Cold Hearted (33 page)

Pulling an empty supply cart behind her, Pam took Jordan, Rene and Maleah into one of the greenhouses at the back of the Feed and Seed.

“Take your time, Jordan,” Pam said. “When you find something you want, we’ll load it on here—” she tugged on the cart’s long, adjustable handle “—and Jim can deliver your order this afternoon.”

“Oh, there’s no need for him to bother,” Jordan said. “Tobias can have Mr. Poole bring everything out to the house tomorrow when he comes to do the yard work.”

“Good, good.” Pam noticed new customers entering the greenhouse. “Just look around. I’ll be right back.”

As they wandered through the rows of plants, Jordan chose several of her favorite summer annuals. Within fifteen minutes of strolling leisurely through the large greenhouse, half a dozen other customers had entered and were milling around inside. All of them were staring at Jordan and whispering among themselves.

“Ignore them,” Rene told her. “Damn bunch of busy-bodies!”

“I suppose I should have expected it,” Jordan said. “I’ve been trying to ignore them, but I don’t think that’s possible. Let’s get out of here. It’s a little early for lunch, but we could stop by Cream and Sugar for iced tea or coffee and if we have to, we can sit in the car and drink it, then pick up lunch later and take it home.”

As Jordan passed by one middle-aged woman who’d been inspecting a rose bush, the lady sneered and mumbled under her breath, “Murderess.”

Maleah moved to Jordan’s side and deliberately nudged open her jacket, just enough to give everyone a glimpse of her gun. Her action made it plain to the other customers that she was Jordan’s bodyguard. The sudden silence that fell over the greenhouse was far more disturbing than the whispers had been.

On the short walk from the greenhouse to the sidewalk, three other customers stopped dead in their tracks and gaped as Jordan walked by.

“Take a picture,” Rene hollered at one man. “It’ll last longer.”

“I should have known this was a bad idea,” Jordan said. “Apparently there are people in Priceville who actually believe I killed Dan.”

“Why don’t you go to the car,” Rene said. “I’ll run up the street to the Cream and Sugar and get us something to drink. What do you want?” She glanced from Jordan to Maleah.

“Iced tea,” Jordan said.

“Sounds good to me.”

“When I get back, why don’t we drive over to Chattanooga and spend the day?” Rene suggested. “Not as many people will recognize you in a big city.”

“Why not?” Jordan forced a smile. “I’ll wear my sunglasses all day and look mysterious.” Her words projected a bravado that she didn’t possess. But she’d be damned if she’d let these people force her back to the prison that Price Manor had become.

While Rene went up the street to the Cream and Sugar, Priceville’s alternative to Starbucks, Jordan slid in behind the wheel of her Navigator while Maleah opened the back door and took the seat behind the passenger side. People passing on the street glared at Jordan, some even stopped, stared, and pointed fingers. A few actually hurled insults at her. She yanked down her sunglasses from where she’d hung them over the visor, put them on, and slouched down in the bucket seat.

The sooner Rene returned with their drinks, the better. Escaping to Chattanooga for the day couldn’t happen soon enough.

Suddenly, Rene reappeared, a frantic expression on her face, and without their drinks. Clutching a folded magazine of some sort in her left hand, she grabbed the door handle with her right hand, yanked open the door, and hurled herself into the front seat beside Jordan.

“God, just when we thought things had finally settled down,” Rene said, practically shouting. “Now this!” She snapped open the newspaper and slapped it across the steering wheel in front of Jordan. “No wonder the whole town is staring at you and whispering behind your back. While I was waiting in line to order our tea, I saw this on the magazine rack.”

Jordan’s heart hammered turbulently as she read the headlines on the front page of this week’s issue of The Chatterbox.

“Oh, Lord, have mercy.”

MÉNAGE À TROIS: SENATOR DAN PRICE, HIS WIFE AND HIS MALE LOVER
.

Rick hurriedly read the titillating short article on the Web site, its purpose to induce readers to rush out and buy the weekly newspaper-style magazine.

Find out all the details in this week’s issue of
The Chatterbox
, on sale today. Just what went on behind closed doors at Price Manor? Who was the father of the child Jordan Price recently lost? Did the senator’s wife and his lover plot his death
?

“How the hell did this happen?” Rick asked.

“I’ve placed some phone calls,” Griff told him. “It’s apparent that someone close to Jordan Price sold this story about the private details of the senator’s life, including the well-kept secret of his homosexuality.”

“We need to find out who betrayed her confidence and deal with them,” Rick said.

“Unless she and Devon Markham can prove this—” Griff pointed to the computer screen “—is slander and not a word of it is true, neither the person who sold this story nor the magazine are liable. You can’t sue someone for telling the truth. Our main concern now is some type of damage control.”

“Does Jordan know about this?”

“Not that we know of,” Nic said. “We haven’t heard from her or from Maleah. We didn’t know ourselves until about five minutes ago when Cam Hendrix phoned Griff.”

“We have to warn her,” Rick said.

“I’ll call Maleah,” Griff said, “while Nic contacts Claire and Ryan. Do you want to call Mrs. Price, or should I—” Griff’s phone rang interrupting him mid-sentence. He checked caller ID, then flipped it open. “Maleah?”

Rick could tell by the frown on Griff’s face and the way he nodded his head that more than likely Maleah was telling him that she knew about the article in The Chatterbox; and if Maleah knew, then Jordan knew.

“Call the sheriff and have him send some deputies to clear the road for you,” Griff said. “I’ll send as many agents as we have available right away.” Griff closed his phone, pocketed it, and turned to Rick.

“Maleah went with Jordan and her assistant into town this morning. They didn’t know anything about The Chatter-box article. As soon as they found out, they headed back to Price Manor, but it seems word leaked out that Jordan was in downtown Priceville. They’re now being chased by a horde of reporters.”

“Are they all right?” Rick asked.

“For now.”

“Exactly where are they?”

“About halfway between Priceville and Price Manor.”

“If I find out who did this, I’ll break their neck. If anything happens to Jordan, I’ll…” Rick took a deep breath. “I want to take one of the choppers. It’ll get me to Priceville faster.”

“Is your license up to date? If it’s not, get Jonathan to take you.”

“It is.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Go.”

Fear surged through Jordan as she sped down the country road, at least five vehicles in hot pursuit. The one riding her bumper was a van carrying a news crew from a Chattanooga television station. An SUV behind the van kept careening over the yellow line, trying to pass. Casting a glance in her rearview mirror, Jordan noted the logo on the SUV and knew it belonged to a local Dalton, Georgia TV station. The other cars, vans, and SUVs following behind these two were probably reporters from various newspapers and maybe even someone from The Chatterbox.

“This is total insanity.” Rene turned as far around in her seat as the safety harness would allow and watched the caravan of vehicles following them. “They’re like a pack of vultures that got a scent of rotting flesh.”

Maleah was on her cell phone, her voice low, so that Jordan could make out only a word or two now and then, but she got the impression that her bodyguard was speaking to someone at the sheriff’s office.

“Of all days, I chose today to venture out and go into town as if all was right with the world,” Jordan said.

“You had no way of knowing that The Chatterbox was going to print an exposé on your and Dan’s personal life.” Rene gasped. “Oh, God, Jordan, what about Devon? He’ll be absolutely devastated when he finds out.”

“Call him,” Jordan said. “Tell him what’s happened and what’s going on here. Explain that I’ll talk to him as soon as I can.”

One horn honked, and then another and another, creating a godawful racket that only added to Jordan’s stress level. Just as Rene placed the call to Devon, a small, black sports car behind both the van and the SUV swerved onto the opposite side of the road, sped past them, and then came up alongside Jordan’s Navigator.

“Crap!” Rene muttered under her breath. “That guy’s crazy.”

“Gun it,” Maleah ordered. “Put some distance between us and them.”

“If I go any faster, I don’t know if I can control—”

“Do it!” Maleah practically shouted. “If you don’t get ahead of them, they’re going to try to surround you and block us in.” Then into the phone, she said, “Yes, damn it, we need help now!”

Jordan gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled fierceness, pressed her foot down on the gas pedal, and prayed. The Navigator charged into high gear and shot down the road like a small rocket.

When her cell phone flew out of her hand and landed on the floorboard, Rene grumbled an unladylike obscenity. “Hell, just let it lay there. Devon didn’t answer. It went straight to voice mail.”

“He may have his phone turned off,” Jordan said, her gaze riveted out of the windshield, the scenery zipping by at lightning speed as she pushed the Navigator up to ninety.

The massive gates of Price Manor loomed in the distance. She could just barely make them out, but even a long-range glimpse offered her hope that they could make it to the estate before being overrun by their pursuers. Once behind the gates, they would be safe.

“We’re almost there,” Jordan said.

“Good,” Maleah replied. “That black sports car is gaining on us.”

As Jordan approached the entrance to the estate, her heart in her throat and her pulse pounding like war drums inside her head, she all but cried out when she saw what lay ahead — four vehicles effectively blocking her path. The Powell agent whose name she couldn’t remember was talking to the woman who had parked her Toyota Camry directly in front of the closed gates.

“Now what?” Jordan knew their choices were limited to two, stop at the gates and be overrun by reporters or keep going and hope she could outrun them.

“Is there a side road somewhere around here?” Maleah asked.

“Yes, there’s an old gravel road that leads to the back entrance of the estate, but it’s at least a mile from here,” Jordan said, then suddenly drew in a gasping breath. “Wait, there’s a dirt road that cuts through the Landaus’ cotton field or what used to be a cotton field. We’ll have to go through the woods and I’m not sure how clear that old lane is.”

“Keep going,” Maleah told her. “Turn off on that road and disappear as quickly as possible. There are two sheriff’s deputies on their way here right now. They’re not more than three miles away. We just need to buy some time.”

Jordan didn’t even slow down as she passed the entrance to Price Manor. The Navigator shimmied just a little when it reached ninety-five. She didn’t ease her foot off the gas pedal until she saw the partially hidden dirt lane where she would have to turn.

Dear God, help me turn this truck off the road without wrecking us.

“Hold on,” Jordan yelled.

She turned the steering wheel sharply, almost fishtailing the SUV, but she got it under control just before running over several small shrubs that lined the grassy path into the woods.

“Dear God!” Rene clutched the dashboard.

When they were through the woods and on the old road leading into what had once been a cotton field, Maleah alerted them to bad news.

“The black sports car is behind us.”

“Only the one car?” Jordan asked.

“As far as I can tell.”

When the path abruptly ended, Jordan stopped and slowly, carefully turned the SUV around, heading out.

“What are you doing?” Rene asked.

“I’m going to run over that damn little sports car, if that’s what it takes,” Jordan said.

“Who do you think you are, Mrs. Rambo?”

“No, I’m Jordan Price and I’m sick of being hounded, of being made to feel like a prisoner in my own home, sick of being tried and found guilty in every newspaper, magazine and television newscast in the country.”

Rene laughed. “You get ’em, girl.”

The tension inside Jordan boiled over, released like steam from an overheated kettle. She laughed and laughed; then she buried her face in her hands.

“Are you all right?” Rene punched Jordan’s shoulder.

She lifted her head and smiled. “I’m okay. We’re all alive and that’s a miracle, don’t you think?”

“Before you run over this guy, let me see if I can talk to him.” Maleah opened the back door and stepped down and out of the SUV.

“Now
she’s
playing Mrs. Rambo,” Rene said.

As Maleah walked toward the approaching car, she dialed her cell phone and spoke to someone. The sports car pulled to a halt a good twenty feet from the front of the Navigator and the driver opened his door and got out to face Maleah. The man was tall, slim and dark-haired, probably in his early thirties. He wore tight jeans, a cotton knit sweater, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. From the way he moved, it was obvious that he was more than comfortable in his own skin.

Jordan and Rene waited while Maleah carried on a conversation with the man. He kept shaking his head and looking toward the Navigator. Once, when he tried to sidestep Maleah, she reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. They squared off, as if on the verge of fighting.

“Listen,” Rene said. “I hear a siren.”

Jordan heard it, too, and within minutes she saw the sheriff’s car driving up behind and to the side of the sports car. Two uniformed deputies emerged. Maleah spoke to one of the deputies while the other talked to the reporter. After arguing heatedly with the deputy, the guy finally gave up and got in his once clean and shiny, now filthy, black sports car. He shifted into reverse, backed into the field, turned around, and sent a cloud of dust into the air as he ripped off toward the highway. Maleah walked over to the Navigator and opened the driver’s side door.