clock on the bedside table. It was almost midnight.
The knock sounded again.
Michael?
An unexpected and comforting warmth spread through her as she considered the possibility that he’d come back. This time she promised herself as she walked on unsteady legs to the door, she would swallow her pride and ask him to stay. Not to have sex, but just to keep her company—just so she wouldn’t need to be alone.
Disappointment replaced anticipation when she looked through the peephole.
It wasn’t Michael.
In fact, she was sure this man wasn’t anyone she’d ever seen before. She hesitated, reluctant to respond to the summons of a stranger at this time of night.
He knocked again, impatience evident in the rap of his knuckles against the wood.
She swallowed. “Yes?”
“Ms. Vaughn?”
“Yes,” she said again.
“My name is Michael Courtland,” he told her. “I’m a private investigator from Fairweather, Pennsylvania. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Michael Courtland? A private investigator?
She shook her head to clear away the questions that came at her from all directions.
“It’s late,” she said.
“I apologize for that,” he said easily. “But this really can’t wait.”
She hesitated again. “Can I see some identification?”
“Of course.” He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and withdrew something the size and shape of a credit card. “I’ll slide this under the door so you can take a look at it.”
She bent down to retrieve the laminated rectangle. It was a private investigator’s license bearing the name Michael Andrew Courtland.
She’d never seen this kind of identification before and wondered if it was legitimate. Or was she being paranoid to even suspect it might be fake? Since her unfortunate experience with her ex-husband, she found it difficult to trust anyone.
“I also have a driver’s license and several credit cards if you need further proof,” he said.
His offer, and a glance at the photo, reassured her that he was who he claimed to be. The picture bore a distinct likeness to the man standing outside her door and none at all to the man who’d been in her room with her earlier. A man who’d also claimed to be Michael Courtland.
Nausea rolled in her stomach. If this man was really Michael Courtland, who was the man she’d met on the beach?
It was possible, of course, that two different men had the same name. In fact, it was possible there were several Michael Courtlands in the world. But what were the odds that she would meet two such men on the same day and in the same city?
Someone had lied to her, and as this man hadn’t hesitated to prove his identity, she had to believe it was the other Michael Courtland. The one who’d kissed her until her head was spinning, who’d touched her boldly, intimately, stoking the flames of her desire until she’d been sure they would consume her. The man with whom she’d almost had wild, passionate sex.
Her stomach churned again. Why had he lied?
What reason could he have had to pretend to be someone else? And why hadn’t she thought to ask him to prove his identity?
The answer to the last question was obvious—because she didn’t want to know. Because she’d wanted only mind-numbing, bone-melting sex without any complications.
“Ms. Vaughn?”
The question from outside the door broke through her self-recrimination. She felt the heat of shame flood her cheeks and pushed aside all thoughts of the other man as she opened the door—but only a few inches.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, handing back his identification through the narrow opening.
“There’s no need to apologize for being cautious.”
He smiled at her, and she realized he was more attractive when viewed directly. Close to six feet tall, she guessed, with sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, and a square jaw with just the hint of a dimple in the middle.
“Mr. Courtland—”
“Call me Drew.”
She frowned. “I thought your name was Michael.”
“It’s also my dad’s name,” he said. “Andrew’s my middle name. My mom started calling me Drew when I was a kid—it made things less confusing around the house.”
“Oh.” She relaxed again at the easy explanation. “Okay, now I know who you are, but I still don’t know why you’re here.”
“Lieutenant Creighton didn’t call you?”
“No.” Bony fingers of fear slid along her skin. “Has something else happened to my sister?”
“No,” he responded quickly to her obvious panic. “Natalie’s fine. I’m here because of you.”
“Why?”
“Because Creighton is concerned that Zane Conroy’s associates may have followed you to Florida.”
She remembered the strange feeling that had persisted over the past couple of days, the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. She’d finally discarded the idea as paranoia, but now she wondered.
“In fact, you may have been tracked to this hotel.”
She swallowed. “I think someone was in my room tonight. Earlier. While I was out.”
His gaze sharpened. “Then we need to get you out of here as soon as possible. If they’ve already been here, confirmed you’re staying here, they’ll be back.”
The chill went through to her bones. “Why?”
“Because they’ll be seeking revenge for his murder.”
“But I had nothing to do with anything,” she protested. “I didn’t even know Conroy.”
“Your sister did,” he reminded her. “And that puts you at risk.”
His warning shook her to the core. Shannon had thought Conroy’s death was a blessing, but if what this man said was true, not only could she be in danger, but Natalie and Jack might be, as well.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “But you need to understand why Creighton wants you out of this hotel.”
“Where—” she swallowed “—where am I supposed to go?”
“I have a safe house ready.”
It
