Sandra Orchard - Deep Cover

He glanced at the hole where the kitchen window used to be and motioned for her to lower her voice. “Why would you think that?”

“Because no he lives in this house. And you were the one standing in my kitchen when the rock came through the window.”

“But the ‘he’ in this note could refer to …” He hesitated. “Anyone.”

“The note says ‘I know,’ as in I know your secret. How did you think you’d get away with pretending to be Duke in this town?”

“I’m a construction worker. No one’s gonna connect me to a guy you dated over a year ago.”

“You are seriously deluded. You know that? Lori blurted your name in the middle of the town hall.” Ginny pointed to the glass scattered across the counters and floor. “Look at this mess. Someone besides me and my uncle knows your secret. What does this person want?”

Rick’s eyes shuttered.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Take it easy,” he said. “If whoever threw that rock heard Lori call me Rick, he might think he holds some power over me, but he doesn’t. Your uncle knows why I’m using an alias. Our rock thrower doesn’t scare me.”

“Well, he scares me. Isn’t it bad enough that you railroaded your way back into our lives without a thought to the emotional havoc you’d wreak on … on Lori? You had to go and bring physical danger to our doorstep, too.”

“No, never. I would never— never —endanger you or your family.” He cradled her face between his palms, begging her to trust him.

Every whisper of love she’d blocked from her mind rushed to the surface. Months of longing, fighting dreams of what might have been, filled her. She stiffened against the onslaught. She couldn’t risk letting him into her life again. He was too good at making her depend on him. And too good at letting her down.

“Please, believe me. That note and rock have nothing to do with me.”

She pushed his hands away. “Prove it.”

The sound of approaching sirens resonated through the room. For a moment, Rick looked as if he might say something, but then his expression hardened. His fists clenched.

“You can’t, can you? Because you know I’m right.”

“I’m here because I want to help you. I promise you the rock has nothing to do with me. Ginny,” he said and the low, intimate pitch of his voice trembled through her. “If you ever cared for me at all, trust me.”

She crossed her arms. All she had to do was look at the glass splintered across the floor to know he couldn’t be trusted. “No, Rick, that’s the one thing I won’t do. Ever again.”

Standing in the parking lot of the construction site, Rick shook the building inspector’s hand. Too bad convincing Ginny to trust him wasn’t as easy as convincing the inspector to rubber-stamp the proposed changes. But divulging what he knew about Laud could’ve backfired big-time, especially when she hadn’t given a second’s consideration to the possibility that the “he” in the note might be her uncle. Rick should just be thankful she didn’t share her suspicions of him with the local cops.

He flagged the cement truck to a stop and aimed the trough into a basement window.

If he did his job right, Lori would get her group home and he’d keep them all safe from the danger surrounding her uncle. If only he’d found a match for the partial thumbprint forensics lifted from the note. The fact it didn’t match Laud’s prints or those of any of the cons Rick had sent to jail, or anyone else’s in the police database, was a minor consolation.

Rick blew out a breath and focused on the steady swish of cement. Despite what he’d told Ginny’s family, he was certain the rock had been meant for them. And since nothing in the note alluded to a beef with the group-home construction, he was ninety-nine percent sure Laud’s creditors were the instigators—upping the stakes to convince Laud to pay. But knowing that didn’t help keep Ginny safe. Not when she didn’t want Rick within ten miles of her.

He massaged the kink in his neck from too many nights sleeping in his truck outside her place. In the week and a half since she’d been on this project, Ginny had managed to get her name and photograph into every newspaper in the region and had even scored an interview on the local cable station to rally support. What part of “keep a low profile” didn’t she understand?

If he hoped to keep her out of harm’s way, he needed to secure her cooperation, whether she trusted him or not.

His cell phone rang. The caller ID said private, which meant Captain Drake. Rick motioned for Phil to take over the cement trough. Then, with a finger in one ear and his phone to the other, Rick put fifty yards between him and his men. “Talk fast.”

“There was another fire last night. In Harbor Creek.”

Rick balled his hand. Had his preoccupation with Ginny caused him to miss something?

He tore off his hard hat. Obviously, he’d missed something. Laud had been close-lipped the past couple of weeks, but … “Harbor Creek? That makes no sense. Laud’s Harbor Creek complex is already half-filled with tenants. Paying tenants.”

“The building wasn’t Laud’s.”

“What?”

“You heard me. The fire marshal thinks we have a serial arsonist on our hands.”

“We already know that.” Rick watched the truck’s tumbler rotate and feared his leads were drying up faster than the cement. “Why would Laud burn down someone else’s building?”

“I’m not convinced he’s our man.”

“Oh, he’s dirty.”

“Doesn’t make him an arsonist.”

“You saw the files. You know I’m right. Harbor Creek could be a copycat.”

Drake blew out a stream of air. “I know Tom was your friend, but you need to let this go. You’ve got nothing that will stand up in court.”

“No, I’ll never let this go.” Not as long as Laud walked free, free to destroy another family for his own selfish ends.

Drake’s voice took on the steel edge that meant obey or else. “I’ll give you two weeks.”

Two weeks—Rick needed all of that to finish the group home, then some. He pocketed his phone and walked back to his crew. Half were local family men, but two or three of the others had criminal records. Men Laud might coax to do his dirty work.

Vic, an ex-con Rick once helped send to jail, gave him a curious look.

Two months undercover on Vic’s case had netted a warehouse stuffed with stolen high-end car parts and a five-year sentence for Vic—lots of time for a man to stew over who put him there. Heat pulsed through Rick’s veins. Just because he’d kept his identity concealed at the trial didn’t mean Vic hadn’t figured out who sprang the trap.

Rick’s mind flashed to the note— I know.

No. The rock thrower was too small to be Vic. Rick slapped on his hard hat. Besides, he’d checked on the whereabouts that night of every crew member. Vic had been at the bar on Fifth.

Rick would keep his eye on him all the same. He might be ninety-nine percent certain that Laud’s creditors were behind the attack, but until he neutralized that other one percent no one was above suspicion.

After work Rick headed to Laud’s office to test his reaction to the news of last night’s fire. The glass structure stood like a giant prism reflecting the orange sun. In addition to Laud’s BMW, a gray Buick sat in the lot. Rick grabbed the construction blueprints to give the impression his visit concerned the project and strode toward the front doors.

A short guy, rumpled suit, slicked hair, averted his gaze and hurried out as Rick reached the door. The guy cut across the lawn and climbed into a dark sedan parked down the street.