Читать книгу Wanted Woman - B.J. Daniels, B.J. Daniels - Страница 11

Maggie woke with a start, her heart pounding. Her eyes flew open but she stayed perfectly still, listening for the thing she feared most.

The creak of a floorboard nearby. The soft rustle of clothing. The sound of a furtive breath taken and held.

She heard nothing but the cry of a blue jay and the soft whisper of the breeze in the swaying dark pines beyond her bed.

She opened her eyes surprised to see that the soft pale hues of dawn had lightened the screened-in room. She’d slept. That surprised her. Obviously she’d been tired, but to sleep in a perfect stranger’s house knowing there was someone out there who wanted her dead? She must have been more exhausted than she’d thought.

She listened for a moment, wondering what sound had awakened her and if it was one she needed to worry about. Silence emanated from within the house and there was no longer the soft clink of tools.

Sitting up, she retrieved the bag and towel, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The ice she’d had on her ankle had melted. Some of the water had leaked onto the futon. The towel was soaked and cold to the touch.

She scooped up both towel and bag and pushed to her feet to test her ankle. Last night she’d been scared that her ankle was hurt badly. Anything that slowed her down would be deadly.

Her ankle was stiff and painful, but she could walk well enough. And ride. She stood on the worn wood-plank flooring and took a few tentative steps toward the screened windows. That is, she could ride if her bike was fixed.

She glanced out. The garage door was shut, the light out. The back of the pickup was empty. Her bike sat in front of the house, resting on its kickstand, her helmet sitting on top, waiting for her. He’d fixed it.

The swell of relief and gratitude that washed over her made her sway a little on her weak ankle. Tears burned her eyes. His kindness felt like too much right now. She turned toward the open doorway. She’d left her door open and so it seemed had he. As she neared the short hallway between the rooms, she could see him sleeping in his double bed, the covers thrown back, only the sheet over him.

He was curled around his pillow on his side facing her, his masculine features soft in sleep. A lock of his long straight black hair fell over one cheek, shiny and dark as a raven’s wing. She caught the glint of his earring beneath the silken strands, the shadow of his strong stubbled jaw, the dark silken fringe of his eyelashes against his skin.

Even asleep the man still held her attention, still exuded a wild sensuality, a rare sexuality. This man would be dangerous to a woman. And she didn’t doubt he’d known his share. Intimately. Or that he was a good lover. She’d seen the way he’d touched her bike. She’d seen his artwork. Both had made her ache. Fear for her life hadn’t stolen her most primitive desires last night. Nor this morning.

But what surprised her wasn’t her attraction to the man, but that she felt safe with him. Too safe.

She moved silently down the hallway. He’d left a small light burning in the bathroom for her. That gesture even more than the others touched her deeply. She closed the door behind her and poured what water was left in the plastic bag down the drain, then hung up the towel.

She washed her face, avoiding looking at the stranger in the mirror. She’d spent too many years questioning who she was. Now she was about to find out and she didn’t want to face it or what her adoptive parents might have done in their desperation for a child.

She knew money had exchanged hands. Most adoptions involved an exchange of money, although she hated to think what her parents had paid for her. What frightened her was how the purchase had been made. And why someone was now trying to kill her to keep her from finding out.

No one committed multiple murders to cover up an illegal adoption or even a kidnapping. Especially after twenty-seven years. There had to be more to it. What was someone afraid would come to light?

According to Norman, the answer was in Timber Falls—just a few miles away now. She had raced here, running for her life, rocketing through the darkness toward the truth. But now that she was so close, she feared what she would find.

When she was younger, she’d often thought about finding her biological parents. Of course, her adoptive parents had discouraged her. Now she knew it wasn’t just because they didn’t want to share her.

Unfortunately, now she had no choice but to find out who she really was. And hopefully the answer would save her life. But what would her life be worth once she knew the truth?

As she turned to leave the bathroom, she froze. A sheriff deputy’s uniform hung on the hook of the closed door.

THE CALL CAME before daylight. Detective Rupert Blackmore was lying on his bed, fully clothed, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Certainly not asleep. He’d been waiting for the phone to ring, willing it to ring with the news he needed.

Praying for it. Although praying might not have been exactly what he’d been doing. Right now he would have sold his soul to the devil if he hadn’t already traded it to Satan a long time ago.

He let the phone ring three times, then picked up the receiver. “Detective Blackmore.”

“Just fished a body out of the sea near the old pier,” said his subordinate, a young new detective by the name of Williams. “Six gunshot wounds. Dead before the body hit the water. Definitely a homicide.”

Rupert Blackmore held his breath as he got to his feet beside the bed. “Has the body been ID-ed?”

“Affirmative. Norman Drake. Wallet was in his pocket. The guy we’ve been looking for in connection with the murder of his boss, attorney Clark Iverson.”

As if Rupert didn’t know that. He tried not to let Williams hear his disappointment that Norman’s body was the only one found so far. “Close off the entire area. I want it searched thoroughly. Drake didn’t act alone and now it appears there’s been a falling out among murderers.”

He hung up and cursed, then in a fit of rage and frustration, knocked the phone off the nightstand, sending it crashing to the floor.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered his head to his hands. Her body would wash up. Then all of this would be over. He took a deep breath, rose and picked up the phone. Carefully he put it back on the nightstand, thanking God that his wife Teresa was at her mother’s and wouldn’t be back for a few more days. Plenty of time to get this taken care of before she returned.

As he headed for the door, he tried not to worry. Once Margaret Randolph was dead, no one would ever find out the truth. And it would never get back that he hadn’t taken care of this problem twenty-seven years ago as he’d been paid to do.

One moment of kindness… He scoffed at his own worn lie. He’d done it for the money. Plain and simple. He’d sold the baby instead of disposing of it. And he’d never regretted it—until Paul Randolph found out the truth. Now Rupert had to take care of things quickly and efficiently before everything blew up in his face. No more mistakes like the one he’d made the other night at the pier. There was no way he should have missed her. He’d been too close and was too good of a shot.

He tried to put the mistakes behind him. Look to the future. And the future was simple. If Margaret Randolph wasn’t floating in Puget Sound with the fish, she soon would be.

MAGGIE STARED at the sheriff’s deputy uniform and tried to breathe. Jesse Tanner was a cop? Last night he’d said he knew the sheriff. She’d just assumed because it was a small town, everyone knew everyone else.

She stifled a groan. Not only had she stayed in the house of the local deputy, but now he might have the plate number on her bike. If he’d had reason to take it down.

Fear turned her blood to ice. He could find out her last name—if he didn’t already know. Worse, he could tell Blackmore that not only was she alive but that she was in Timber Falls.

But why would Jesse Tanner run the plate number on her bike? She hadn’t given him any reason to. Cops didn’t need a reason though. And everyone knew they stuck together.

Except Jesse was different. He didn’t act like a cop. Didn’t insist she go to the doctor last night or the sheriff this morning. Didn’t ask a lot of questions.

She tried to calm her pounding heart. Her hands were shaking as she wiped down the faucets and anything else she might have touched. Were her fingerprints on a file somewhere? She didn’t know.

She thought she remembered being fingerprinted as a child. She knew her parents had worried about her being kidnapped. How ironic. And she’d always thought it was because of their wealth.

As she opened the bathroom door, she half expected the deputy to be waiting for her just outside. The hallway was empty. She stood listening.

Silence. Tiptoeing down the hall, she passed his open doorway again. He had rolled over, his back to her now. She prayed he would stay asleep as she eased into the screened-in deck where she’d slept.

She picked up her boots, her jacket and the saddlebag stuffed with most of the ten grand from the pier. Then she looked around to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind before she limped quietly down the stairs.

At the bottom, she glanced at his paintings as she pulled on her boots, the left going on painfully because of her ankle. What she now knew about the man upstairs seemed at odds with his art. Jesse Tanner and his chisel-cut features, the deep set of matching dimples, the obsidian black eyes and hair, the ponytail and the gold earring didn’t go with the deputy sheriff’s uniform.

There was a wildness about the man, something he seemed to be trying to keep contained, but couldn’t hide in his artwork. The large, bold strokes, the use of color, the way he portrayed his subjects.

Her favorite of the six paintings propped against the wall was a scene from a Mexican cantina. A series of men were watching a Latin woman dance. The sexual tension was like a coiled spring. In both the work and the painter.

He was talented, too talented not to be painting full-time. So why was he working as a sheriff’s deputy? He didn’t seem like the type who liked busting people for a living. Quite the opposite.

She glanced around the cabin. She liked it. Liked him. Wished he wasn’t a cop. She told herself she shouldn’t feel guilty for just running out on him.

Last night she’d been shaken from her accident, hurt and exhausted. She had needed a refuge and he’d provided it, asking nothing in return. He would never know how much that meant to her.

Under other circumstances, she would never have left without thanking him. But these were far from normal circumstances, she reminded herself and remembered the glass of whiskey she’d drunk last night.

Going to the sink, she turned on the faucet and washed both glasses thoroughly, then dried them. Being careful not to leave her prints anywhere, she set the glasses back on the cabinet shelf with the others and wiped down the faucet and handles just as she had in the bathroom upstairs.

She knew she was being overly cautious. But maybe that was why she was still alive.

Her bike was sitting outside, her helmet on the seat as if he’d put it there to let her know it was ready to go. He’d fixed the kickstand and straightened the twisted metal, as well as the handlebars. The bike was scraped up but didn’t look too bad considering how close a call she’d had. Now if it would just run as well as it had.

She strapped on the saddlebag, then climbed on the bike, rolled it off the kickstand and turned the key.

The powerful motor rumbled to life and she felt a swell of relief—and appreciation for the man who’d fixed it. As she popped it into gear, she couldn’t help herself. She glanced up at the house, then quickly looked away. He was a cop. She had learned the hard way not to trust them. Not to trust anyone. If she hoped to stay alive, she had to keep it that way.

JESSE TANNER stood at the screened window watching her leave. He’d been awakened by the sound of running water downstairs and had half hoped she was making coffee. He should have known better.

But he couldn’t help worrying as he watched her ride off into the dawn. Last night after he’d finished with the bike, he’d looked in on her. He felt guilty for snooping but he’d looked into the heavy saddlebag and seen the bundles of money. Maybe she didn’t believe in traveler’s checks. Maybe she’d withdrawn all of her savings from the bank for a long bike trip. Or maybe she’d robbed a savings and loan.

Either way, she was gone and not his problem.

Nor should he be surprised she would leave like this without a word. Last night he’d gotten the impression she wasn’t one for long goodbyes.

Still, he would have made her pancakes for breakfast if she’d hung around. Hell, he hadn’t had pancakes in months, but he would have made them for her.

He went downstairs, foolishly hoping she’d left him a note. He knew better. Her kind didn’t leave notes. No happy faces on Post-Its on the fridge, no little heart dotting the i in her name. She was not that kind of girl.

He made a pot of coffee and saw that she’d washed their glasses and put them away. He stood for a long time just staring at the clean glasses as the coffee brewed, then he poured himself a cup and took it back upstairs while he showered and dressed in his uniform hanging on the back of the bathroom door, all the time dreading the day ahead.

It wasn’t just the biker chick with the bag of money and worry over what she might be running from that had him bummed. She was miles away by now.

His problem was Desiree Dennison. He’d recognized the little red sports car that had sideswiped the biker last night. He couldn’t turn a blind eye to what he’d seen: Desiree leaving the scene of an accident.

But the last thing he wanted to do was go out to the Dennisons and with good reason.