Paula Graves - Smoky Mountain Setup

She had no intention of screwing up again.

She had made it through three files and was starting a fourth when her cell phone rang. No information on the display, which usually meant her caller was Quinn or another agent who didn’t want his identity revealed. “Sharp,” she answered.

“Hey, Olivia, it’s me.” The distinctive mountain drawl on the other end of the line belonged to Anson Daughtry, the company’s IT director and one of the people who’d saved her bacon during the investigation into the mole at The Gates, mostly by putting his own ass on the line.

Of course, he’d had a good incentive—the pretty payroll accountant he’d fallen hard for had been right in the middle of the danger.

“I thought you were on your honeymoon.”

“I am.” She could almost hear him grinning. “Ginny says hi.”

“Hi, Ginny.” She couldn’t stop her own smile. She might like to play the role of a tough woman of action, but two good people crazy in love still had the capacity to make her go all squishy inside. “Seriously, Daughtry, why are you calling me on your honeymoon?”

“You remember that bank account you asked me to start monitoring for activity a few months ago?”

She sat up straighter, the muscles of her stomach tightening. “Of course.”

“I got an alert in my email. Someone accessed the account a little after one. Withdrew five thousand dollars.”

Olivia glanced at the clock over the mantel. About an hour ago. “Any idea what branch?”

“That’s the interesting thing,” Daughtry said. “It was the one in Barrowville.”

“Oh.” A cool tingle washed over Olivia’s body, sprinkling goose bumps along her arms and legs. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Is there anything else you need me to do?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I just needed the information.”

She could tell from Daughtry’s thick silence that he had questions about her request and what the information he’d just imparted to her meant. But she simply said, “Thanks. Go enjoy your honeymoon,” and hung up the phone before he could ask anything else.

She could be in Barrowville in fifteen minutes. Ten if she drove fast, although the first flurries had already begun to fall outside her cabin window.

No. He wouldn’t still be there an hour later. And the information she needed from whichever bank teller had handled the transaction, she could get over the phone.

She looked up the phone number for the bank and made the call, finally reaching the teller in question after a long wait. “How can I help you?”

“My name is Olivia Sharp. I have an account at your bank.” She rattled off the account number she’d memorized ages ago. “I just received an alert that some of the money has been accessed and you were the teller who handled the transaction.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the teller answered. She sounded young and worried.

“He gave his name as Cade Landry?”

“Yes, ma’am. He had the right identification and he knew the account number. He’s on the account.”

“I’m sure you handled things by the numbers. I just need to know if you remember what he looked like.”

The teller was silent for a moment, long enough for Olivia to fear the connection had been lost. But as she was opening her mouth to speak, the teller answered her question. “He was tall. Dark hair. Nice eyes. I don’t remember what color, just that they were nice. Friendly, you know?”

Olivia knew about Landry’s nice eyes. She knew their color, as well, a soft hue somewhere between hazel and green. “What about his build?”

“His build?”

“You know—heavy, slim—”

“Oh, right. It was...nice. You know, he looked good.” There was a nervous vibration in the teller’s voice. “Built nice.”

“Athletic?”

“Yes, definitely. He looked athletic.”

Olivia closed her eyes. “What about his voice? Low? Medium? Did he have an accent?”

“It was deep, I’m pretty sure. And he didn’t have an accent, exactly. I mean, he was from down here somewhere.”

“Down here” meaning the South, Olivia assumed. If it was really Cade Landry, he’d have spoken with a Georgia drawl. “I see.”

“Is there a problem? Our files show Mr. Landry is still authorized to withdraw funds from the account.” The teller was starting to sound worried. “Should I put the bank manager on the phone?”

“No,” Olivia said quickly. “Mr. Landry is authorized to withdraw funds. I just wasn’t aware he was planning to. Thank you for the information.” She hung up the phone and tugged her sweater more tightly around her, trying to control a sudden case of the shakes.

So, someone claiming to be Cade Landry, someone who fit his description and spoke with a Southern accent, had withdrawn $5,000 out of a savings account she’d set up almost two years ago, back when the relationship between her and her FBI partner had been going strong.

Before the disaster in Richmond.

But if it really was Landry who’d withdrawn the money from the account, where the hell had he been for the past year?

* * *

THE CHILL IN the air had grown bitter as the cold front rolled in, sending the temperature plunging. Overhead, clouds hung low and heavy, threatening snow.

The bank in Barrowville hadn’t given him any trouble with the withdrawal, so clearly Olivia hadn’t removed his name from the account.

Maybe that was a good sign.

He pedaled harder as the newly purchased thrift-store bike started uphill on Deception Lake Road. Getting her new address had been easy enough—he’d asked for and received the latest copy of the bank statement, which included her home address in Purgatory, Tennessee.

It had been a little too easy, really. What if he’d been an ex-boyfriend stalking her?

Isn’t that sort of what you are? The mean voice in his head was back.

Fine, he thought. I’m her ex-boyfriend. And I’m about to drop by her place unannounced. And I’m armed.

But the last thing he’d ever do was hurt Olivia, no matter how badly she’d hurt him. He just needed to talk to her. He might not be sure he could trust her, but he knew there was nobody else he could trust.

He’d learned that painful truth the hard way.

By the time he reached the turnoff to Perdition Gap, sleet had begun to fall, making crackling noises where the icy pellets hit the fallen leaves blanketing the roadside. He picked up speed as the road dipped downhill toward the narrow gorge cut into the mountains by Ketoowee River, hurried along by the bitter westerly wind that drove sleet like needle pricks into his bare cheeks.

He’d made his choice. Set himself on a course it was too late to alter, at least for today. Snow was coming, and he had to find shelter soon.

And the cabin looming out of the curling fog ahead was his only choice, for good or for bad.

There was a car parked on the gravel driveway, the same sleek black Mazda she’d driven when they had been together. It gave him pause, the sight of something so achingly familiar in a world that had turned alien on him almost two years ago.

He dismounted the bicycle and walked it slowly up the driveway, still staring at the Mazda, noting a tiny ding in the right front panel that hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen it. And there was a small parking decal on the front windshield, as well.

The sound of a door opening drew his gaze back to the house.

She stood there in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a snug blue sweater that hugged her curves like a lover. In one hand she held a Mossberg shotgun at her side. He knew from experience that she could whip that thing up and fire before he could reach for the pistol tucked in his ankle holster, so he froze in place.