emerged cautiously from his vehicle. As he repositioned the gun at the small of his back, he surveyed the empty parking area as well as the row of vacant-looking, rundown rooms on either side of the office. The sign proclaiming Vacancies hung at an odd angle near the door. Faded blue paint was cracked and peeling from the antiquated wood siding. It was a real dump.
Still scanning warily, Ethan walked up the steps and across the small porch that led to the office. The July humidity was sweltering. Inside, the office proved no cooler. A small oscillating fan kept the fetid air moving, but did nothing to cool the temperature.
A short, bald man with a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth dragged his attention from the soap opera he was watching on the small television set. “Can I help you?” he asked with absolute disinterest. He didn’t even bother to rise from his dilapidated chair.
Ethan narrowed his gaze and set his lips in a grim line, a practiced move that boasted of the impatience radiating behind the expression and should serve to motivate the listless clerk. “I certainly hope so.”
The guy appeared startled then. He shot to his feet. It was almost as if he’d looked at Ethan for the first time and noted what could only be called trouble. Ethan knew he presented a somewhat dangerous persona, and that was fine by him, especially at times like this. It allowed for a certain ease in getting what he wanted. He could well imagine what the guy behind the scarred counter thought at the moment. Ethan’s shoulder-length hair was tied back in a queue. A small silver hoop embellished one ear. But it was his size more than anything else that served as the most persuasive. He was six-four and weighed a muscular 220 pounds. Not too many people willingly messed with him. And that’s the way he liked it.
If the now-flustered clerk didn’t stop gaping Ethan was pretty sure the lit cancer stick was going to fall right out of his mouth.
“I need a room. My name is Ethan Delaney. I hope I don’t need a reservation.” He said the last a bit facetiously.
Clenching his lips together to grip the cigarette, the guy shook his head, then abruptly changed it to a nod. “You…you already have a room,” he stammered. He grabbed a key. “One fourteen.” He angled his head to his left. “All the way at the end.”
Ethan wasn’t surprised. Dr. Jennifer Ballard, if that was who she really was, was supposed to be waiting for him. She certainly wouldn’t risk using her real name if she was in hiding. He supposed that was the reason she’d used his.
“Thank you,” he said as he reached for the key.
The man behind the counter swallowed hard as he dropped the key into Ethan’s hand. “Just…just let me know if you need anything else.”
“Just one thing,” Ethan said pointedly.
The guy jumped. “Yeah?”
Ethan dropped a couple of bills on the counter. “I haven’t been here, got it?”
The clerk’s head bobbed up and down as he pocketed the money. “Never saw you.”
Ethan smiled, something several degrees shy of pleasant. “Good.”
As the clerk said, room 114 was all the way at the end. The six rooms before it appeared empty, just as Ethan had suspected when he arrived. He had no doubt that the seven rooms on the other side of the office were just as empty. Glancing from right to left once more, he reached for his gun and simultaneously shoved the key into the lock. He pushed open the door.
To his surprise it was dark inside, but blessedly cool. The drapes were pulled tight. He felt for the light switch but a distinctly feminine voice stopped him.
“Close the door first.”
Moving into defensive mode, Ethan closed the door behind him and tightened his fingers on the weapon.
“Now you can turn on the light.”
He flipped the switch, blinked once to focus, his gun leveled in the direction of the sound of her voice.
A woman who looked no older than seventeen or eighteen, clad in tattered hip-hugger jeans and a cut-off T-shirt stood on the opposite side of the room. She wasn’t very tall, five-two maybe, and waif-thin. Long blond hair, pale blue eyes, elfin features. Ethan couldn’t say for sure if she was Dr. Jennifer Ballard or not, but she definitely resembled the girl in the five-year-old photograph he’d seen. With one major exception—this woman was holding on tight with both hands to a small-caliber handgun, the barrel pointed at his chest.
“I need to see some identification, Mr. Delaney.” She moistened her lips and exhaled a shaky breath. “But first, I’ll need you to put your gun down.”
Chapter Two
Please, God, Jenn Ballard prayed, don’t let him realize this gun isn’t loaded.
“I said, put your gun down,” she repeated to the large, dangerous-looking man standing on the other side of a bed that would prove less than adequate as a protective barrier.
“I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you put yours away and then I’ll do the same.”
She trembled at the sound of his voice. Smooth but lethal. What should she do? She’d expected him to obey her command. They always did in the movies…the ones she watched anyway.
She had no other choice. Gritting her teeth for courage, she drew the hammer back, cocking the weapon just as she’d seen guys like Clint Eastwood do. The resounding click echoed loudly in the still room. “Put it down now,” she demanded with as much gravity as she could marshal. She sure hoped all those late-night movies she used to watch weren’t wrong.
The man, whom she prayed was really Ethan Delaney, stared at her for two endless seconds before he relented. She let go the breath she’d been holding when he placed his weapon on the bedspread. Thank God.
“Now, the ID,” she reminded.
“Just stay cool, lady.” He opened the left lapel of his lightweight leather jacket wide, showing her he had nothing to hide, and reached with his thumb and fore-finger into an interior pocket. His evaluating stare never left her as he produced a small black leather credentials case. He tossed it onto the bed still eyeing her speculatively. She knew how she looked, but she couldn’t help that. The ragged jeans and the midriff top were the best she could do under the circumstances. The fact that the getup was reasonably clean had been her only concern when she’d bartered for it. With her hair down instead of in its usual neat bun and sporting the funky clothes she doubted anyone would recognize her. Even her beloved fiancé.
Which was the whole point.
Never taking her eyes off the man looming a mere mattress width away, she reached for the case he’d tossed onto the bed. She flipped it open and glanced at the Colby Agency picture ID. Ethan Delaney. Thirty-four, six-four, 220 pounds. Brown hair and eyes. She looked back and forth between the ID and the man himself. The hair was really long, tied back in a ponytail, and the eyes an uncommonly dark coppery brown. Her throat went a little dry. A guy this size could definitely do some damage. Maybe she shouldn’t have begun their meeting in such an unfriendly, distrustful manner.
“Satisfied?” he asked pointedly.
Oh, yes. She’d definitely made a mistake. But what choice
