Cocking her head, she wondered if maybe it wasn’t time to change, at least a little. “I dunno, Les,” she lied. It was easier to lie than to explain the whys. “Maybe it’s time I went shopping.”
“Hmm,” Leslie murmured in agreement, following Andi out into the dojo. “Maybe so. And I’d try going a size smaller, instead of a size or two too big.” After pausing to bow to the flag, they dropped into seats in the spectator area to tug on their shoes. Faintly, Andi could hear raised voices coming from the office.
Well, one raised voice. Jake didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “You know,” Leslie said conversationally, her eyes glinting. “I almost feel sorry for the guy.”
The raised voice stopped in mid-tirade and Andi shot Leslie a sidelong glance. “I’m sure you do. After all, it wasn’t your ribcage he tried to kick right out of your body.” Gingerly, she laid her hand along her side, took an experimental deep breath, only to wince before she finished it. “I don’t feel the least bit sorry for him. I hope Jake chews him apart. I think I’m going to have to get an X-ray done. Don’t tell Jake or anything, but it hurts like fire just to breathe.”
Leslie offered to drive her home but Andi shook her head and said, “I’ll be okay. I’m only fifteen minutes away.” Moments later, she eased herself into the car, one hand massaging her stiff neck. “What a day,” she murmured.
The powerful engine roared to life and Andi shifted into reverse, torn between going to urgent care for X-rays and going straight home, getting into a hot bath, having a hot meal, and going to bed.
Home—and bed—won out.
The Mustang joined the flow of traffic on Dixie Highway as she contemplated whether she should just stop and grab something from a fast food joint. Cooking for one was more trouble than it was worth. And the pain was starting to make her feel slightly nauseated anyway.
Absently, she glanced in her rearview mirror before changing lanes. When the motorcycle roared up beside her at the stoplight, Andi barely glanced over. Feeling eyes on her, she turned her head as the light changed, locking eyes with Jeff Simms. From astride his bike, he glared at her, his muddy brown eyes narrow, his mouth twisted in a snarl.
Chills danced down her spine as she dragged her eyes away, horns blaring at her. She gunned the engine and joined the traffic turning onto the expressway, still feeling those angry eyes on her. When his motorcycle appeared in her rearview mirror, she whispered a curse under her breath.
She couldn’t even draw consolation from telling herself she was being paranoid. Simms lived in Valley Station, and had no reason to be tailgating her at nearly eighty miles an hour. Andi stepped on the gas, digging through her purse for her cell phone as she shot around a slow-moving truck.
The bike stayed on her tail, the well-oiled Harley keeping pace with her Mustang.
“Damn him.”
He shot around her, getting in front of her car and giving her a light show with his brakes. The Stonestreet exit loomed near and she considered taking it, but dismissed the idea. The expressway, at least, was well lit and straight. Stonestreet was dark, long, and full of turns and blind curves.
She paused in the middle of entering the emergency number on her phone, feeling foolish. What was she going to say? I’m driving a Mustang and some maniac on a bike is mad at me because he kicked me in the ribs at karate class?
Again, Simms changed lanes, slowing down until he was even with the passenger door. “That’s it,” she muttered, entering the number as he glared at her through the window. His lips were moving, he was saying something.
Andi seriously doubted it was an apology.
“911 emergency.”
“Yeah, I’m out on—”
Just as she was explaining to the dispatch operator what was going on, it happened. Whether he lost control of the bike or purposely veered into her, Andi would never know. But her vision was filled with spinning wheels, spinning scenery, and before she lost consciousness, Jeff’s bloodied face on her windshield.
♥
Three days later, Andi woke in the hospital.
Lying flat on her back, tubes running this way and that, she closed her eyes and tried to block out the image that loomed in her mind.
Turning her head, she saw Jake Robinson sitting at the bedside, his eyes distant and unfocused. When he realized she was awake, for once, his face was an open book—full of rage, grief, and confusion.
“Jeff’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked, her voice weak and raspy, throat dry.
Turning his head, Jake met her eyes, opened his mouth to speak, but closed it on a sigh, and simply nodded.
A soft voice came from the doorway.
“He didn’t even stand a chance. You’re lucky to be here,” Leslie Howard said, licking her lips and moving to the bedside.
Moving hurt every inch of her body, but Andi desperately needed human contact. Holding out her hand, she waited for Leslie to take it. “He got next to me at the light, right by the entrance ramp to Gene Snyder. He kept getting right on my tail. I was…”
“There were witnesses, Andi. Four different people told the cops what he was doing. You aren’t responsible,” Jake said quietly, taking her other hand, waiting for her to look at him. “If anything, I am. I should have realized before now that the boy had some serious problems.” Tapping his finger against his temple, Jake said softly, “He wasn’t right up here. And I never noticed.”
“I never thought…” Taking a deep breath, Andi continued, “I never liked him. I figured he had something wrong with him, but I never imagined he’d go postal on me.” The dry, morbid humor was forced, but at least, it was there.
Jake’s mouth quirked up at the small joke. “Neither did I. And I should have. He never should have been able to climb through the ranks with a mind like that inside his head.” He reached out, touched her cheek. When her eyes raised and met his, Jake said once more, “Andi, this wasn’t your fault.”
Logically, she already knew that.
But logic didn’t stand much chance against her conscience. And she kept wondering through the days and nights that followed, if she could have done anything differently.
♥
Jamie raised his head as Jeb finished talking on the phone.
“That was Sam.” Heavily, he lowered the phone to the cradle and looked up at Jamie.
Jamie didn’t think he had ever seen the man look so old, so tired.
“Turns out Andi Morrow was in an accident. She’s going to be out for the next ten days,” Jeb said slowly, turning a gold-plated pen over in his hands. “I want you to know something, Jamie. I realize that something has pointed you toward her. But Andi isn’t the one stealing from me.”
Arching a black brow, Jamie asked, “Then who is?”
“I don’t know. But it isn’t Andi.”
“It’s got to be somebody, Jeb. We’re going to have to look at everybody. Hell, it may end up being Samantha Dowers,” Jamie said, rubbing his temple. This was why he didn’t like working for friends.
Friends made it more difficult.
“I could see it being Sam easier than I can see it being Andi,” Jeb said quietly. Lowering the pen back to his mahogany desk, he leaned back into the fine leather of his chair. “It isn’t her.”
“Then it’s not going to be a problem if I go ahead and do my job, get the information I need to clear her so I can remove her from the list,” Jamie said evenly. “This will be the perfect time.”
“You do what you have to do, son. But don’t be too disappointed when you don’t find what you’re looking for,” Jeb told him, reaching for the phone. “Stay in touch.”
Chapter Two
A week after the accident, leg in a walking cast, the multi-colored bruises starting to fade from her face and body, Andi pulled her new car—a sedate, rather mild-mannered Ford Fusion—into the parking lot at work. She missed her fast little Mustang, but had gotten claustrophobic when she had tried to climb b
ehind the wheel of one at the dealership.
She’d really liked the Explorer, but she’d felt like she was piloting a 747. So, she ended up with this teal Fusion, with bucket seats and a V-6, a CD player, and thanks to the previous owner, one kick-ass stereo system.
There was no easy way to get out of the car, so Andi just gritted her teeth and swung her battered body around, her knee screaming at her as she put weight on it. Her vision wavered in and out for a second and Andi started to question her ability to work.
Technically, she should have stayed home a few more days.
But the longer she stayed at home, the longer it took to forget seeing Jeff’s face smashed against the windshield of her car, and the harder it got to sleep at night. A spasm of grief and guilt momentarily tightened her face before she composed herself.
It was either go to work, or go insane.
She couldn’t keep doing this.
With a sigh, she started the long walk across the parking lot, her stiffened leg throbbing every step of the way.
Leg hurting, chest tight, she took the elevator and closed her eyes on the way down.
She needed her inhaler, she needed to sit down, and she needed to stop seeing that bloodied face in front of hers, just for a few minutes.
The walk that normally took under a minute took nearly five minutes and by the time she walked through the door to the daycare, sweat had dampened her face and her breath was sawing raggedly in and out of her lungs.
Fumbling through her purse, looking for her inhaler, she didn’t even notice the light coming from her office until she stood in the doorway, jaw slack and eyes wide. The gorgeous guy who had knocked his head nearly two weeks ago sat at her desk, shirtsleeves pushed high, pounding at the keyboard.
Another man, Humphrey Bogart, she recognized, was going through her files.
“Excuse me, but what the hell do you think you are doing?” she demanded, dropping her purse and bag, limping over to the file cabinet and damn near smashing the stranger’s hand inside. “Those files are about my kids, and are confidential. And this is my office.”
His pale green gaze rose from the computer screen, taking in her appearance blankly. “Ms. Morrow. I wasn’t aware you were coming in today,” Jamie McAdams said blandly. With a flick of his wrist, whatever he had been studying on her computer screen was gone.
The only thought Jamie had was that she wasn’t wearing her glasses.
“I didn’t feel like staying at home any longer. Now what are you doing in my office?” she asked coldly, glaring first at McAdams and then at Bogart.
“We have…a little problem,” he said slowly, taking a step back and leaning up against the wall.
Oh, God. Bogart had a shoulder holster on, the kind you saw police detectives wearing under their suit jackets. And in that shoulder holster was a big, mean looking gun. With a massive effort, she jerked her eyes away from that gun and met the mild watchful green eyes of Bogart.
“You are going to have a big problem, if you don’t tell me what this is about. Damn it, those files are confidential.”
“Hmm. Well, considering that he’s been hired by the CEO, and recommended by the security director, I think we can let it slide,” Jamie said, spinning around and propping his feet on the corner of the desk.
“Security director?” she repeated, confused. Her already aching knee yowled at here, demanding she sit down. “Get your feet off my desk and your butt out of my chair.”
“Quite a mouth she’s got on her,” Bogart said, sliding Jamie a glance.
Jamie had to agree, but not for the reasons Mick was thinking. Casually, he kicked his feet off the desk and went to lean back, then stopped as he caught sight of her pale, strained face. He was about to ask if she was okay, but Andi glanced over at Mick and her eyes narrowed. “Do not smoke in here. This is a non-smoking facility.”
Jamie shot Mick a look, cocking a brow as the man tapped his packet of cigarettes against his palm. Yeah, his partner knew the rules, but Mick didn’t much care about them.
“We’ve got more bigger issues than some do-gooder rules about smoking,” Mick drawled.
“Tell that to somebody who isn’t asthmatic,” Andi snapped. Her mouth pinched with pain, she knelt down and grabbed her purse, scooping things back into it.
As she straightened, Jamie watched her put something to her lips, then inhale.
He gave Mick a quick look and shook his head.
Mick rolled his eyes, but put the cigarettes up.
Andi, trying not to wince as her aching ribs complained over the deep breath, took a second hit off her inhaler, then dropped it back into her purse.
The bands around her chest refused to loosen as Andi took a shallow breath, staring into the pale green eyes. “What is this about?” she asked quietly, limping over to a chair and lowering her battered body into it carefully. The constriction in her chest was threatening to turn into a full-blown wheeze, and she wasn’t certain she could stay on her feet much longer.
“I trust you’ve recovered from the accident,” Mick asked as she tried to cover a wince of discomfort.
“Recovered?” She smirked and looked up at the ceiling. “What a mild word. But we can go with that—why the hell not? Recovered,” she muttered. She’d be seeing that bloodied face, and hearing her own screams for the rest of her life. But, sure…if they wanted to say she was recovered, why not? “Now what is this about?”
Sighing, Mick looked over at Jamie.
This wasn’t exactly going the way he had wanted it to go. He had wanted to find this so-called proof and let Mick take over from there. He wanted to go back to his nice safe condo in Indy, and forget about that long hair, the scent of her skin, her cool, silky hands. Forget about that mouth.
Something about this girl bothered him. When human resources had told him she’d be out for ten days due to an accident, he had thanked whatever gods had been watching over him.
And now she sat in front of him, staring at him with very obvious confusion in her soft hazel eyes, her ivory skin faintly flushed, and her face drawn tight with pain—back three days early. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on top of her neatly organized desk.
One hand was absently rubbing her breastbone, and his eyes followed that hand, fine-boned with a wrist that was almost delicate. Beneath it, what appeared to be very large, very firm breasts rose beguilingly, rapidly, trying to drag air into her lungs. As he studied her hand, she noticed where he was looking and it dropped away.
“Breathing okay?” An asthmatic, for crying out loud. What in the hell was an asthmatic doing taking karate?
“I will be in a few minutes.” Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep, obviously strained breath. “But you won’t be, if you don’t tell me what the deal is. In another thirty seconds, I’m calling the plant security.”
“As far as you’re concerned, Ms. Morrow, I am the plant security,” he said flatly. “And you’re suspected of theft and embezzlement.”
Behind his back, Mick rolled his eyes and thought, Hell of a way to be subtle about this, kid. Jeez. And then he studied the girl, waiting to see how she would react. Would her eyes dart away? Would she start to stammer?
She laughed.
Mick’s eyes widened fractionally while Jamie’s narrowed.
Whatever reaction he had been expecting, it wasn’t the musical laugh that pealed from her mouth. “Oh, God. Don’t make me laugh,” she said a few moments later, wincing and pressing a hand to her side. “It hurts too much.”
“I’m afraid this isn’t a laughing matter,” Mick said calmly when Jamie merely sat and stared at her.
“Oh, I can see you don’t think so,” she replied, still chuckling. “I’m stuck in here, surrounded by babies and toddlers all day, changing diapers and playing hide’n’seek. And you think I’m swiping money?”
“Nearly ninety-two thousand dollars,” Jamie said quietly, raising one hand when Mick started t
o speak. “And we’ve been informed of some rather extravagant spending habits you have.”
Her eyebrows, a few shades darker than the chestnut hair spilling down from her ponytail, rose. “My spending habits don’t concern anybody but me and my banker.”
“A trip to Ireland this summer. A new Mustang. A rather new home. Camera equipment. All of this in the past six months. A rich relative suddenly pass away?”
“I don’t even know if I have any relatives,” Andi replied calmly, a muscle tightening in her jaw. “I’m sure you are already aware, but until six years ago, I was a ward of the state, and had been since I was dumped by my parents when I was five.”
“Since you seem to know all about my checkbook, you probably know all the other details of my life, too.” Ninety two thousand dollars, she thought, her mind going somewhat numb as the enormity of what was happening sank in.
Ninety. Two. Thousand. Dollars.
“So because I’m materialistic, I’m a suspect?” she asked, her voice wobbling slightly. She sat up straighter, focused her eyes on the men in front of her and waited for an answer.
“Materialism doesn’t count, unless you seem to be living outside your means,” Mick said. Well, he was thinking, either she is really, really good. Or really, really innocent.
Either way was going to give Jamie and Mick some problems. “You care to explain how you can afford all of that on thirty-five a year?”
Maybe it was pride, maybe it was having her privacy invaded—something she guarded closely—or maybe it was just orneriness, as people had told her throughout her life. But sitting there, staring at Bogart’s reincarnation, and the other man, looking like a fallen angel, Andi leaned back in the chair, folded her hands over her belly, shifted uncomfortably in her seat, lifted one brow and archly said, “Not until I have to.”
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