Dani Sinclair - Return To Stony Ridge

He ran around the side of the house and started down the drive. There was still too much lightning in the air for comfort, but he spotted the glint of chrome after a brilliant flash that wasn’t as close as most had been. The small car was mired in the mud under the trees all right. Well and truly stuck.

Texas plates. He whistled under his breath. She was a long way from Texas. And he didn’t know anyone from that part of the country. What was this all about? The car was locked. A purse and a pair of night-vision goggles sat on the front seat.

Not exactly standard equipment for any of the women he knew. There was also a blanket and pillow on the back seat and a tidy bag of what looked like trash on the floor.

Now why would a woman come looking for him with a gun and a pair of night-vision goggles? This made no sense, but there was only one way to get any answers. He hurried back around the house and got the generator started. For once, it purred to life without argument.

The mudroom was empty as he stepped back inside. Her jacket dripped from a hook. Nice to see she was making herself at home. He hung his beside it and checked her pocket.

“I kept the gun,” she told him.

“Figured as much.”

Unrepentant, he turned. Suddenly he was aware that his chest was bare and dripping wet. She’d used the towel to wrap her hair turban-style, but the black, long-sleeved turtleneck she’d worn under her jacket was nearly as wet as her coat. Wet enough to cling like a second skin, outlining lush curves. There were dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted.

He turned to the clothes dryer. He did not want to feel sorry for her. He wanted to cling to his anger, but something about her made that difficult. Pulling out a black T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, he glanced up at her.

“I have extras if you want something dry to wear. They’ll be big, but better than wet clothes.”

“I have a suitcase in my car,” she told him.

“Good. When the storm stops, you can get it.”

She frowned, watching as he used another towel to dry his hair and pat his chest dry.

“I’m about to drop my pants, so unless you want the full show, you might want to step back in the kitchen.”

The air charged with electricity more potent than the sky outside. Color suffused her cheeks. Without a word, she backed out of sight. R.J. grinned and stripped quickly, toweling himself thoroughly before donning the clean outfit.

She wasn’t beautiful, though she was pretty in a wholesome sort of way that definitely didn’t go with the gun. And while she intrigued him, he was in no mood to play games with strangers, pretty or otherwise.

He tugged his softball sweatshirt off the hook and found her standing in the middle of the kitchen, next to Lucky, looking lost.

“Here. You look cold. It’s not freshly laundered like the stuff in the dryer, but it’s warm.” Hesitantly, she accepted the sweatshirt. “There’s a bathroom off the kitchen that backs to this laundry room.”

“I know.”

So she’d done some exploring while he’d been outside. “Looking for more weapons?”

“Do you have some?”

Under other circumstances, he would have come back with a teasing rejoinder, but tonight he was all out of humor.

“If you decide to change, you can throw your wet stuff in the dryer,” he told her gruffly.

She didn’t reply and he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

He crossed to the gas stove and put the kettle on. A powerful gust of wind shook the old farmhouse. Aware of her standing there looking a bit uncertain, he pulled out a box of vanilla wafers. Instantly, Lucky appeared at his side.

“These aren’t for you, dog.”

His stubby tail wagged and Lucky offered a wide doggy grin. Before the woman even moved, R.J. sensed she’d made up her mind. Without a word, she went back into the laundry room and he heard the dryer open.

Satisfied, he relaxed and put the cookies on a plate. Then he set about preparing a couple of mugs of hot chocolate. Barefoot, he padded into the living room, mindful of the littered floor. After starting a fire in the fireplace, he set up a couple of TV trays. Lucky stayed with him, hoping a cookie or two might find their way to the floor.

“All you think about is your stomach, dog.”

Lucky woofed agreement. R.J. was aware that the woman had gone into the bathroom. He carried the mugs of chocolate into the living room and waited. A few minutes later, he heard her start the clothes dryer.

“I hope you like marshmallows in your chocolate,” he said when she came in, surveyed the room and perched uneasily on the edge of the couch across from him. The couch was closer to the fireplace. He figured she probably needed the warmth it would offer once the fire caught properly.

She wore a pair of his sweatpants beneath his old sweatshirt. He assumed she’d donned the clean T-shirt as well. She really did look exhausted. And ill at ease.

“What did you do with the gun?”

Her hand automatically went to her waist. “Why?”

“I like to keep track of things like guns in my house, lady. Lucky’s a gentle animal, but he takes a dim view of anyone trying to harm the person who fills his food bowl.”

Lucky gazed up at him hopefully, tongue lolling. Her color heightened, but she didn’t apologize. He sort of liked that about her.

“Stop calling me lady.”

“Fine. Give me a name.”

“Teri.”

“Just Teri?”

“For now.”

And he sort of liked that, as well. She might be tired and scared, but she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.

“Okay. We’ve established that I’m R.J. Monroe and you came here to see me. I’m guessing you don’t want your house redone in the middle of the night, so what can I do for you?”

TERI HESITATED a second before meeting his gaze. She had the strongest urge to tell him she was Corey’s aunt and all she wanted was her nephew. But the sense of suppressed violence in him stilled the words.

“Tell me what you did with Valerie and Corey,” she demanded instead.

R.J. paused in the act of lifting a cookie. Of all the things he’d expected her to say, apparently, that hadn’t been one of them.

“What does a woman from Texas want with Valerie and her son?” he asked slowly.

A flare of panic turned her hot, then cold. “How do you know I’m from Texas?”

“License plate on your car.”

So that was what had taken him so long outside. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d check out her car, but she’d locked it. She was pretty sure she’d locked it. So she told herself it didn’t matter and lifted her chin.

“Where are they?”

“Why should I tell you?”

She decided she didn’t like him. He was too handsome, too arrogant and more than a little intimidating. And he knew it, too. He was deliberately baiting her. On the other hand, she needed his cooperation.

“We don’t have time for games, Mr. Monroe. I’m a private investigator. Lester Boyington knows his wife came here to meet you. He found your e-mail about Heartskeep.”

Watching him closely, she saw his jaw harden as his body tensed.

“If he gets to her,” she added firmly, “he’ll kill her.”

He tossed the uneaten cookie to Lucky who snapped it out of the air and waited hopefully for more.

The man didn’t look at the animal. His gaze remained fastened on hers. It took real effort not to squirm under that steady stare.

“And you know this because…?”

Anger made her snap at him. “Because I broke into their house early this morning and found your e-mail on their computer. I half hoped it was a false trail she’d laid for Lester to follow. But it wasn’t, was it?”