What was the old saying? Distance makes the heart fonder? Something like that.
She paused to pull on a jacket over the ivory sweater she’d matched with a pair of black slacks, and smoothed her hair that she’d tugged into a tight bun at the nape of her neck.
Her mother insisted that Erika be impeccably dressed whenever she visited. Her clothes, her makeup, and her hair would be inspected by the older woman’s eagle gaze. Then her mother would spend the next hour telling Erika exactly what was wrong with her outfit, or her lipstick, or style of hair. And the next hour would be devoted to why Erika couldn’t find a decent man to marry.
It didn’t matter that Erika had no interest in men. Or marriage for that matter.
Swallowing a sigh, she shoved open the door and stepped into the shadowed garage. Erika understood that love and concern could be expressed in different ways. Her mother just happened to choose constant criticism. And if she was honest, it had been that gnawing disparagement that had honed Erika into a perfect therapist. She’d learned from a young age how to adapt and create whatever façade was needed to pacify her nagging parent.
Now she could be whatever the patient seated across from her needed. A stern taskmaster, a compassionate listener, a friend who was there to cheer them on.
Erika was busy digging her keys out of her purse when there was a faint sound behind her. On the point of turning to discover what had made the noise, Erika was blindsided by a tire iron to the side of her face. Or was it a baseball bat? It didn’t really matter.
The end result was a blast of agony that sent her to her knees, swiftly followed by a tidal wave of darkness that thankfully washed away the pain.
* * *
Lying snuggled in bed, Noah held Wynter close as she skimmed her fingers over his bare chest. They’d just made love and Noah was hovering on the edge of sleep. It’d been a long day. Not only the unpleasant encounter with Edgar, but the hours of pacing the waiting room. Sander was holding his own, but he was still unconscious in the ICU. He knew it pained Wynter to see the old man so frail.
Once visiting hours were over, he’d insisted she return to the cabin for dinner. And a bottle of wine. They’d deliberately avoided any talk of murder or death or sick relatives. It felt good to just enjoy being together.
It’d been Wynter who’d suggested an early night. Not that Noah had protested. He’d nearly broken the land speed record scooping her off the couch and into the bedroom. Now all he wanted to do was close his eyes and drift into sleep.
It was only the tension he could feel humming through Wynter that kept him awake. She was clearly struggling to put the events of the day behind her.
“I don’t understand,” she at last muttered.
He pressed his lips to the top of her head, savoring the herbal scent of her curls. “That covers a lot of territory.”
“Why would my dad retire?” she clarified. “He devoted his life to achieving his position as dean.”
Noah didn’t have to give the question much thought. There were only a handful of reasons an overly ambitious man who’d devoted years to his career would be willing to walk away. Ill health ... or scandal.
“I would guess it has something to do with his secretary,” he said. He’d revealed her father’s confession to being with Linda Baker the night her mother had died. And that they’d been in a hotel when the sheriff was trying to get ahold of him.
“Because he’s sleeping with her?” Noah could see her jaw tighten in the muted light of the bedside lamp. “He’s obviously been doing it for years. Why quit his job now?”
Noah had wondered the same thing. There was only one explanation.
“There might not be an official investigation into your mother’s death, but eventually people are going to start asking uncomfortable questions,” he reminded her. “It’s better he’s no longer connected to the college before he has to answer those questions.”
She shivered, pressing closer to his naked body. “It’s all so horrible.”
“Your father’s relationship with Linda?”
“Well, that. She’s such a bitch,” she agreed, her voice uncharacteristically catty. “But I mean everything.”
He skimmed his lips over her temple. “Again, that covers a lot of territory.”
“After I opened the envelope left by Sheriff Jansen, I was supposed to discover the truth.” She paused, no doubt imagining her life if she’d never crossed paths with Kir Jansen, and never considered the possibility her mother’s death was anything but a tragic fluke of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Now I still don’t know who shot my mom, while three people are dead, my grandpa is fighting for his life, and my father’s career is shattered.” She heaved a harsh sigh. “I told you it was Pandora’s box.”
“And I told you that the past never stays buried,” he murmured, tightening his arms around Wynter. None of this was her fault and he’d be damned if he let her waste one second blaming herself. “We’re going to find who’s behind this madness.”
“How?”
Noah shrugged. He didn’t have a great answer, but he was a realist. They’d somehow triggered a chain of events into motion, like dominoes falling. But like dominoes, one fraction of a miscalculation would bring everything to an end.
“So far, the killer has been lucky. Eventually he’s going to make a mistake,” he reassured her.
“You’re sure it’s a he?”
Noah blinked. He hadn’t considered the possibility it might be a woman. Sexist, of course. A female was just as likely as a male to be the killer. Gazing down at her pale face, he intended to continue reassuring her that the nightmare would end, but it was suddenly difficult to concentrate on anything but the feel of her nestled against him.
“The only thing I’m sure about is you,” he confessed, cupping her cheek in his palm. “And how very right it feels to have you sharing this cabin with me.”
He could feel Wynter’s tension easing as she melted against him. Was she as ready as he was to change the conversation?
“Not just right, but very right?”
“Very, very right.”
“That’s a lot of right.”
“I hope so.” He held her gaze, the sensation of butterflies dancing in his stomach. As if he was once again seventeen, asking a girl to the prom. Only, this was even bigger, and far, far more important to his long-term happiness. “Will you stay?”
She tilted back her head, her expression unreadable. “Are you sure you want to make the offer now?”
“Why wouldn’t I be sure?”
“There’s a lot going on.” She paused, as if considering her words. “It might have intensified your emotions.”
“All it did was clarify them,” he insisted.
“What did it clarify?”
Noah smiled, the butterflies banished as the sense of utter rightness settled in the center of his soul. He wasn’t nervous, he was resolute. “Just how special our relationship has been.”
Her hand brushed over his chest, her touch tentative. “Because we were friends first?”
“Because it’s always been exactly what we needed,” he said. “When we were young we bonded over our shared sense of loss. Then we supported each other while we concentrated on our careers, constantly there without demands that neither of us were prepared to give.”
“And now?”
“Lovers who will fight to the death to protect each other.”
She considered his words, a small smile at last curving her lips. “It doesn’t sound like the most romantic love story.”
He wasn’t insulted. His parents had shared a peaceful kind of love. There were never fiery arguments followed by passionate hours behind a closed door. They didn’t throw things at each other or storm away, threatening never to return.
Once his father had told him to never marry a woman who drove him crazy, no matter how exciting the relationship might feel at the time. Fireworks and rages soon lost their entertainment value.
“A man needs a soft place to land at the end of a day,” his dad had said. “Find that soft place. . . .”
“You lived through the fallout when emotions are out of control,” he reminded her. “Grand passions and obsession and tragic endings are great at the opera. I prefer a steady, loyal, I-got-your-back sort of love.”
Her brilliant eyes darkened with an emotion that was echoed inside Noah. A huge, constantly expanding emotion that was bigger than his heart. Or his soul. It was ... immeasurable.
“Me, too,” she whispered.
“So you’ll stay?”
“You’re very persistent.”
“It’s part of my charm.”
She arched her brows. “Being stubborn is part of your charm?”
“I’m resolute in my determination. That’s completely different than being stubborn.”
She snorted in amusement. “Ah. I’m glad you cleared up my confusion.”
He rolled onto his side, settling on his pillow until they were nose to nose. “Are you ever going to answer my question? Will you stay?”
Her hand slid up his chest and behind his neck, pulling him forward. Their lips met.
“Just try to get rid of me.”
“Never.” He kissed her lips before moving down her body. “Never, never, never . . .”
Chapter 24
Erika woke with an aching head and a dry mouth. For a minute she held herself perfectly still. Like an animal curled in the brush, afraid any movement might attract the attention of a predator. She wasn’t sure where she was or what had happened, but she instinctively understood that she was in danger.
Forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths, she absorbed her surroundings.
She was lying on something hard and cold. It didn’t feel like cement, or wood. She didn’t know what it was. The air was musty and stale, with no hint of a breeze. Was she inside? Yes. Even with her eyes closed she could sense a roof over her head.
Next she concentrated on any sounds.
There was nothing. Not unless you counted her tortured breaths and the thunder of her heartbeat that echoed in her ears. It was the absolute silence that came from being in an enclosed space. A basement. A cellar. A vault. A prison . . .
Fear blasted through Erika, but she grimly battled back her panic. Right now she needed a clear mind and a plan of action.
Cautiously she opened her eyes, slightly relieved to discover she wasn’t trapped in the trunk of her car.
That was the last fuzzy memory she had—she’d just stepped out of her house and was crossing the garage to her car when she’d been hit from behind.
How long ago?
Her gaze moved toward the small rectangular window near the low ceiling. It was night outside. That explained the smothering darkness pressing against her. And why her mouth was so dry. She’d been knocked out for hours.
The next question was: Where was she?
Her gaze moved over the wooden shelves that lined brick walls, and an old-fashioned coal chute that was barely visible in the gloom. It reminded her of the basements beneath the local farmhouses. A place to store extra food for the winter along with coal and firewood, plus a safe place to ride out a storm. But not a comfortable room to spend time in.
Erika rolled slowly onto her back. Her head throbbed and her stiff muscles protested, but no crazed killer leaped out of the shadows. She was going to take that as a win.
Counting to ten, Erika pushed herself into a seated position. She still had a headache, but the fog was beginning to dissipate.
So, it was night and she was in a basement. She already suspected that she’d been brought there by the person who’d been hiding in her garage. What she didn’t know was who it was or what they wanted from her.
Steeling her courage, Erika grimly rose to her feet. Her knees were weak and her balance was dubious, but she didn’t collapse. Yet another win.
Once convinced she wasn’t going to fall flat on her face, she turned in a slow circle. There was nothing to see beyond the dusty shelves and a short wooden staircase across the narrow space.
She wasn’t sure why she’d been left on her own. Or how long she would have before her captor returned. But she suspected any hope of escape was now or never. She took a step, then halted, her heart lodged in her throat. Nothing. She took another step. And then another. The open-beamed ceiling was low enough that it brushed the top of her head and cobwebs clung to her face. Erika shuddered, but she kept creeping forward.
Now or never, she reminded herself.
She reached the steps and climbed them with the same slow, methodical speed, refusing to consider that where she was going might be worse than where she was.
When she’d been a grad student at Iowa State University, she’d been riding home from a party with a friend. The roads had been icy and they’d swerved into a ditch. At that time very few people had cell phones and they’d had to make the decision of staying in the car and waiting for someone to drive past or walking through the freezing night to find help.
Erika had chosen to walk, unable to bear the thought of sitting and hoping they would be rescued instead of taking control of the situation. She’d finally found a farmhouse, to call for help, but by the time the wrecker had arrived to pull out the car, her friend was dead. The poor girl had no idea that the snow had clogged her tailpipes and she’d died of carbon monoxide poisoning when she kept the car running to stay warm.
It had been a powerful lesson for Erika.
Take command of the situation or become a victim.
Once she was standing on the top step, she reached out. Her hand touched the smooth wood of a door. The darkness was thicker in this corner and she fumbled to find the knob. At last her fingers wrapped around the rusty metal latch and she pushed it down.
Frustration ripped through her when it refused to budge.
Locked.
Throwing caution to the wind, she slammed her hand against the door.
“Hello! Is anyone there?” Bang, bang, bang. “Hello.”
She paused, listening for any response. Silence. Erika swallowed a hysterical sob.
Had someone locked her down here to rot in this basement?
Who would do such a thing?
Edgar Moore.
The name whispered through her mind.
He had plenty of motive to want her to disappear. Not only had she threatened to go to the police to reveal the fact he hadn’t been at the office as he’d told everyone the night his wife had been murdered, but she held the fate of his precious career in her hands.
No one else would have a reason to hurt her.
So what was his plan?
To frighten her into keeping her mouth shut? Or something worse? Did he intend to leave her here? No. Terror exploded through her, crashing through the barriers she kept her panic locked behind.
Nothing would be worse than being buried alive. Nothing.
Frantically she pounded her hands against the door. Almost as if she thought she could blast through it with the sheer force of her fear. The last thing she expected was for it to abruptly swing open.
With a low cry, Erika soared through the empty air and into a small kitchen, landing painfully on her hands and knees. Frantically she cranked her head around to discover someone standing over her. The dim light was behind the figure, so all she could determine was the outline of a smallish man who was holding something in his hand.
A gun?
Christ. Why the hell had she ever come to Larkin?
Her mother had been right about one thing. She should have found a nice man and settled down. She might have been miserable, but she would have been alive.
Now...
She heard the shot, but she didn’t have time to be afraid. She was dead before she ever felt the bullet enter her brain.
* * *
It was still dark as Noah watched Wynter climb out of bed and grab her robe. He hadn’t looked at a clock, but he was betting that it wasn’t yet five o�
��clock. So much for sleeping in on his day off.
Not that he cared about the early hour. He’d be happy to be awake if it meant continuing his exploration of Wynter’s delectable body. Or even heading to a nearby lake to try his luck with the local fish.
But he wasn’t overjoyed to get up before the sun to drive her to her grandfather’s farm. A place that was certain to upset her.
“I don’t want you going out there,” he stubbornly insisted. No, he wasn’t stubborn, he silently reminded himself. He was resolute in his intentions.
Wynter shoved her silvery curls away from her face. “I have to take care of my plants. If they die, I’ll be out several thousand dollars, I also need to stock up Wynter Garden’s pantry.”
Noah jerked in shock. With everything going on he’d forgotten that she was due to re-open her restaurant any day. “You’re going to open?”
“I am.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” She held up her hand as his lips parted to protest. “Noah, I have staff who depend on a steady paycheck. I can’t stay closed.”
He couldn’t argue. Wynter’s employees had been with her from the beginning. They were all loyal and hardworking. It wouldn’t be fair to ask them to wait around for days, maybe weeks, to get back to work.
That didn’t make him any more eager to head out to Sander’s farm.
“Call Oliver and have him deal with the greenhouses,” he urged.
She shook her head. “He has enough to do taking care of the chores. It’s not fair to ask him to do more. Besides, I don’t trust anyone with my precious plants.”
Noah climbed out of bed. He knew a brick wall when he ran headfirst into one. “You’re going to insist on this, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. I’ll get dressed and drive you there.”
Her brow furrowed at his words. “You know, I should probably borrow my grandpa’s truck.”
“Why?”
“Mine’s out of commission for at least a few days, and I’ll need transportation once the restaurant is open and you go back to work,” she pointed out, her tone so reasonable it was impossible to argue. “As much as I enjoy having my own private chauffeur, I’ll need to be able to get around.”
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