Secrets and Desire: Best-Kept Lies / Miss Pruitt's Private Life / Secrets, Lies...and Passion

She was through arguing for the moment. No doubt Striker had been in more than his share of tight situations. If he really felt it was necessary to take her and her son and hide out for a while, so be it. She zipped the bag closed and ripped a suede jacket from its hanger. Was it her imagination or did it smell slightly of cigarette smoke?

Now she was getting paranoid. No one had been wearing her jacket. That was nuts.

Gritting her teeth, she fought the sensation that she’d been violated, that an intruder had pried into her private space. “I assume you’ve got some kind of plan.”

“Yep.” He straightened, the boots properly bagged.

“And that you’re going to share it with me.”

“Not yet.”

“You can’t tell me?”

“Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Oh, right, keep the little woman in the dark. That’s always a great idea,” she said sarcastically. “This isn’t the Dark Ages, Striker.”

If possible, his lips compressed even further. His mouth was the thinnest of lines, his jaw set, his expression hard as nails. And then she got it. Why he was being so tight-lipped. “Wait a minute. What do you think? That this place is bugged?”

When he didn’t answer, she shook her head. Disbelieving. “No way.”

He threw her a look that cut her to the bone. “Let’s get a move on.”

She didn’t argue, just dug through the drawers of her dresser and threw some essentials into her bag, then grabbed her purse.

Within minutes they were inside Kurt’s truck and roaring out of the parking lot. Yesterday’s rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, gray clouds moving slowly inland from the Pacific. Randi stared out the window, but her mind was racing. Could Sam have found out about Joshua? It was possible, of course, that he’d somehow learned she’d had a baby, but she doubted he would do the math to figure out if he was the kid’s father. The truth of the matter was that he just didn’t give a damn. Never had. She drummed her fingers against window.

“I don’t know why you think just because Donahue’s in town that Joshua’s not safe. If he drove by, it was probably just a fluke, a coincidence. Believe me, Sam Donahue wouldn’t give two cents that he fathered another kid.” She leaned against the passenger door as Kurt inched the pickup through the tangle of thick traffic.

“A truck belonging to Donahue has cruised by Sharon Okano’s apartment complex twice this afternoon. Not just once. I wouldn’t call that a coincidence. Would you?”

“No.” Her throat went dry, her fingers curled into balls of tension.

“Already checked the plates with the DMV. That’s what tipped Brown off, the license plates were from out of state. Montana.”

Randi’s entire world cracked. She fingered the chain at her throat. “But he’s rarely there, in Montana,” she heard herself saying as if from a long distance away. “And I didn’t tell him about Joshua.”

“Doesn’t matter what you told him. He could have found out easy enough. He has ties to Grand Hope. Parents, an ex-wife or two. Gossip travels fast. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to count back nine months from the date your baby was born.” Striker managed to nose the truck onto the freeway where he accelerated for less than a mile, then slammed on the brakes as traffic stopped and far in the distance lights from a police car flashed bright.

“Great,” Striker muttered, forcing the truck toward the next exit. He pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket and poked in a number. A few seconds later, he said, “Look, we’re caught in traffic. An accident northbound. It’s gonna be a while. Stay where you are and call me if the rig goes by or if there’s any sign of Donahue.”

Randi listened and tried not to panic. So Sam Donahue was in the area. It wasn’t as if he never came to Seattle. Hadn’t she hooked up with him here, in a bar on the waterfront? She’d been doing research on her book and had realized through the wonders of the Internet that he’d been in a rodeo competition in Oregon and was traveling north on his way to Alberta, Canada. She’d e-mailed him, met him for a drink and the rest was history.

“Good. Just keep an eye out. We’ll be there ASAP.” Striker snapped the phone shut and slid a glance in her direction. “Donahue hasn’t been back.”

“Maybe I should call him.”

A muscle in Kurt’s jaw leaped as he glared through the windshield. “And why the hell would you want to do that?”

“To find out what he’s doing in town.”

Striker’s eyes narrowed. “You’d call up the guy who’s trying to kill you.”

“We don’t know that he’s trying to kill me.” She shook her head and leaned the back of her crown against the seat rest. “It doesn’t make sense. Even if he knew about Joshua, Sam wouldn’t want anything to do with him.”

“So why did you two break up—wait a minute, let’s start with how you got together.”

“I’d always wanted to write a book and my brothers had not only glamorized the whole rodeo circuit but they had also told me about the seedy side. There were illegal wagers, lots of betting. Some contestants would throw a competition, others drugged their horses, or their competitors’ mounts. The animals—bulls, calves, horses—were sometimes mistreated. It’s a violent sport, one that attracts macho men and competitive women moving from one town to the next. There are groupies and bar fights and prescription and recreational drug abuse. A lot of these cowboys live in pain and there’s the constant danger of being thrown and trampled or gored or crushed. High passion. I thought it would make for interesting reading, so, while interviewing people, I came across Sam Donahue.” Her tongue nearly tripped on his name. “He grew up in Grand Hope, knew my brothers, was even on the circuit with Matt. I started interviewing him, one thing led to another and…well, the rest, as they say, is history.”

“How’d you find him?”

“I read about a local rodeo, down towards Centralia. He was entered, so I got his number, gave him a call and agreed to meet him for a drink. My brothers didn’t much like him but I found him interesting and charming. We had a connection in that we both grew up in Montana, and I was coming off a bad relationship, so we hit it off. In retrospect, I’d probably say it was a mistake, except for the fact that I ended up with Joshua. My son is worth every second of heartache I suffered.”

“What kind of heartache?” Striker asked, his jaw rock hard.

She glanced through the window, avoiding his eyes. “Oh, you know. The kind where you find out that the last ex-wife wasn’t quite an ex. Sam had never quite gotten around to signing the divorce papers.” She felt a fool for having believed the lying son of a bitch. She’d known better. She was a journalist, for crying out loud. She should have checked him out, seen the warning signs, because she’d always made a point of dating men who were completely single—not engaged, not separated, not seriously connected with any woman. But she’d failed with Sam Donahue, believing him when he’d lied and said he’d been separated two years, divorced for six months.

Striker was easing the truck past the accident where the driver of a tow truck was winching a mangled Honda onto its bed and a couple of police officers were talking with two men near the twisted front end of a minivan of some kind. A paramedic truck was parked at an angle and two officers were talking with several boys in baseball hats who appeared unhurt but shaken. As soon as the truck was past the accident, traffic cleared and Striker pushed the speed limit again.

“So you didn’t know he was married.”

“Right,” she replied, but couldn’t stop the heat from washing up the back of her neck. She’d been a fool. “I knew that he was divorced from his first wife, Corrine. Patsy was his second wife. Might still be for all I know. Once I found out he was still married I was outta there.” With one finger she drew on the condensation on the passenger-door window.

“You loved him.” There it was. The statement she’d withdrawn from; the one she couldn’t face.

Striker’s fingers were coiled in a death grip around the steering wheel, as if somehow her answer mattered to him.

“I thought I loved him, but…even while we were seeing each other, I knew it wasn’t right. There was something off.” It was hard to explain that tumble of emotions. “The trouble was, by the time I’d figured it out, I was pregnant.”

“So you decided to keep the baby and the secret.”

“Yes,” she admitted, strangely relieved to unburden herself as Striker took an off-ramp and cut through the neighborhood where Sharon Okano’s apartment was located. She hesitated about telling him the rest of the story, but decided to trust him with the truth. “Along with the fact that Sam didn’t tell me he was married, he also failed to mention that he and some of his friends had actually drugged a competitor’s animals just before the competition. One bull reacted violently, injuring himself and his rider. The Brahman had to be put down, but not before throwing the rider and trampling him. The cowboy survived, but barely. Ended up with broken ribs, a shattered wrist, crushed pelvis and punctured spleen.”

“So why wasn’t Donahue arrested?”

“Not enough proof. No one saw him do it. He and his friends came up with an alibi.” She glanced at Striker as he pulled into a parking space at Sharon’s apartment building. “He never admitted drugging the bull, and I’m really not sure that it wasn’t one of his buddies who actually did the injecting, but I’m sure that he was behind it. Just a gut feeling and the way he talked about the incident.” She mentally chastised herself for being such a fool, and stared out the passenger window. “I’d already decided not to see him anymore and then, on top of all that, I discovered he was still married. Nice, huh?”

Striker cut the engine. “Not very.”

“I know.” The old pain cut deep, but she wasn’t about to break down. Not in front of this man; not in front of anyone. Her jaw slid to one side. “Man, can I pick ’em.”

Kurt touched her shoulder. “Just for the record, Randi. You deserve better than Donahue.” She glanced his way and found him staring at her. His gaze scraped hers and beneath the hard facade, hidden in his eyes, a sliver of understanding, a tiny bit of empathy. “Come on. Let’s go get your kid.” He offered her the hint of a smile, then his grin faded quickly and the moment, that instant of connection, passed.

Her silly heart wrenched, and tears, so close to the surface, threatened.

She was out of the truck in a flash, taking the stairs to the upper-story unit two at a time. Suddenly frantic to see her baby, she pounded on the door. Sharon, a petite woman, answered. In her arms was Joshua. Blinking as if he’d just woken up from a nap, his fuzz of red-blond hair sticking straight up, he wiggled at the sight of her. Randi’s heart split into a million pieces at the sight of her son. The tears she’d been fighting filled her eyes.

“Hey, big guy,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“He missed you,” Sharon said as she transferred the baby into Randi’s hungry arms.

“Not half as bad as I missed him.” Randi was snuggling her son, wrapped up in the wonder of holding him, smelling the baby shampoo in his hair and listening to the little coo that escaped those tiny lips, when she heard a quiet cough behind her. “Oh…this is Kurt Striker. Sharon Okano. Kurt is a friend of my brother Slade’s.” With an arch of her eyebrow, she added, “All of my brothers decided to hire him as, if you’ll believe this, my personal bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?” Sharon’s eyebrows lifted a bit. “How serious is this trouble you’re in?”

“Serious enough, I guess. Kurt thinks it would be best if we kept the baby with us.”

“Whatever you want.” Sharon gently touched Joshua’s cheek. “He’s adorable, you know. I’m not sure that if you left him here much longer I could ever give him up.”

“You need one of your own.”

“But first, a man, I think,” Sharon said. “They seem to be a necessary part of the equation.” She glanced at Kurt, but Randi ignored the innuendo. She didn’t need a man to help raise her son. She’d do just fine on her own.

They didn’t stay long. While the women were packing Joshua’s things, Kurt asked Sharon if she’d had any strange phone calls or visitors. When Sharon reported that nothing out of the ordinary had happened, Kurt called his partner and within fifteen minutes, Randi, Kurt and Joshua, tucked into his car seat, were on the road and heading east out of Seattle. The rain had started, a deep steady mist, and Striker had flipped on the wipers.

“You’re still not going to tell me where we’re going?” she asked.

“Inland.”

“I know that much, but where exactly?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she said, “I have a job to do. Remember? I can’t be gone indefinitely.” She glanced at her watch, scowled as it was after three, then dug in her purse, retrieved her cell phone and punched out the numbers for the Clarion. Within a minute she was connected to Bill Withers’s voice mail and left a quick message, indicating she had a family emergency and vowing she would e-mail a couple of new columns. As she hung up, she said, “I don’t know how much of that Withers will buy, but it should give us a couple of days.”

“Maybe that’s all we’ll need.” He sped around a fuel truck, but his voice lacked conviction.

“Listen, Striker, we’ve got to nail this creep and soon,” Randi said as the wipers slapped away the rain. “I need my life back.”

The look he sent her sliced into her soul. “So do I.”

The bitch wouldn’t get away with it.

Three cars behind Striker’s truck, gloved hands tight over the steering wheel, the would-be killer drove carefully, coming close to the pickup, then backing off, listening to a CD from the eighties as red taillights blurred. Jon Bon Jovi’s voice wailed through the speakers and the stalker licked dry lips as the pickup cut across the floating bridge, over the steely waters of Lake Washington. Who knew where they were headed? To the suburbs of upscale Bellevue? Or somewhere around Lake Sammamish? Maybe farther into the forested hills. Even the Cascade Mountains.

Whatever.

It didn’t matter.

Sweet vengeance brought a smile to the stalker’s lips.

Randi McCafferty’s destination was about to become her final resting place.

Nine

“Get the baby ready,” Kurt said as he took an exit off the freeway. Glancing in the rearview mirror to be certain he wasn’t followed, he doubled back, heading west, only to get off at the previous stop and drive along a frontage heading toward Seattle again.

“What are we doing?” Randi asked.

“Changing vehicles.” Carefully he timed the stoplights, making certain he was the last vehicle through the two intersections before turning down one street and pulling into a gas station.

“What? Why?”

“I’m not taking any chances that we’re being followed.”

“You saw someone?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Just make it fast and jump into that brown SUV.” He nodded toward the back of the station to a banged-up vehicle with tinted windows and zero chrome. The SUV was completely nondescript, the fenders and tires splattered with mud. “It belongs to a friend of mine,” Striker said. “He’s waiting. He’ll drive the truck.”

“This is nuts,” Randi muttered, but she unstrapped the baby seat and pulled it, along with Joshua, from the truck.

“I don’t think so.”

Quickly, as Randi did as she was told, Striker topped off his tank.

Eric was waiting for them. He’d been talking on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette, but spying Striker, tossed the cigarette into a puddle and gave a quick wave. Ending his call, he helped Randi load up, then traded places with Kurt. The entire exchange had taken less than a minute. Seconds after that, Kurt was in the driver’s seat of the Jeep, heading east again.

“I don’t think I can stand all of this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” Randi complained, and even in the darkness he saw the outline of her jaw, the slope of her cheek, the purse of those incredible lips. Good Lord, she was one helluva woman. Intriguingly beautiful, sexy as hell, smarter than she needed to be and endowed with a tongue sharp enough to cut through a strong man’s ego.

“Sure you can.”

“Whatever my brothers are paying you, it’s not enough.”

“That’s probably true.” He glanced at her once more, then turned his attention to the road. Night had fallen, but the rain had let up a bit. His tires sang on the wet pavement and the rumble of the SUV’s engine was smooth and steady. The baby was quiet in the back seat, and for the first time in years Kurt felt a little sensation of being with family. Which was ridiculous. The woman was a client, the child just part of the package. He told himself to remember that. No matter what else. He was her bodyguard. His job was to keep her alive and find out who was trying to kill her.

Nothing more.

What about the other night at the ranch? his damning mind taunted. Remember how much you wanted her, how you went about seducing her? How can you forget the thrill of slipping her robe off her shoulders and unveiling those incredible breasts. What about the look of surprise and wonder in her eyes, or the soft, inviting curve of her lips as you kissed the hollow of her throat. Think about the raw need that drove you to untie the belt at her waist. The robe gave way, the nightgown followed and she was naked aside from a slim gold chain and locket at her throat. You didn’t waste any time kicking off your jeans. You wanted her, Striker. More than you’ve ever wanted a woman in your life. You would have died to have her and you did, didn’t you? Over and over again. Feeling her heat surround you, listening to the pounding of your heart and feeling your blood sing through your veins. You were so hot and hard, nothing could have stopped you. What about then, when you gave in to temptation?

The back of his neck tightened as he remembered and his inner voice continued to taunt him.

If you can convince yourself that Randi McCafferty is just another client, then you’re a bigger fool than you know.

* * *

It was late by the time the Jeep bounced along the rocky, mossy ruts that constituted the driveway to what could only be loosely called a cabin. Set deep in the forest and barricaded by a locked gate to which Kurt had miraculously had the key, the place was obviously deserted and had been for a long time. Randi shuddered inwardly as the Jeep’s headlights illuminated the sorry little bungalow. Tattered shades were drawn over the windows, rust was evident in the few downspouts that were still connected to the gutters, and the moss-covered roof sagged pitifully.

“You sure you don’t want to look for a Motel 6?” she asked. “Even a Motel 2 would be an improvement over this.”

“Not yet.” Kurt had already pulled on the emergency brake and cut the engine. “Think of it as rustic.”

“Right. Rustic. And quaint.” She shook her head.

“This used to be the gatekeeper’s house when this area was actively being logged,” he explained.

“And now?” She stepped out of the Jeep and her boots sank in the soggy loam of the forest floor.

“It’s been a while since the cabin’s been inhabited.”

“A long while, I’d guess. Come on, baby, it’s time to check out our new digs.” She hauled Joshua in his carrier up creaky porch steps as Kurt, with the aid of a flashlight and another key, opened a door that creaked as it swung inward.

Kurt tried a light switch. Nothing. Just a loud click. “Juice isn’t turned on, I guess.”

“Fabulous.”

He found a lantern and struck a match. Immediately the room was flooded with a soft golden glow that couldn’t hide the dust, cobwebs and general malaise of the place. The floor was scarred fir, the ceiling pine was stained where rainwater had seeped inside and it smelled of must and years of neglect.

“Home sweet home,” she cracked.

“For the time being.” But Kurt was already stalking through the small rooms, running his flashlight along the floor and ceiling. “We won’t have electricity, but we’ll manage.”

“So no hot water, light or heat.”

“But a woodstove and lanterns. We’ll be okay.”

“What about a bathroom?”

He shook his head. “There’s an old pump on the porch and, if you’ll give me a minute—” he looked in a few cupboards and closets before coming up with a bucket “—voila! An old fashioned Porta Potti.”

“Give me a break,” she muttered.

“Come on, you’re a McCafferty. Rustic living should be a piece of cake.”

“Let me give you a clue, Striker. This is waaaay beyond rustic.”

“I heard you were a tomboy growing up.”

“Slade talks too much.”

“Probably. But you used to camp all the time.”

“In the summers. I was twelve or thirteen.”

“It’s like riding a bike. You never forget how.”

“We’ll see.” But she didn’t complain as they hauled in equipment that had been loaded into the Jeep. Sleeping bags, canned goods, a cooler for fresh food, cooking equipment, paper plates, propane stove, towels and toilet paper. “You thought this through.”

“I just told Eric to pack the essentials.”

“What about a phone?”

“Our cells should work.”

Scrounging in her purse, she found her phone, yanked it out and turned it on. The back-lit message wasn’t encouraging. “Looking for service,” she read aloud, and watched as the cell failed to find a signal. “Hopefully yours is stronger.”

He flashed her a grin that seemed to sizzle in the dim light. “I already checked. It works.”

“So what about a phone jack to link up my laptop?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Looks like you’re out of luck unless you’ve got one of those wireless hookups.”

“Not a prayer.”

“Then you’ll have to be out of touch for a while.”

“Great,” she muttered. “I don’t suppose it matters that I could lose my job over this.”

“Better than your life.”

She was about to reply, when the baby began to cry. Quickly, Randi mixed formula with some of the bottled water she’d brought, then pulled off dust cloths from furniture that looked as if it was in style around the end of World War II. Joshua was really cranking it up by the time Randi plopped herself into a rocking chair and braced herself for the sound of scurrying feet as mice skittered out from the old cushions. Fortunately, as she settled into the chair, no protesting squeaks erupted, nor did any little scurrying rodent make a mad dash to the darker corners. With the baby’s blanket wrapped around him, she fed her son and felt a few seconds’ relaxation as his wails subsided and he ate hungrily from the bottle. There was a peace to holding her baby, a calm that kept her fears and worries at bay. He looked up at her as he ate, and in those precious, bonding moments, she never once doubted that her affair with Sam Donahue was worth every second of her later regrets.

Kurt was busy checking the flue, starting a fire in an antique-looking woodstove. Once the fire was crackling, he rocked back on his heels and dusted his hands. She tried not to notice how his jacket stretched at the shoulders or the way his jeans fit snug around his hips and buttocks. Nor did she want to observe that his hair fell in an unruly lock over his forehead, or that his cheekbones were strong enough to hint at some long-forgotten Native American heritage.

He was too damn sexy for his own good.

As if sensing her watching him, he straightened slowly and she was given a bird’s-eye view of his long back as he stretched, then walked to a black beat-up leather case and unzipped it. Out came a laptop computer complete with wireless connection device.

He glanced over his shoulder, his green eyes glinting in amusement.

“You could have said something,” she charged.