Best-Kept Lies Page 4

  Warning bells had clanged in his mind, but he’d ignored them as his tongue had slipped between her teeth and his erection had pressed hard against his fly. She was warm and tasted of lingering coffee. His fingers splayed across her back and as she moaned against him, he slowly started inching her nightgown upward, bunching the soft flannel in his fingers as her hemline climbed up her calves and thighs. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to use his weight to carry them both to the rug in front of the dying fire…

  Now, as he sat in his pickup with the rain beating against his windshield, Striker scowled at the thought of what he’d done. He’d known better than to kiss her, had sensed it wouldn’t stop there. He didn’t need the complications of a woman.

  He hazarded a glance at the third finger of his left hand where he could still see the deep impression a ring had made as it had cut into his skin. The muscles in the back of his neck tightened and a few dark thoughts skated through his mind. Thoughts of another woman…another beautiful woman and a little girl…

  Angry with the turn of his thoughts, he forced his gaze to Randi’s condominium. This particular grouping of units rested on a hillside overlooking Lake Washington. He’d parked across the street where he had a clear view of her front door, the only way in or out of the condo, unless she decided to sneak out a window. Even then, he’d see her Jeep leaving. Unless she was traveling on foot, he’d be able to follow her.

  He glanced at his watch. She had forty-seven minutes to cool off and get herself together. And so did he. Leaning across the seat, he grabbed his battered briefcase and reached inside where he kept an accordion folder on the McCafferty case. With one eye on the condominium, he riffled through the pages of notes, pictures and columns he’d clipped out of the Seattle Clarion, columns with a byline of Randi McCafferty and accompanied by a smiling picture of the author.

  “Solo,” by Randi McCafferty.

  Hers was an advice column for singles, from the confirmed bachelors to the newly divorced, the recently widowed or anyone else who wrote in, claimed not to be married and asked for her opinion. Striker reread a few of his favorites. In one, she advised a woman suffering from abuse to leave the relationship immediately and file charges. In another she told an overly protective single mother to give her teenage daughter “breathing space” while keeping in touch. In still another, she suggested a widower join a grief-support group and take up ballroom dancing, something he and his wife had always wanted to do. Her columns were often empathetic, but sometimes caustic. She told one woman who couldn’t decide between two men and was lying to them both to “grow up,” while she advised another young single to “quit whining” about his new girlfriend, who sometimes parked in “his” spot while staying over. Within each bit of advice, Randi often added a little humor. It was no wonder the column had been syndicated and picked up in other markets.

  Yet there were rumors of trouble at the Clarion. Randi McCafferty and her editor, Bill Withers, were supposedly feuding. Striker hadn’t figured out why. Yet. But he would. Randi had also written some articles for magazines under the name of R. J. McKay. Then there was her unfinished tell-all book on the rodeo circuit, one she wouldn’t talk much about. A lot going on with Ms. McCafferty. Yep, he thought, leaning back and staring at the front door of her place, she was an interesting woman, and one definitely off-limits.

  Well, hell, weren’t they all? He scowled through the raindrops zigzagging down his windshield and his thoughts started to wend into that forbidden territory of his past, to a time that now seemed eons ago, before he’d become jaded. Before he’d lost his faith in women. In marriage. In life. A time he didn’t want to think about. Not now. Not ever.

  “He’s okay?” Randi said into her cell phone. Her hands were sweaty, her mind pounding with fear, and it was all she could do to try to calm her rising sense of panic. Despite her bravado and in-your-face attitude with Striker, she was shaky. Nervous. His warnings putting her on edge, and now, as she held the cell phone to her ear and peered through the blinds to the parking lot where Kurt Striker’s old pickup was parked, her heart was knocking.

  “You dropped him off less than an hour ago,” Sharon assured her. “Joshua’s just fine. I fed him, changed him and put him down for a nap. Right now he’s sleeping like a…well, a baby.”

  Randi let out her breath, ran a shaking hand over her lip. “Good.”

  “You’ve got to relax. I know you’re a new mother and all, but believe me, whatever you’re caught up in, stressing out isn’t going to help anyone. Not you, not the baby. So take a chill pill.”

  “I wish,” Randi said, only slightly relieved.

  “Do it… Take your own advice. You’re always telling people in your column to take a step back, a deep breath and reevaluate the situation. You still belong to the gym, don’t you? Take yoga or tae kwon do or kickboxing.”

  “You think that would do it?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Just as long as I know Joshua’s safe.”

  “And sound. Promise.” Sharon sighed. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you might consider going out. You know, with a man.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Just because you had a bad experience with one doesn’t mean they’re all jerks.”

  “I had a bad experience with more than one.”

  “Well…it wouldn’t kill you to give romance a chance.”

  “I’m not so sure. When Cupid pulls back his bow and aims at me, I swear his arrows are poisoned.”

  “That’s not what you tell the people who write you.”

  “With them, I can be objective.” She was staring at Striker’s truck, which hadn’t moved. The man was behind the wheel. She saw movement, but she couldn’t see his facial features, could only feel him staring at her house, sizing it up, just as he’d done with her. “Look, I’ll be over tomorrow, but if you need to reach me for anything, call me on my cell.”

  “Will do. Now, quit worrying.”

  Fat chance, Randi thought as she hung up. Ever since she’d given birth she’d done nothing more than worry. She was worse than her half brothers and that was pretty bad. Thorne was the oldest and definitely type A. But he’d recently married Nicole and settled down with her and her twin girls. Randi smiled at the thought of Mindy and Molly, two dynamic four-year-olds who looked identical but were as different as night and day. Then there was Matt, ex-rodeo rider and serious. Had his own place in Idaho until he’d fallen in love with Kelly, who was now his wife. And then there was Slade. He was a rebel, hadn’t grown up worrying about anything. But all of a sudden he’d made it his personal mission to “take care” of his younger, unmarried sister and her child.

  A few months ago Randi would have scoffed at her brothers’ concerns. But that had been before the accident. She remembered little of it, thank God, but now she had to figure out who was trying to harm her. She could accept Striker’s help, she supposed, but was afraid that if she did, if she confided in anyone, she would only be jeopardizing her baby further and that was a chance she wasn’t about to take. Regardless of her brothers’ concerns.

  Frowning, she remembered Matt and Kelly’s wedding and the reception afterward. There had been dancing and laughter despite the cold Montana winter, despite the charred remains of the stable, a reminder of the danger she’d brought upon her family. Kelly had been radiant in her sparkling dress, Matt dashing in a black tuxedo, even Slade—who’d been injured in the fire—had forgone his crutches to dance with Jamie Parsons before whisking her away to elope on that snow-covered night. Randi had dressed her son in a tiny tuxedo and held him close, silently vowing to take the danger away from her brothers, to search out the truth herself.

  Two days later when a breathless Slade and Jamie had returned as husband and wife, Randi had announced she was leaving.

  “Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind?” Matt had demanded. He’d slapped his hat against his thigh and his breath had steamed from his lungs as all four
of John Randall McCafferty’s children had stood near the burned-out shell of the stable.

  “This is beyond insanity.” Thorne had glared down at her, as if he could use the same tactics that worked in a boardroom to convince her to stay. “You can’t leave.”

  “Watch me,” she’d baited, meeting his harsh gaze with one of her own.

  Even Slade, the rebel and her staunchest ally, had turned against her. His crutches buried beyond their rubber tips in a drift of snow at the fence line, he’d said, “Don’t do it, Randi. Keep J.R. here with us. Where we can help you.”

  “This is something I have to do,” she’d insisted, and caught a glimpse of Striker, forever lurking in the shadows, always watching her. “I can’t stay here. It’s unsafe. How many accidents have happened here? Really, it’s best if I leave.” All of her brothers had argued with her, but Striker had remained silent, not arguing, just taking it all in.

  Until last night. And then all hell had broken loose.

  So she’d left and he’d followed her to Seattle. Now she realized she’d have one helluva time getting rid of him. It galled her that her brothers had hired him.

  “What makes you think you’ll be safer in Seattle than Grand Hope?” Thorne had asked as she’d packed her bags in the pine-walled room she’d grown up in. “You’re still not healed completely from the accident. If you stayed here, we could all look after you. And little J.R, er, Joshua, would have Molly and Mindy to play with when he got a little bigger.”

  Randi’s heart was torn. She’d eyed her bright-eyed nieces, Molly bold and impudent, Mindy hiding behind Thorne’s pant leg, and known that she couldn’t stay. She had things to do; a story to write. And she knew that if she stayed any longer, she’d only get more tangled up with Striker.

  “I’ll be all right,” she’d insisted, zipping up her bag and gathering her baby into her arms. “I wouldn’t do anything to put Joshua in danger.” As she’d clambered down the stairs, she’d heard the twins asking where she was going and had spied their housekeeper, Juanita, making the sign of the cross over her ample bosom and whispering a prayer in Spanish. As if she would haul her own child into the maw of danger. But they didn’t understand that in order for everyone to be safe, she had to get back to her old life and figure out why someone was trying to harm her.

  And Joshua. Don’t forget your precious son. Whoever it is means business and is desperate. She noted that Striker was still seated in his truck. Waiting. Damn the man. Quickly she closed the blinds, then took a final glance around the small nursery. Hardwood floors that were dusty, a cradle stuck in a corner, a bookcase that was still in its box as “some assembly” was required and she hadn’t had time.

  Because you were in the hospital.

  Because you nearly died.

  Because someone is determined to kill you.

  Maybe, just maybe, your brothers have a point.

  Maybe you should trust Kurt Striker.

  Again she thought of the night before. Trust him? Trust herself?

  What other choice did she have?

  Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. If Kurt could figure out where she’d hidden Joshua, then the would-be killer, whoever he was, could as well. Her insides knotted. Why would anyone want to harm her innocent baby? Why?

  It’s not about Joshua, Randi. It’s about you. Someone wants you dead. As long as the baby isn’t with you, he’s safe.

  She clung to that notion and set about getting her life in order again. She made herself a cup of instant coffee and dialed the office. Her editor was out, but she left a message on his voice mail, checked her own e-mail, then quickly unpacked and changed into a clean sweater, slacks and boots. She wound a scarf around her neck and finger combed her short hair, looking into the hall mirror and cringing. She’d lost weight in the past five months, indeed she now weighed less than before she’d gotten pregnant, and she was having trouble getting used to the length of her hair. She’d always worn it long, but her head had been shaved before one of her lifesaving surgeries to alleviate the swelling in her brain and the resulting grow-out was difficult to adjust to though she’d had it shaped before leaving Montana. Instead, she went into the bathroom, found an old tube of gel and ran some of the goop through her hair. The result was kind of a finger-in-the-light-socket look, but was the best she could do. She was just rinsing her hands when her doorbell buzzed loudly several times, announcing a visitor. She didn’t have to be told who was ringing the bell. One quick look at her watch showed her that it had been one hour and five minutes since she’d last faced Striker. Apparently the man was prompt.

  And couldn’t take a hint.

  “Great,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a towel and discarding it into an open hamper before hurrying to the front door. What she didn’t need was anyone dogging her, bothering her and generally getting in the way. She was a private person by nature and opposed anyone nosing into her business, no matter what his reasons. Reining in her temper, she yanked open the door. Sure as shootin’, Kurt Striker, all six feet two inches of pure male determination, was standing on her doorstep. His light brown hair had darkened from the raindrops clinging to it, and his green eyes were hard. Wearing an aging bomber jacket and even older jeans, he was sexy as hell and, from the looks of him, not any happier at being on her stoop than she was to find him there.

  “What’s with ringing the bell?” she asked, deciding not to mask her irritation. “I thought you had your own key, or a pick, or something. Compliments of my brothers.”

  “They’re only looking out for you.”

  “They should mind their own business.”

  “And for your kid.”

  “I know.” She’d already stepped away from the door and into the living room. Striker was on her heels. She heard the door slam behind him, the lock engage and the sound of his boots ringing on her hardwood floors.

  “Look, Randi,” he said as she stopped at the closet and found her raincoat. “If I can break in, then—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m way ahead of you.” She slid her arms through the sleeves and glanced up at him. “I’ll change the locks, put on a dead bolt, okay?”

  “Along with putting in an alarm system and buying a guard dog.”

  “Hey—I’ve got a baby. Remember?” She walked to the couch, found her purse and grabbed it. Now…the computer. Quickly she tucked her laptop into its case. “I don’t think an attack dog would be a good idea.”

  “Not an attack dog—a guard dog. There’s a big difference.”

  “If you say so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go to the office.” She anticipated what he was about to say. “Look, it wouldn’t be a good idea to follow me, you know? I’m already in enough hot water with my boss as it is.” She didn’t wait for him to answer, just walked back to the door. “So, if you’ll excuse me—” She opened the door again in an unspoken invitation.

  His lips twisted into a poor imitation of a smile. “You’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

  “Why? Because of the money?” she asked, surprised that the mention of it bothered her, cut into her soul. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? My brothers have paid you to watch over me, right? You’re supposed to be…oh, hell…not my bodyguard. Tell me Thorne and Matt and Slade aren’t so archaic, so controlling, so damn stupid as to think I need a personal bodyguard… Oh, God, that’s it, isn’t it?” She would have laughed if she hadn’t been so furious. “This has got to end. I need privacy. I need space. I need—”

  His hand snaked out, and fast as lightning, he grabbed her wrist, his fingers a quick, hard manacle. “What you need is to be less selfish,” he finished for her. He was so close that she felt his hot, angry breath wafting across her face. “We’ve been through this before. Quit thinking about your damn independence and consider your kid’s safety. Along with your own.” He dropped her arm as suddenly as he’d picked it up. “Let’s go. I won’t get in the way.”

  The smile he cast over his sho
ulder was wicked enough to take her breath away. “Promise.”

  Five

  “Don’t even think about riding with me,” she warned, flipping the hood of her jacket over her hair as she dashed toward her Jeep. The rain had softened to a thick drizzle, a kind of mist that made visibility next to nil. It was early evening, the sky dark with heavy clouds.

  “It would make things a helluva lot easier.”

  Obviously, Striker wasn’t taking a hint. Collar turned up, he kept with her as she reached the car.

  “For whom?” She shot him a look and clicked on her keyless remote. The Jeep beeped and its interior lights flicked on.

  “Both of us.”

  “I don’t think so.” She climbed into her car and immediately locked her doors. He didn’t move. Just stood by the Jeep. As if she would change her mind. She switched on the ignition as she tossed off her hood. Then, leaving Striker standing in the rain, she backed out of her parking spot, threw the Jeep into Drive and cruised out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of him running toward his truck, but not before she managed to merge into the traffic heading toward the heart of the city. She couldn’t help but glance in her mirrors, checking to see if Striker had followed.

  Not that she doubted it for a minute. But she didn’t see his truck and reminded herself to pay attention to traffic and the red taillights glowing through the rain. She couldn’t let her mind wander to the man, not even if she had acted like a fool last night.

  She’d let him kiss her, let him slide her nightgown off her body, felt his lips, hot and hard, against the hollow of her throat and the slope of her shoulder. She shouldn’t have done it, known it was a mistake, but her body had been a traitor and as his rough fingers had scaled her ribs and his beard-rough face had rubbed her skin, she’d let herself go, kissed him feverishly.

  She’d been surprised at how much she’d wanted him, how passionately she’d kissed him, scraped off his clothes, ran her own anxious fingers down his hard, sinewy shoulders to catch in his thick chest hair.