Barbara McCauley - Secrets and Desire - Best-Kept Lies / Miss Pruitt's Private Life / Secrets, Lies...and Passion

“Where do you keep the spare?”

“One with me. One in the car. Another in my top desk drawer.”

He was already headed down the hallway and into the living room with Randi right on his heels.

“Show me.”

“Here.” Reaching around him, she pulled open the center drawer, felt until her fingers scraped against cold metal, then pulled the key from behind a year-old calendar. “Right where I left it.”

“And the one in your car.”

“I don’t know. It was with me when I had the accident. I assume it was in the wreckage.”

“You didn’t ask the police?”

“I was in a coma, remember? When I woke up I was a mess, broken bones, internal injuries, and I had amnesia.”

“The police inventoried everything in the car when it was impounded, so they must’ve found the key, right?” he insisted.

“I… Geez, I’m not sure, but I don’t think it was on the report. I saw it. I even have a copy somewhere.”

“Back at the Flying M?”

“No—I cleared everything out when I left. It’s here somewhere.” She located her briefcase and riffled through the pockets until she found a manila envelope. Inside was a copy of the police report about the accident and the inventory receipt for the impounded car. She skimmed the documents quickly.

Road maps, registration, insurance information, three sixty-seven in change, a pair of sunglasses and a bottle of glass cleaner, other miscellaneous items but no key ring. “They didn’t find it.”

“And you didn’t ask.”

She whirled on him, crumpling the paper in her fist. “I already told you, I was laid up. I didn’t think about it.”

“Hell.” Kurt’s lips compressed into a blade-thin line. His eyes narrowed angrily. “Come on.” He pocketed the key, slammed the drawer shut and stormed down the hallway to the bedroom. In three swift strides he was inside the closet again. He unzipped the overnight bag and handed it to her. “Here. Pack a few things. Quickly. And don’t touch the damn boots.” He disappeared again and she heard him banging in the kitchen before he returned with a plastic bag and started carefully sliding it over the dusty cowboy boots. “I’ve already got your laptop and your briefcase in the truck.”

Suddenly she understood. He wanted her to leave. Now. His jaw was set, his expression hard as granite. “Now, wait a minute. I’m not leaving town. Not yet.” Things were moving too quickly, spinning out of control. “I just got home and I can’t up and take off again. I’ve got responsibilities, a life here.”

“We’ll only be gone for a night or two. Until things cool off.”

“We? As in you and me?”

“And the baby.”

“And go where?”

“Someplace safe.”

“This is my home.”

“And someone’s been in here. Someone with the key.”

“I can change the locks, Striker. I’ve got a job and a home and—”

“And someone stalking you.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it closed. She had to protect her baby. No matter what else. Yes, she needed to find out who was hell-bent on terrorizing her, but her first priority was to keep Joshua safe, and the truth of the matter was, Randi was already out of her mind with worry. Striker’s concerns only served to fuel her anxiety. She was willing to bet he wasn’t the kind of man to panic easily. And he was visibly upset. Great. She began throwing clothes into the overnight bag. “I can’t take any chances with Joshua,” she said.

“I know.” His voice had a hint of kindness tucked into the deep timbre and she had to remind herself that he’d been hired to be concerned. Though she didn’t believe that the money he’d been promised was his sole motivation in helping her, it certainly was a factor. If he kept both her and her son’s skins intact, Striker’s wallet would be considerably thicker. “Let’s get a move on.”

She was through arguing for the moment. No doubt Striker had been in more than his share of tight situations. If he really felt it was necessary to take her and her son and hide out for a while, so be it. She zipped the bag closed and ripped a suede jacket from its hanger. Was it her imagination or did it smell slightly of cigarette smoke?

Now she was getting paranoid. No one had been wearing her jacket. That was nuts.

Gritting her teeth, she fought the sensation that she’d been violated, that an intruder had pried into her private space. “I assume you’ve got some kind of plan.”

“Yep.” He straightened, the boots properly bagged.

“And that you’re going to share it with me.”

“Not yet.”

“You can’t tell me?”

“Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Oh, right, keep the little woman in the dark. That’s always a great idea,” she said sarcastically. “This isn’t the Dark Ages, Striker.”

If possible, his lips compressed even further. His mouth was the thinnest of lines, his jaw set, his expression hard as nails. And then she got it. Why he was being so tight-lipped. “Wait a minute. What do you think? That this place is bugged?”

When he didn’t answer, she shook her head. Disbelieving. “No way.”

He threw her a look that cut her to the bone. “Let’s get a move on.”

She didn’t argue, just dug through the drawers of her dresser and threw some essentials into her bag, then grabbed her purse.

Within minutes they were inside Kurt’s truck and roaring out of the parking lot. Yesterday’s rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, gray clouds moving slowly inland from the Pacific. Randi stared out the window, but her mind was racing. Could Sam have found out about Joshua? It was possible, of course, that he’d somehow learned she’d had a baby, but she doubted he would do the math to figure out if he was the kid’s father. The truth of the matter was that he just didn’t give a damn. Never had. She drummed her fingers against window.

“I don’t know why you think just because Donahue’s in town that Joshua’s not safe. If he drove by, it was probably just a fluke, a coincidence. Believe me, Sam Donahue wouldn’t give two cents that he fathered another kid.” She leaned against the passenger door as Kurt inched the pickup through the tangle of thick traffic.

“A truck belonging to Donahue has cruised by Sharon Okano’s apartment complex twice this afternoon. Not just once. I wouldn’t call that a coincidence. Would you?”

“No.” Her throat went dry, her fingers curled into balls of tension.

“Already checked the plates with the DMV. That’s what tipped Brown off, the license plates were from out of state. Montana.”

Randi’s entire world cracked. She fingered the chain at her throat. “But he’s rarely there, in Montana,” she heard herself saying as if from a long distance away. “And I didn’t tell him about Joshua.”

“Doesn’t matter what you told him. He could have found out easy enough. He has ties to Grand Hope. Parents, an ex-wife or two. Gossip travels fast. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to count back nine months from the date your baby was born.” Striker managed to nose the truck onto the freeway where he accelerated for less than a mile, then slammed on the brakes as traffic stopped and far in the distance lights from a police car flashed bright.

“Great,” Striker muttered, forcing the truck toward the next exit. He pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket and poked in a number. A few seconds later, he said, “Look, we’re caught in traffic. An accident northbound. It’s gonna be a while. Stay where you are and call me if the rig goes by or if there’s any sign of Donahue.”

Randi listened and tried not to panic. So Sam Donahue was in the area. It wasn’t as if he never came to Seattle. Hadn’t she hooked up with him here, in a bar on the waterfront? She’d been doing research on her book and had realized through the wonders of the Internet that he’d been in a rodeo competition in Oregon and was traveling north on his way to Alberta, Canada. She’d e-mailed him, met him for a drink and the rest was history.