Elizabeth Goddard - Freezing Point

No. This insane fear of Tannin had to stop right now.

Again, he glanced behind her, deep lines of concern creasing his brow. She followed the guy into the corridor and then into an empty office. She figured he was escorting her somewhere “safe” to talk.

Once inside, she turned around to face him. He was closing the door. “Wait a minute. What are you doing?”

He ran a hand down his face. “The question is who are you and what were you doing trespassing?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he had her there. “My name is Casey Wilkes. I’m a reporter here to do a story on the ice sculptor. That’s all.” She cringed inside. Since she was trying to fall off the grid, she’d have to remember to use her recently assumed pen name, Carson Williams.

While he appeared to contemplate her words, she studied him. If they’d met on different terms, she might have found him attractive. Scratch that. Regardless of the terms, he was good-looking. Thick dark hair, troubled but intense blue eyes and a strong clean-shaven jaw. She’d experienced firsthand that he was strong and muscular. Heat crawled up her neck.

Casey blew out a breath.

For a moment, she thought his expression might have softened but it hardened again. “A reporter, huh? That still gives you no right—”

“I’m sorry. I got lost and ended up on the loading dock. Why don’t you just ask me to leave?”

“All right. Would you please leave?”

Something about his actions weren’t tracking, but Casey didn’t want to leave. Not really. She’d come here for a reason. She stomped to the door and placed her hand on the knob.

He put his hand over hers, sending a warm shudder through her. She yanked it back.

“Not so fast,” he said.

“You can’t keep me here.” Her defiant words mocked her. He could, actually, and that scared her.

This time his gaze softened. “Look, if you want an interview with the ice sculptor, all you have to do is ask.”

Casey felt like an idiot. He was right, and she wanted to explain, to start over. “The receptionist sent me back to look for him. But he wasn’t in the studio, so …”

His mouth quirked in a grin and he crossed his arms, leaning against the door. She’d bet that was on purpose. “So, you thought you’d explore. What could it hurt, right? You might uncover the scoop of the century.”

She hadn’t gotten where she was today … Queasiness swirled inside. Where exactly was she today in her rising career as an investigative reporter?

Running for her life.

Still, his playful tone managed to bring a smile to the corner of her mouth. “Something like that.” She wanted to kick herself. Oh, I am not responding to his flirting! Nix this.

He thrust his hand out. “I’m Jesse Dufour, the ice sculptor.”

Casey stared for a full fifteen seconds, she was sure. “You’re the sculptor?”

“That’s right.”

Her hands flew to her hair, and she ran her fingers through, making sure it was in place. She hated herself for primping in front of him.

He smiled, revealing not one, but two dimples in each cheek. She needed a diversion and started to reach for her bag. “My purse. I must have left it …”

He frowned a little too much for Casey’s comfort. What was going on here?

“Promise me you’ll stay here, and I’ll give you that interview. I’m going to retrieve your bag.”

She opened her mouth to ask him what was so dangerous about the loading dock. Why did she get the feeling he was sneaking around? Then she thought better of it, offering him a soft smile. “I promise.”

That seemed to reassure him because he sent her a quick nod and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Mr. Jesse Dufour had just tangled with the wrong woman. The wrong reporter. Except, she couldn’t go there. Not now. Not after everything that had happened after writing that exposé about Will. At least not until the trouble she’d stirred up had died down.

She’d come here today to meet the company’s ice sculptor, arrange an interview, a simple story to fill newspaper space. Still, in her experience, simple stories weren’t always that easy and this one had already grown complicated. She’d proven herself good enough at stirring up trouble. Maybe she could be equally as good at staying out of it. One simple story and she’d have this job.

An interview with the ice sculptor and coverage of the upcoming competition. That’s all.

To that end, she’d have to ignore all the signals that there was something a little threatening going on here. Forget the look that could kill from the man on his cell. Forget that Jesse Dufour’s strange demeanor and worried frown only intensified the sense of suspicion in her gut. This could mean a much deeper story. Adrenaline coursed through her. This could be her chance to get her life back—under a different name.

Or, she could lose her life completely. Hadn’t she just driven over a thousand miles to escape a man who wanted her dead? Digging into his life for a story had been a mistake. But how could she have known?

Casey sighed and tugged the chair from the desk, plopping down.

It would be hard, but this time—if there was a story—Casey would let the truth lie buried. She had enough trouble already.

Jesse exited the room and stepped into the corridor, easing the door shut behind him. He prayed she would stay put but wasn’t sure God would listen to the likes of him.

Hopefully, the woman hadn’t just blown six months of work.

Because he’d had to stand idly by and watch people abused too many times at the hands of those he investigated, he reassured himself that he was justified in removing her, albeit a little brusquely. It could end up saving her life. But he’d created a new problem, because now he’d assured her an interview. What might she uncover about him? His real name, Jesse Mitchell?

He sighed and shoved open the door to the loading dock to retrieve her bag, hoping he’d find it before anyone else.

Carlos stood with Miguel, holding up a woman’s shiny black bag—big enough that it could have been a briefcase—and scowling. Jesse meandered toward them, forcing a lazy grin as he formulated a cover story plus a back-up plan in case they didn’t buy it.

Carlos dropped the bag to his side a little behind him and postured to block Jesse. “You know something about this?”

Jesse smiled and reached around Carlos for the bag, never taking his gaze from the man’s eyes. “Sure, a woman got lost. I escorted her out. What? You’ve been looking for a bag just like this one? You want to keep it?”

Carlos and Miguel eyed each other then burst out laughing.

Miguel slapped Jesse on the back and squeezed his neck. Jesse couldn’t afford to show his relief. He needed to keep his cool like he hadn’t been concerned to begin with. Unlike how he’d handled the reporter.

“That’s why I like you, Jesse. You make me laugh.”

Over the past few months, Jesse and Miguel had become friends. Miguel called them brothers. Just another reason for Jesse’s gut to sour every day. Growing close to people, becoming like family, then turning traitor on them was a tough gig.

Jesse held up the bag and laughed, too. “You want to look inside?” He feared they might already have done that, but then again, if she’d carried some sort of recording device or anything reporter-looking, they’d be having a different conversation right now.

“Nah. What do you think, I’m a criminal?” With that Miguel laughed again, mischief in his eyes. “Hey, Elena wants you over for dinner again. You like her cooking, sí? ”

Jesse scratched his chin as though he’d have to contemplate his answer. Miguel narrowed his eyes. Jesse allowed a broad smile. “You know I do.”