Best-Kept Lies Page 8

  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.

  Eight

  He was lying next to her, his body hard and honed, skin stretched taut over muscles that were smooth and fluid as he levered up on one elbow to stare down at her. Green eyes glittered with a dark seductive fire that thrilled her and silently spoke of pleasures to come. With the fingers of one callused hand he traced the contours of his body. She tingled, her breasts tightening under his scrutinizing gaze, her nipples becoming hard as buttons. He leaned forward and scraped a beard-roughened cheek over her flesh. Deep inside, she felt desire stretching as it came awake.

  This was so wrong. She shouldn’t be in bed with Kurt Striker. What had she been thinking? How had this happened? She barely knew the man…and yet, the wanting was so intense, burning through her blood, chasing away her doubts, and as he bent to kiss her, she knew she couldn’t resist, that with just the brush of his hard lips on hers she would be lost completely—

  Bam!

  Her eyes flew open at the sound. Where was she? It was dark. And cold. She was alone in the bed—her bed—and she felt as if she’d slept for hours, her bladder stretched to the limit, her stomach rumbling for food.

  “Let’s go, Sleeping Beauty,” Kurt said from the vicinity of the doorway. She blinked and found him standing in the doorway, his shoulders nearly touching each side of the frame, his body backlit by the flickering light still cast from the living-room fire. In relief he seemed larger, more rugged. The kind of man to avoid.

  So she’d been dreaming about making love to him again. Only dreaming. Thank God. Not that the ache deep within her had subsided. Yes, she was in her own bed, but she was alone and fully dressed, just the way he’d left her minutes—or had it been hours—before?

  “Wha—What’s the rush?” she mumbled, trying to shake off the remainder of that damnably erotic fantasy even though a part of her wanted to close her eyes and call it back. “So what happened to ‘shh, darlin’, you should get some rest’?” she asked sarcastically.

  He took a step into the room. “You got it. Slept for nearly eighteen hours, now it’s time to rock ’n’ roll.”

  “What? Eighteen hours…no…” She glanced at the bedside clock and the digital display indicated it was after three. “I couldn’t have…” But the bad taste in her mouth and the pressure on her bladder suggested he was right.

  Groaning, she thought about her job and the fact that she was irreparably late. Bill Withers was probably chewing her up one side and down the other. “I’m gonna get fired yet,” she muttered, then added, “Give me a sec.”

  Scrambling from beneath the warmth of her duvet, she stumbled over one of her shoes on her way to the bathroom. Once inside, she shut the door, snapped on the light and cringed at her reflection. Within minutes she’d relieved herself, splashed water onto her face and brushed her teeth. Her face was a disaster, her short hair sticking up at all angles. The best she could do was wet it down and scrub away the smudges of mascara that darkened her eyes.

  Thankfully her headache was gone and she was thinking more clearly as she opened the door to the bedroom and found Kurt leaning against the frame, a strange look on his face. She yawned. “What?” she asked and then she knew. With drop-dead certainty. Her heart nearly stopped. “It’s the baby,” she said, fear suddenly gelling her blood. “Joshua. What’s wrong? Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m having Sharon Okano’s place watched.”

  She was stunned and suddenly frantic and reached for the shoe she’d nearly tripped over. “You really think something might happen to him?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t want to take any chances.”

  She crammed the shoe onto her foot, then bent down, peering under the bed for its mate. Her mind was clearing a bit as she found the missing shoe and slid it on. Striker was jumping at shadows, that was it. Joshua was fine. Fine. He had to be.

  “Donahue’s in town.”

  She rocked back on her heels. The news hit her like a ton of bricks, but she tried to stay calm. “How do you know?”

  “He was spotted.”

  “By whom?”

  “Someone working for me.”

  “Working for you. Did my brothers hire an entire platoon of security guards or something?”

  “Eric Brown and I have known each other for years. He’s been watching Sharon Okano’s place.”

>   “What? Wait! You’ve got someone spying on her?”

  His face was rigid. “I’m not ready to take any chances.”

  “Don’t you think someone lurking around will just draw attention to the place? You know, like waving some kind of red flag.”

  “He’s a little more discreet than that.”

  She shook her head, clearing out the cobwebs, trying to keep her rising sense of panic at bay. “Wait a minute. This doesn’t make any sense. Sam doesn’t know about Joshua. He has no idea that I was pregnant…and probably wouldn’t have cared one way or the other had he found out.”

  “You think.”

  “I’m pretty damn sure.” She straightened.

  “Then why would he be cruising by Sharon Okano’s place?”

  “Oh, God, I don’t know.” Her remaining calm quickly evaporated. She had to get to her baby, to see that he was all right. She made a beeline for the closet. “This is making less and less sense,” she muttered and was already reaching for a jacket. Glancing at her shoes, she saw a pair of black cowboy boots, one of which had fallen over. Boots she hadn’t worn since high school. Boots her father had given her and she’d never had the heart to give away. Ice slid through her veins as she walked closer and saw that the dust that had accumulated over the toes had been disturbed. Her throat went dry. “Dear God.”

  Kurt had followed her into the walk-in. He was pulling an overnight bag from an upper shelf. “Randi?” he asked, his voice filled with concern. “What?”

  “Someone was in here.” Fear mixed with fury. “I mean…unless when you got here you came into my closet and decided to try on my cowboy boots.”

  “Your boots?” His gaze swept the interior of the closet to land upon the dusty black leather.

  “I haven’t touched them in months and look—”