Meryl Sawyer - Play Dead

She quickly showered and brushed out her tangled hair. The situation didn’t call for makeup, she assured herself, but she brushed a little mascara on her eyelashes. She walked out of the guest quarters toward the kitchen area, now smelling bacon as well as coffee. Her stomach rumbled.

Ryan stood at the counter, his head tilted forward. Seen in profile, his nose and jawline appeared even more chiseled than they had last night. A hairline fracture in her self-composure opened and a knot of pure sensation formed in her chest. Last night had not been a reaction to her grim plight. Sexy didn’t begin to describe him. Ryan Hollister was an extremely appealing guy.

The faded blue T-shirt he was wearing emphasized shoulders even wider than she’d remembered. Well-washed navy sweatpants hung low on his narrow hips. She was fairly certain he wasn’t wearing anything beneath them. He had a great butt—tight, well rounded. At the thought, she felt herself blushing. Why? She rarely blushed.

Mentally she gave herself a hard shake. You’re in terrible trouble. Forget Ryan is a hottie . She was grateful for his protection. Nothing more.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked without turning.

“I was out the minute my head hit the pillow.” She walked into the room and saw he was beating a bowl of eggs with a fork. “I hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours.”

“Good.” He turned to greet her with a smile that would have tested a nun’s vows. “Coffee’s made. I’m working on scrambled eggs. That okay?”

“Sure. I’m starving. I was the only one on the jet. I didn’t want to make the flight attendant mess up the galley, so I just had a soda and yogurt.” Hayley hoped she sounded nonchalant but she felt incredibly awkward. Staying with a man she hardly knew—a guy too hot for words—made her uncomfortable.

“Fix the toast, will you? I’ll cook the eggs.” He moved over to the range and poured the eggs into a frying pan.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she placed four slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster. He seemed perfectly relaxed. Well, why not? A guy like Ryan probably had women over all the time.

“There are some newspapers on the counter,” Ryan told her. “I pulled them out of the recycling bin so you could read about the car bombing yourself.”

She moved to the stack of papers and stared at the picture of the charred remains of cars in the parking lot, then scanned the front-page article. Not that she doubted Ryan, but she wanted to see for herself what had happened. As she read, emotion gathered force inside her like a hurricane. So much damage! So many cars destroyed. It was a miracle only one person had died. Lindsey.

Another wave of guilt engulfed Hayley and she had to force herself to concentrate or she would dissolve into tears. Why? Why? Why? kept echoing through her brain. Why would someone want her dead?

“I’ll butter the toast,” Ryan said, breaking into her thoughts. She hadn’t heard the toaster pop.

“It’s okay. I’ll do it. I’ve read enough.” She turned, blinking back tears, and removed the slices from the toaster.

They sat at the kitchen table that was already set and had orange juice at both places. From the window, Hayley saw the storm was long gone. The air had been washed clean, the sky a resplendent blue above a wind-ruffled ocean. She’d bodysurfed this area so much as a child that she instantly recognized the stretch of beach near the Wedge. Wow! This was the Gold Coast of real estate. Ryan’s father must have made a fortune.

She looked down at her plate of bacon and eggs. Her appetite had suddenly vanished. All she could think about was Lindsey turning the key in the ignition. Hopefully Lindsey hadn’t felt any pain.

“Eat,” Ryan said. He was shoveling a heaping forkful of eggs into his mouth and holding a piece of bacon in his other hand. His dynamic eyes catalogued her every move.

She tried for a smile and speared some eggs. “Do you think Lindsey died instantly?”

“Yes. No question about it.”

Hayley told herself that she was thankful. If her friend had to die, at least she didn’t suffer. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Hayley forced herself to eat half the eggs, a piece of toast and part of a slice of bacon. The food seemed to lodge somewhere in her upper chest like a chunk of cement.

“Do you live with your father?” she asked to fill the silence. She knew Conrad Hollister had been at Twelve Oaks for at least two years because that’s when Aunt Meg had moved to the facility and Conrad had already been there.

Ryan shook his head and patted his lips with a napkin. “No. I work out of the L.A. office. I’m just down here rehabbing.”

Drugs? Alcohol? He didn’t look as if he had a habit but she’d been in Southern California her whole life and knew appearances could be deceiving. Chad Bennett had been hooked on “vitamin R,” as the college kids called Ritalin. It wasn’t a narcotic but Chad relied on it for a “brain boost” to improve his concentration as had many of her classmates.

When they’d been together, Hayley had told him that he didn’t need the so-called “smart pills.” But no matter how much she encouraged him to get off them, Chad hadn’t listened.

Ryan put one hand on the opposite shoulder. “Physical therapy for my shoulder,” he explained. “I had an old football injury that I reinjured in a multicar pileup on the freeway.”

“I see.”

Hayley gazed out at the blue expanse of water. The house was set back from the sea and separated from the public beach that stretched along the shore by a stand of wild grass, but the crystal blue of the ocean seemed to flow out to the horizon.

She’d come to this part of the beach often as she’d been growing up. Her father had insisted she learn to bodysurf. She’d loved it and took up board surfing at about the same time—to please her father. Even though he was dead, Hayley still felt her father’s power over her. Oh, how she’d longed to please him.

Ryan cleared their plates and put them in the sink. Hayley volunteered to rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. He told her to leave everything for now. She could work on it when they’d finished. He took a notepad from the nook beside the refrigerator and returned to the table.

“Okay. Let’s make a list of anyone who—for any reason, no matter how trivial—might want you dead.”

Hayley groaned and tried to imagine who would be diabolical enough to blow her to bits. “Honestly, I don’t know anyone—”

“Name anyone who just plain doesn’t like you.” His expression said only a fool would believe they had no enemies.

Someone had tried to kill her. She put her shattered illusions aside and tried to concentrate. “I guess Cynthia Fordham despises me. She’s Trent and Farah’s mother. She never forgave my mother for stealing her husband. She thought I got everything, while her kids never received enough from my father, although believe me, he tried to be fair.”

Hayley knew it was more than this that bothered Cynthia. Russell Fordham had been just another surfer with a small board-making operation when he left Cynthia for Hayley’s mother, Alison. Later the company had prospered, mostly due to the successful clothing line Alison designed. Cynthia had been left behind financially because the money had been earned after the divorce.

Cynthia had taken the whole situation very personally. The money seemed to be a huge factor, but there was also a vehement sense of betrayal. Hayley could relate; she still experienced a surge of anger when she thought of the way Chad had betrayed her—and they hadn’t even been married or had children.

“What about Farah and Trent?” Ryan asked.