Her Secret Alibi

She shivered. He did that on purpose—said her name that way. “Mr. Ruhl—”

“Simon,” he insisted.

“I don’t think—”

“I do,” he challenged.

Where had that obstinate attitude been last night? Better yet, where was the charming, soft-spoken gentleman she’d met? She resisted the urge to squirm beneath the intensity of his continued gaze, and, to her credit, managed not to look away. Fortunately, Renae walked in just then and shattered the building tension.

“Renae—” Jolie cleared her throat “—this is Simon Ruhl.”

“Renae Martin.” She offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Simon.”

Jolie frowned. Renae had never once called her by her first name. When Simon took Renae’s hand, the woman all but melted into a puddle. Jolie rolled her eyes. Was no one immune to the man’s charm when he chose to turn it on?

“Renae,” Jolie said, drawing her assistant’s reluctant attention. “Mr. Ruhl is conducting a preliminary review in preparation for next month’s audit. I’d like you to introduce him to the department heads and see that he has whatever he needs to complete his work.”

Renae’s smile was wide and appreciative. “I’ll be happy to.” She turned to Simon. “Follow me, sir.”

Simon took one last, lingering look at Jolie, and this time she did squirm. He gave her a final curt nod, then walked out the door. Jolie had the distinct impression that she had just been warned.

SIMON RECEIVED THE GRAND tour of Atlanta’s First International Bank, not that he needed it. He had studied the blueprints already. He knew the place as well as the engineers who had designed and built it. The introductions hadn’t been necessary, either, but he had gone through the motions. He had conducted a thorough background investigation on every employee at the bank. Though Jolie and Boyer were his prime suspects, Simon left nothing to chance. The Bureau had trained him well in that regard. The Colby Agency expected nothing less.

He glanced at his watch. Two o’clock. Boyer was in a meeting with clients. Jolie had seemed pretty nervous an hour ago. Time to rattle her cage again, he decided. Simon strode down the long, carpeted corridor. All the offices, with the exception of the bank president’s, had glass walls facing the hall. He supposed that architectural design fostered an air of trust. Everything was out in the open. Even the conference room provided a full view from the hall as well as the lobby. The rear wall in each vice president’s office was solid glass as well, providing a noteworthy panorama of the Atlanta skyline, but leaving only the partitions between each office to provide any privacy.

Simon paused at Jolie’s open door. He thought about knocking, but decided against it. With her back to him, the telephone tucked between her ear and shoulder, she appeared deeply engrossed in her conversation. Simon walked slowly, soundlessly to her desk.

“No, no, that can’t be right,” she argued with the person on the other end of the line. Jolie sighed in obvious frustration. “Yes, I know that’s what it says. Okay, do you have the hard copy of the receipt?” There was a pause. “I’d like to see it. No, I’m not disputing the payment. I…I was considering going back and couldn’t remember the hotel I stayed in before.”

She was lying. He didn’t have to see her face; he could hear it in her voice. Subtle inflections that the average person wouldn’t notice gave her away.

“No, not for bank business…no.” Another long pause. “A copy will be fine,” she said with clear relief. “Yes, thank you.” Jolie turned around and hung up the phone. Worry was etched across the delicate features of her face. Simon’s gut clenched automatically at the pain he saw there. If he could only get her to come clean with him. It would save him a lot of trouble and quite possibly save her life. His presence finally penetrated her preoccupied state. Her head came up, surprise, then fear registering.

“Planning on taking a trip?” he asked pointedly, pressing her with the precise look he knew undid her composure. Her discomfort was immediate. The satisfaction Simon usually garnered when he knew he had hit his mark was not forthcoming. Yet he remained standing, adding to her mounting distress. He needed her off balance. He told himself repeatedly that last night’s performance had been necessary…but a part of him knew that it had been all too real. It wouldn’t happen again. Maintaining his perspective was far too important to risk any sort of slip.

She licked those full, pouty lips. “I…” She shook her head as if to clear it. “I was checking on a hotel for a friend.” She glanced at her desk, then back up at him. “Was there something you needed?” She frowned. “Renae will—”

“You,” he interrupted smoothly. “I would like to review your computer files now.”

Jolie shot to her feet so fast her chair banged against her credenza. “I haven’t had lunch yet. Could we do that around three?” She was gathering her purse before Simon had a chance to answer.

She was putting him off. He inventoried her posture once more. Putting him off, hell, she was ready to run. Time to move in for the kill, so to speak.

Simon shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “Sure. I missed lunch, too. We can discuss your work history over lunch.”

Her hopes of ditching him dissolved like a sand castle in the evening tide. “We can do that,” she offered hesitantly. “As long as you don’t mind stopping by my place,” she added quickly, her eyes brightening with renewed inspiration. “I have to pick up a quarterly report I left at home.”

Simon smiled. She hoped—no, she prayed, he would bet—that her ruse would deter him. Jolie Randolph was not nearly good enough at playing this game. The stakes were far too high for him to give even one inch. “I’ll drive,” Simon offered, to her utter dismay.

A THOUSAND QUESTIONS flitted through Jolie’s dazed mind on the ride from the bank to her apartment. She had taken a trip to the Caymans. She closed her eyes and drew in a shaky breath. The proof was in her travel folder. She blinked furiously to stem the tears brimming. Oh, God, how was this possible? She had left on Friday morning and returned Monday afternoon. Her own files showed the time away from the office, and the signature on the travel voucher was hers. At least it looked like hers.

Oh God!

Nausea rose in Jolie’s throat. She fought to contain the emotions churning inside her. She felt more than certain that Simon would not appreciate her soiling the interior of his fancy sport utility vehicle. She swallowed, then breathed deeply and slowly. Calm, she had to stay calm. The travel clerk had acted as if it took an Act of Congress to pull Jolie’s three-month-old travel record. She needed to see the actual hotel receipt with her signature. She had apparently failed to keep a copy for the file in her office. The travel office wouldn’t provide her with a copy of the receipt until tomorrow.

And she had to know today.

Jolie had also spent twenty minutes on the telephone getting the details on the one purchase that appeared on her personal credit card during that lost weekend. According to their records, she had evidently purchased a T-shirt in a George Town tourist shop. If that were true, the garment had to be in her apartment somewhere. Jolie stole a glance at Simon. How could she do that with him dogging her every step? She plowed the fingers of one hand through her hair and tried to hang on to her vanishing composure. It wouldn’t do for her to come unglued in Simon’s presence. He knew too much already. And Jolie had the feeling that he suspected her of some wrongdoing, as well. Why else would he be watching her so closely? Trying to shake her up? She closed her eyes. God, what had she done?

“Here we are,” he announced as he parked the car.

Jolie looked from Simon to her building and back. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized she hadn’t given him directions or her address.

“How did you know where I live?” she demanded, trepidation taking all the sternness from her tone.

He gifted her with a little smile that altered only one side of his mouth, yet affected her entire being. “I know where everyone who works at the bank lives.”

“Why?” Her voice sounded strained.

“Because it’s my job,” he told her bluntly, as if that answer should not only be clear to her, but reasonable as well.

Stunned, she watched him get out of the car, walk around the hood and open her door. Who was this man? A suffocating panic tightened her chest. Did she really want to know? Maybe she should just go back to the office and do this later.

No. She had to know now. She couldn’t live a minute longer than necessary with the uncertainty.

The trip to the fourth floor was made without a word spoken and with only the echo of their footfalls in the building’s blandly painted stairwell to break the deafening silence. Forcing a calm she didn’t feel, Jolie unlocked the door to her apartment and pushed it open wide as she hurried inside. “Make yourself at home, Mr. Ruhl, I’ll only be a minute.”

“Nice place,” he remarked nonchalantly.

Jolie didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. Simon Ruhl’s tone might sound casual, but there was absolutely nothing casual about him. She knew that now. He was no doubt already thoroughly appraising the way she lived for inclusion in his report to the board of directors. Her decorating was very contemporary and Spartan, but her purchases were fine quality. Would he take one look at her choice in furnishings and decide she lived above her means? Did they suspect her already?

Did they know about the money?

By the time Jolie reached her bedroom, she was practically running. Drawing a deep breath, she took a moment to collect herself. Five minutes. That’s all it would take for her to check the closet and the drawers. Simon wouldn’t know what she was up to. He would be too busy analyzing her lifestyle, weighing it against her annual salary. She rushed to the walk-in closet and riffled through the contents. She checked her entire hanging wardrobe twice.

Nothing.

She moved back to the center of the room and took stock. It had to be here somewhere. If she had given it to Erica, her friend would have worn it at least once. Her father would certainly have done the same. Jolie had never seen any such shirt. That meant it had to be hidden somewhere.

She checked her watch and swore. Six minutes had passed. She had to hurry. Her hysteria rising with each passing second, she jerked first one, then another drawer open. She inspected the contents as quickly as possible, tossing to the floor whatever got in her way. Lingerie, hose, sweaters, socks. No T-shirt sporting a Cayman Islands logo.

Damn it, she had to find it. Jolie tunneled her fingers through her hair and surveyed the mess she had made. Her eyes latched on to the night table near the bed and its two unopened drawers. She rushed to the bed and dropped to her knees. The top drawer held magazines, tissues and aspirin. Frustrated now, she jerked the bottom drawer a bit harder than necessary. It pulled all the way out and overturned, its contents spilling across the beige carpet.

This was useless, she ruminated as she stuffed two scarves and a Georgia Bulldogs cap back into the drawer. She paused when she reached for the last item on the floor—a neatly folded white T-shirt. Everything inside her stilled, and she didn’t even breathe. Almost in slow motion she reached out and picked up the cotton garment. She shook out the folds, and something fluttered to the floor, but Jolie couldn’t take her eyes off the screen-printed blue sky and matching blue waters, the sandy beach and brilliant disc of golden sun.

She shook her head in defeat. This couldn’t be. There had to be some mistake. The T-shirt fell to the floor as her now limp hands dropped into her lap. What was she going to do? Something white on the carpet drew her splintered attention. It was an elegantly embossed business card. Frowning, she picked it up and read the printed words. “J. L. Millard, First Royal Cayman Bank.” A telephone number was listed beneath the name.

Panic snaked around Jolie’s neck and tightened. She had stolen her clients’ money. She had taken a trip, purchased touristy stuff…spent the night with a stranger. And she had no memory of any of it.

“There’s a call for you from the bank.”

Jolie jerked around. Simon loomed in her bedroom doorway. There was no way he could miss the fact that she had trashed the room in an obvious search for something.

She placed the business card on her night table and scrambled to her feet. “A call?” she echoed with rising hysteria. “I didn’t hear the phone.” Jolie ran her damp palms over her jacket, pretending to straighten it, then glanced at the cordless extension on the table by the bed. Had she turned off the ringer and forgotten?

Simon simply stared at her in that intent, unnerving way of his. “It’s Renae,” he said carefully.

“I’ll get it in the living room,” she suggested as calmly as her churning emotions would allow. Summoning her courage, Jolie took a step in his direction. She had to get out of here, away from him.

“Did you find your report?”

Jolie clenched and unclenched her fists. Her fingers were numb. She felt lightheaded. “No,” she said tightly as she forced one foot in front of the other until she had crossed the room. She paused at the door, waiting for him to step aside.

One second turned to five before he moved, and her heart pounded at least three times for each one. She started forward again, but his arm went up across the doorway, blocking her path once more. Jolie fought the fear that was building steadily inside her, tugging at her flimsy controls.

“Jolie, if there’s something wrong, you can tell me,” he said softly.

“I need to get that call,” she announced, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. She trembled in spite of herself. “They probably need me back at the bank.”

He was closer now, leaning into her. She felt his warm breath on her hair. “I’m very good at solving problems, Jolie.”

She closed her eyes and sucked in a sharp breath as the remaining threads holding her together stretched even thinner. Images, voices, emotions all ran together inside her head. Her legs felt too weak to hold her up. She wanted to run, to hide, but didn’t have the strength. Jolie could only stand there and pray she would wake up from this nightmare soon. Then, summoning every ounce of resolve she could, she forced her eyes open and manufactured the firmest glare she could aim in his direction. “Would you just let me through, please?”

“All right.” He relented what seemed a lifetime later. “If you’re certain there’s nothing you want to talk about.”