The Perfect Victim Page 8

  Remembering her initial response to him that day in his office, she felt a ripple of heat and immediately attributed it to the fire. She wasn't a sexual creature by nature. Surely it was trauma and fatigue that had her thinking of intimate caresses on such a terrible night. Randall Talbot was the last man on earth she'd ever have any interest in. Unless, of course, it was to fix her washing machine or change the oil in her car.

  Addison made her way into the galley-style kitchen. It was nearly three A.M. and she was fading fast. Her hands trembled as she spooned coffee into the filter. She tried not to think about the shooting or the damage that had been done to her shop, but the images came at her out of the shadows like graphic film clips. She closed her eyes, trying to shut them out, but they continued to burst forth in her mind's eye. Brilliant images. Cold, colorless terror. The knowledge that death had all but whispered her name. She heard the sickening, tinny thud of the bullets as they penetrated the front of the bar. She saw clearly the gunman's eyes, the way he'd stared at her through the ski mask as he'd aimed the gun and fired. She'd seen murder in those eyes.

  "Does this lawyer friend of yours have any more documents in his possession?"

  Addison started when Randall came through the saloon doors. "Don't sneak up on me like that," she said irritably.

  "Sorry." He raised the papers. "Are these all the documents you have?"

  Frowning, she shoved it cup of coffee toward him. Her heart was still in her throat, and it took a moment before she could speak. "I don't know. Jim might have more information at his office, but he told me I had everything I needed."

  He accepted the cup and sipped. "You got anything stronger than coffee?"

  Addison stared at him, the memory of his drunkenness on the day they'd met flashing quickly through her mind. "If you're going to be working for me, I'd prefer if you didn't drink."

  He choked out a laugh. "Oh, for chrissake."

  "I'm serious."

  "What's the matter, Ace? Worried I'll lose control and ravage your body?"

  Despite the cool intensity of his gaze, she didn't look away.

  "I'll let you know if I get the urge," he said.

  "I don't appreciate the innuendo."

  "I don't appreciate the insinuation."

  "I merely asked you not to drink while you're on the job. That's not an unreasonable request, is it?"

  His jaw flexed. "You think I have a drinking problem, and that pisses me off."

  "I didn't say that."

  "You were thinking it."

  "I was thinking about how you acted that day in your office. Frankly, I'm not up to another round."

  One side of his mouth curved into a humorless smile. "Don't worry, I'm not going to pull a Jekyll and Hyde on you. What you see is what you get."

  That was what worried her. "I have the right to know who I'm dealing with."

  "I'm the man who saved your ass tonight." His eyes flashed darkly. ''That's all you need to know."

  Intuition told her to back off. She stared at him a moment longer, then turned away and walked into the dining room.

  Randall met her there a moment later. "Look, I'm sorry." Not meeting her gaze, he reached for his parka draped over the back of the chair. ''This isn't working out—"

  "You're leaving?" To her utter dismay, and for the first time in her adult life, she was afraid to be alone.

  "No hard feelings. I was out of line just now. Bad habit of mine. If you still want someone to look into this for you, I'll have Jack call—”

  "I don't want Jack."

  "Don't let the wheelchair fool you—”

  "The wheelchair doesn't matter."

  "He's good at what he does."

  "I want you," she blurted.

  The words hung between them like a thunderhead. His fingers closed around the parka, but he didn't pick it up. Addison saw his inner struggle clearly, but she didn’t understand it.

  Scowling, he cut her a hard look. "Why?"

  She met his gaze levelly. "You saved my life."

  "Don't discount your instincts about me," he said darkly. "They're probably not far off the mark."

  "Right now my instincts are reminding me you nearly took a bullet for me."

  Surprise flashed in his eyes before he could shutter it. "Don't make something out of this that isn't there. I was in the right place, at the right time—”

  "And I'd be dead right now if you hadn't been.”

  His harsh expression faltered, and for a moment he looked uncomfortable. She wondered why it was so hard for him to accept her gratitude.

  "If you're looking for a hero, you've got the wrong man," he growled.

  "Look," she began, "I'd like to hire you. I want you to look into my birth mother's murder." Starkly aware of his nearness, the faint scent of his aftershave, Addison pulled out a chair and sat down at the dining room table. "I want you to make sure the local sheriff is doing his job."

  Never taking his eyes from her, he took the chair opposite her. "You don't know anything about me."

  "All right. Then I'll just ask you a few questions." Trapped beneath his gaze, she felt a moment of awkwardness, not quite sure how to proceed with an impromptu interview. "How long have you been a private detective?"

  "Now you're going to interview me?" he asked incredulously.

  "I thought since I'm going to hire you I should get some background information." When he merely stared at her, she added, "That's usually how it's done, isn't it?"

  "What's it going to be, Ace. Do you want me or not?"

  "I already said I did." She swallowed. "How long have you been a P.I.?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Oh, for crying out loud."

  "How long?"

  "All right, dammit." He shifted in the chair. "About five years."

  "How long have you been with Talbot Investigations?"

  "Five years."

  "Do you solve most of your cases?"

  "Most of them aren't a matter of being solved, but merely gathering information."

  "I see."

  "It pays the bills. Well, most of them, anyway. Do you mind if we get down to business now?"

  "I'm ready when you are."

  He looked down at the file and opened it. "How long had you been searching for your birth parents?"

  She sighed, relieved that they were back on business. "A little over nine months."

  "Did you know them at all?"

  "I was adopted at birth."

  "Anything in particular prompt your search?"

  "I dabbled at first." Aware that he was watching her, she reminded herself that the pain wasn't as acute as it used to be. "Then my parents were killed in a car accident. After their deaths, finding my birth parents became a lot more important to me, and I started searching in earnest."

  He leaned back in his chair, studying her. "So, your lawyer helped you find your biological mother way up in Siloam Springs, Ohio. When you get up there, you find out she's been murdered."

  She nodded.

  "When you get back here, some crazed robber in black shoots up your shop, tries to kill you, then forgets to take the bank bag."

  An eerie sense of foreboding snaked through her. She shivered with a sudden chill. "Yes."

  "Do you know who your biological father is?"

  "I ran into a dead end searching for my birth father. He wasn't named on my amended birth certificate. The court documents were sealed at the time of my adoption."

  "Is that typical?"

  "The only way Jim—my lawyer—was able to find my mother was through birth records." The image of Agnes Beckett's tiny mobile home flashed in her mind's eye. "She was ... poor. Her standing in the community wasn't the best. I want to make sure her case gets the attention it deserves."

  "You want someone to light a fire under the local cops asses."

  "Well, yes."

  He closed the file, then gazed at her steadily. "I'll do it.”

  Addison returned his gaze, relief and a newfound sense of r
ightness settling over her. "Thank you."

  "I'll need the rest of the documents from your lawyer."

  "I'll pick them up tomorrow."

  "You can pay the advance tomorrow, too. Six-hundred dollars. I'll bill you for expenses."

  Disappointment drifted through her when she realized he was thinking of money rather than her safety. For a moment, she'd almost fooled herself into thinking he was actually concerned about her well-being. Stupid thought. Business was business. Men were men.

  He rose and walked to the French door that led to her rear patio. He checked the lock, then turned to her. "Keep this locked. Keep your phone handy. Don't let anyone in unless you personally know them.”

  "Of course. I'll be careful."

  Snagging his coat off the back of the chair, he started for the door. She followed, hating that she suddenly felt uneasy about being alone.

  Before opening the door, he withdrew his wallet and handed her his business card. "My pager number's written on the back if you need it."

  His fingers brushed against hers when she reached for the card. His eyes skimmed down the front of her. A renegade jolt of pleasure barreled through her.

  "I'll call Van-Dyne first thing in the morning and fill him in." He opened the door, checked the hall, then looked at her.

  She raised her eyes to his, strangely disconcerted by the dark intensity of his gaze. God, he was one of the most unsettling men she'd ever met.

  "I'll hang around the building for a while." But he didn't move. His eyes flicked to her mouth.

  Addison's pulse jumped in response. She told herself it was because she didn't quite trust him, but she was in tune with herself enough to know it was because she wasn't the only one who'd just felt the arc of electricity.

  Feeling uncharacteristically awkward, she stepped back, thankful her intellect had kicked in before she did something stupid. The last thing she needed in her life right now was a man, especially a volatile, unpredictable man like Randall Talbot.

  "Thanks for the coffee." He tapped the bolt lock with his finger. "Don't forget to lock it."

  "I won't."

  His gaze lingered on hers an instant longer, then he turned and walked away without so much as a backward glance.

  Addison closed the door, then leaned against it. The elevator down the hall chimed. She had the crazy urge to call him back, but of course she didn't. Instead, she leaned against the door, trying to turn off her thoughts, trying not to be afraid. But her sense of security had been shattered. She felt as if she were riding in a car that was careening out of control, and she could do nothing but hang on for dear life.

  The tears came with surprising force. Body-wracking sobs that shook her all the way down to her toes. It was as if all the emotions she'd suppressed in the last hours had finally been unleashed. The memory of the shooting rushed at her like tiny spears. The terror, the helplessness, the knowledge that death had come so perilously near.

  And with a stark sense of dismay, she realized that even locked away in her own apartment, she no longer felt safe.

  Chapter 7

  Beyond the glass wall of his fourth-floor office, rain fell in sheets, bringing a rise of fog to the street below. He watched the people on the sidewalk with a mixture of disinterest and disgust as they went about their daily routines like mindless herd animals.

  He should have been celebratory, sitting where he was, looking down at the rest of the world from his exalted position. He should have felt superior perched above the scampering rats beyond the glass. He should have felt in control and relaxed. But he didn't feel any of those things.

  The demons of his past had finally come home. Tasks he'd left unfinished as 'a careless and irresponsible young man were tumbling back into his life to haunt him, like a persistent ghost that had become as dangerous as it was frightening.

  He'd dreaded this moment his entire life. Not because he was afraid. Fear never entered into his decisions. Nor was the dread he felt induced by the thought of violence. Violence was merely a part of doing business, many times necessary, invariably effective.

  It was the lack of control that troubled him most. There were too many people in too many places asking too many questions. There were too many loose ends. Predictably, it was the loose ends most men failed to deal with. Loose ends that eventually destroyed them.

  Swiveling in the black leather executive chair, he faced the man who'd entered his office. He considered the nondescript features made important not by the European suit or Gucci loafers, but by the knowledge stored beneath the scrupulous facade. He paid his employees well. As a result, they did his bidding for him without objection and without question.

  His eyes traveled to the fully stocked wet bar. He watched with a rich sense of satisfaction as the other man walked to the bar, poured, two fingers of Remy Martin cognac into a crystal snifter, then returned and set it on the desk in front of him.

  "Our little problem in Denver is no longer a little problem,” he said, leaning back into the plush leather.

  "I take full responsibility for the error." The other man fingered the Hermes tie at his throat as if the hideous colors were choking him.

  "Of course you do." From the top drawer of the desk, he removed an emery board and filed the tip of a short, perfectly-manicured nail. In a world where perceptions were everything, it wouldn't do to overreact. Even if control of the situation had slipped beyond his grasp, at least he could maintain the illusion. "This young woman seems to be quite resourceful. How much does she know?"

  "She found out about the Beckett woman. Of course, her trip to Ohio wasn't fruitful."

  "She seems to be very determined."

  “We have some options."

  The other man's naiveté irritated him. "Such as?"

  “We could pay her off."

  "Don't be an idiot." He smiled inwardly when the man wearing the Hermes tie winced. He'd always enjoyed inflicting humiliation. He'd always enjoyed possessing that kind of power.

  "I assumed that since she's—"

  "Buy-offs are temporary and dangerous. You should know more about human nature by now." He considered himself an expert on human nature, particularly the dark side. "I'm interested only in permanent solutions."

  The man's eyes darted to the window and the rain beyond. "I understand."

  "I don't want any more questions raised. I don't want any more people involved. And I don't want any loose ends. Make certain your solutions are definitive."

  Their eyes met. An explicit understanding passed between them. One of them would act. The other would pay an exorbitant fee.

  "Consider it done."

  "Make sure the remaining records are destroyed."

  "I'm working on it."

  His perfectly manicured hand tightened around the snifter. He didn't like vague answers. "Do it quickly." His voice lowered ominously. "You've got all my resources at your disposal. I don't have to remind you what's at stake."

  The other man rose. "I know precisely what's at stake. I'll take care of it."

  * * *

  "Lord Christ Almighty!" Gretchen Wentworth took one look at the front door and came through it like a Peterbilt skidding around a hairpin turn.

  Having gone most of the night without sleep, Addison winced at the other woman's worried-grandmother tone, wishing she'd taken the time to swallow some aspirin before driving in to the shop to assess the damage and fill in her overprotective employee.

  "Hi, Gretch."

  Gretchen looked at Addison as if she wasn't quite sure whether to hit her or embrace her. "I ought to throttle you for not calling me last night!" The older woman pulled her close, hugged her tightly, then shoved her to arm's length. "Good God, honey, what in the bejeebers happened?"

  "I told you. There was an attempted robbery."

  Purse flying, Gretchen swung a wiry arm toward the bullet-riddled bar. "You didn't mention that when you called me this morning!" Her mouth flew open at the sight of the hole in the cash register.
"Or that! Good Lord, I got more details from my TV.”

  Addison had called her friend at five A.M. and explained that there had been an attempted robbery and that the shop would be closed for a few days. She hadn't gone into detail—and hadn't expected Gretchen to show up before lunch.