Читать книгу Secrets and Desire: Best-Kept Lies / Miss Pruitt's Private Life / Secrets, Lies...and Passion - Barbara McCauley - Страница 9

Three

“Well, well, well,” he drawled slowly. “Look who’s finally come home.”

In an instant Randi recognized his voice.

Bastard.

His hand reached to the table lamp. As he snapped on the lights, she found herself staring into the intense, suspicious gaze of Kurt Striker, the private investigator her brothers had seen fit to hire.

She instantly bristled. Fear gave way to outrage. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Waitin’.”

“For?”

“You.”

Damn, his drawl was irritating. So was the superior, know-it-all attitude that emanated from him as he lounged on her chenille couch, the fingers of one big hand wrapped possessively around a long-necked bottle of beer. He appeared as out of place in his jeans, cowboy boots and denim jacket as a cougar at a pedigreed-cat show.

“Why?” she demanded as she dropped her bag and purse on a parson’s table in the entry. She didn’t step into the living room; didn’t want to get too close to this man. He bothered her. Big-time. Had from the first time she’d laid eyes on him when she’d still been recuperating from the accident.

Striker was a hardheaded, square-jawed type who looked like Hollywood’s version of a rogue cop. His hair, blond streaked, was unruly and fell over his eyes, and he seemed to have avoided getting close to a razor for several days. Deep-set, intelligent eyes, poised over chiseled cheeks, were guarded by thick eyebrows and straight lashes. He wore faded jeans, a tattered Levi’s jacket and an attitude that wouldn’t quit.

Resting on the small of his back, sprawled on her couch, he raked his gaze up her body one slow inch at a time.

“I asked you a question.”

“I’m trying to save your neck.”

“You’re trespassing.”

“So call the cops.”

“Enough with the attitude.” She walked to the windows, snapped open the blinds. Through the wet glass she caught a glimpse of the lake, choppy, steel-colored water sporting whitecaps and fog too dense to see the opposite shore. Folding her arms over her chest, she turned and faced Striker again.

He smiled then. A dazzling, sexy grin offset by the mockery in his green eyes. It damn near took her breath away and for a splintered second she thought of the hours they’d spent together, the touch of his skin, the feel of his hands…oh, God. If he wasn’t such a pain in the butt, he might be considered handsome. Interesting. Sexy. Long legs shoved into cowboy boots, shoulders wide enough to stretch the seams of his jacket, flat belly… Yeah, all the pieces fit into a hunky package. If a woman was looking for a man. Randi wasn’t. She’d learned her lesson. Last night was just a slip. It wouldn’t happen again.

Couldn’t.

“You know,” he said, “I was just thinkin’ the same thing. Let’s both shove the attitudes back where they came from and get to work.”

“To work?” she asked, rankled. She needed him out of her condo and fast. He had a way of destroying her equilibrium, of setting her teeth on edge.

“That’s right. Cut the bull and get down to business.”

“I don’t think we have any business.”

His eyes held hers for a fraction of a second and she knew in that splintered instant that he was remembering last night as clearly as she. He cleared his throat. “Randi, I think we should discuss what happened—”

“Last night?” she asked. “Not now, okay? Maybe not ever. Let’s just forget it.”

“Can you?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to try.”

He silently called her a liar.

“Okay, if this is the way you want to play it.”

“I told you we don’t have any business.”

“Sure we do. You can start by telling me who’s the father of your baby.”

Never, buddy. Not a chance. “I don’t think that’s relevant.”

“Like hell, Randi.” He was on his feet in an instant, across the hardwood floor and glaring down his crooked nose at her. “There have been two attempts on your life. One was the accident, and I use the term loosely, up in Glacier Park, when your car was forced off the road. The other when someone tried to do you in at the hospital. You remember those two little incidents, don’t you?”

She swallowed hard. Didn’t answer.

“And let’s not forget the fire in the stable at the ranch. Arson, Randi. Remember? It nearly killed your brothers.” Her heart squeezed at the painful memory. To her surprise he grabbed her, strong hands curling around her upper arms and gripping tightly through her jacket. “Do you really want to take any more chances with your life? With your brothers’? With your kid’s? Little J.R. nearly died from an infection in the hospital after the accident, didn’t he? You went into labor early in the middle of no-goddamn-where, and by the time some Good Samaritan saw you and called for an ambulance, your baby almost didn’t make it.”

She fought the urge to break down. Wished to heaven that he’d quit touching her. He was too close, his angry breath whispering over her face, the raw, sexual energy of him seeping through her clothes.

“Now, I’m not moving,” he vowed, “not one bloody inch, until you and I get a few things straight. I’m in for the long haul and I’ll stay here all night if I have to. All week. All year.”

Her stupid heart pounded, and though she tried to pull away he wouldn’t allow it. The manacles surrounding her arms clamped even more tightly.

“Let’s start with one important question, shall we?”

He didn’t have to ask. She knew what was coming and braced herself.

“Tell me, Randi, right now. No more ducking the issue. Who the devil is J.R.’ s father?”

Oh, God, he was too close. “Let go of me,” she said, refusing to give in. “And get the hell out of my house.”

“No way.”

“I’ll call the police.”

“Be my guest,” he encouraged, hitching his chin toward the phone she hadn’t used in months. It sat collecting dust on the small desk she’d crammed into one corner of the living room. “Why don’t you tell them everything that’s happened to you and I’ll explain what I’m doing here.”

“You weren’t invited.”

“Your brothers are concerned.”

“They can’t control me.”

He lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “No? They might disagree.”

“Big deal,” she said, tossing her head and pretending to be tough. The truth was that she loved all of her older half brothers, all three of them, but she couldn’t have them poking around in her life. Nor did she want anything to do with Kurt Striker. He was just too damn male for his own good. Or her own. He’d proved that much last night. “Listen, Striker, this is my life. I can handle it. Now, if you’d be so kind as to take your hands off me,” she said, sarcasm dripping from the pleasantry, “I have a lot to do.”

He stared at her long and hard, those sharp green eyes seeming to penetrate her own. Then he lifted a shoulder and released her. “I can wait.”

“Elsewhere.”

His smile was pure devilment. “Is that a hint?” he drawled, and again her heart began to trip-hammer. Damn the man.

“A broad one. Take a hike.”

“Only if you show me the city.”

“What?”

“I’m new in town. Humor me.”

“You mean so you can keep an eye on me.”

Curse the sexy smile that crawled across his jaw. “That, too.”

“Forget it. I’ve got a million things to do,” she said, flipping up a hand to indicate the telephone where no light blinked on her answering machine. “That’s odd,” she muttered then glanced back at Striker, whom she was beginning to believe was the embodiment of Lucifer. “Wait a minute. You listened to my messages?” she demanded, fury spiking up her spine.

“No, I actually didn’t.”

She made her way to the desk and pushed the play button on the recorder. “That’s odd,” she said as she recognized Sarah Peeples’s voice.

“Hey, when are you coming back to work?” Sarah asked. “It’s soooo boooring with all these A-type males.” She giggled. “Well, maybe not that boring, but I miss ya. Give me a call and kiss Joshua for me.” The phone clicked as Sarah hung up.

Randi bit her lower lip. Her mind was spinning as she jabbed a finger at the recorder. “You didn’t listen to this?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“Not you?” he asked and his eyes narrowed.

“No, not me.” Her skin crawled. If Striker hadn’t listened to her messages, then…who had? Her headache pounded. Maybe she was jumping at shadows. She was worried about her baby, exasperated with the man in her apartment and just plain tired from the long drive and the few hours’ sleep she’d had in the past forty-eight hours. That was it, her nerves were just strung tight. Her brothers hiring this sexy, roughshod P.I. only made things worse. She rubbed her temple and tried to think clearly. “Look, Striker, you can’t barge in here, help yourself to a beer, then sit back and make yourself at home…”

His expression reminded her that he’d done just that.

“So far,” she went on, “I think you’ve committed half a dozen crimes. Breaking and entering, burglary, trespassing and who knows what else. The police would have a field day.”

“So where’s your son?” he asked, refusing to be sidetracked. “J.R. Where is he?”

She’d known that was coming. “I call him Joshua.”

“Okay, where’s Josh?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“There is nowhere that’s safe.”

Her insides crumbled. “You’re wrong.”

“So you are afraid that someone is after you.”

“I’m a mother. I’m not taking any chances with him.”

“Only with yourself.”

“Let’s not get into this.” She pressed a button and the answering machine rewound.

“Is he with your cousin Nora?”

Her muscles tensed. How had he learned about Nora, on her mother’s side? Her brothers had never met Nora.

“Or maybe Aunt Bonita, your mother’s stepsister?”

God, he’d done his homework. Her head thundered, her palms suddenly sweaty. “It’s none of your business, Striker.”

“How about your friend Sharon?” He folded his arms over his chest. “That’s where I’m putting my money.”

She froze. How could he have guessed that she would leave her precious child with Sharon Okano? She and Sharon hadn’t seen each other in nearly nine months, and yet Striker had figured it out.

“You wouldn’t take a chance on a relative, or you would have left him in Montana, and your co-workers are out because they might slip up, so it had to be someone you trusted, but not obvious enough that it would be easy to figure it out.”

Her heart constricted.

He reached forward and touched her shoulder. She recoiled as if burned.

“If I can guess where you hid him, so can the guy who’s after you.”

“How did you find Sharon?” she asked. “I’m not buying the ‘lucky guess’ theory.”

Kurt walked to the coffee table and picked up his beer. “It wasn’t rocket science, Randi.”

“But—”

“Even cell phones have records.”

“You went through my mail to find my phone bill? Isn’t that a federal offense, or don’t you care about that?” she asked, then her eyes swept the desk and she realized that he couldn’t have sorted through the junk mail and correspondence that was hers, as she’d had it held at the post office ages ago.

“It doesn’t matter how I got the information,” he said. “What’s important is that you and your son aren’t safe. Your brothers hired me to protect you, and like it or not, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He drained his beer in one long swallow. “Fight me all you want, Randi, but I intend to stick to you like glue. You can call your brothers and complain and they won’t budge. You can run away, but I’ll catch you so quick it’ll make your head spin. You can call the cops and we’ll get to the bottom of this here and now. That’s just the way it is. So, you can make it easy for everyone and tell me what the hell’s going on or you can be difficult and we’ll go at it real slow.” He set his bottle on one end of the coffee table and as he straightened, his eyes held hers with deadly intensity. “Either way.”

“Get out.”

“If that’s the way you want it. But I’ll be back.”

So angry she was shaking, she repeated, “Get the hell out.”

“You’ve got one hour to think about it,” he advised her as he made his way to the door. “One hour. Then I’ll be back. And if we have to, we’ll do this the hard way. It’s your choice, Randi, but the way I see it, you’re damn near out of options.”

He walked outside and the door shut behind him. Randi threw the bolt, swore under her breath and fought the urge to crumple into a heap. She forced starch into her spine. Nothing was ever accomplished by falling into a million pieces. It was hard to admit it, but Kurt Striker was right about one thing; she didn’t have many choices. Well, that was tough. She wasn’t going to be railroaded into making a wrong one.

Too much was at stake.