Josie dropped back into her chair. Her hands trembled. What that man did to her.
Vicki fanned her well-endowed chest. “That man is seriously hot.”
Josie snorted. “That’s an understatement.” She pushed back from the desk. “What’s going on?”
“Tom Marsh called.” Shelia rolled her eyes. “I don’t blame you for ignoring him with the sexy-as-sin husband back in the picture.”
“Thanks, Vicki.” Josie bit her lip. “I’ll take care of Tom.”
Vicki nodded and headed back down the hall, smacking her gum on the way.
Josie straightened the papers on her desk, guilt swirling in her abdomen. Tom was a good friend and had been since she arrived in town. While he was wrong to turn Shane in, he did it to protect her. To help her.
She glanced at her watch. Maybe she’d run down to the cafeteria on the first floor and grab cappuccinos for them both as a sort of apology. Escaping her office, even for just a coffee, was so appealing. She’d stay in the building so Shane wouldn’t be upset, but she needed some caffeine, as well as a chance to make things right with Tom.
She stretched her calves on the way to the elevator. It’d been way too long since she’d gone for a jog. Something she and Shane had done together during their brief marriage. She’d loved running with him.
Her punch card took care of the coffee on the first floor, and she took another elevator up. Would Tom be angry? She had really clocked him.
Tom’s floor consisted of several smaller businesses, all sharing space. The tray balanced easily in her hands as she smiled at the receptionist the floor shared. The young brunette said something into a phone and looked up with a smile. “Tom said to go on back.”
Well, at least he’d see her. Josie nodded, walking down the minimally decorated hallway, past closed doorways, to Tom’s small office. She entered without knocking. “I brought you coffee.” Careful movements and she placed one cup in front of Tom, taking the other for herself as well as a seat.
Tom sat behind his scarred desk, flannel sleeves rolled to showcase muscular forearms. Building plans perched against a far wall, and a set of ancient tools decorated the side wall. “Is this an apology?” His brown hair was mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it. An array of papers spread across his desk, all bidding contracts.
Josie fought a blush, concentrating on her friend and not the spectacular view of the mountains outside the small window. “Yes. I’m sorry I kneed you. Though you were wrong to turn Shane in to the police.”
A smile played on Tom’s lips. “Even so, you didn’t need to turn me into a eunuch.”
She cleared her throat. “Ah, well, are you all right?” She so didn’t want to have a discussion about his balls. Not that he wasn’t hot, because good-looking was an understatement. But her heart lay elsewhere.
“I’m fine. It was a good move—one I hope my sisters know to use if anybody ever threatens them.” He took a drink of the coffee. His throat moved when he swallowed, a masculine movement in a fit man.
Relief filled her. She didn’t have many friends and certainly hadn’t wanted to lose him. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Tom placed his cup on the desk. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“No.” She took another sip. “I’ll figure out my path. I will.” Wouldn’t she?
He shook his head. “I hope so.” He sat back and she was struck again by the perfect evenness of his features. Straight nose, high cheekbones, full lips.
“You’re a good-looking man, Tom.”
He rolled his deep brown eyes. “Thanks.” A line of numbers scrolling across his screen caught his attention. He turned back to her. “Any news on who trashed your offices?”
“No.”
“That’s so weird.” The screen caught his eye again before he focused back on her. “They had to be looking for something. What do you think they wanted?”
“No clue. Possibly financial information on random big clients. Who knows.” The numbers flashed yellow. “What’s keeping your attention?”
Tom shrugged. “The county is granting bids on three projects, and all the subcontracting awards are going through.”
“I hope you get a couple.” The man had a job to do, and she was distracting him, so she stood. “Anyway, thanks for being so understanding about the entire situation. I appreciate your friendship.”
He leaned back, dark eyes appraising and making him look older. “I want more.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. So she cleared her throat. “I know—”
“No, I don’t think you do.” The numbers flashed by on the screen, but this time Tom ignored them. “I’m not going to let you ruin your life.”
She stepped back. “I, uh, I’m not ruining my life.”
“No. You’re not.” Determination lifted his jaw.
Irritation swirled through her. Enough with overbearing men. “I haven’t promised you anything.”
“Haven’t you?” He tilted his head to the side. “That’s debatable. Regardless, I will figure out what’s going on with your soon-to-be ex-husband. He’s not the only one with contacts in the police department.”
That couldn’t be good. Shane needed to keep a low profile, as did his brothers. “I’d appreciate it if you let me handle it.”
Tom turned back to the screen. “Thanks for the coffee.”
As dismissals went, it was a good one. Turning on her heel, she headed directly to the elevator. How could Tom think she’d promised him anything? Guilt had her flushing. She had discussed the divorce with him.
Her mind swirled as she stepped into the crowded elevator. Great. It would take forever to get back to her floor, and she had work to do. After several slow stops, most people had disembarked. She eyed her watch. Only she and one person remained, and he’d get off first.
The door opened on the ninth floor. A broad hand between her shoulder blades shoved her out of the elevator. “Hey,” she protested, flipping around.
The man crowded her away from the lift. The doors slid shut.
Silence.
Josie turned around. The entire ninth floor of the high-rise building was being renovated for a legal firm to take over at the end of the year. In fact, Tom had bid on the job. Sawdust littered the floor, while tools remained scattered about.
She pivoted and took a step back, her gaze flashing to the man who’d shoved her. Just under six feet, broad across the shoulders, he had a nose that sported several old breaks. “Um…”
“Mrs. Dean, I suggest you cooperate with me.” Raspy and tough, his voice promised pain.
Panic heated the air in her lungs. The guy knew her name. Memories of Shane teaching her self-defense moves ran through her brain in rapid succession. She’d go for the balls again. “What do you want?”
The man’s gaze slid down to her toes and back up.
Fear caught in her throat.
He sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “Unfortunately, not what you think. This time, anyway.” His hand snaked out and manacled around her arm before he dragged her toward a room partially framed in. “Please have a seat.” While the words remained polite, the shove he gave her onto the folding chair held barely controlled violence.
She hit the metal hard, struggling to stay in place. “Wha-what do you want?” She straightened her pin-striped skirt over her knees, searching for a plan.
He crouched in front of her, hands going to her knees. “Here’s the deal, blue eyes. We’re going to wait here until closing time, and then go up and grab a few of your firm’s files.”
Awareness filtered through the buzzing of fear in her brain. “You ransacked my office.”
He tightened his hold on her knees. “Wasn’t me. My boss ransacked the entire floor looking for the files he needed.”
She yanked her legs to the side, dislodging his beefy hands and trying to focus past the fear. “What files did he need?”
The guy’s grin revealed a large
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?” Would Shane be looking for her yet? Though why would he check on the empty ninth floor?
The man stood, reaching for a power saw. “If I were you, I wouldn’t ask too many questions, Ms. Dean. People with too many answers end up dead.”
A death threat. Silence echoed around the floor. It wasn’t quitting time, so either the guy had enough power to send the construction crew home for the day, or he knew their schedule. Was it her files or Daniel’s they wanted? Though, once the guy got the files, would he kill her? Maybe she could keep him talking. “Tell me what files, and maybe I can give you the information now.”
“No.” He slapped the blade against his palm, licking his lips as his gaze wandered over her legs. “Though you can call me George.”
The guy was probably a killer. Her heart beat hard enough to bruise her ribs. Could she get the saw from him? If the tool was plugged in, she could inflict some serious damage. Did she stand a chance? “Is that your name?”
“Sure.” He twisted his wrist to glance at a battered sports watch. “We have about two hours to spend together.” He smiled again. “Then we’ll get my files, and you can go on your merry way.”
He had to be lying. If that was his real name, he had no intention of letting her go. She forced her foster home smile to her face, her breath heating. “Sounds good to me. Is your boss a client of mine?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
If she could keep him talking, maybe she could distract him somehow. Was Dan’s habit of keeping all his files on a flash drive with him the problem here? “Is he client of Daniel Mission’s?”
“No. He just wants your records—nobody else’s. So shut up and wait the time out.”
The boss wanted her files—not Daniel’s. Probably the files she’d taken home that night. Four accounts, four clients. Had Billy been involved in something illegal? If so, what? “Why take the laptops?”
“We pawned them in the next state. After wiping them down.”
Relief echoed in the back of her mind. Behind the terror. Growing up in foster care, she was always on the outside, and rarely trusted. Now, she knew secrets, and she was actually trusted. That mattered. Her clients’ sensitive information was safe, and she could be pleased.
“After we made copies of everything, of course.” George snorted. “My boss has a buddy who can figure out that kind of stuff. Maybe we’ll make some extra money on the side.” One bushy black eyebrow wriggled. “I don’t suppose you teach people how to hide stuff from the IRS?”
“No. I teach them how to take legal deductions so they don’t end up in jail.” She lifted her chin. “You been to jail, George?”
Creases cut deep alongside his mouth as he frowned. “I served a dime.” He leaned toward her, the smell of old tacos wafting from him. “I’ll kill before I go back, Ms. Dean. You might want to remember that fact.”
Her knees wobbled. “Apparently you haven’t let go of your life of crime.”
He wrinkled his mouth, biting his lip. “True. Sometimes you get into a life, and there’s no getting free. You are who you are.” He gestured with the saw as he spoke.
Killing was a philosophy to the guy. Panic heated her lungs—she had to get out of there before he killed her. Large bolt cutters perched on a sawhorse to her left. A power drill lay on the floor ahead of her. George held the saw. She toed off her three-inch heels as he admired the power saw in his hands. Was he imagining using the jagged blade on her? She shivered. Her thigh muscles bunched as she calculated the best way to take him down. Nothing seemed good.
But it was now or never. Steeling her spine, she tried to focus her energy. Then she leapt forward and grabbed the bolt cutters, swinging toward George.
He jumped back, out of the way.
The metal weighed heavily in her hands. The end of the tool thunked against the floor as gravity took over. She panted out a breath.
George shook his head. “Now I have to teach you a lesson. I really didn’t want to have to hurt you.” His smile hinted he was lying. “Put down the cutters, Mrs. Dean.”
“Not a chance, asshole.” Panic hazed her vision. The man was going to kill her. Her mind spun, and she eyed the elevator.
“Okay.” He jumped toward her, saw in hand.
She yelped and swung again with the heavy tool, missing once again. But as George took another running step, his feet tangled in the power saw’s cord. He went down. The floor rumbled in protest.
Crying out, Josie swung the cutters at his head.
Crack.
Blood arced across the rough floor.
“Bitch.” Blood poured down his temple. He yanked the cutters out of her hand, throwing them across the floor. “I’m going to kill you.” He reached down to untangle his legs.
Run. Josie dodged to the side and ran.
Oh God.
Chapter 18
Her stockings snagged on the subfloor as Josie ran for the elevator. Slivers cut into her feet. Sobbing, she punched the up and down buttons.
Behind her, something crashed against the wall. George had thrown the saw.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” Josie chanted, pushing the buttons. The blood rushed through her ears. Her knees trembled. She glanced toward the makeshift office. George teetered to his feet with a roar, stumbling toward her.
No time. She pivoted and ran toward the far wall. Toward the stairwell. Her feet slipped on new marble tiles. With a cry, she yanked open the door and ran inside.
Shit. She wasn’t in the stairwell. The room was a large closet, probably a janitor’s storage area. A stinky room. Rows of metal shelves stood next to the door, awaiting some sort of order.
Footsteps pounded closer. Reason fled, and she panted out fear. Survival was all that mattered. She slammed the door shut, engaging the lock. Would George have a key?
Someone had left the light on, thank goodness. She leaped forward and yanked a shelving unit down in front of the door. Then another. Stacks of marble tile rested against the far wall. Her fingers shaking, she grabbed several tiles and piled them between the downed shelves. Her nails split. The rough edges of the tiles cut into the pads of her fingers.
George pounded on the door. “You little bitch. I’m going to kill you.”
She bit back a sob and kept piling tiles. Back and forth. Tiles. Until they were all between the shelves, keeping the door shut. Even if he had a key and could unlock the door, no way could he push it open.
Panting now, she backed away from the door. What now? How could she get a message to Shane?
Josie sniffed, tears burning her eyes.
George continued to pound.
She scanned the room frenziedly for a weapon. Near the tiles. A box cutter. She leapt for the large razor blade, holding the tool in front of her toward the door. Her hands shook. Blood from her tile-mangled fingers dripped to the floor.
George continued to pound.
He didn’t have a key. She needed to focus.
What stank? Did new tile smell like rotten tomatoes? She eyed the small room. Stacks of wooden flooring piled up at the far wall. She edged toward them. Was there a dead rat in the corner?
Holding her nose, she skirted the edge of the wood and glanced behind the stack.
She screamed. Billy lay on his back, his eyes wide and unseeing at the ceiling, a hole in the center of his head. His hands were tied in front of him, his wrists rubbed raw.
Dead.
Coughing, Josie forced bile down. Her mind sheeted white, and she stumbled back. Why wasn’t he in rehab?
She shook her head. Focus. She needed to focus. They’d killed Billy.
Silence descended outside the stifling room.
She slowly turned around, her heart pounding. She glanced up. Where was a vent? Way up, in the wall. No way could she reach so high.
Her mind scrambled.
Something hit the outside wall. Hard. She yelped, jumping back. Toward Billy.
“That’s right, little girl. I’m coming,” George bellowed. Something slammed into the wall again, and dust flew.
He was going to tear down the wall. Maybe he’d hit electrical wires and fry himself. Was that even possible?
She needed to think. Think, damn it.
Her fingers hurt. Breath heaved in and out of her lungs. She eyed Billy.
A large thump echoed, and Sheetrock dust flew toward her. Panic had her gasping. George would be inside soon. Why hadn’t she spent two years learning karate instead of yoga?
She slid the razor closed and put the tool in her pocket. With a gulp of a swallow, Josie fell to her knees, reaching for Billy’s pockets. Hopefully he had a weapon.
Nothing in his front pockets.
Closing her eyes, breathing through her nose, she yanked him to the side to check his back pockets.
A phone!
She grabbed the cell, punching in numbers to her office with slippery fingers. Hopefully Shane was there. If not, Vicki would pick up. Billy fell back with an inanimate thud.
“What?” Shane growled in answer.
“Shane!” Josie hissed, forcing herself to lower her voice.
“Josie. Where the hell are you? Whose number is this? I’m in your office—”
“Listen. I’m on the ninth floor in a maintenance room. Billy’s dead. George is going to kill me—”
The head of a sledgehammer plowed through the Sheetrock near the door. Josie screamed and jumped back, stumbling over Billy’s body and falling to the floor. Her butt bounced against the tiles, causing fresh bruises. The phone flew out of her bloody hand, skipping across the room.
Eww. She kicked against Billy’s legs, scrambling to get away from the dead body. Hand over bloody hand print, she crawled up the wall to stand on shaking legs.
She grabbed the box cutter out of her pocket, shakily working to slide the blade out. Her bloody fingers slipped, her nerves screamed in pain. Holding the tool with both hands, she finally pushed hard enough to expose the blade.
George broke the hole in the wall wider, pounding either side of the opening and sending chunks of Sheetrock dust flying. He poked one thick boot through the bottom, kicking drywall toward her. Both beefy hands pulled at the broken wall to open a man-sized hole.
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