worry about. Silence emanated from within the house and there was no longer the soft clink of tools.
Sitting up, she retrieved the bag and towel, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The ice she’d had on her ankle had melted. Some of the water had leaked onto the futon. The towel was soaked and cold to the touch.
She scooped up both towel and bag and pushed to her feet to test her ankle. Last night she’d been scared that her ankle was hurt badly. Anything that slowed her down would be deadly.
Her ankle was stiff and painful, but she could walk well enough. And ride. She stood on the worn wood-plank flooring and took a few tentative steps toward the screened windows. That is, she could ride if her bike was fixed.
She glanced out. The garage door was shut, the light out. The back of the pickup was empty. Her bike sat in front of the house, resting on its kickstand, her helmet sitting on top, waiting for her. He’d fixed it.
The swell of relief and gratitude that washed over her made her sway a little on her weak ankle. Tears burned her eyes. His kindness felt like too much right now. She turned toward the open doorway. She’d left her door open and so it seemed had he. As she neared the short hallway between the rooms, she could see him sleeping in his double bed, the covers thrown back, only the sheet over him.
He was curled around his pillow on his side facing her, his masculine features soft in sleep. A lock of his long straight black hair fell over one cheek, shiny and dark as a raven’s wing. She caught the glint of his earring beneath the silken strands, the shadow of his strong stubbled jaw, the dark silken fringe of his eyelashes against his skin.
Even asleep the man still held her attention, still exuded a wild sensuality, a rare sexuality. This man would be dangerous to a woman. And she didn’t doubt he’d known his share. Intimately. Or that he was a good lover. She’d seen the way he’d touched her bike. She’d seen his artwork. Both had made her ache. Fear for her life hadn’t stolen her most primitive desires last night. Nor this morning.
But what surprised her wasn’t her attraction to the man, but that she felt safe with him. Too safe.
She moved silently down the hallway. He’d left a small light burning in the bathroom for her. That gesture even more than the others touched her deeply. She closed the door behind her and poured what water was left in the plastic bag down the drain, then hung up the towel.
She washed her face, avoiding looking at the stranger in the mirror. She’d spent too many years questioning who she was. Now she was about to find out and she didn’t want to face it or what her adoptive parents might have done in their desperation for a child.
She knew money had exchanged hands. Most adoptions involved an exchange of money, although she hated to think what her parents had paid for her. What frightened her was how the purchase had been made. And why someone was now trying to kill her to keep her from finding out.
No one committed multiple murders to cover up an illegal adoption or even a kidnapping. Especially after twenty-seven years. There had to be more to it. What was someone afraid would come to light?
According to Norman, the answer was in Timber Falls—just a few miles away now. She had raced here, running for her life, rocketing through the darkness toward the truth. But now that she was so close, she feared what she would find.
When she was younger, she’d often thought about finding her biological parents. Of course, her adoptive parents had discouraged her. Now she knew it wasn’t just because they didn’t want to share her.
Unfortunately, now she had no choice but to find out who she really was. And hopefully the answer would save her life. But what would her life be worth once she knew the truth?
As she turned to leave the bathroom, she froze. A sheriff deputy’s uniform hung on the hook of the closed door.
THE CALL CAME before daylight. Detective Rupert Blackmore was lying on his bed, fully clothed, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Certainly not asleep. He’d been waiting for the phone to ring, willing it to ring with the news he needed.
Praying for it. Although praying might not have been exactly what he’d been doing. Right now he would have sold his soul to the devil if he hadn’t already traded it to Satan a long time ago.
He let the phone ring three times, then picked up the receiver. “Detective Blackmore.”
“Just fished a body out of the sea near the old pier,” said his subordinate, a young new detective by the name of Williams. “Six gunshot wounds. Dead before the body hit the water. Definitely a homicide.”
Rupert Blackmore held his breath as he got to his feet beside the bed. “Has the body been ID-ed?”
“Affirmative. Norman Drake. Wallet was in his pocket. The guy we’ve been looking for in connection with the murder of his boss, attorney Clark Iverson.”
As if Rupert didn’t know that. He tried not to let Williams hear his disappointment that Norman’s body was the only one found so far. “Close off the entire area. I want it searched thoroughly. Drake didn’t act alone and now it appears there’s been a falling out among murderers.”
He hung up and cursed, then in a fit of rage and frustration, knocked the phone off the nightstand, sending it crashing to the floor.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered his head to his hands. Her body would wash up. Then all of this would be over. He took a deep breath, rose and picked up the phone. Carefully he put it back on the nightstand, thanking God that his wife Teresa was at her mother’s and wouldn’t be back for a few more days. Plenty of time to get this taken care of before she returned.
As he headed for the door, he tried not to worry. Once Margaret Randolph was dead, no one would ever find out the truth. And it would never get back that he hadn’t taken care of this problem twenty-seven years ago as he’d been paid to do.
One moment of kindness… He scoffed at his own worn lie. He’d done it for the money. Plain and simple. He’d sold the baby instead of disposing of it. And he’d never regretted it—until Paul Randolph found out the truth. Now Rupert had to take care of things quickly and efficiently before everything blew up in his face. No more mistakes like the one he’d made the other night at the pier. There was no way he should have missed her. He’d been too close and was too good of a shot.
He tried to put the mistakes behind him. Look to the future. And the future was simple. If Margaret Randolph wasn’t floating in Puget Sound with the fish, she soon would be.
MAGGIE STARED at the sheriff’s deputy uniform and tried to breathe. Jesse Tanner was a cop? Last night he’d said he knew the sheriff. She’d just assumed because it was a small town, everyone knew everyone else.
She stifled a groan. Not only had she stayed in the house of the local deputy, but now he might have the plate number on her bike. If he’d had reason to take it down.
Fear turned her blood to ice. He could find out her last name—if he didn’t already know. Worse, he could tell Blackmore that not only was she alive but that she was in Timber Falls.
But why would Jesse Tanner run the plate number on her bike? She hadn’t given him any reason to. Cops didn’t need a reason though. And everyone knew they stuck together.
Except Jesse was different. He didn’t act like a cop. Didn’t insist she go
