Читать книгу Secrets and Desire: Best-Kept Lies / Miss Pruitt's Private Life / Secrets, Lies...and Passion - Barbara McCauley - Страница 13

Seven

S top this! Stop it now! Don’t you remember last night?

Blinking against the rain, fighting the urge to lean against him, Randi pulled away from Kurt. “This is definitely not a good idea,” she said. “It wasn’t last night and it isn’t now.”

His mouth twisted. “I’m not sure about that.”

“I am.” It was a lie. Right now she wasn’t certain of anything. She reached behind her and fumbled with the door handle. “Let’s just give it a rest, okay?”

He didn’t argue, nor did he stop her as she slid into the Jeep and, with shaking fingers, found her keys and managed to start the ignition. Lunacy. That’s what it was. Sheer, unadulterated, pain-in-the-backside lunacy! She couldn’t start kissing the likes of Kurt Striker again.

Dear God, what had she been thinking?

You weren’t thinking. That’s the problem!

She flipped on the radio, heard the first notes of a sappy love song and immediately punched the button to find talk radio, only to hear a popular program where a radio psychologist was giving out advice to someone who was mixed up with the wrong kind of man, the same kind of advice she handed out through her column in the Clarion, the very advice she should listen to herself.

First she’d made the mistake of getting involved with Sam Donahue and now she was falling for Kurt Striker…No! She pounded a fist on the steering wheel as she braked for a turnoff.

Cutting through traffic, she made a call on her cell phone to Sharon, was assured that Joshua was safe, then stopped at a local market for a few groceries.

Fifteen minutes later she pulled into the parking lot of her condo. Now away from the hustle and bustle of the city, the dark of the night seemed more threatening. The parking lot was dark and the security lamps were glowing, throwing pools of light onto the wet ground and a few parked cars. The parking area was deserted, none of her neighbors were walking dogs or taking out trash. Warm light glowed from only a few windows, the rest of the units were dark.

So what? This is why you chose this place. It was quiet, only a few units overlooking the lake.

For the first time since moving here, Randi looked at her darkened apartment and felt a moment’s hesitation, a hint of fear. She glanced over her shoulder, through the back windows of the Jeep, wondering if someone was watching her, someone lurking in a bank of fir trees and rhododendron that ringed the parking lot, giving it privacy. She had the uneasy sensation that hidden eyes were watching her through a veil of wet needles and leaves.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, hoisting the bag and holding tight to her key ring. As if it was some kind of protection. What a laugh!

No one was hiding. No one was watching her. And yet she wished she hadn’t been so quick to put some distance between herself and Striker. Maybe she did need a bodyguard, someone she could trust.

Someone you can’t keep your hands off of?

Someone you’ve made love to?

Someone that even now, even though you know better, you’d love to take to bed? In her mind’s eye she saw the image of Kurt Striker, all taut skin and muscle as he held her in front of the dying fire.

Oh, for the love of St. Peter! Hauling her laptop, the groceries, her briefcase and her rebellious libido with her, she made her way to the porch, managed to unlock the door and snap on the interior lights. She almost wished Kurt was inside waiting for her again. But that was crazy. Nuts! She couldn’t trust herself around that man.

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered, seeing her reflection in the mirror mounted by the coatrack in the front hall. Her hair was damp and curly with the rain, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. “This is just what got you into trouble in the first place.” She dropped her computer and bag near her desk, shook herself out of her coat and heard a pickup roaring into the lot. Her silly heart leaped, but a quick glance through the kitchen window confirmed that Striker had returned. He was already out of the truck and headed toward the condo.

She met him at the front door.

“You don’t seem to take a hint, do you?” she teased.

“Careful, woman, I’m not in the mood to have my chain yanked,” he warned. “Traffic was a bitch.”

He was inside in a second and bolted the door behind him. “I don’t like it when you try to lose me.”

“And I don’t like being manhandled.” She started unpacking groceries, stuffing a carton of milk into the near-empty refrigerator.

“I kissed you.”

“On the street, when I obviously didn’t want you to.”

One of his eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “You didn’t want it?” He snorted. “I’d love to see what you were like when you did.”

“That was last night,” she reminded him, then mentally kicked herself. Lifting a hand, she stopped any argument he might have. “Let’s not talk about last night.”

He kicked out a bar stool and plopped himself at the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. “Okay, but there is something we need to discuss.”

She braced herself. “Which is?”

“Sam Donahue.”

“Another off-limits subject.” She pulled a loaf of bread from the wet sack.

“I don’t think so. We’ve wasted enough time as it is and I’m getting sick of you not being straight with me.”

“I should never have told you.”

He shot her a condemning look. “I’d already guessed, remember?” He took a deep breath and ran stiff fingers through his hair. “You got any wood for that?” he asked, hitching his chin toward the fireplace.

“A little. In a closet on the back deck.”

“Get me a beer, I’ll make a fire and then, whether you like it or not, we’re going to discuss your ex-lover.”

“Gee,” she mocked, “and who said single women don’t have any fun? You know, Striker, you’ve got a helluva nerve to barge in here and start barking orders. Just because…because of what happened last night, you don’t have the right to start bossing me around in my own home.”

“You’re right,” he said without a trace of regret carved into his features. “Would you please get me a beer and I’ll get the firewood.”

“I might be out of beer. I didn’t pick any up at the store.”

“There’s one left. In the door of the fridge. I checked earlier.” The empty bottle on the coffee table stood as testament to that very fact.

“When you practiced breaking and entering,” she muttered as he kicked back the stool and made his way to the deck. She opened the refrigerator again and saw the single long-neck in the door. The guy was observant. But still a bully who had barged unwelcome into her life. A sexy bully at that. Her worst nightmare.

She yanked out the last beer, twisted off the top and, as he carried in a couple of chunks of oak to the fire, took a long swallow. The least he could do was share, she decided, watching as he bent on the tiled hearth, his jacket and shirt riding up over his belt and jeans, offering her the view of a slice of his taut, muscular back. Her throat was suddenly dry as dust and she took another pull from the long-neck. What the hell was she going to do with him? She’d already bared her soul and her body, then, after insisting that she wasn’t interested in him, kissed him on the street as if she never wanted to stop, and now… She slid a glance toward the cracked door of her bedroom and in her mind she saw them together, wrapped in the sheets, sweaty bodies tangled and heaving as he kissed her breasts. Her heart pounded as he pulled at her nipple, his hands sliding down to sculpt her waist as he mounted her, gently nudging her knees apart, readying himself above her, his erection stiff, his green gaze fiery. Then, eyes locked, he entered her in one long, hard thrust—

He cleared his throat and she was brought back to the living area of her condo where he was still tending to the fire. Turning, she blushed as she realized he’d said something to her. For the life of her she couldn’t remember a word. “Wh-what?”

“I asked if you had a match.” His gaze was on her face, then traveled down the short corridor to the bedroom. Amusement caused an eyebrow to arch and she wanted to die. No doubt he could read her embarrassing thoughts.

“Oh, yeah…” While she’d been fantasizing, he’d crumpled old newspaper and stacked the firewood, even splintering off some pieces of kindling.

She took another swallow, handed him the bottle and hurried into the kitchen where she rummaged through a drawer. Don’t go there. You’re not going to tumble into bed with him. Not again. You’re not even going to kiss him again. You’re not going to do anything stupid with him. No more. She found a pack of matches and tossed them over the counter to him, all the while trying to quell the hammering of her heart. Time to go on the offensive.

“Okay, Striker, so now I’ve told you my darkest secret. What’s yours?”

“None of your business.”

“Wait a minute. That’s not fair.”

“You’re right, it’s not.” He struck a match and the smell of sulfur singed the air as he touched the tiny flame to the dry paper and the fire crackled to life. “But then not much is.”

“You said I could ask you anything when we were in the pub.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Just like that?” she asked incredulously as she snapped her fingers.

“Uh-huh.” He took a long pull from the bottle.

“No way. I think I deserve to know who the hell you are.”

Rocking back on his heels as the fire caught, he looked up at her standing on the other side of the counter. “I’m an ex-cop turned P.I.”

“I already figured that much. But what about your personal life?”

“It’s private.”

“You’re single, right? There’s no Mrs. Striker.”

He hesitated enough to cause her heart to miss a beat. Oh, God, not again, she thought as she leaned against the counter for support. He’d kissed her. Touched her. Made love to her.

“Not anymore. I was married but it ended a few years back.”

“Why?”

His jaw tightened. “Haven’t you read the statistics?”

“I’m talking about the reason behind the statistics, at least in your case.”

A shadow passed behind his eyes and he said, “It just didn’t work out. I was a cop. Probably paid more attention to the job than my wife.”

“And you didn’t have any kids?”

Again the hesitation. Again the shadow. His lips tightened at the corners as he stood and dusted his hands. “I don’t have any children,” he said slowly, “and I never hear from my ex. That about covers it all, doesn’t it?” There was just a spark of challenge in his eyes, daring her to argue with him. A dozen questions bubbled up in her throat, but she held them back. For now. There were other ways to get information about him. She was a reporter, for God’s sake. She had the means to find out just about anything that had happened to him. Newsworthy articles would be posted on the Internet, personal stuff through other sources.

With Sam Donahue she’d been trusting and it had backfired in her face, but this time…Oh, God, why was she even thinking like this? There was no this time! There was no Kurt Striker in her life except as an irritating bodyguard her brothers had hired. That was it. He was here because he was hired to be here; she was a job to him. Nothing more.

“Look, I’ve got to get some work done,” she said, motioning to her laptop. “I’ve been gone for months and if I don’t answer some e-mail and put together a new column or two, I’m going to be in big trouble. My boss and I are already not real tight. So, if you don’t mind…well, even if you do, I’m going to start plowing through what’s been piling up. I understand that you think you’ve got to be with me 24/7, but it’s not necessary. No one’s going to take a potshot at me here.”

“Why would you think that?” Striker drained the rest of his beer.

“Because there are too many people around, there’s a security guard for the condos always on the premises, and most importantly, Joshua is safe with Sharon.”

The expression on his face told her he was of another mind. And wasn’t she, really? Hadn’t she, just minutes ago in the parking lot, sensed that someone had been watching her? She rounded the counter as he straightened and crossed the room.

“Look, I do know that I’m in some kind of danger,” she said. “Obviously I know it or I wouldn’t have taken the time to hide the baby. I came back here to try to figure this out, to take the heat off my brothers, to get on with my life and let them get on with theirs. And yeah, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was nervous, that I wasn’t starting to jump at shadows, but I need to sort through some things, get a handle on what’s happening.”

“That’s why I’m here. I’m thinking that maybe if we work together, we can make some sense of what’s going on.” He was close to her, near enough that she could smell the wet leather of his jacket, see the striations of color in his green eyes, feel the heat of his body.

She couldn’t even make sense of the moment. “That might be impossible. I’ve been thinking about what happened from every angle and I come up with the same conclusion. I don’t have any real enemies that I know of. At least not anyone who would want to hurt me and my family. It doesn’t make any sense.” To put some distance between her body and his, she walked to the couch and flung herself onto the cushions. Who? What? Why? The questions that had haunted her nights and caused her to lose sleep were still unanswered as they rolled around in her brain.

“So what does make sense?” he demanded. “Someone followed you from Seattle and on your way to Grand Hope, Montana, forced you off the road. Why?”

“I told you, I don’t know. Believe me, I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Think harder.” He frowned and rammed stiff fingers through hair that was still damp. “If it doesn’t have to do with the baby, then what about your job? Did you give someone bad advice and really tick someone off?”

She shook her head. “I thought about that, too. When I was back in Montana, I got online and searched through the columns for the two months prior to the accident and I couldn’t find anything that would infuriate a person.”

His head snapped up. “So you are worried?”

“Of course I’m worried. Who wouldn’t be? But there was nothing in any of the advice I gave that would cause someone to snap.”

“You think. There are always nutcases.” He set his empty bottle on the counter.

That much was true, she thought wearily. “But none who have e-mailed me, or called me, or contacted me in any way. I double-checked every communication I received.” He nodded and she realized that he’d probably been privy to that information as well.

“Well, there’s got to be a reason. We’re just missing it.” He was thinking hard; she could tell by the way he rubbed his chin. “You write magazine articles under a pseudonym.”

“Nothing controversial.”

His eyes narrowed. “What about the book you were working on?”

She hesitated. The manuscript she was writing wasn’t finished and she’d taken great pains to keep it secret while she investigated a payola scam on the rodeo circuit. It was while researching the book that she’d met Sam Donahue, a friend, he’d claimed, of her brothers’. As it turned out he hadn’t been as much a friend as an acquaintance and somehow she’d ended up falling for him, knowing him to be a rogue, realizing that part of his charm was the hint of danger around him, and yet she’d tumbled into bed with him anyway. And ended up pregnant.

Which had been a blessing in disguise, of course. Without her ill-fated affair with Sam, she never would have had Joshua, and that little guy was the light of her life.

“What’s in the book that’s so all-fired important?”

Sighing, she walked to the couch and dropped into the soft cushions. “You know what’s in it for the most part.”

“A book on cowboys.”

“Well, a little more than that.” Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes. “It’s about all aspects of rodeos, the good, the bad, the ugly. Especially the ugly. Along with all the rah-rah for a great American West tradition, there’s also the dark side to it all, the seamy underbelly. As I was getting information, I learned about the drugs, animal abuse, cheating, payola, you name it.”

“And let me guess, most of the information came from good old Sam Donahue.”

“Some of it,” she admitted, opening an eye and catching Kurt scowling, as if the mere mention of Donahue’s name made Striker see red. “I was going to name names in my book and, I suppose, I could have made a few people nervous. But the thing of it was, no one really knew what I was doing.”

“Donahue?”

She shook her head and glanced to the window. “I told him it was a series of articles about small-town celebrations, that rodeos were only a little bit of the slice of Americana I was going to write about. Sam wasn’t all that interested in what I was doing.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, turning her attention to Kurt. The fire was burning softly, casting golden shadows on the cozy rooms. She snapped on a table lamp, hoping to break the feeling of intimacy the flames created. “Maybe it’s because Sam’s an egomaniac and pretty much consumed with his own life.”

“Sounds charming,” he mocked.

“I thought so. At first. But it did wear thin fast.”

Striker lifted an eyebrow and she added, “I’d already realized that it wasn’t going to work out when I suspected I was pregnant.”

“What did he say about it?”

“Nothing. He never knew.”

“You didn’t tell him.”

“That’s right. Didn’t we go over this before?”

Striker looked as if he wanted to say something but held his tongue. For that she was grateful. She didn’t need any judgment calls.

“Besides,” she added with more than a trace of bitterness, “I figure we’re even now. He forgot to mention that he wasn’t really divorced from his last wife when he started dating me.” She wrinkled her nose and felt that same old embarrassment that had been with her from the moment she’d realized Sam had lied, that he’d been married all the time he’d chased after her, swearing that he was divorced.

Fool that she’d been, she’d fallen for him and believed every word that had tripped over his lying tongue.

Now a blush stole up her neck and she bit down on her back teeth. She’d always been proud of her innate intelligence, but when it came to men, she’d often been an idiot. She’d chosen poorly, trusted too easily, fallen harder than she should have. From Teddy Sherman, the ranch hand her father had hired when she was seventeen, to a poet and a musician in college, and finally Sam Donahue, the rough-and-tumble cowpoke who’d turned out to be a lying bastard if ever there was one. Well, no more, she told herself even as Kurt Striker, damn him, threatened to break down her defenses.

He walked to the fire, grabbed a poker and jabbed at the burning logs. Sparks drifted upward through the flue and one of the blackened chunks of oak split with a soft thud.

Randi watched him and felt that same sense of yearning, a tingle of desire, she’d experienced every time she was around him. She sensed something different in Kurt, a strength of character that had been lacking in the other men she’d found enchanting. They had been dreamers, or, in the case of Donahue, cheats, but she didn’t think either was a part of Striker’s personality. His boots seemed securely planted on the ground rather than drifting into the clouds, and he appeared intensely honest. His eyes were clear, his shoulders straight, his smile, when he offered it, not as sly as it was amused. He appealed to her at a whole new level. Man to woman, face-to-face, not looking down at her, nor elevating her onto a pedestal from which she would inevitably fall.

“So what do you think about your kid?” he asked suddenly as he straightened and dusted his hands.

“I’m nuts about him, of course.”

“Do you really think he’s safe with the Okano woman?”

“I wouldn’t have left him there if I didn’t.”

“I’d feel better if he was with you. With me.”

“No one followed me to Sharon’s. Not many people know we’re friends. She was in my dorm in college and just moved up here last fall. I…I really think he’s safer there. I’ve already driven her nuts calling her. She thinks I’m paranoid and I’m not so sure she’s wrong.”

“Paranoid isn’t all that bad. Not in this case.” Striker reached into his jacket pocket, flipped open his cell and dialed. A few seconds later he was engrossed in a conversation, ordering someone to watch Sharon Okano’s apartment as well as do some digging on Sam Donahue. “…that’s right. I want to know for certain where he was on the dates that Randi was run off the road and someone attempted to kill her in the hospital…Yeah, I know he had an alibi, but double-check and don’t forget to dig into some of the thugs he hangs out with. This could have been a paid job…I don’t know but start with Marv Bates and Charlie… Damn, what’s his name, Charlie—”

“Caldwell,” Randi supplied, inwardly shuddering at the thought of the two cowboys Sam had introduced her to. Marv was whip thin with lips that barely moved when he talked and eyes that were forever narrowed. Charlie was a lug, a big, fleshy man who could surprise you with how fast he could move if properly motivated.

“That’s right, Charlie Caldwell. Check prison records. See if any of Donahue’s buddies have done time…. Okay… You can reach me on the cell, that would be best.” He was walking to the desk. “I’ll be in the condo, but let’s not use the landline. I checked, it doesn’t appear bugged, but I’m not sure.”

Randi’s blood chilled at the thought that someone could have tampered with her phone lines or crept into her home while she was away. But then Striker hadn’t had any problem getting inside. He might not have been the first. Her skin crawled as she looked over her belongings with new eyes. Suede couch, faux leopard-print chair and ottoman, antique rocker, end tables she’d found in a secondhand store and her great-grandmother’s old treadle sewing machine that stood near the window. The cacti were thriving, the Boston fern shedding and near death, the mirror over her fireplace, the one she’d inherited from her mother, still chipped in one corner. Nothing out of place. Nothing to give her pause.

And yet…something wasn’t right. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. Just like the eerie sensation that she was being watched when she parked her Jeep.

“Later.” Striker snapped the phone shut and watched as Randi walked to her desk, double-checking that nothing had been disturbed. She’d already done a quick once-over when she’d come home earlier, but now, knowing that her phone could have been tapped, her home violated, her life invaded by an unknown assailant, she wanted to make certain that everything was as it should be.

Her phone rang and she nearly jumped through the roof. She snagged the receiver before it could jangle a second time.

“Hello?” she said, half expecting a deep-throated voice on the other end to issue a warning, or heavy breathing to be her only response.

“So you did get home!”

Randi nearly melted at the sound of Slade’s voice. He was her youngest half brother, closest to her in age. Slade had been born with the same McCafferty wild streak that had cursed all of John Randall’s children. Slade had just held on to his untamed ways longer than his older brothers.

“I thought you’d have the brains to call and tell us you’d arrived safely,” he admonished, and she felt a twinge of guilt.

“I guess I hadn’t gotten around to it,” she said, smiling at the thought of her brothers, who had once resented her, now fretting over her.

“Is everything all right?”

“So far, although I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Uh-oh.”

“And Matt and Thorne.”

“It figures.”

“Who the hell do you think you are hiring a bodyguard for me behind my back?” she demanded and saw, in the mirror’s reflection, Kurt Striker standing behind her. Their eyes met and there was something in his gaze that seemed to bore straight into hers, to touch her soul.

Slade was trying to explain. “You need someone to help you—”

“You mean I need a man to watch over me,” she cut in, irritated all over again. Frustrated, she turned her attention to the window, where just beyond the glass she could make out the angry waters of Lake Washington roiling in the darkness. “Well, for your information, brother dear, I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, right.”

Slade’s sarcasm cut deep.

Involuntarily, she squared her shoulders. “I’m serious.”

“So are we.”

Randi heard conversation in the background, not only the deep rumble of male voices, but others as well, the higher pitches of her sisters-in-law, no doubt, and rising above the rest of the conversation, the sharp staccato burst of Spanish that could only have come from Juanita, the housekeeper.

“You tell her to be careful. Dios! What was she thinking running off like that!”

More Spanish erupted and Slade said, “Did you hear that? Juanita thinks—”

“I heard what she said.” Randi felt a pang of homesickness, which was just plain ludicrous. This was her home. Where she belonged. She had a life here in Seattle. At the newspaper. Here in this condo. And yet, as she stared out the window to the whitecaps whirling furiously on the black water, she wondered if she had made a mistake in returning to this bustling city that she’d fallen in love with years before. She liked the crowds. The noise. The arts. The history. The beauty of Puget Sound and the briny smell of the sea when she walked or jogged near the waterfront.

But her brothers weren’t here.

Nor were Nicole, Kelly or Jamie, her new sisters-in-law. They’d become friends and she missed them as well as Nicole’s daughters and the ranch and…

Suddenly stiffening her spine, she pushed back all her maudlin thoughts. She was doing the right thing. Reclaiming her life. Trying to figure out who was hell-bent on harming her and her family. “Tell everyone I’m fine. Okay? A big girl. And I don’t appreciate you and Thorne and Matt hiring Striker.”

“Well, that’s just too damn bad now, isn’t it?” he said, reigniting her anger.

Her headache was throbbing again, she was so tired she wanted to sink into her bed and never wake up and, more than anything, she wished she could reach through the phone lines and shake some sense into her brothers. “You know, Slade, you really can be a miserable son of a bitch.”

“I try,” he drawled in that damnable country-boy accent that was usually accompanied by a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

She imagined his lazy smile. “Nice, Slade. Do you want to talk to your new employee?” Without waiting for an answer, she slammed the phone into Kurt Striker’s hand and stormed to her bedroom. This was insane, but she was tired of arguing about it, was bound and determined to get on with her life. She had a baby to take care of and a job to do.

But what if they’re all right? What if someone really is after you? After Joshua? Didn’t you think someone had already broken into this place?

Her gaze swept the bedroom. Nothing seemed disturbed…or did it? Had she left the curtains to the back deck parted? Had her closet door been slightly ajar…? She lifted her eyes, caught a glimpse of her reflection and saw a shadow of fear pass behind her own eyes. God, she hated this.

She heard footsteps approaching and then, in the glass, saw Kurt walking down the short hallway and stop at the bedroom door.

Her throat was suddenly dry as cotton and inadvertently she licked her lips. His gaze flickered to the movement and the corners of his mouth tightened, and just the hint of desperation, of lust, darkened his eyes.

For a split second their gazes locked. Held. Randi’s pulse jumped, as if it were suddenly a living, breathing thing. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Inside, she felt a twinge, the hint of a dangerous craving she’d experienced last night.

She knew that it would only take a glance, a movement, a whisper and he would come inside, close the door, take her into his arms and kiss her as if she’d never been kissed before. It would be hard, raw, desperate and they would oh so easily tumble onto the bed and make love for hours.

His lips compressed.

He took a step inside.

She could barely breathe.

He reached forward, grabbed hold of the doorknob.

Her knees went weak.

Oh, God, she wanted him. Imagined touching him, lying with him, feeling the heat of his body. “Kurt, I…”

“Shh, darlin’,” he said, his voice as rough as sandpaper. “It’s been a long day. Why don’t you get some rest.” He offered her a wink that caused her heart to crack. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.” He pulled the door shut tight and she listened to the sound of his footsteps retreating down the short hallway.

Slowly she let out the breath she’d been holding and sagged onto the bed. Disappointment mingled with relief. It would be a mistake of epic proportions to make love to him. She knew it. They both did. On unsteady legs she walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. She reached for a bottle of ibuprofen and stopped short.

What if someone had been in her home?

What if someone had tampered with her over-the-counter medications? Her food?

“Now you really are getting paranoid,” she muttered, as she poured the pills into the toilet and flushed them down.

Paranoid, maybe.

But alive for certain.

Making her way back to the bedroom, she slid under the covers and decided that she could work with Striker or against him.

With him would be a lot more interesting.

And together they might be able to get through the nightmare that had become her life.