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Her aunt asked, “Emily, can I get you something to drink?”
Hazel and Sean had already sprinkled grated cheddar on top of their chili bowls and added a spoonful of sour cream. They were headed to the adjoining dining room.
What would it hurt to have dinner with him? The more she looked at him, the more she saw hints of his former self, her husband, the gentleman, the broad-shouldered man who had stolen her heart. She remembered the first time they were introduced when he’d tried to shake hands and she gave him a hug. They’d always been opposites and always attracted.
“I’m not hungry,” Emily said.
“There’s no reason to be so stubborn,” Hazel scolded. “I’ve hired you a bodyguard. Let the man do his job.”
“I don’t want a bodyguard.”
She glared at Sean, standing so straight and tall like a knight in shining armor. She was drawn to his strength. At the same time, he ticked her off. She wanted to tip him over like an extra-large tin can.
Edging closer to the kitchen windows, she pushed aside the curtain and peered outside. Day had faded into dusk, and the snow was coming down hard and fast. The blizzard wasn’t going to let up; he’d be here all night. She’d be spending the night under the same roof with him? This could be a problem, a big one.
“I’ve got a question for you,” he said as he strolled past her and set his chili bowl on a woven place mat. “What kind of murder would trigger an FBI investigation?”
“The man who pulled the trigger is Frankie Wynter.”
He startled. “The son of James Wynter?”
She’d said too much. The best move now was to retreat. She stretched and yawned. “I’m tired, Aunt Hazel. I think I’ll go up to my room.”
Without waiting for a response, she pivoted and ran from the kitchen. In the foyer, she paused to put Hazel’s rifle in the closet. It was dangerous to leave that thing out. Then she charged up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. In her bedroom, she turned on the lamp and flopped onto her back on the queen-size bed with the handmade crazy quilt.
Memory showed her the picture of Roger Patrone sprawled back in the swivel chair with his necktie askew and his shirt covered in blood. When they came toward the closet, looking for something to wrap around poor Roger, she’d expected to be the next victim. She’d held tightly to the doorknob, hoping they’d think it was locked.
There had been no need to hold the knob. Frankie told them to get the plastic shower curtain from the bathroom. Blood wouldn’t seep through. His quick orders had made her think that he might have pulled this stunt before. Other bodies might have gone over the railing of his daddy’s double-decker yacht. Other murders might have been committed.
She stood, lurched toward the door, pivoted and went back to the bed. Trapped in her room like a child, she had no escape from memory. Her chest tightened. It felt like a giant fist was squeezing her lungs, and she couldn’t get enough oxygen. She sat up straight. She was hot and cold at the same time. Her head was dizzy. Her breath came in frantic gasps.
With a moan, she leaned forward, put her head between her knees and told herself to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth. Breathe deeply and slowly. Wasn’t working—her throat was too tight. Was she having a panic attack? She didn’t know; she’d never had this feeling before.
The door to her bedroom opened. Sean stepped inside as though he didn’t need to ask her permission and had every right to be there. She would have yelled at him, but she couldn’t catch her breath. Her pulse fluttered madly.
He crossed the carpet and sat beside her on the bed. His arm wrapped around her shoulders. His masculine aroma, a combination of soap, cedar forest and sweat, permeated her senses as she leaned her head against his shoulder.
Her hands clutched in a knot against her breast, but she felt her heart rate beginning to slow down. She was regaining control of herself. Somehow she’d find a way to handle the fear. And she’d set things right.
Gently, he rocked back and forth. “Better?”
“Much.” She took a huge gulp of air.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“I already did. I told your buddy, Agent Levine.”
“Number one, he’s not my buddy. Number two, why didn’t he offer to put you in witness protection?”
“I turned it down,” she said.
“Emily, do you know how dangerous Frankie Wynter is?”
“I’ve been researching Wynter Corp for over a year,” she said. “Their smuggling operations, gambling and money laundering are nasty crimes, but the real evil comes from human trafficking. Last year, the port authorities seized a boxcar container with over seventy women and children crammed inside. Twelve were dead.”
“And Wynter Corp managed to wriggle out from under the charges.”
“The paperwork vanished.” That was one of the bits of evidence she’d hoped to get from James Wynter’s computer. “There was no indication of the sender or the destination where these people were to be delivered. All they could say was that they were promised jobs.”
“This kind of investigation is best left to the cops.”
She separated from him and rose to her feet. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m not discounting your ability,” he said. “You might be the best investigative reporter of all time, but you don’t have the contacts. Not like the FBI. They’ve got undercover people everywhere. Not to mention their access to advanced weaponry and surveillance equipment.”
“I understand all that.” He wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already figured out for herself.
“You’re a witness to a crime. That’s it—that’s all she wrote.”
She braced herself against the dresser and looked into the large mirror on the wall. Her reflection showed her fear in the tension around her eyes and her blanched complexion. Sean—ever the opposite—seemed calm and balanced.
“Can I tell you the truth?” she asked.
“That would be best.”
She made eye contact with his reflection in the mirror. “I didn’t actually witness the shooting. I saw Frankie with the gun in his hand. He screwed on a silencer. I heard the gunshot, and I saw the bullet holes...and the blood. But I didn’t actually witness Frankie pointing the gun and pulling the trigger.”
“Minor point,” he said. “A good prosecutor can connect those dots.”
“The body that washed ashore five days later was too badly nibbled by fishes for identification.” She splayed her fingers on the dresser and stared down at them. “I was kind of hoping he was someone else, someone who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, but Agent Levine matched his DNA.”
“To what?”
“I’d given a description to a sketch artist and identified the victim from a mug sheet photo. His name was Roger Patrone.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know him.”
“He was thirty-five, only a couple of years older than you, and made his living with a small-time gambling operation in a cheesy strip joint. Convicted of fraud, he served three years.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“Never married, no kids, he was orphaned when he was nine and grew up with a family in Chinatown. He speaks the language, eats the food, knows the customs and has a reputation as a negotiator for Wynter.”
“Roger sounds like a useful individual,” Sean said. “I’m guessing the old man wasn’t too happy about this murder.”
“Yeah, well, blood is still thicker than water. The FBI brought Frankie in for questioning, but one of the other guys in Wynter Corp confessed to killing Patrone and claimed self-defense. He took the fall for the boss’s son.”
Sean left the bed and came up behind her. His chest wasn’t actually touching her back, but if she moved one step, she’d be in his arms.
In a measured tone, he said, “You’re telling me that Frankie’s not in custody.”
“No, he’s not.”
“And he knows there’s a witness.”
“Yes.”
“Did you write about the murder?”
“Agent Levine asked me not to.” But she had written many articles about the evil-doing of Wynter Corporation.
“Does Frankie have your name?”
“No,” she said. “I write under an alias, three different aliases, in fact. And I have two dummy blogs. Since my communication with these publications is via the internet, nobody even knows what I look like.”
“Smart.”
“Thank you.” Her reflection smiled at his. So far, so good. She might make it through the night with no more explanation than that. There was more to tell, but she didn’t want to get involved with Sean. Not again.
He continued. “And you’re also smart to have left Frankie and the other thugs behind in San Francisco. Hazelwood Ranch seems like a safe place to stay until this all dies down.”
Unfortunately, she hadn’t come to visit Aunt Hazel for safety reasons. Her gaze flickered across the surface of the mirror. She didn’t want to tell him.
He leaned closer, whispered in her ear. “What is it, Emily? What do you want to say?”
The words came tumbling out. “Frankie is here in Colorado. The Wynter family has a gated compound over near Aspen. I didn’t come here to give up on my investigation. I need to go deeper.”
He grasped her upper arms. “Leave this to the police.”
From downstairs, there was a scream.
Chapter Three (#ulink_bac79161-6333-535a-81d3-5cfa8a2bf73e)
“Aunt Hazel!”
Though Emily’s immediate reaction was to run toward the sound of the scream, Sean only allowed her to take two steps before he grabbed her around the middle and yanked her so hard that her feet left the floor. This was why he’d been hired.
He dragged her across the bedroom. There was only one thought in his mind: get her to safety. In the attached bathroom, he set her down beside a claw-foot tub.
“Stay here,” he ordered as he drew his gun. “Keep quiet.”
“The hell I will.”
Though he hated to waste time with explanation, she needed to know what was going on. He spoke in a no-nonsense tone. “If there’s been a break-in, they’re after you. If you turn yourself in, we have no leverage. For your Aunt Hazel’s safety, you need to avoid being taken captive.”
“Okay, help her.” Her face flushed red with fear and anger. Her eyes were wild. She pushed at his shoulder with both hands. “Hurry!”
Moving fast, he crossed to her closed bedroom door. He wished he was wearing boots instead of just socks. If he had to go outside, his feet would turn to ice. He paused at the door and mentally ran through the layout of the house. From the upstairs landing, he could see the front door. He’d know if someone had broken in that way.
Sean was confident in his ability to handle one intruder, maybe two. But Frankie Wynter had a lot of thugs at his disposal, and they were loyal; one guy was willing to face a murder rap for the boss’s son. One—or two or more—of them might be standing outside her bedroom door right now.
But he didn’t hear anything. Outside, the snow rattled against the windows. The wind whistled. From downstairs, he heard shuffling noises. A heavy fist rapping at the door? A muffled shout. Sean turned the knob, pulled the door open and braced the gun in his hands, ready to shoot.
There was no one on the upstairs landing.
Emily dashed to his side. “Let me help. Please!”
He’d told her to stay back and she chose to ignore him. Emily was turning into a problem. “Is that tub in the bathroom made of cast iron?”
“It’s antique. Now is not the time for a home tour.”
“Get inside the tub and stay there.” At least, she wouldn’t be hit by a stray bullet.
“I’m coming with you.”
Was she trying to drive him crazy or was this stubborn, infuriating behavior just a part of her natural personality? He couldn’t exactly remember. He’d had damn good reasons for divorcing this woman. “No time to argue. Just accept the fact that I know what I’m doing.”
“I need a gun.”
“What you need is to listen to me.”
“Please, Sean! You always carry two guns. Give one to me.”
He pulled the Glock from his ankle holster and slapped it into her hand. “Do you remember how to use this?”
She recited the rules he’d taught her one golden afternoon six years ago in Big Sur. “Aim and don’t close my eyes. No traditional safety on a Glock, so keep my finger off the trigger until I’m ready. Squeeze—don’t yank.”
“You’ve got the basics.”
He’d treated their lessons like a game and had never insisted that she take his weapon from the combination safe when he was on assignment and she was alone at home. While he was working undercover, he’d worried about her safety, worried that she’d be hurt and it would be his fault. There was a strange irony in the fact that she’d put herself in ten times more danger than he could imagine.
He peered through the open bedroom door onto the upstairs landing where an overhead light shone down on the southwestern decor that dominated the house: a Navajo rug, a rugged side table and a cactus in an earthenware pot. A long hallway led to other bedrooms. The front edge of the landing was a graceful black wrought-iron staircase overlooking the foyer and chandelier by the front door.
Sean peered over the railing.
A menacing silence rose to greet him. He didn’t like the way this was going. Emily’s aunt wasn’t the type of woman who cowered in silence. He gestured for Emily to stay upstairs while he descended.
At the foot of the staircase, he caught a glimpse of flying kimono dragons when Hazel raced across the foyer and skidded to a stop right in front of him.
She glared. “Where the heck is my rifle?”
Looking down from the landing, Emily said, “I moved it to the front closet.”
“I had my gun right by the door,” she said to Sean. “Emily shouldn’t have moved it. Out of sight, out of mind.”
The women in this family simply didn’t grasp what it took to be cautious and safe. They needed ten bodyguards apiece. He rushed Hazel up the stairs, where she hugged Emily. The two of them commiserated as though the threat were over and done with. Had they forgotten that there might be an intruder?
“Hazel,” he barked, “why did you scream?”
