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He had a half dozen leaning against the bare living-room wall waiting to go to the framer for the exhibit. She limped over to them, staring at one and then another.
“How about coffee?” he offered, uncomfortable with the way she continued to study his work as if she were seeing something in the paintings he didn’t want exposed.
He couldn’t decide if she liked them or not. He wasn’t about to ask. He had a feeling she might tell him.
While she’d been studying the paintings he’d been studying her. As she shrugged out of her jacket, he saw that she wore a short-sleeved white T-shirt that molded her breasts and the muscles of her back. She was in good shape and her body was just as exquisite as he’d thought it would be beneath the leather.
But what stole his attention was the hole he’d seen in the jacket just below her left shoulder—and the corresponding fresh wound on her left biceps. He’d seen enough gunshot wounds in his day to recognize one even without the telltale hole in the leather jacket.
The bullet had grazed her flesh and would leave a scar. It wasn’t her first scar though. There was another one on her right forearm, an older one that had required stitches.
Who the hell was this woman and what was it about her?
“These are all yours,” she said, studying the paintings again. It was a statement of fact as if there was no doubt in her mind that he’d painted them.
“I have tea if you don’t like coffee.”
“Do you have anything stronger?” she asked without turning around.
He lifted a brow behind her back and went to the cupboard. “I have some whiskey.” He turned to find her glancing around the cabin. Her gaze had settled on an old rocker he’d picked up at a flea market in Portland.
“That chair is pretty comfortable if you’d like to sit down,” he said, as he watched her run her fingers over the oak arm of the antique rocker.
She looked at him as she turned and lowered herself into the rocker, obviously trying hard not to let him see that her ankle was hurting her if not the rest of her body. Maybe nothing was broken but she’d been beat up. Wait until tomorrow. She was going to be hurtin’ for certain.
He handed her half a glass of whiskey. He poured himself a tall glass of lemonade. The whiskey had been a housewarming gift from a well-meaning friend in town. He’d given up alcohol when he’d decided it was time to settle down. He’d seen what alcohol had done for his old man and he’d never needed the stuff, especially now that he was painting again.
He watched Maggie over the rim of his glass as he took a drink. He’d made the lemonade from real lemons. It wasn’t half-bad. Could use a little more sugar though.
She sniffed the whiskey, then drained the glass and grimaced, nose wrinkling, as if she’d just downed paint thinner. Then she pushed herself to her feet, limped over to him and handed him the glass. “Thank you.”
“Feeling better?” he asked, worried about her and not just because of her bike wreck.
“Fine.”
He nodded, doubting it. He wanted to ask her how she’d gotten the bullet wound, what she’d been doing on the highway below his place at three in the morning, where she was headed and what kind of trouble she was in. But he knew better. He’d been there and he wasn’t that far from that life that he didn’t know how she would react to even well-meaning questions.
“I promised you ice,” he said and finished his lemonade, then put their glasses in the sink and filled a plastic bag with ice cubes for her ankle. “And a place to lie down while I take a look at your bike.” He met her gaze. She still wasn’t sure about him.
He realized just how badly he wanted her to trust him as he gazed into those brown eyes. Like her face, there was something startlingly familiar about them.
She took the bag of ice cubes and he led her up the stairs, stopping at his bedroom door.
“You can have this room. The sheets are clean.” He hadn’t slept on them since he’d changed them.
“No, that one’s yours,” she said and turned toward the open doorway to the screened-in deck. There was an old futon out there and a pine dresser he planned to refinish when he had time. “I’ll sleep in here.”
He started to argue, but without turning on the light, she took the bag of ice and limped over to the screened windows, her back to him as she looked out into the darkness beyond.
Fetching a towel from the bathroom, he returned to find her still standing at the window. She didn’t turn when he put the towel on the futon, just said, “Thank you.”
“De nada.” He was struck with the thought that if he had been able to sleep he would never have seen her accident, would never have met her. For some reason that seemed important as if cosmically it had all been planned. He was starting to think like his future sister-in-law Charity and her crazy aunt Florie, the self-proclaimed psychic.
He really needed to get some decent sleep, he concluded wryly, if he was going to start thinking crap like that. “There are sheets and blankets in the dresser and more towels in the bathroom.” He would have gladly made a bed for her but he knew instinctively that she needed to be alone.
“About my bike—”
“I think I can fix it,” he said. “Otherwise, I can give you and the bike a lift into Eugene.”
She turned then to frown at him. “You’d do that?”
He nodded. “I used to travel a lot on my bike and people helped me. Payback. I need the karma.” He smiled.
Her expression softened with her smile. She really was exquisite. For some reason, he thought of Desiree Dennison, the woman he’d seen driving the red sports car that had hit Maggie. “I can also take you in to see the sheriff in the morning. I know him pretty well.”
“Why would I want to see him?” she asked, frowning and looking leery again.
“You’ll want to press charges against the driver of the car that hit you.”
She said nothing, but he saw the answer in her eyes. No chance in hell was she sticking around to press charges against anyone.
“Just give a holler if you need anything,” he said.
Her gaze softened again and for an instant he thought he glimpsed vulnerability. The instant passed. “Thank you again for everything.”
My pleasure. He left the bathroom door open and a light on so she could find it if she needed it, then went downstairs, smiling as he recalled the face she’d made after chugging the whiskey. Who the hell was she? Ruefully, he realized the chances were good that he would never know.
MAGGIE HURT ALL OVER. She put the ice down on the futon and limped closer to the screened window. The night air was damp and cool, but not cold.
She stared out, still shaken by what had happened on the dock, what she’d learned, what she’d witnessed. She’d gotten Norman killed because she’d called Detective Rupert Blackmore.
Below, a door opened and closed. She watched Jesse Tanner cross the mountainside to a garage, open the door and turn on the light. An older classic Harley was parked inside, the garage neat and clean.
She watched from the darkness as he went to the truck, dropped the tailgate, pulled out the plank, then climbed up and carefully rolled her bike down and over to the garage.
For a long moment he stood back as if admiring the cycle, then slowly he approached it. She caught her breath as he ran his big hands over it, gentle hands, caressing the bike the way a man caressed a woman he cherished.
She moved away from the window, letting the night air slow her throbbing pulse and cool the heat that burned across her bare skin. She told herself it was the effects of the whiskey not the man below her window as she tried to close her mind to the feelings he evoked in her. How could she feel desire when her life was in danger?
She’d been running on adrenalin for almost thirty-six hours now, too keyed up to sleep or eat. Her stomach growled but she knew she needed rest more than food at this point. She could hear the soft clink of tools in the garage, almost feel the warm glow of the light drifting up to her.
She took a couple of blankets from the chest of drawers. Wrapping the towel he’d left her around the bag of ice, she curled up on the futon bed, put the ice on her ankle and pulled the blankets up over her.
The bed smelled of the forest and the night and possibly the man who lived here. She breathed it in finding a strange kind of comfort in the smell of him and the sound of him below her.
She closed her eyes tighter, just planning to rest until he was through with her bike, knowing she would never be able to sleep. Not when she was this close to Timber Falls. This close to learning the truth. Just a few more miles. A few more hours.
Tonight on the highway when the car had pulled out in front of her, she’d thought at first it was Detective Rupert Blackmore trying to kill her again.
But then she’d caught a glimpse of the female driver in that instant before she’d hit the bright red sports car.
She’d seen the young woman’s startled face in the bike’s headlight, seen the long dark hair and wide eyes, and as Maggie had laid the bike on its side, she’d heard the car speed off into the night all the time knowing that the cop would have never left. He would have finished her off.
She’d feared that Norman’s body had washed up by now. And it was only a matter of time before Blackmore realized her body wouldn’t be washing up because she hadn’t drowned.
How soon would he figure out where she’d gone and what she was up to and come here to stop her?
But what was it he didn’t want her finding out? That she was kidnapped? Or was there something more, something he feared even worse that she would uncover?
Right now, all she knew was that people were dying because of her. Because her parents had wanted a baby so desperately that they’d bought one, not knowing that she’d been kidnapped from a family in Timber Falls, Oregon.
Her ankle ached. She tried not to think. Detective Rupert Blackmore was bound to follow her to Timber Falls. Unless he was already in town waiting for her.
Sleep came like a dark black cloak that enveloped her. She didn’t see the fog or Norman lying dead at her feet or the cop on the pier with the gun coming after her. And for a while, she felt safe.
Chapter Three
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.
