by Julie Miller
Charlotte plucked the envelope from his fingers. “What man?”
“He didn’t know him, but he said he had on a uniform of some kind. Your name is on the envelope.” Jeffrey shrugged. “I’m assuming it’s a condolence?”
She turned it over to see her name neatly typed on the front. But there was no return address, no glimpse of handwriting to give her any clue as to who it might be from. Maybe this was Trip Jones’s idea of sending her an apology? Only, he wasn’t the one who needed to apologize.
She pulled the envelope into her lap and tried to be civil. “Thank you, Jeffrey.”
“No problem.” Something buzzed into the earbud he wore and he answered with a “yes, ma’am” before pulling away. “Sorry to intrude on your privacy, Miss Mayweather, but I’d better get to the estate and make sure everyone’s ready when the guests arrive. See you there.”
Probably not. Charlotte rolled the window up and sat back to open the envelope and pull out the neatly folded letter inside, alternately checking out one window and then the other for any sign of her mysterious pen pal. So a man in uniform had given it to Kyle. One of the security guards? Someone on the florists’ staff? A courier? Police officer? Trip?
Or someone very different.
It’s your turn, Charlotte.
All those brains, yet you never saw me coming.
I’m here now. Watching. Waiting.
The old man couldn’t stop me from getting to you.
No one can. I’ll take what you owe me and enjoy watching you squirm.
Scared yet?
“Oh, God.” The silent assault pushed the blood to her feet, making her feel dizzy, light-headed. Her vision blurred the vile words as she crumpled the letter in her fist. “Max?” She instinctively reached for the dog. “Max?”
He hopped onto the seat beside her and she hugged him tight. But she still felt cold, isolated, afraid.
“Why is this happening to me?” she whispered into the dog’s fur, rocking back and forth. “Why does he want to hurt—?”
The phone in her coat pocket rang and she screamed out loud. Max barked but licked her hand as her shaking fingers dug into the pocket of her coat.
It rang again, the chirping sound creeping along her skin and raising goose bumps. It was him. She knew it was him and she answered anyway. “What?”
A single, satisfied breath. And then, “Did you get my message?”
“Stop this.” Anger and confusion colored her plea. “I’m not like other people. I can’t handle this.”
Another soft breath ended in a low-pitched laugh. “Don’t you think I know that?”
Charlotte slapped the phone shut and hurled it across the limo.
It started ringing again as soon as it settled into a carpeted corner of the floor. “Stop it!”
She snatched Max’s leash and shoved the car door open. Her feet slipped on the red bricks that lined the road, and she grabbed onto the door handle to keep from falling. One shoe came off and tumbled into the ditch. She didn’t care that her stockings were soaking up the oily residue on the asphalt. She had only one thought in mind as she spun around to search the hillside. “Dad?”
Her gaze darted from umbrella to umbrella, from marker to marker. She needed the cool rain splashing her face to clear her senses enough to realize that she’d just captured the attention of half the people milling through Mt. Washington.
For an instant, Charlotte froze. Her skin heated with embarrassment, her thoughts raced with panic. The man who’d called her was here. Watching. Taking delight in her phobic reaction to his threats.
Stay in the moment, Charlotte. Don’t let him make you crazy.
What a fool she was. Just go home. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this.
Using her hand more than her vision to guide her, she tugged Max’s leash and sidled around the front of the car. She knocked on the driver’s window, peered inside behind the wheel. Empty. Where had he gone? This wasn’t part of the plan.
“Did you need me, Miss?”
The smell of smoke filled her nose as she twirled around. “My father gave you specific instructions to wait…”
Uniform.
“I was just taking a cigarette break, ma’am. Union allows it. I was right over there.”
She read the name on his chest beneath the event company’s logo. Bud.
She didn’t know any Bud.
“Did you…?” She raised the crumpled note in her hand. “Did you give this to my brother?”
“Ma’am?” Bud tucked a toothpick into the corner of his mouth and frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“Charlotte Mayweather!”
She turned to the sound of the voice. Snap. A bright light flashed in her eyes and she jerked her face away.
“Hey, pal.” Bud in the uniform stepped between her and the photographer who was trying to snap another picture. “You leave her alone.”
Move.
The photographer with the receding hairline wasn’t the only reporter calling her name. While he traded curses with Bud, Charlotte blinked her eyes clear and looked over the hood of the limo, seeking out a familiar face. Any familiar face.
Red hair. “Audrey?”
The moment she spotted her friend hurrying down the hill with Alex Taylor at her side, Charlotte limped around the car on one shoe. With a click of her tongue to command him, Max leaped over the ditch with her and scrambled up the hill.
Another light flashed in her peripheral vision and she turned up the collar of her trench coat, pulling her head in like a turtle and skirting past a black-marble marker to reach her friends.
“Charlotte, what’s happened?” Audrey wrapped her up in a hug and Alex’s strong arms folded around them both.
“He called me on my new phone. He’s here.”
Alex urged them both down the hill toward the cars, his chin tipped toward the microphone on his collar. “Come to my location now,” she heard, as he guided them across the ditch. “And get those photographers back. Lassen, you son of a…” Alex pulled back and pressed a kiss to Audrey’s temple. “Get her in the car while I take care of this rat.”
With Audrey’s arm around her shoulders, they turned toward the limo. “Steve Lassen is that tabloid opportunist who gave me such grief during my gang-leader trial last November. He and Alex have history.”
Charlotte saw Bud circling around the limo, opening the back door for them. She planted her feet, tripping out of her second shoe before they stopped. “I don’t want to go with him.”
“Char, the press…” She pulled the letter from Charlotte’s hand. Audrey’s pale cheeks flooded with color. “Where did you get this?”
Men in black uniforms were closing in on their position near the hood of the limousine. Orders were shouted, protests made. But the press was retreating to the opposite side of the road.
“Oh, my God.” Charlotte willingly turned her back to the cameras and squeezed Audrey’s hand, worried by her friend’s reaction to the threat. “This is just like the one I got last November. Alex!”
“Jeffrey—the guy organizing all this—said it was from Kyle, that a man in some kind of uniform had given it to him.”
Alex was back. He wound his arm around Audrey and read the note.
“Where’s Jeffrey now?” Audrey asked, futilely trying to look beyond Alex’s protective grasp.
“Leave that to the detectives. He’s back,” Alex announced grimly.
“Who’s back?” Charlotte whispered, more alarmed by the way Audrey’s cheeks blanched than by anything that had happened in the past few minutes.
“The Rich Girl Killer.”
It was a bleak, terrifying pronouncement.
“The man who killed Gretchen and Val?” The man who’d worked with a gang to terrorize Audrey? He was after her?
“Here,” Alex ordered, thrusting out the letter. Charlotte shivered from head to toe at the wall of black looming up behind her. She recognized the hand that reached around
her to take the paper from Alex and shrank away from the fading bruise of a dog nip there. “Get that letter out of the rain—it could be evidence. I need to get Aud someplace safe.”
“We’ll get the family home.” Captain Cutler was there, too, snapping orders. “Jones, get this one back to the limo and tell that guy to drive.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to do this.” Trip’s deep voice seemed to hold a real apology as he stuffed the letter inside his vest and pulled Max’s leash from her fingers. But there was nothing forgiving about his big hand clamping around her arm, pulling her into step beside him. “But the closer you are to me, the safer you’ll be.”
“Let me go.” Charlotte struggled every step of the way. But her wet feet found no traction and Trip’s grasp on her arm showed no signs of freeing her.
“Get in the car,” Trip ordered.
Her eyes zeroed in on Bud, rolling his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other as he waited for her.
“No.” She didn’t know Bud, couldn’t ride with him. “No!” When she realized she couldn’t stop the freight train of Trip’s long strides, she reached up and grabbed a handful of his sleeve. Her fingers curled into the damp material, wrinkling it in her fist. “I don’t trust him. He’s wearing a uniform.”
Trip planted his feet and faced her, his hand on her arm the only thing keeping her from pitching forward at the sudden stop. “I’m wearing a uniform.”
There was no humor in the green-gold gaze bearing down on her now.
Her fingertips brushed against the muscle flexing beneath his sleeve, their pleading grasp stuttering at the unfamiliar sensations of hardness and heat. She snatched her fingers away, fighting the unexpected urge to hold on tighter, wiping the moisture from her glasses instead. “A man in uniform handed the letter to Kyle, who gave it to Jeffrey, who gave it to me. But I was watching you when I received it, so I’m guessing you didn’t—”
“You make no sense. Back up!” She flinched as he pointed over her head toward a reporter inching across the road. She flinched again when his hand settled on her shoulder. With a sotto-voce curse, he moved it away. He bent his knees, hunching down to bring his gaze more even with hers. “Why did you get out of the car in the first place? The plan was to take you up to the site after the procession had left.”
“But he said the plans had changed—”
“Who said? The driver?” He swung his gaze toward Bud, patting his chest where the letter was hidden. “You think he sent this?”
“He’s wearing a uniform.”
“Miss Mayweather?” a voice shouted from the other side of the road. “Does today’s visit mean you’re coming out of seclusion?”
“That’s Jackson’s daughter?”
“How does she look?”
Charlotte’s world shrank to the wall of black Kevlar in front of her face as Trip straightened and shouted a second warning to the reporters clamoring for the scoop of the day. She couldn’t tell if he was moving or if she was the one drifting closer when the cameras started flashing.
“Is your driver’s murder part of another threat against your family?” one reporter asked.
“Oh, my God.” It was definitely her who had taken that step away from the limelight. “I don’t want the Eames family to hear any of this today. It was a mistake to come.”
“Miss Mayweather—hurry.” Bud was waving her toward the limo’s open door.
“This is crazy.” Trip grumbled his frustration and released her to pick up Max and drop all twenty-five pounds of him into her arms. Instead of pushing her toward the car, he tucked her to his side and hustled her in the opposite direction, half lifting her so that her toes touched the bricks and asphalt only every third step or so. “I guess you two are stuck with me.”
“Stop. Where are you taking me? Put me down.”
“I’m obeying an order.”
Too close. Too fast. She couldn’t breathe. She needed to think. Charlotte squiggled her hips and pushed with her elbow. If she let Max go, maybe she could free herself. But if she let go, there’d be nothing between her and Trip Jones. “You’re not listening to me.”
“You can have Bud or those reporters or me.”
Somewhere between the sensations of chilled toes and warm man, she’d missed seeing just how far he’d taken her. Her feet scraped the ground as he wedged her back against the side of a heavy-duty black pickup truck. Max was squirming, woofing under his breath at the flashes of light that warned the reporters were pursuing them, but Trip put an arm beneath hers to keep the dog in place as he pulled out a set of keys. The lock beeped and he had the door open before she pulled away from his helping hand and her fear found its voice. “I feel like I’m being kidnapped again.”
“What?” He retreated half a step, his eyes narrowing, perhaps judging her sincerity, perhaps deeming her a lunatic. “If you want to be safe, get in. Hell, I’ll give you the damn keys and you can drive if you’ll just move.”
“I don’t have a license anymore. I can’t drive. I’m afraid we’re at a standoff.” Instead of voicing the argument that rounded his lips, he put his hands on her waist and lifted her and Max into the truck. “Hey!”
After tossing aside a paperback novel that had been sitting on the seat, he reached across her and fastened the seat belt around her. “Now get down before those cameras or someone else gets a clean shot at you.”
He gave her a split second to pull Max out of the way before he closed the door and jogged around the truck to climb in behind the wheel. Charlotte’s fingers toyed with the handle then hesitantly reached down to pull the paperback from the floorboard. She ran her fingers over one of her favorite titles as she folded it shut. “You bent your book cover.”
Trip reached across the center console and snatched the book from her hands, tossing it onto the folding seat behind him. “It’s been a long time since anyone made me think I was some kind of stupid bully.”
Feeling trapped but a fraction more secure in here than she did on the other side of the door, she huddled against it, slinking down behind Max while Trip started the engine. “I never said you were stupid.”
“Nice distinction.” Trip scrubbed his hand over his face, taking the rain and his frustration with it, before turning to look at her across the seat. His deep voice rumbled inside the cab of the truck. “You’re my only concern, Charlotte. What I say to you will always be the truth. I’ve got your back. I won’t hurt you. And I won’t let you get hurt.”
“You can’t promise something like that.” She pulled off her fogged-up glasses and squinted to keep him in focus. “I know I’m a bit of…” an odd duck? a crazy lady? “a paranoid freak—”
“You’re not.”
“—but I have reason to be. It’s hard for me to trust anyone besides Dad…or Richard.” Her eyes lost focus as the grief and injustice of the day took hold again.
Trip put the truck into gear, honked to clear the road and pulled out. “Honey, I don’t need you to walk and talk like every other woman on the planet. I just need you to believe that I’m one of the good guys. Have a little faith.”
Hearing a grown man call her honey diverted Charlotte’s thoughts long enough to lose her grip on Max. The traitorous dog had no confusion whatsoever about Trip Jones. He walked right over to Trip’s lap and sniffed his face.
With a muttered reprimand and a tussle around the ears, Trip pushed him away. “Your dog likes me. Why can’t you?” He braked the truck before taking a hairpin turn toward the cemetery’s main gate. “Now hold on.”
As they picked up speed, Trip called his captain on his ear mike, giving something called a “twenty” and promising an ETA as soon as he confirmed a destination.
Like him? So she was a little fascinated with his taste in reading and the way he handled her dog and why on earth he’d call her honey. And she was more curious than she should be at the self-deprecation she’d heard in his “stupid bully” line.
But trust him?
Charlotte k
ept her eye on Trip’s stiff expression, held tight to Max and prayed.
Chapter Six
The craziness they’d left behind at the cemetery was waiting for her at home, too.
A team of Gallagher Security guards was sorting out the traffic jam at the front entrance to the Mayweather estate, asking for IDs and punching in security codes to allow expected guests through the gates, while filtering out any paparazzi or curiosity seekers posing as mourners and trying to sneak in. Jeffrey Beecher, wearing a clear plastic raincoat over his suit and tie, carried a clipboard and his cell phone. He greeted each vehicle, checked his guest list and either signaled to the guards to let the people inside pass, or got on the phone to verify whether someone should be allowed to enter.
Charlotte was still hunkered down in the passenger seat of Trip’s truck, absently stroking Max’s fur, barely peeping through the bottom of the window. They were seven vehicles back, with more cars and limousines pulling into the queue behind them. A television news crew had a camera and antenna set up on top of its van across the street, and another was filming a live feed with its reporter on the street. Trip was on his phone, calling in a situation report, telling his captain that she was fine but that he was going to need backup on the scene if they had any hopes of securing it. Not an encouraging thought.
There were whistles and bright lights, shouts and honking horns. The strident echo of sirens pierced the thick air, probably in answer to neighborhood complaints about the streets being blocked. The windshield wipers beat at a steady cadence and her heart thumped in the same quick rhythm. Her feet hurt. And every time she tried to inhale a calming breath, her nose filled with the pungent scent of wet dog fur and something even more unsettling that had taken her ten miles of riding in the truck to identify—the earthy scent of wet, warm, male skin.
“This is my own home,” Charlotte murmured, wilting at the assault on her senses. “My sanctuary.”
She needed quiet, alone and safe right now. But there was nothing outside the truck or inside her own head that could generate any sense of calm.