Colton's Killer Pursuit

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  The car sped up so fast the force sent her backward into the seat. Then he swerved, and her shoulder hit the console beside her. She hid, fear consuming her, and waited for Clarke to give the all clear.

  “It’s safe now,” he said thirty seconds later. She sat up, glancing at the inside of the secure parking garage underneath his condominium building.

  “What was that?” she asked, but she knew, her heart beating so loud she could count the beats.

  “Sounded like a gunshot to me,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror, and off to both sides of them as he pulled out his phone. They were not only underground, but the entry was secured by a guard in a booth, with car admittance only possible with a windshield transmitter that opened the gate. There were security cameras. They’d be checked.

  And a little while later, a police officer, standing outside her car door, confirmed that a bullet had hit Clarke’s vehicle just behind and below the window where Everleigh’s head had been.

  Gathering her things, she got out of the SUV, trying not to notice Clarke’s solid warmth beside her, or his body practically wrapping around hers as he guided her toward the very private, very quiet elevator up to his home.

  She was shaking. Needing a feel-good to get her out of the hell her life had become. And still trying not to remember that she was intrigued by her protector.

  That he’d been breathing heavy after he’d kissed her...

  Because she was completely serious about not letting him touch her again in that way. About not responding to him. No matter how attractive she might find him.

  Or how safe he made her feel.

  Chapter 8

  The night was easier to get through than he’d supposed. Everleigh made the enchiladas, as she’d said she’d do, while he worked in his office, getting reports from officers in the field around Fritz Emerson’s health spa, and from his family at police headquarters, too. So far, no one was talking about any woman Fritz might have been sleeping with. And there’d been no prints, other than Everleigh’s and Fritz’s, found in the Emerson home. Whoever had broken into Everleigh’s home had worn gloves. There’d been no sign of a shooter, or any shell casings, in the block between the latest attempt on Everleigh’s life and his home, either.

  He hadn’t noticed any vehicles following them. Or any suspicious behavior. The security cameras hadn’t caught anything and the police investigation didn’t turn up anything, either.

  Which meant that whoever was after Everleigh was either damn lucky, or someone who fit so completely into the world around them that Clarke and Everleigh could be looking straight at the criminal and not seeing them acting oddly in any way.

  That strengthened his theory that the perp might be one of Fritz’s secret past mistresses, someone who didn’t stand out in any way. Nothing else made sense. The Emersons hadn’t been in any substantial debt. There’d been no gambling or failed business ventures, other than the health club that was no longer supporting itself but had been solely owned by Fritz.

  They’d found a vehicle that matched the description of the car that had almost run Everleigh down that morning. It was dumped in a ditch not far from the grocery store, on a road that was no more than a long stretch of trees, so there were no cameras anywhere to show who got out of the vehicle. The cops told him that the car had been reported stolen that morning.

  And the security cameras in the junkyard where it’d been stolen weren’t working.

  When he went out to the kitchen to fill Everleigh in on the developments, he found a space empty of human occupation, with a note on the countertop telling him for how long and at what temperature to heat up his dinner. She’d gone to her room for the night.

  Obviously expecting to be left alone. Her message couldn’t have been any clearer.

  When he’d headed up to bed, hours after consuming two helpings of enchiladas, he’d seen her light on under her door. Had knocked and at the same time called out, asking if she was okay or needed anything.

  She’d responded immediately, telling him she was fine.

  And that was good-night.

  She’d managed to defuse their...momentarily off course...situation all on her own. He was grateful to her. Really.

  But he went to sleep and dreamed about being her boyfriend.

  * * *

  Everleigh called the prison to check on her grandmother before she’d even showered the next morning. She’d done the same each day since her own release.

  Gram was fine, slept well, was eating enough, according to the guard who’d agreed to give her updates.

  Everleigh hadn’t slept worth a darn, though. The strange bed...down the hall from a man she couldn’t get out of her mind.

  For most all of her adult life she’d been tied to Fritz. Monogamous. Loyal to the vows she’d taken. Maybe her bizarrely strong awareness of Clarke Colton was just because he was the first man with whom she’d been in extensive contact since her husband’s death.

  Or maybe her attraction to Clarke was just adrenaline overload, she decided as, naked in the shower, she could hardly touch her breasts or spend much time cleaning her other private parts without igniting the fire that seemed to be tingling there almost nonstop.

  She hadn’t been that sensitive even in the first months of having sex with Fritz, and she’d thought that had been pretty amazing.

  Someone still wanted her dead and was getting bolder...

  Yeah, it was the fear, being shot at and almost run over...being framed for murder and sitting in a cell for two months. Gratitude to the man who’d proved her not guilty.

  And living in the same space as him. Sharing accommodations and food.

  Needing to rely on him for her physical safety.

  But what about his scheme, pretending that he was her boyfriend? As she looked over the few outfits she’d brought, she thought about the party they’d be attending together that night—as boyfriend and girlfriend. She wanted to look her best. Wanted to show all the disbelievers that she’d not only survived prison, she was just fine without their support or belief in her.

  Still, her stomach knotted with nerves every time she thought about the evening ahead. How did she pretend that the gorgeous, intense, protective Clarke Colton was involved with her, and not start to wish it was true? Or worse, start to get turned on by him? How did she hang on his arm and get turned off?

  And how did she go there and not hang on to the support he was offering while she faced all of the people she’d loved all her life, knowing that they hadn’t known her, or believed in her, at all? What if it was one of them who had killed Fritz for some reason and might actually want her dead?

  The knots turned to butterflies and she grabbed her newest pair of skinny stretch jeans, the name-brand pair, and the black sweater she’d paid too much for the week after Fritz had left her. Its softness was what had first drawn her to it, but the way it fit her breasts, slimming at the waist and hugging her just above the hips... Yeah, she needed that extra little boost of confidence.

  The black boots were new, too, purchased from one night’s worth of tips also during that first week after Fritz left. That purchase had been on the day she’d found out that he’d been cheating on her for years. Her friend Larissa, another waitress at Howlin’ Eddie’s, had told her the way the boots zipped just to her ankles made her calves look sexy.

  And she’d been feeling anything but recently.

  Larissa had been there for her a lot during those horrible days of facing the truth about her marriage. They’d spent more than one night on the couch with glasses of wine, talking long into the night.

  And Larissa was the one person who’d never vocally said that, once she’d seen the facts, she believed Everleigh killed Fritz. She’d never said she didn’t believe it. She hadn’t sided with Gram. Hadn’t come out and stated that there was no way Everleigh could have done it. But she hadn�
��t sided with the rest of those who’d known her her whole life, either. And that counted for something in Everleigh’s book.

  Thankfully, Everleigh’s mother hadn’t invited Janet or any of the other waitresses from the bar, but Larissa was supposed to be at the party that night, too. She was the one sort of bright spot as Everleigh thought of the night ahead. Except that she dreaded the big deal Larissa would make of Everleigh having a new hunky boyfriend. A Colton, no less.

  When she’d put off going downstairs as long as she thought she could without looking like she was a little mouse afraid to venture out, Everleigh unlocked her bedroom door and took the staircase as though she owned it. Her makeup was perfect. She’d put earrings in both piercings. And her sassy hair gave her an edge over the nearly scared-witless woman lurking inside her.

  For all that, Clarke wasn’t in the kitchen. Or the living room she had to pass through to get there. For all she knew, he slept in late. When pictures of that muscled body lying naked on top of the sheets came to mind, she shook her head and made for the coffee maker she’d seen at the end of the counter when she’d been cooking the night before.

  It already had coffee in the pot. She poured a cup, figuring she could head back upstairs for a bit, hadn’t even had the first sip when Clarke came out of the room off the far end of the living room and into the kitchen.

  He was in jeans again, too, and the light brown sweater, along with a pair of brown work shoes that looked waterproofed against the snow, gave him a ruggedness her libido didn’t need. He was a definite case of imagination overload.

  He didn’t ask how she’d slept. Or thank her for dinner, either, though she’d already peeked in the refrigerator to see that the dish she’d left for him was gone. Instead, he began to list all the evidence that her case was lacking.

  Which all pretty much led to no leads. Anyplace. Broken cameras, no cameras, neighbors seeing nothing...abandoned car, no shell casings, no fingerprints... It was like a phantom was after her.

  She’d almost think she was imagining things if Clarke hadn’t witnessed both attempts on her life. Before helplessness could completely overwhelm her, he continued with his report.

  “I’m on my way out...” No. That wasn’t a report. Panic flared. He’d said he was going to keep her safe, and in less than twenty-four hours he was walking out on her?

  Her mouth fell open... She could only imagine the shock on her face based on his immediate step forward and look of compassion.

  “Don’t worry,” he quickly assured her. “You won’t be here alone. And I’ll only be gone as long as absolutely necessary...”

  Two things registered. He wasn’t leaving her alone. And he was coming back.

  “I’ll be absolutely fine here by myself,” she said, finding her groove again. He’s coming back.

  He shook his head. “I’m not taking any chances. And neither is my family.”

  She liked how he brought the others into the conversation. Into the home, into their fake relationship. And was sure he’d done so on purpose. As a reminder to her.

  And to him, too?

  He’d been so quick to step forward in her moment of ridiculous panic.

  Everleigh could tell that she intrigued him. He’d never kissed a woman on a case before.

  God, she was losing her mind. Had Fritz’s defection made her so completely starved for male attention that she was glomming on to the first guy in her sphere? Even when her life was in danger?

  If she was going to die, she might as well live through a good moment or two first, instead of going out on all the bad ones.

  She pushed the wayward thought aside, listening as Clarke said, “My brother Stanton is on his way over now. He’s a bodyguard...”

  She nodded. “I know who he is,” she said. Stanton Colton owned a small but elite protection agency, well-known in town, and his clients were all movie stars and politicians. People with stature and enough money to afford to pay top dollar for their lives. “And there’s no way he needs to waste his time on me,” she said.

  Even with her life-insurance windfall, the idea of paying for even an hour of that kind of protection was bothersome. Wasteful...

  “The decision’s already been made. He’ll be here in less than five minutes, and you won’t be paying for any of this—I already told you that. I won’t be gone more than an hour or two. And I’m just heading over to the police station.”

  That got her attention, as he’d probably known it would. “Why?”

  “I can’t say a lot yet, but Melissa called an emergency meeting for the task force working on the Randall Bowe case...”

  “Do they think maybe he has something to do with what’s been happening to me since I got out of prison?” As awful as the thought was, she found it more manageable than accepting that someone she knew wanted her dead.

  Or that Fritz’s killer was after her, too.

  Her husband’s murderer had been skilled enough to get away with it, leaving no evidence that led to any solid clues. Did that mean that he’d get Everleigh, too, and no one would ever know why?

  “I don’t really know for sure what it’s about,” he said, and she knew he was prevaricating. He’d turned to leave the room but swung around. “I’ll ask Melissa how much of it all I can share with you and we’ll talk when I get back, okay?”

  As though she had any choice... Still, he was being considerate. Nice, even.

  She nodded. “And, Clarke?”

  He glanced at her, just briefly, but long enough for her to feel the warmth of his gaze.

  “Thank you.”

  He leaned as though he was going to move toward her, but before he’d taken a step, there was a knock at the front door and he was gone.

  * * *

  Clarke was reluctant to leave Everleigh, even just to make a quick trip to the police station. As though no one but him could keep Everleigh safe.

  In truth, his brother was more equipped, better trained even than Clarke in terms of guarding actual bodies, but Everleigh felt safe with Clarke. He didn’t want to jeopardize that.

  The stricken look on her face, when he’d first told her he was leaving...

  It took him a second to realize that he’d been speaking to a woman whose husband of eighteen years had just walked out on her a few months before—leaving her understandably sensitive to broken expectations where sticking around was concerned.

  Because he’d put off actually leaving his condominium until the last minute—having stood there talking with Stanton, even after the introductions had been made and Everleigh had excused herself to go upstairs to her room—he was the last one to arrive at the emergency meeting.

  Melissa was already seated at the head of the table in the small conference room at police headquarters. Two of his cousins, detective Troy and FBI agent Bryce, were already seated on either side of the chief, with two other officers next to them, leaving the other end seat for Clarke. While he could really use a cup of coffee, he refrained from holding them up any longer.

  Refrained from doing anything that would require him to be gone from home any longer than absolutely necessary.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Melissa said, flipping a strand of red hair over her shoulder. Clarke read the very real concern on his sister’s face, but he noticed the new light in those blue eyes, too, and was happy for her. At thirty-six, Melissa had always been single-mindedly devoted to career through and through. And now here she was, in a blink, falling in love with the owner of the hotel where Hannah kidnapped the toddler, and Melissa was already engaged to be married.

  And he was absolutely not drawing any ideas for himself from his sister’s example, he told himself.

  “It looks like we might have another killer on our hands, guys.”

  Whoa. What? Clarke’s attention 100 percent on his sister’s words now, he pulled his notebo
ok and pen out of his coat pocket, opened it and started writing.

  “Three months ago, Vincent Gully, a man in his fifties, was killed while walking his dog at night in Grave Gulch Park. He was shot point-blank in the chest, cash had been taken from his wallet, and he’d been posed with his hands laid neatly over his abdomen.”

  Clarke remembered the case. “A suspect was arrested from DNA evidence found at the scene that matched him through the help of a genealogy website,” he said.

  “That’s right.” Melissa nodded toward him. “You might also remember that we had to let him go when the evidence went missing...”

  He knew where this was going. And it wasn’t going to be good.

  Not for anyone.

  “The suspect was told not to leave town but disappeared within an hour of having been released.”

  He remembered that, too, now that she mentioned it. And missing evidence was what was tying this meeting to Randall Bowe.

  Clarke had known Bowe for years and was disliking him more and more. He’d always had a snooty attitude, but recently the man had been accusing the Coltons of nepotism.

  Teeth clenched, he listened as his sister continued, “This morning I met with Randall Bowe’s lab assistant, who’d been blamed for the missing evidence and subsequently fired. She swears that she processed the evidence with all protocols observed. She double-checked it herself before she left that night. But when she came to work the next morning, it was gone...

  “This morning another man in his fifties was found in the park, shot point-blank in the chest and posed with his hands folded over his abdomen.”

  And there it was. Feeling sick and angry at the same time, Clarke tapped his pen against his pad. Not lightly. Until Melissa glanced pointedly at the table where his notebook lay, and he stopped. Gritting his teeth instead.

  “DNA evidence left at the scene of the second murder is a match for the Gully killing, even if we only have reports of the Gully evidence and not the evidence itself,” she said. “We now have solid, not-missing, irrefutable evidence against the suspect in the Gully case—Len Davison—and no idea where to find him. He’s obviously still close by, though. And ballsy, committing the exact same crime a second time on a second Grave Gulch citizen, right under our noses.”