he said. “Bad landing?”

  “Uh… yeah.” She barely knew what she was saying. Damn, that hurt. She breathed through it, tried to stretch out her hamstring without him noticing. “Something like that. I’m good.”

  He still had his hand under her arm, was helping her toward the locker rooms. “Sorry. I should’ve shut this down a while back. I knew that was hurting.”

  “And here I thought I’d been doing such a good job hiding it.” She didn’t say it through her teeth. She hoped.

  “My job,” he said. “Former job. Squad leader. Which is all about paying attention.”

  “Oh, I needed that,” she muttered. “Extra hotness points for you. That’s just great.” The pain had eased a little. She’d make it. They’d reached the women’s locker room. “I need to stretch this, massage it for a while. My car’s just down at the store, so you can head on out.” She stopped. “Damn. The chickens.”

  “The chickens?”

  “Yeah. I need to shut the chickens away. Has the sun set? It has, hasn’t it?”

  “Close. Nearly seven-thirty.”

  She swore under her breath. “They need to be locked in, or something will get them. Listen, if you don’t mind showering at home, could you grab your stuff while I grab mine, then give me a ride to my car? I really need to get home. Stupid chickens.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll go right now and lock them up. How about the goats?”

  She’d reached for the door handle, and with that motion, the hot poker was back. She let go, put a hand against the wall, tried to lean against it without showing she was, and said, “Uh… really? OK. Chickens—their pen and their coop both. They both have to be shut. Opossums. Coyotes. Et cetera. For the goats—uh, more hay. Give them water.” She tried to think. “Put the babies in their own stall so they’re separated. You have to, uh…” Her leg was on fire. “Give them treats to get them in there. I don’t want to ask you, but it would really help. If I let those chickens get killed…” She didn’t say, Lily will kill me.

  “Here’s what we’re doing, then,” he said. “I’m leaving straight away and doing all that. Then I’m coming back to collect you.”

  “You don’t have to do that. That’ll take…” She couldn’t think.

  “Yeah. Forty-five minutes, I’m thinking. During which you get in the sauna, let your muscles relax, and massage that leg. Then I come collect you, grab us something to eat, and take you home.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Forty-five minutes.” He took a few steps, then turned and said, “And do not come out and wait for me. I’ll send somebody in to get you, and then I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

  “Why?”

  He got still again, frowned at her, and finally said, “Chalk it up to being your neighbor.”

  It would get better. It always did. You rode the waves until they passed.

  The gym was emptying out now. She’d spent way too long on the bike, but she’d wanted to talk to Jace. It had been comfortable. Or something else. She hadn’t done anything to jeopardize Lily, though. She hoped.

  She couldn’t think about it any more. A few more twists on the pain dial, and she was going to be on her back on the floor, sobbing. She gritted her teeth, wrenched her shoes off, and couldn’t manage her clothes. The effort of hiding the bullet wounds was beyond her, and she couldn’t show those. Instead, she hobbled into the shower fully dressed, turned it on, leaned back and put her heel against the wall, and may have cried a little.

  Stretch it. She tried to breathe through it, to let it go, and it barely worked.

  Sauna. This time, she used one of the two curtained cubicles designed for the modest, and she remembered to put a towel around her waist, too, after she undressed. Then she stepped inside the cedar-lined room, blessedly empty of anything but steam, sat on the lower shelf because there was no way she was climbing up higher, and rode those waves.

  It took a long time. There was nobody in the locker room at all by the time the front-desk minder ca
me in, and Paige was sitting on the wooden bench with her dress on again, massaging her leg.

  She’d pulled her skirt down at the sound of the door, but kept working her lower quad and hamstring. “Hi.”

  “Uh… hi.” The young woman averted her eyes, even though Paige wasn’t even wearing the holster. “Jace Blackstone is outside. He says if you’re ready, he’s waiting for you.”

  “Right.” Paige got to her feet. “Tell him I’ll be right there, will you?”

  “We’re about to close, that’s all.” The woman still wasn’t looking at Paige.

  “I’ll be right out. Two minutes.”

  When she walked out with her tote, which was a whole lot heavier now with the sodden workout clothes in it, Kelli looked around from where she was leaning against the front desk talking to Jace and another man, who was clearly hanging around for more time with the sexy trainer. He smiled at Paige, so Lily probably knew him.

  “All right?” Kelli asked.

  Paige straightened her carefully-straight back a little more. “Sure. I’m fine.”

  Jace came forward fast and took her bag right off her shoulder, looking grim. “Goodnight,” he said to Kelli, then nodded at the others as well. “Thanks.”

  “Take care,” Kelli said. “And consider that introductory session,” she told Paige. “You won’t get fit if you injure yourself starting out.” To which Paige did not reply.

  She waited until they were in the parking lot, then asked Jace, “Are there woman commandos in the Australian army?”

  “No. Door’s open to them, though. That’s since my time.”

  “Ah.” She accepted his hand up into the truck and tried not to shiver at the bite of the evening air. When he climbed in and started the engine, she said, “I’m guessing you’re sorry about that.”

  “You guess wrong.” He glanced across at her. “Your choice. I can either drop you at your car, or I can take you home and bring you back in the morning. Makes no difference to me. I ordered a couple sandwiches from the Red Rooster. We can go get them on the way, or I can bring them by your place.”