followed by a sound from outside the office. Moving the cell away, she took a hesitant step toward the door and listened hard. Music came faintly from somewhere inside the house, and it was moving closer.
Her palms went damp, and her heart stuttered to a stop before breaking into a gallop.
Oh, God, someone else was inside the house!
The ringtone was an Eric Clapton song, about a man on the run, trying to avoid getting swept away by a river of tears. Of course, a woman was his downfall; so often they were, though Justin Seavers had had better luck at avoiding that fate than most guys he knew.
There was no special meaning to the ringtone, though. He’d known Cate would call; the song had been on his phone; it was a thoughtless choice. It didn’t mean he’d ever cared—would ever care—enough to run from Cate, and it sure as hell didn’t mean she could save him. He wasn’t of the opinion that he actually needed saving, at least not anymore.
He silenced the phone as he reached the hall, then stepped through the office doorway. She was standing there, posture rigid, fingers clenched tightly around her cell phone. She was ten inches shorter than him, enough to make him feel like the big, strong protector or, more likely, the overlarge clumsy oaf.
When she recognized him, relief flashed across her face, quickly replaced with the cool, disdainful look she usually reserved just for him. “You,” she breathed, letting the tension, or most of it, ease from her body.
Justin leaned against the doorjamb, one ankle crossing the other. “What’s up, doc?”
Straightening her spine, she managed to appear an inch or so taller. “Where’s Trent? Susanna? Why did all the volunteers leave? What’s going on here?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Trent said—”
“When did you talk to him?”
She blinked, unaccustomed to being interrupted. She might be delicate in size and stature and, according to Trent, sweeter than sugar most of the time, but she was probably the most book-smart person Justin had ever known, and she was accustomed to being in charge. People didn’t interrupt Dr. Cate Calloway, head of emergency medicine at the Copper Lake Hospital and part-time instructor of trauma management at her alma mater.
“A week ago. Maybe ten days. I called to let him know I’d shipped some supplies and to see if they needed anything else.”
“How did he seem?”
She blinked again. “Like Trent. He was on another call. He said if Susanna thought of something, she’d give me a call. If not, they’d see me today.”
“And neither of them called you?”
The effort to stop from rolling her eyes was visible in the tension in her jaw. “No. Otherwise, I would have said that was the last time I talked to him—” She drew a breath. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged again. Annoying her had always come easily to him. All he had to do was breathe. Hippocratic oath or not, he was pretty sure if someone hauled him into her E.R. on the verge of death, she’d be tempted to shove him over.
“I thought I’d see how the diving is this fall.”
“Then why aren’t you on a boat out in the ocean?”
“My dive buddy’s taken some time off. What’s in the boxes out there?”
“Medical supplies, toiletries, books, clothes.”
“Any drugs?”
The disdain increased fractionally. “Antibiotics, antihistamines, some nonnarcotic pain relievers. Nothing special. Why are you really here? Trent said if anything happened—” She raised her hand when he started to interrupt again. “He wrote in a note that if anything happened, I should call you, and now here you are. How convenient. Why you? Why not the police, his parents, the foundation?”
Ignoring her questions, he finally moved away from the door and into the room. It seemed to shrink by half, putting him closer to her than he’d been in a very long time. “What note?”
The corners of her mouth pinching, she took the few steps to the bulletin board and pulled off the photo from a dive trip three years ago. He barely glanced at it but turned it over to read the note on the back. Looking up again, he cocked his brow. “You two arranged a secret message system involving this photo of me?”
Her mouth pinched even more, as if she’d sucked the sourest of limes. “Of course not. He just knew…I usually…pick up the picture at least once…when I’m here.” Her face tinged with a blush, and she was not an attractive blusher.
Everything else about her, though…straight brown hair, blunt cut, in a braid today, blue eyes, a mouth to match the sweet nature he’d been told she possessed, great legs, nice body. He’d think she had chosen beach-casual for travel, in brown shorts that showed no curves, a tan tank top that clung to every curve and flat sandals with straps, but she always dressed for comfort. Trent joked that was why she’d gone into medicine in the first place. What could be cozier than wearing scrubs all the time?
He fingered the picture before peeling off the Post-it and crumpling it. “So my picture interests you.”
She snorted. “Puzzles would be a better word. I look at it and wonder how two men with all the advantages money can buy can grow up to become…well, you and Trent.”
He was about to make some flippant reply when a sound outside caught his attention: the crunch of tires on gravel, the low rumble of an engine. Pocketing the picture, he stepped past her to the window, keeping to the side of the flimsy curtains, and lifted one edge just enough to see the black vehicle in the driveway. The first man out was tall, muscle-bound, and he gripped a stubby black pistol. There was no doubt in Justin’s mind that he worked for the Wallaces.
Muttering a curse, he grabbed her arm on his way out of the room. “We’ve got company, and it’s sure as hell not a welcoming committee. Come on.”
He expected resistance, but she dragged her feet only long enough to grab hold of her suitcase in the middle of the hallway. Yanking it up, she awkwardly shoved the handle in one-handed, then let him pull her down the hall to the back of the house. As they turned into the kitchen to reach the rear door, and the backpack he’d left there, a knock sounded heavily at the front door.
When they reached the smaller door that led to what had long ago been servants’ quarters, he slung the pack over his shoulders, then eased the door open. The nar row strip of yard was empty, the path apparently clear to the small gate set in the rear wall.
They would be hidden from view of the driveway for probably twenty feet; the remainder of the distance to the gate, they would be visible to anyone looking from the direction of the car. Best scenario, all the car’s occupants would be inside the house by then, none of them happening to look outside for a few seconds. More likely, someone remained at the car or had been sent to check the garage and the dorm, or both. Worst case, one of the men was already watching the gate, maybe from outside the property, out of sight until they burst into the alley, where his bike waited.
But, he acknowledged as footsteps shuffled in the front hall, they couldn’t stay where they were.
