Читать книгу With the Material Witness in the Safehouse - Carla Cassidy - Страница 8

Chapter Four

After Ryan left the cottage, Britta carried the bags of items he’d bought her into the bedroom and began to unpack them. Toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant and hair products went into the bathroom on a shelf, then she pulled out the clothing he’d bought for her.

By the very items he’d chosen for her, she’d guess that he didn’t know her as well as she’d thought. She frowned as she pulled out two pairs of baggy sweatpants, one in blue and one in black. There were matching sweatshirts, as well, and both were two sizes too big.

She couldn’t remember a lot of things, but she was sure this wasn’t her normal choice of clothing. He’d certainly not opted for making a fashion statement, unless it was a bad one.

As she pulled out a pair of flannel pajamas, she stifled a groan. She was relatively certain she’d never slept in flannel pajamas in her life.

More than anything Ryan had said to her, this indicated that their previous relationship had been strictly business. Still, there had been that moment when she’d awakened in the bed and had stared at him seated next to her and a memory had niggled, teasingly trying to make itself known.

For just a moment she thought she could remember the hot taste of his mouth. For one insane second she thought she had a memory of being in his arms, of his hard, muscled body pressed intimately against hers.

She shook the crazy thought out of her head and hung the clothes in the closet. The strange thing was that while there was a sense of comfortable familiarity about him, she also felt just a touch of disquiet where he was concerned. It wasn’t exactly fear, but just the feeling that she needed to be wary.

She had no choice but to trust him for the moment, but if she got a sense that he was a real, physical threat, she’d run. She might not know everything about her past, but she’d do whatever necessary to ensure she had a future.

He’d already indicated to her that there had been one attempt on her life while she’d been in his custody. She wondered if a member of the gang she’d testified against had found her here in Raven’s Cliff. Had one of them somehow held her against her will? Injected her with the drug that had stolen her memories?

But why would they do that? She’d already been in court and testified. Her memories of the shoot-out that night at the hotel were documented in court files. What good would it do anyone to try to get rid of her now, so long after the fact? It just didn’t make sense.

She hoped Ryan came back with some answers. According to what he’d told her, she’d entered the Witness Protection Program. That meant she’d agreed to leave her old life behind. She’d given up her job, the little apartment she’d called home and all her friends.

She had no relatives. She’d lost both her parents three years ago. Thank God they hadn’t been alive to see the mess that her life had become.

What she needed to do was focus on where she went from here. Surely Ryan didn’t intend for them to be here in Raven’s Cliff for too long, and then she’d be relocated.

The last bag she opened was the one she had brought with her from the clinic. Inside was the white gown she’d been wearing when Ryan had found her, along with the necklace that had been around her neck.

She pulled out the gown and ran a trembling hand over the gauzy material. The bottom was dirty and crusted with sand. She’d hoped by touching it, by looking at it closely, a memory would blossom in her head, but all she got was a vague feeling of fear.

The necklace was made of dozens of chunky pretty shells threaded onto a thin piece of fishing line. Where had it come from? Who had made it? And why had she been wearing it and the gown and wandering in the old lighthouse? She ran her hand across the shells.

Go to the sea.

The words were a faint whisper in her ear and she quickly snatched her hand away from the odd necklace, quieting the strange inner voice.

Unsettled even more than she had been, she shoved the items back into the bag and placed them on the floor of the closet, then left the bedroom.

The first thing she did when she returned to the kitchen was check the refrigerator to see what food was in there. It was fully stocked, as was the freezer. Apparently the FBI had the power not only to change who you were, but also to stock a refrigerator with enough food to last a month.

She pulled out a package of steaks to thaw. She’d cook the evening meal tonight, but if Ryan thought she was going to spend the days here cooking and cleaning for him he had another think coming.

Her mother had been a strong, independent woman, a wonderful role model for Britta. Chores at her house had been equally shared between husband and wife, and Britta’s father had never treated her mother like “the little woman” whose only job was to cook and clean for him.

A search of the kitchen cabinets yielded a notebook and a pen. She grabbed herself a cold can of diet soda, then sat down at the table to make a list of what she wanted her new life to be. Someplace in the back of her mind she knew it was a desperate attempt to regain control.

She knew she could never go back to the kind of job she’d once wanted, as manager of an upscale hotel. She’d seen enough movies to know that when you entered the Witness Protection Program you not only gave up friends and family, but also any ties to the kind of job you’d once had. She was a bit surprised that she’d been set up as a housekeeper at the Cliffside Inn.

Maybe in her next life she’d be a waitress or a cashier in a grocery store. The degree she’d obtained in hotel management would probably never be used again.

A rumble of thunder broke the silence and a small sliver of fear tightened her stomach muscles. Funny, she didn’t think she’d ever been afraid of storms before, but the kitchen was suddenly too small, too dark, and the approaching storm touched off an unexpected edge of anxiety.

She tried to focus on the paper in front of her but jumped and let out a small squeal as lightning flashed at the window, followed by another growl of thunder. Rain began to pelt down, and she found it impossible to sit any longer.

Surely the rain would bring Ryan back soon. It surprised her how much she didn’t want to be alone. As another strobe of lightning flashed, she left the kitchen and went into the living room.

At that moment she heard a key in the front door and Ryan came in, dripping water and cursing beneath his breath. “Does the sun ever shine in this place?” he asked, obviously not expecting an answer.

She hurried into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, then returned to the living room and handed it to him. He flashed her a grateful smile as he swiped it over his short brown hair.

She curled up in one corner of the sofa and fought the impulse to jam her hands over her ears as the thunder crashed overhead. A vision flashed in her head…she saw the hotel lobby decorated in gold and orange for the holiday. The lobby of the Woodlands Hotel offered lush elegance and an aura of luxury and serenity. But that vision was shattered by the acrid scent of gunfire that filled her nose. In her mind she saw one man dive for cover behind a love seat and another topple over the back of a chair. A scream. A moan. And blood. Blood everywhere.

The vision disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Are you all right?” Ryan asked, eyeing her curiously.

“I’m… I think I just had a memory.”

He tossed the damp towel to the tile floor and moved to the sofa to sit next to her, bringing with him the odor of the rain and that faint scent that stirred something deep inside her. “A memory of what?”

“The shooting that night at the hotel. It was just a flash. I smelled the gun smoke, saw men diving for cover and that was it. But that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Maybe with time I am going to get back all of my memories.”

He nodded, his gaze enigmatic as it lingered on her. “It’s a start,” he finally said.

“The days I’ve been missing since I arrived here, do you think it’s the work of one of the gang members?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. If one of the gang members had found you, they wouldn’t have kept you for four days, but at this point I’m not ruling out anything.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “I can understand them wanting to kill me before this all went to trial, but if I already testified against them, then why would they still want to kill me? Why did I have to go into Witness Protection after the trial was over?”

“Several reasons. First of all, we never got the specific shooter who killed our agent. Although you insisted you saw him perfectly, he wasn’t among the men we rounded up. Those men you testified against were all tried on a variety of charges, but the man we most wanted escaped. Because you saw that shooter we’ve always known that there was a possibility of you being our star witness in a new trial. The second reason is revenge, pure and simple. These are real bad guys and reputation is everything. If you testify against them and they let you get away with it, then that diminishes their reputation.”

She noticed there was no trace of his lazy Texas drawl at the moment. He stood and plucked at his wet T-shirt. “I’m going to change into some dry clothes. There’s no point in me going back out until this rain passes.”

He dug around in his suitcase, sitting open in one corner of the room, then pulled out a clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans. “You okay?”

“I guess. I’ve spent most of the time you’ve been gone today trying to figure out what happens to me when we leave here.”

“We get you relocated someplace else and you build a new life,” he replied, making it sound as easy as packing a bag.

“But no matter where I go, these people, these gang members will be looking for me.” Even though she tried to suppress it, her fear was rife in her voice.

He dropped his clean clothes on a nearby chair, then once again sat next to her on the sofa. He reached out and took her hand in his. As his long, warm fingers curled around hers, confusion filled her head.

He’d told her their past relationship had been a strictly professional one and yet she was struck with the feeling that this wasn’t the first time he’d held her hand.

“I promise when we leave here, I’ll get you settled someplace where you’ll be safe,” he said. “You’ll have a new name, a new occupation and we’ll get you far away from Boston. This gang isn’t everywhere. They’re a local gang and their power isn’t all reaching.” A frown raced across his forehead. “I don’t know why they kept you in the New England area to begin with, you should have been sent someplace farther away than here.”

She stared down at their hands. She wasn’t sure why, but his touch evoked contradicting emotions inside her. On the one hand, it felt comforting and familiar with an edge of excitement. On the other hand, his nearness to her, his fingers entwined with hers, made her feel vaguely threatened.

He jerked his hand away from hers and abruptly stood. “I hope you figured out what’s for dinner. I’m used to eating around five o’clock.” He grabbed his clothes from the chair and disappeared into the bathroom.

She stared after him, irritation replacing her fear. He had to be right. Their previous relationship had to have been strictly professional, for surely there was no way she’d have any other kind of a relationship with a man who was as irritating, as chauvinistic as Ryan Burton seemed to be.

RYAN STOOD beneath a lukewarm shower, trying to ignore his weakness where Britta was concerned. He’d always considered himself a strong man. He’d had to be strong to survive the childhood he’d been handed. As if surviving the battlefield of his parents’ marriage hadn’t been enough, years of military training followed by his FBI work should have increased his strength, not just physically but emotionally.

And yet Britta made him weak. She made him forget that he had vowed a long time ago to hold himself detached from any woman who might blow into his life. Short-term affairs were fine, but he had no desire to let anyone in on a permanent basis and he didn’t intend to change his mind for one beautiful Norwegian blonde.

The second he’d taken her hand in his he knew he’d made a mistake, but she’d looked so scared, so lost, and all he’d wanted to do was ease some of that fear. But the moment he’d taken her hand in his he’d wanted to go further, he’d wanted to draw her into his arms, feel the warmth of her silky smooth skin against his.

He got out of the shower, dried off, then pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. By the time he left the bathroom he felt better able to cope with Britta.

She was in the kitchen, seated at the table, a notebook and pen in front of her. “What are you doing?” he asked as he rummaged in the cabinets looking for a can of coffee.

“I’ve been trying to decide where I want my new life to begin when this is all over.” She leaned back in the chair and frowned thoughtfully. “What do you think about Seattle?”

“Too rainy,” he replied.

“What about Arizona?”

“Too dry.”

She grinned at him. “I can see you’re going to be no help.” Her smile fell and she looked at him curiously. “Why did I come here to Raven’s Cliff? I mean, who decided it?”

Ryan found the coffee container and began to make a pot. “It was FBI Agent Michael Kelly who set up this location and the job working at the inn. He came late onto your case. The agent before him was Bill Rankin, who set you up with your new identity.”

“All these people, it would be nice if I could just remember one of them.”

“You wouldn’t remember Kelly, you never met him in person.” As the coffee dripped into the glass carafe, Ryan leaned against the cabinet to wait for it to finish. “Kelly told me he picked this village after seeing an ad in a tourist magazine for a housekeeper at an inn. He figured it would be a good fit for you. Coffee?”

She nodded and stared at the paper in front of her where he noticed nothing had been written. He poured them each a cup of coffee, then placed a sugar bowl on the table, knowing she liked her coffee sweetened.

“Doesn’t look as if you’ve made much headway in picking a place to start a new life.” He sat in the chair opposite her.

She smiled ruefully. “It’s more difficult than I thought, trying to decide on a place to start again. Boston was always my home. I don’t know anything else.” Her smile faded. “One thing is certain, you have to buy me some different clothes. I appreciate what you got for me, but they’re all too big and too hot.”

He’d intentionally bought the clothes big, figuring if she looked like a bag lady it would make things easier on him. “It isn’t as if you’re going to be modeling in a fashion show,” he replied. “As long as they are serviceable.”