kitchen.
No answer.
She found the kitchen empty. But a half-full coffeepot sat on the warmer, and a stained mug rested on the counter beside the coffeemaker.
He was here. Upstairs? In the basement? Taking a walk in the woods?
If he was in the house, he would have heard her calling him. Unless he was asleep or passed out drunk. The first year after his wife’s death, Judd had drunk himself into a forgetful stupor on a fairly regular basis. But the last time Lindsay saw him, he’d been stone cold sober. A drunk Judd she could deal with more easily than a sober Judd. Drunk, he was hateful and belligerent. Sober he was apathetic and deadly.
“Judd, if you’re here, please answer me. Don’t make me search the whole house for you.”
Nothing.
“The Beauty Queen Killer has struck again, but this time his victim didn’t die. Not yet. She’s still alive.”
No reaction. No response.
“Did you hear me?”
Creak. Stomp. Creak. Stomp.
Lindsay heard heavy footsteps on the backstairs that led from the kitchen to the second floor. Her heartbeat accelerated.
“Judd?”
The footsteps grew louder as they descended the creaking stairs.
Lindsay crossed the linoleum-floored kitchen and waited at the foot of the stairs, her pulse racing as she clutched both hands into tight fists on either side of her hips.
Barbara Jean Hughes, confined to a wheelchair since a terrible car crash five years ago, responded to Griffin Powell’s charm the way most other women did—she practically melted into a puddle. Good grief! Nic didn’t get it. Yes, he was good-looking, masculine to the nth degree, dressed like a GQ model, drove a fancy sports car, and was reported to be a multimillionaire. Those qualities alone would be enough to make the average female swoon. But if there was one thing Nicole Baxter had never been, it was average.
Powerful, macho, overconfident men turned her off. From the time she matured early at the age of eleven, she’d had to deal with the opposite sex. Snide remarks about her breasts. Jokes about her height. Envy because she was the smartest kid in her class—even smarter than the smartest boy.
Men might like women with big breasts, but most didn’t like highly intelligent women who graduated from college at the age of eighteen, stood eye to eye with many, and towered over some. She was—always had been—too tall, too big, and too smart. Not to mention far too opinionated and outspoken.
“Ms. Hughes, why don’t you let us take you down to the cafeteria and get you something to eat. A late lunch,” Griff said.
Nic had been trying to convince Barbara Jean that she needed to eat, but the woman had refused to leave the ICU waiting area.
“What if Gale Ann wakes up? Or what if she … No, I can’t leave.” With Nic, Barbara Jean had been adamant.
When Barbara Jean didn’t respond to Griff’s suggestion, only stared up at him through a mist of tears, he reached down, grasped her hand tenderly and said, “When your sister regains consciousness, she doesn’t need to see you haggard and worried, now does she? You have to eat and rest to keep up your strength.” He paused momentarily to allow his comments to sink in, then added, “For Gale Ann’s sake, you have to take care of yourself.”
Gag me with a spoon, Nic thought. Griff was as smooth as silk. Too damn smooth to suit her. He was one of those guys who could charm the birds from the trees. A real silver-tongued devil.
It was obvious by the tentative smile on Barbara Jean’s face that Griff’s charisma had affected her. What would be the point in warning her about Griffin?
“You’re right, I suppose.” Barbara Jean sighed heavily.
Griff squeezed her hand. “Of course I am.” He glanced at Nic. “Special Agent Baxter will speak to the nurse in charge of the ICU and make sure we are contacted if there’s any change in your sister’s condition.”
Gritting her teeth, Nic managed a fake smile as she nodded her head in agreement. “I’ll speak to the nurse right now.” She gave Griff a blistering stare. He just couldn’t help himself, could he? To him, taking charge came as naturally as breathing. In the past, the FBI had cautioned family members about cooperating with any private agency, including the Powell Agency, but legally, the bureau’s hands were tied.
At one-fifty in the afternoon, the cafeteria wasn’t crowded, so it was easy enough to find seating. Griff chose an isolated table in the back of the dining area and parked Barbara Jean’s wheelchair so that she was not near a window and her back was to a side wall. Nic understood his reasoning. If Gale Ann’s attacker had any idea that Barbara Jean had seen him and could possibly identify him, her life was in grave danger.
“Is there anything in particular you want to eat?” Griff asked as he laid his overcoat and silk scarf on an empty chair.
“Anything will be fine,” she replied.
Nic and Griff were able to go through the line rather quickly, getting coffee for themselves and a meal for Barbara Jean. No way was she leaving Gale Ann’s sister alone with him. Legally, she could not prevent him from talking to Barbara Jean or offering her his big broad shoulders to lean on; the best she could do was keep a close watch on the woman. Griff handed the cashier a hundred dollar bill. The biggest bill in Nic’s wallet was a twenty. The difference between being rich and simply having a good job.
After slipping the change into his wallet, Griff lifted the tray laden with a full meal, dessert, and three cups of coffee, and carried it to the back table where Barbara Jean waited for them. After removing the plates, silverware, and cups from the tray, he placed it on a nearby empty table, then he pulled out a chair and offered it to Nic. She forced another fake smile—God, her face was going to crack—and allowed him to assist her.
Charming. Gentlemanly. Infuriating son of a bitch.
Their gazes met for half a second, a confrontational exchange. Hostility simmered just below the surface, a reality neither of them could deny. Nic suspected that Griff disliked her as much as she did him, both professionally and personally.
Barbara Jean eyed the plate of food in front of her, then glanced over at Griff. “Everything looks delicious. Thank you.”
“Just eat what you can,” he told her, sympathy and understanding in his voice.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“It’s okay,” Nic said. “No one expects you to—”
“You have no idea what it was like.” Barbara Jean grasped Griff’s arm. “It was the most horrible thing imaginable, finding my sister like that. Her feet cut off. Blood everywhere.” Barbara Jean burst into tears.
Before Nic could say or do anything, Griff slid his chair closer to Barbara Jean’s wheelchair and draped his arm around her shoulders, offering her solace. She buried her face against his shoulder and wept.
Although Nic hated weepy females and had become
