information, I learned about the drugs, animal abuse, cheating, payola, you name it.”
“And let me guess, most of the information came from good old Sam Donahue.”
“Some of it,” she admitted, opening an eye and catching Kurt scowling, as if the mere mention of Donahue’s name made Striker see red. “I was going to name names in my book and, I suppose, I could have made a few people nervous. But the thing of it was, no one really knew what I was doing.”
“Donahue?”
She shook her head and glanced to the window. “I told him it was a series of articles about small-town celebrations, that rodeos were only a little bit of the slice of Americana I was going to write about. Sam wasn’t all that interested in what I was doing.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, turning her attention to Kurt. The fire was burning softly, casting golden shadows on the cozy rooms. She snapped on a table lamp, hoping to break the feeling of intimacy the flames created. “Maybe it’s because Sam’s an egomaniac and pretty much consumed with his own life.”
“Sounds charming,” he mocked.
“I thought so. At first. But it did wear thin fast.”
Striker lifted an eyebrow and she added, “I’d already realized that it wasn’t going to work out when I suspected I was pregnant.”
“What did he say about it?”
“Nothing. He never knew.”
“You didn’t tell him.”
“That’s right. Didn’t we go over this before?”
Striker looked as if he wanted to say something but held his tongue. For that she was grateful. She didn’t need any judgment calls.
“Besides,” she added with more than a trace of bitterness, “I figure we’re even now. He forgot to mention that he wasn’t really divorced from his last wife when he started dating me.” She wrinkled her nose and felt that same old embarrassment that had been with her from the moment she’d realized Sam had lied, that he’d been married all the time he’d chased after her, swearing that he was divorced.
Fool that she’d been, she’d fallen for him and believed every word that had tripped over his lying tongue.
Now a blush stole up her neck and she bit down on her back teeth. She’d always been proud of her innate intelligence, but when it came to men, she’d often been an idiot. She’d chosen poorly, trusted too easily, fallen harder than she should have. From Teddy Sherman, the ranch hand her father had hired when she was seventeen, to a poet and a musician in college, and finally Sam Donahue, the rough-and-tumble cowpoke who’d turned out to be a lying bastard if ever there was one. Well, no more, she told herself even as Kurt Striker, damn him, threatened to break down her defenses.
He walked to the fire, grabbed a poker and jabbed at the burning logs. Sparks drifted upward through the flue and one of the blackened chunks of oak split with a soft thud.
Randi watched him and felt that same sense of yearning, a tingle of desire, she’d experienced every time she was around him. She sensed something different in Kurt, a strength of character that had been lacking in the other men she’d found enchanting. They had been dreamers, or, in the case of Donahue, cheats, but she didn’t think either was a part of Striker’s personality. His boots seemed securely planted on the ground rather than drifting into the clouds, and he appeared intensely honest. His eyes were clear, his shoulders straight, his smile, when he offered it, not as sly as it was amused. He appealed to her at a whole new level. Man to woman, face-to-face, not looking down at her, nor elevating her onto a pedestal from which she would inevitably fall.
“So what do you think about your kid?” he asked suddenly as he straightened and dusted his hands.
“I’m nuts about him, of course.”
“Do you really think he’s safe with the Okano woman?”
“I wouldn’t have left him there if I didn’t.”
“I’d feel better if he was with you. With me.”
“No one followed me to Sharon’s. Not many people know we’re friends. She was in my dorm in college and just moved up here last fall. I…I really think he’s safer there. I’ve already driven her nuts calling her. She thinks I’m paranoid and I’m not so sure she’s wrong.”
“Paranoid isn’t all that bad. Not in this case.” Striker reached into his jacket pocket, flipped open his cell and dialed. A few seconds later he was engrossed in a conversation, ordering someone to watch Sharon Okano’s apartment as well as do some digging on Sam Donahue. “…that’s right. I want to know for certain where he was on the dates that Randi was run off the road and someone attempted to kill her in the hospital…Yeah, I know he had an alibi, but double-check and don’t forget to dig into some of the thugs he hangs out with. This could have been a paid job…I don’t know but start with Marv Bates and Charlie… Damn, what’s his name, Charlie—”
“Caldwell,” Randi supplied, inwardly shuddering at the thought of the two cowboys Sam had introduced her to. Marv was whip thin with lips that barely moved when he talked and eyes that were forever narrowed. Charlie was a lug, a big, fleshy man who could surprise you with how fast he could move if properly motivated.
“That’s right, Charlie Caldwell. Check prison records. See if any of Donahue’s buddies have done time…. Okay… You can reach me on the cell, that would be best.” He was walking to the desk. “I’ll be in the condo, but let’s not use the landline. I checked, it doesn’t appear bugged, but I’m not sure.”
Randi’s blood chilled at the thought that someone could have tampered with her phone lines or crept into her home while she was away. But then Striker hadn’t had any problem getting inside. He might not have been the first. Her skin crawled as she looked over her belongings with new eyes. Suede couch, faux leopard-print chair and ottoman, antique rocker, end tables she’d found in a secondhand store and her great-grandmother’s old treadle sewing machine that stood near the window. The cacti were thriving, the Boston fern shedding and near death, the mirror over her fireplace, the one she’d inherited from her mother, still chipped in one corner. Nothing out of place. Nothing to give her pause.
And yet…something wasn’t right. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. Just like the eerie sensation that she was being watched when she parked her Jeep.
“Later.” Striker snapped the phone shut and watched as Randi walked to her desk, double-checking that nothing had been disturbed. She’d already done a quick once-over when she’d come home earlier, but now, knowing that her phone could have been tapped, her home violated, her life invaded by an unknown assailant, she wanted to make certain that everything was as it should be.
Her phone rang and she nearly jumped through the roof. She snagged the receiver before it could jangle a second time.
“Hello?” she said, half expecting a deep-throated voice on the other end to issue a warning, or heavy breathing to be her only response.
“So you did get home!”
Randi nearly melted at the sound of Slade’s voice. He was her youngest half brother, closest to her
