Metwater, despite all his goodness, had lied to her more than once. As far as she knew, Simon had never lied to her, even when telling the truth hurt.
Simon prowled the hallway outside Andi’s room, immune to the appeal of well-upholstered chairs and elegant chandeliers. He viewed the hotel like a battleground, noting positions from which to mount an offensive, and the many places a fugitive might hide.
His conversation with Andi hadn’t gone as he had hoped. He had meant to come down hard on her, to insist that she come with him to a shelter or another place of safety. But one look at her beautiful, weary face had melted his resolve. Maybe it was better for her and her baby if she stayed here, where she would at least be comfortable. He would guard her and wait.
Metwater was going to come for her; Simon was sure of it. The man preached poverty and the simple life to his followers, but he had used the very people who depended on him to amass assets in excess of sixty-eight million dollars. And that was only the accounts Simon had managed to locate. There was probably more stashed elsewhere.
But he was a fugitive on the run now, his bank accounts frozen and unavailable to him. He would need money to leave the country, to run out of the reach of US law. Andi had money, and Metwater could be confident she would give it to him. All he had to do was get to her. A different type of man might have gotten by on wits and cunning alone, but Metwater was used to paying his way out of trouble.
He was the son of a man who had made a fortune manufacturing plastics in Chicago. He had a twin brother, David, who had reportedly embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars from the family business before Metwater Senior’s death. Without his dad to reign him in, David had really gone off the rails, racking up gambling debts, dabbling in the drug trade and getting in deep with the Russian mob. He had died under mysterious circumstances, supposedly killed by organized crime members he had tried to double-cross.
Meanwhile, Daniel kept on managing the family business, serving on the boards of various charities and cleaning up the mess his brother made. David’s death, he told the press, cut him deeply, to the point where he sold the family business and took to the road, preaching peace and poverty to a growing list of followers, who eventually followed him to the public lands of Colorado, where they set up camp in the Rangers’ jurisdiction.
The good twin and the bad twin. A classic cliché. Simon didn’t buy it. He figured Daniel had been every bit as corrupt as his twin, but managed to hide it better. Nobody was the saint the press made Daniel out to be.
Simon knew a few real saints—nuns who lived real vows of poverty and worked to save children in border-town slums, doctors who used their own money to fund clinics for the indigent, police officers who faced down corruption and paid the ultimate price when they were assassinated for refusing to look the other way.
But Simon was no saint. Working for Immigration and Customs Enforcement, he had sent widows and orphans back to uncertain futures and poverty because they had the bad luck to be born on the wrong side of the border. He didn’t believe in mercy for those who broke the law, and he had little patience for whiners and weaklings.
And he knew there was a special place in hell for men like Daniel Metwater, who took advantage of the lost and lonely.
Beautiful Andi Matheson was a little of both. She had the kind of ethereal beauty that drew the eye. The first time Simon had seen the blonde there in Metwater’s camp, he had a hard time not staring. She had been born into privilege and by all accounts was a spoiled socialite who had never been denied anything—all reasons enough for him to dislike her, which he had been prepared to do.
Then he had looked into those sapphire eyes, and the hurt and fear in them had hit him like a sucker punch. Stripped of her beauty-queen gowns and protected privilege, he had seen her for the lost, struggling soul she was. From that moment on, Simon had appointed himself Andi’s guardian. Which is why he patrolled the hallways and public areas of the hotel, alert to anything that might signal danger.
He was torn between the desire to station himself outside Andi’s door, and the need to find and question the man who had spoken to her at the elevator. Simon sensed a threat from that man. If he could deal with the stranger, then he could focus on Metwater.
In the hotel bar, The Ship Tavern, he spotted a familiar blond head—the man who had approached Andi outside the elevators. He entered the bar and was immediately engulfed by a wave of noise—a dozen conversations rising over the blare of two TVs and the clink of glasses. The gleam of brass—brass railings, brass light fixtures, brass ornaments on the wall—caught and reflected back the light from old-fashioned ship’s lanterns and faceted chandeliers. Simon squeezed past a shapely brunette in a sequined cocktail gown. She smiled warmly and looked him up and down. “Hi, handsome,” she breathed.
He ignored her and continued on until he reached the bar, and eased in beside the blond man, who immediately turned to see who had joined him. Simon nodded in greeting. The blond returned the nod, and gave no indication that he recognized Simon. “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“Fat Tire,” Simon said. When the bartender had walked away, Simon turned once more to the blond. “I saw you talking to Andi Matheson earlier,” he said. He seldom wasted time with subtlety. In his experience, a direct confrontation was more likely to catch people off guard.
The blond tensed, one hand slipping inside his jacket. “Who are you?”
“Are you going to shoot me right here in this bar because I made a simple remark?” Simon kept his voice even as he turned to accept the beer from the bartender, who flicked a glance at the blond.
The blond brought his hand back out in the open and nodded to the bartender. “My friend thinks he’s so funny,” he said, his English very good, but definitely with a hint of a Russian accent.
The blond waited until the bartender had walked away before he spoke again, keeping his hands outside his coat. “Who are you?” he asked again.
“I’m a friend of Ms. Matheson’s,” Simon said. “Who are you?”
“You’re the man in the elevator.” Understanding lit his eyes.
“Who are you and what do you want with her?” Simon asked.
“I am also a friend.”
“That’s not what she says. She says she never saw you before.”
“She doesn’t remember.” He sipped his drink—something dark and thick in a small glass. “It was at a party, with a lot of people.”
“When? Where?”
“Why are you so interested?”
“It’s my business to be interested.”
The blond studied Simon more closely. He tensed again, eyes narrowed. “You’re a cop,” he said.
Simon didn’t deny or confirm, but met the blond’s glare with a hard look of his own.
“I don’t like cops,” the blond said.
“I don’t like people who bother Ms. Matheson. She said you asked her about Daniel Metwater.”
The blond contemplated
