Best-Kept Lies (6 page)

And it had been so wrong.

In an effort to dislodge images of Randi lying naked in front of the fire, staring up at him with those warm eyes, Striker bought coffee from a vendor and resumed his position not far from the door, protected by the awning of an antique bookstore located next door to the
Clarion
’s offices.

A familiar ache, one he rarely acknowledged, tore through him as he sipped his coffee. Leaning a shoulder against the rough bricks surrounding plate-glass windows etched in gold-leaf lettering, he watched the door of the
Clarion
’s building through a thin wisp of steam rising from his paper cup. Pedestrians scurried past in trench coats, parkas or sweatshirts, some wearing hats, a few with umbrellas, most bareheaded, their collars turned to the wind and rain that steadily dripped from the edge of the awning.

His cell phone rang and he swung it from his pocket. “Striker.”

“Hi, it’s Kelly.”

For the first time in hours, he smiled as Matt’s wife started rattling off information. The men at the Flying
M were still upset about Randi’s leaving. Kelly was working to find a maroon Ford, one that was scraped up and dented from pushing Randi’s vehicle off the road in Glacier Park. Kelly was also double-checking all of the staff who had been on duty the night that Randi was nearly killed in the hospital. So far she’d come up with nothing.

Striker wasn’t surprised.

He hung up knowing nothing more than when he’d taken the call. Whoever was trying to kill Randi was either very smart or damn lucky.

So far.

Cars, vans and trucks, their windows fogged, sped through the old, narrow streets of this part of the city. Striker glared at the doorway of the hotel, drank coffee and scowled as he considered the other men in Randi McCafferty’s life, at least one of whom had bedded her and fathered her son.

Paterno. Clanton. Donahue. Bastards every one of them.

But he was narrowing the field. He’d done some double-checking on the men who had been involved with Randi. It was unlikely that Joe Paterno had fathered the kid. The timing was all wrong. Kurt had looked into Paterno’s travel schedule and records. Paterno had been in Afghanistan around the time the baby had been conceived. There had been rumors that he’d been back in town for a weekend, but Kurt had nearly ruled out the possibility by making a few phone calls to Paterno’s chatty landlady. Unless Paterno hadn’t shown his face at his apartment and holed up for a secret weekend alone with Randi, he hadn’t fathered the kid. Since Randi had been out of town most of the month, it seemed Joe was in the clear.

Leaving Brodie Clanton, the snake of a lawyer, and Sam Donahue, a rough-around-the-edges cowboy; a man whose shady reputation was as black as his hat. Again jealousy cut through him. Clanton was so damn slick, a rich lawyer and a ladies’ man. It galled Striker to think of Randi sleeping with a guy who could barely start a sentence without mentioning that his grandfather had been a judge.

A-number-one jerk if ever there had been one, Clanton had avoided walking down the aisle so far, the confirmed-bachelor type who was often seen squiring around pseudocelebrities when they blew into town. He was into the stock market, expensive cars and young women, the kind of things a man could trade in easily. Clanton had been in town around the time Joshua had been conceived, but, with a little digging into credit card receipts, Striker had determined that Randi, at that time, had been in and out of Seattle herself. She’d never traveled as far as Afghanistan or, presumably, into Paterno’s arms, but she’d been chasing a story with the rodeo circuit, where Sam Donahue was known for breaking broncs and women’s hearts.

If Striker had been a betting man, he would have fingered Donahue as the baby’s daddy. Twice married, Donahue had cheated on both his wives, leaving number one for a younger woman who’d grown up in Grand Hope, Montana, Randi’s hometown. And now he just coincidentally had shown up here. A day before Randi.

Striker’s jaw tightened so hard it hurt.

DNA would be the only true answer, of course, unless he forced the truth from Randi’s lips. Gorgeous lips. Even when she was angry. Her mouth would twist into a furious pout that Striker found incredibly sexy.
Which was just plain nuts. He couldn’t,
wouldn’t
let his mind wander down that seductively dark path. No matter how attractive Randi McCafferty was, he was being paid to protect her, not seduce her. He couldn’t let it happen again.

He felt a bit of hardening beneath his fly and swore under his breath. He shouldn’t get an erection just thinking of the woman… Hell, this was no time. None whatsoever for ridiculous fantasies. He had a job to do. And he’d better do it quickly before there was another unexplained “accident,” before someone else got hurt. Or before the would-be murderer got lucky and this time someone
was
killed.

S
he pushed open the revolving glass doors and found him just where she’d expected him, on a rain-washed Seattle street, looking damnably rough-and-tumble and sexy as ever. Obviously waiting for her. Great. Just what she
didn’t
need, an invitation to trouble in disreputable jeans and a beat-up jacket.

Yep. Kurt Striker in all his damn-convention attitude was waiting.

Her stupid pulse quickened at the sight of him, but she quickly tamped down any emotional reaction she felt for the man. Yes, he was way too attractive in his tight jeans, leather jacket and rough-hewn features. His face was red with the cold, his hair windblown and damp as he leaned a hip against the bricks of a small shop, his eyes trained on the main door of the building.
He was holding a paper cup of coffee, which he tossed into a nearby trash can when he spotted her.

Why did she have a thing for dangerous, sensual types? What was wrong with her? Never once in her life had she been attracted to the boy next door, nor to the affable, respectable, dedicated man who worked nine to five, nor the warm, cuddly football-watching couch potato who would love her to the end of time and never once forget an anniversary. The very men she lauded in her column. The men she advised women to give second glances. The salt-of-the-earth, give-you-the-shirt-off-his-back kind of guy who washed his car and the dog on Saturdays, the guy who wore the same flannel shirt that he’d had since college—the regular Joe of the world. One of the good guys.

Maybe, she thought, crossing the street, that was why she could give out advice to the women and men who were forever falling for the wrong kind. Because she was one of them and, she realized, skirting a puddle as she jaywalked to the parking lot where Striker was posed, she knew the pitfalls of hot-wired attraction. She bore the burn marks and scars to prove it.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she said, clicking her Jeep’s keyless remote. “You just don’t seem to get it, do you? I don’t want you here.”

“We’ve been through this.”

“And I have a feeling we’ll go through it a dozen more times before you get the message.” She opened the car door, but he was quick, slamming it shut with the flat of his hand.

“Why don’t you and I start over,” he suggested, forcing a smile, his arm effectively cutting off her ability to climb into the Jeep. “I’ll take you to dinner—there’s a
nice little Irish pub around the corner—and you can fill me in on your life before you got to Montana.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Like hell.” His smile slid away. “It’s time you leveled with me. I’m sick to the back teeth of the clamped-lip routine. I need to find out who’s been trying to hurt you and your brothers. If you weren’t so damn arrogant to think this is just about you, that I’m only digging into all this to bother you, then you’d realize that you’re the key to all the trouble that’s been happening at the Flying M. It’s not just your problem, lady. If you remember, Thorne’s plane went down—”

“That was because of bad weather. It was an accident.”

“And he was flying in that storm to get back to Montana because of you and the baby, wasn’t he? And what about the fire in the stable? God, woman, Slade nearly lost his life. The fire was ruled arson and it’s a little too convenient for me to believe that it was coincidence, okay?”

“Drop it, Striker,” she warned, whirling on him.

“No way.”

“Why do you think I left the ranch?” she demanded.

“I think you left because of me.”

That stopped her short. Standing in the dripping rain with his gaze centered directly on hers, she nearly lost it. “Because of you?”

“And last night.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“The timing is right.”

Dear Lord. Her stomach twisted. “Let’s get something straight, shall we? I left Montana so that the ‘accidents’ at the Flying M would stop and my brothers and their families would be safe. Whoever is behind this is after me.”

“So you think you’re what? Drawing the fire away from your family?”

“Yes.”

“What about you? Your kid?”

“I can take care of myself. And my baby.”

“Well, you’ve done a pretty piss-poor job of it so far,” he said, his skin ruddy with the cold, his eyes flashing angrily.

“And you think that confiding in you would help? I don’t even know anything about you other than Slade seems to think you’re okay.”

“You know a helluva lot more than that,” he said, and she swallowed against the urge to slap him.

“If you’re talking about last night…”

“Then what? Go on.”

“I can’t. Not here. And…and besides, that’s not the kind of knowing I was talking about. So don’t try to bait me, okay?”

His jaw slid to one side and his eyes narrowed. “Fair enough and you’re right. You don’t know me, but maybe it’s time. Let’s go. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” His grin was about as warm as the Yukon in winter. “I’ll buy dinner.”

Before she could argue, he grabbed the crook of her arm and propelled her around the corner, down two blocks and toward a staircase that led down a flight to a subterranean bar and restaurant. He helped her to a booth in the back before she finally yanked her arm away. “Where’d you learn your manners? At the Cro-Magnon School of Etiquette?”

“Graduated cum laude.” One eyebrow cocked disarmingly.

She chuckled and bit back another hot retort. Goad
ing him was getting her nowhere fast. But at least he had a sense of humor and could laugh at himself. Besides which, she was starved. Her stomach started making all sorts of vile noises at the smells emanating from the kitchen.

Kurt ordered an ale, and she, deciding a drink wouldn’t hurt, did the same. “Okay, okay, so you’ve made your point,” she said when he leaned back in the booth and stared at her. “You take your job seriously. You’re not going away. Whatever my brothers are paying you is worth putting up with me and my bad attitude, right?”

He let it slide as the waitress, a reed-thin woman with curly red hair tied into a single plait, reappeared with two frosty glasses, twin dinner menus and a bowl of peanuts. She slid all onto the table, then ambled toward a table where a patron was wagging his finger frantically to get her attention.

The place was dim and decorated with leatherlike cushions, mahogany wood aged to near black, a scarred wooden floor and a ceiling of tooled-metal tiles. It smelled of beer and ale, with the hint of cigar smoke barely noticeable over the tang of food grilling behind the counter. Two men were playing darts in a corner and the click of billiard balls emanated from an archway leading to other rooms. Conversation was light, patrons at the long, battered bar tuned in to a muted Sonics basketball game.

“I’m going to check on the baby.” She reached into her bag, retrieved her cell phone and punched out Sharon Okano’s number.

Sharon picked up on the second ring and was quick to reassure her that Joshua was fine. He’d already eaten,
been bathed and was in his footed jammies, currently fascinated by a mobile Sharon had erected over his playpen.

“I’ll be by to see him as soon as I can,” Randi said.

“He’ll be fine.”

“I know. I just can’t wait to hold him a minute.” Randi clicked off and tried to quell the dull ache that seemed forever with her when she was apart from her child. It was weird, really. Before Joshua’s birth she had been free and easy, didn’t have a clue what a dramatic change was in store for her. But from the moment she’d awoken from her coma and learned she’d borne a son, she could barely stand to be away from him, even for a few hours.

As for being with him and holding him, the next few weeks promised to be torture on that score. Until she was certain he was safe with her. She slid the phone into her purse and turned to Kurt, who was studying her intently over the rim of his mug. Great. Dealing with him wasn’t going to be easy, either. Even if she didn’t factor in that she’d made love to him like a wanton in the wee hours of this very morning.

They ordered. Two baskets of fish and chips complete with sides of coleslaw and a second beer, even though they weren’t quite finished with the first, were dropped in front of them.

“Why are you keeping your kid’s paternity a secret?” Kurt finally asked. “What does it matter?”

“I prefer he didn’t know.”

“Why not? Seems as if he has a right.”

“Being a sperm donor isn’t the same as being a father.” Her stomach was screaming for food but the conversation was about to kill her appetite.

“Maybe he should be the judge of that.”

“Maybe you should keep your nose in your own business.” She took a long swallow from her drink and the guys at the bar gave up a shout as one of the players hit a three pointer.

“Your brothers made it my business.”

“My brothers can’t run my life. Much as they’d like to.”

“I think you’re afraid,” he accused, and she felt the tightening of the muscles of her neck, the urge to defend herself.

“Of what?” she asked, but he didn’t answer as the waitress appeared and slid their baskets onto the plank table, then offered up bottles of vinegar and ketchup. Only when they were alone again did Randi repeat herself. “You think I’m afraid of what?”

“Why don’t
you
tell me. It’s just odd, you know, for a woman not to tell the father of her child that he’s a daddy. Goes against the grain. Usually the mother wants financial support. Emotional support. That kind of thing.”

“I’m not usual,” she said, and thought he whispered “Amen” under his breath, though she couldn’t be certain as he covered up his comment with a long swallow of ale. She noticed the movement of his throat—dark with a bit of beard shadow as he swallowed—and something deep inside her, something dusky and wholly feminine, reacted. She drew her eyes away and told herself she was being a fool. It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, over a year now, but that didn’t give her the right to ogle men like Kurt Striker nor imagine what it would feel like for him to touch her again, to kiss her, to press hot, insistent lips against the curve of her neck and push her sweater off her shoulder…

She caught herself and realized that he was watch
ing her face, looking for her reaction. As if he could read her mind. To her horror she felt herself blush.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

She shook her head, pretended interest in her meal by shaking vinegar over her fries. “Wouldn’t sell ’em for a penny, or a nickel, or a thousand dollars.”

“So tell me about the book,” he suggested.

“The book?”

“The one you’re writing. Another one of your secrets.”

How could one man be so irritating? She ate in silence for a second and glowered across the table at him. “It’s not a secret. I just didn’t want to tell anyone about it until it was finished.”

“You were on your way to the Flying M to finish it when you were forced off the road at Glacier National Park, right?” He dredged a piece of fish in tartar sauce.

She nodded.

“Think that’s just a coincidence?”

“No one knew I was going to Montana to write a book. Even the people at work thought I was just taking my maternity leave—which I was. I was planning to combine the two.”

“Juanita at the ranch knew about it.” He’d polished off one crispy lump of halibut and was working on a second.

“Of course she did. I already explained, it really wasn’t a secret.”

“If you say so.” He ate in silence for a minute, but she didn’t feel any respite, knew he was forming his next question, and sure enough, it came, hard and fast. “Tell me, Randi,” he said, “who do you think wants to kill you?”

“I’ve been through this dozens of times with the police.”

“Humor me.” He was nearly finished with his food
and she’d barely started. But her appetite had crumpled into nothing. She picked at her coleslaw. “Who are your worst enemies? You know, anyone who has a cause—just or not—for wanting you dead.”

She’d considered the question over and over. It had run through her mind in an endless loop from the moment her memory had started working again when she’d awoken from her coma. “I…I don’t know. No one has any reason to hate me enough to kill me.”

“Murderers aren’t always reasonable people,” he pointed out.

“I can’t name anyone.”

“How about the baby’s father? Maybe he found out you were pregnant, is ticked that you didn’t tell him and, not wanting to be named as the father, decided to get rid of you both.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“No?”

She shook her head. She wasn’t certain about many things, but she doubted Joshua’s father would care that he’d fathered a child, certainly wouldn’t go through the steps to get rid of either of them. She felt a weight on her heart but ignored it as Striker, leaning back in the booth, pushed his near-empty basket aside. “If I’m going to help you, then I need to know everything that’s going on. So who is he, Randi? Who’s Joshua’s daddy?”

She didn’t realize she’d been shredding her napkin in her lap, but looked down and noticed all the pieces of red paper. She supposed she couldn’t take her secret with her to the grave, but letting the world know the truth made her feel more vulnerable, that she was somehow breaching a special trust she had with her son.

“My money’s on Donahue,” he said abruptly.

She froze.

He winked though his expression was hard. “I figure you’d go for the sexy-cowboy type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Don’t I?”

“Unfair, Striker, last night was…was…”

“What about it?”

“It was a mistake. We both know it. So, let’s just forget it. As I said, you don’t have any idea what ‘my type’ is.”

One side of his mouth lifted in an irritating, sexy-as-hell smile. Green eyes held hers fast, and a wave, warm as a desert in August, climbed up her neck. “I’m workin’ on it.”

Her heart clenched.
Don’t do this, Randi. Don’t let him get to you. He’s no better than…than…
Her throat tightened when she considered what a fool she’d been. For a man who’d seduced her. Used her. Cared less for her than he did for his dog. Silly, silly woman.

“Okay, Striker,” she said, forcing the words through her lips, words she’d vowed only hours ago never to utter. “I’ll tell you the truth,” she said, hating the sense of relief it brought to be able to confide in someone. “But this is between you and me. Got it? I’ll tell you and you alone. When the time comes I’ll tell Joshua’s father and my brothers. But only when I say.”