He grabbed something out of one of her kitchen drawers. She struggled to wrench herself free by biting him again, but couldn’t move. Out of nowhere, a blast of light blinded her and she squeezed her eyes shut—expecting to die in the next second.
“Who the hell are you?” he unexpectedly asked.
She opened her eyes, not able to distinguish anything but the blaring light and spit out, “I’m Hayley Fordham. Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
His grip relaxed but he didn’t let her go. “I’m Ryan Hollister. Your aunt Meg sent me to get your things.”
“You’re lying! Why would Aunt Meg want my …” As she spoke, his name registered. “You’re Conrad’s son?”
“That’s right.”
She tried to get a better look at him, not knowing what to think. Her throat was so tight that she could hardly swallow, and her breath came in ragged surges. The strange acrid scent she’d noticed when she’d first come into the loft seemed stronger now.
“I think we’d better sit down,” he said, absolutely calm. “I’ll explain what’s happening.”
“I don’t need to sit to hear this.” She twisted out of the arm he had around her, but they were still standing nose to nose. The acrid scent wasn’t coming from this nutcase. Evidently, he wore a woodsy aftershave. “This better be good.”
He’d lowered the flashlight to waist height. In the low beam, she saw he was tall and dark and utterly menacing. His brown hair was damp from the rain. His polo shirt revealed impressive shoulders and a wide chest that narrowed at the waist. A quick glance down told her that he had an athlete’s powerful legs. Hadn’t Conrad bragged that his son had played pro ball?
She sucked in a steadying breath. He could snap her neck with just one hand. What was he doing here? Just because he claimed to be Conrad’s son didn’t mean he was telling the truth. She didn’t dare trust him.
Abruptly, he pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. He directed the flashlight on a badge that read: Department of Justice. “I’m with the FBI. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“What are you doing here?” she managed to ask as she took in the shield and the name Ryan W. Hollister, Special Agent.
“Your BMW was blown to hell by a car bomb. Everyone assumed you were in it. Meg, your family, the police—they all think you’re dead. They’ve had a memorial service, the whole works. Your aunt is too upset to remove your personal effects so she asked me to do it.”
It took a second for his words to register. Images of car bombings she’d seen on television burst in her brain. It could not be true. “You’re making this up. I’m calling the police.” She lunged for the wall phone but he blocked her with his powerful body.
“Wait. You have some explaining to do.”
“Me? You’re certifiable! I haven’t done—”
“Where have you been for the last ten days? Didn’t you hear about the car bomb?”
Another scathing retort was on her lips but it vanished as she realized he was dead serious. Shock seeped from every pore, spreading through her body with a mind numbing punch. “Car bomb? My car?”
“Didn’t you park your car at the back of Gulliver’s lot under the trees last Tuesday?”
“Oh, my God!”
Ryan gently guided her into the living room. He eased her down onto the sofa and set the flashlight on the glass coffee table. The amber light barely illuminated the dark area.
“I’ve been in Costa Rica doing a huge wall mural in Ramon Estevez’s new resort. I lent my car to my friend, Lindsey Fulton.” Hayley could barely choke out her next question. “Where is Lindsey?”
Two beats of utter silence from Ryan Hollister. The rain drummed on the glass windows like a flock of pecking birds, but he didn’t say anything for a long time. He didn’t have to; she knew.
“Apparently she died when she turned the key in the ignition.”
Hayley felt as if her breath had been choked off. Holding raw emotion in check, she assured herself this could not be true. But Ryan’s troubled expression told her something terrible had happened to her friend. “No, please! It’s not fair! She had so much talent, so much to live for.”
“Everyone assumed it was you. No one knew you were out of town. Why not?”
A paralyzing numbness spread out from her chest. If she closed her eyes, Hayley could see Lindsey. She envisioned the way her friend’s eyes would narrow as she stood back and studied a painting. The anxious habit she had of checking her cell phone for messages from her husband. Her toothy, endearing smile.
It took a minute before Hayley could muster a response. “I had a couple of reasons. First, my parents were killed in a small plane crash. I flew down to Costa Rica in Ramon Estevez’s jet. I didn’t want Aunt Meg to worry about the plane crashing so I made up a story to cover my absence. Second, I didn’t want Trent to know that I’m planning a career switch. I’ve always wanted to be an artist, not a designer.”
“Didn’t you hear about the car bombing?”
Hayley shook her head. “No. I painted almost nonstop. I didn’t watch TV once. I wanted to finish as soon as I could and get back before anyone realized I was gone.”
“Okay, but I don’t understand how airport security didn’t have you on a flight log. There’s a whole task force working on this. I’m sure they checked the airport.”
“We left from the private Million Air terminal. The limo was late picking me up at the restaurant. I had to run for the plane. No one looked at my passport until I arrived in Costa Rica.”
Ryan shook his head, clearly disturbed. “It’s lapses like this that leave the country vulnerable.”
She barely heard him explaining about security cameras with shots of her and the bar receipt. All she could see was the look of hope in Lindsey’s eyes as they had talked about her future.
“Do you know anyone who would have wanted to kill your friend?” he asked.
“Lindsey’s husband. He beat her up several times—that I know about. He’d threatened to kill her if she left him.”
“She was the woman in the bar with you?”
“Yes. Lindsey lives—lived—in San Francisco but we met at Gulliver’s because it was so close to the airport. I was leaving as she was arriving. I told Lindsey that she could stay at my place and use my car while I was gone. When I returned, we planned to figure out what to do next.”
“We’d better call the police and let them know. They believe the car bombing has something to do with your family business and drugs. They don’t know it was a domestic dispute.”
She put a hand on his forearm as he rose and was surprised at its firmness. He tensed powerful muscles beneath her fingers. “Wait. There’s no way Steve Fulton could have known where
