Twisted Shadows (26 page)

She'd lost control of her life. She knew she shouldn't be here in the house, but it was the only place her mother could find her. And she was exhausted, both mentally and physically. Hoping against hope, she'd driven up to the cabin early this morning after finding the note. She'd hoped to find some explanation there.

The cabin had looked as it always did when they—as a family—arrived and left. Dishes put away. Bed made. Door locked. No sign of habitation. No hidden message. Nothing. Once she found the cabin empty, she'd turned around and returned home, watching her rearview mirror.

Her body was exhausted but her mind kept her awake as she drove back to her own house and collapsed in the chair next to the phone. She didn't wake until she heard a car drive up. She'd run to the door and thrown it open. She was so sure …

And he stood there.

Tall, with that relaxed lean strength and a shadow of a smile. Confident. Assured. Dear God, how she needed some of that assurance.

She'd called him during a moment of sheer desperation. She hadn't really expected him to show. She hadn't really known if she wanted him to or not.

Now she felt enormous relief and yet …

“I called your office, too,” she said.

His brows furrowed together. “Do you know whom you spoke with?”

She should have taken the name. She always did that on a business call. She wanted to know who to hold responsible if something went wrong. But in her panic this morning, she hadn't.

“I don't remember. A man. I just asked that he tell you to call Sam. I didn't think anyone would know who Sam was but you.”

Then she remembered she'd made both calls from her mother's phone. How would he have known the phone call had been from her? Had he had that number handy because he had come to see her mother, not her?

She backed out of his arms, and the warmth she'd just felt faded in the cool early morning air. Not friends, she told herself. Not anything. Just as the Merrittas obviously wanted something from her, now he wanted something from her, too.

They stood there like strangers. Probably because they were. Yet there had always been some kind of electric recognition between them. She still remembered the magic of a kiss that had lasted such a brief time and yet had had such a lasting impact. She didn't understand how the awareness between them could still be as strong as it had been that night.

She'd been exhausted then, too. Exhausted and scared. She'd hoped that had been all there was. Now she knew that wasn't true. The awareness was still alive, still as vibrant. And she was still as wary.

But she wanted to trust him. She needed guidance as to what to do in a world she didn't understand. She was tired of being the vulnerable victim.

Hesitancy. Fear. Need. And, dammit, attraction. They all radiated between them.

She swallowed hard, trying to regain the sea legs of reason.

“Tell me what happened,” he said softly.

She opened the door wider to let him in.

“You're not staying alone, are you?” he asked.

“I just got home a little while ago,” she replied. She wasn't going to tell him about the cabin. Not yet.

“Can I have a cup of coffee?”

She nodded. She needed one, too. Perhaps then she could sort out her wayward feelings.

It seemed everyone told her not to trust anyone else. And yet she had to trust someone. Her world had spun out of control.

He
was
FBI. He was supposed to be one of the good guys. Instinctively, she knew he was. To her knowledge he was the only one who hadn't lied to her or kept secrets from her.

She led the way to the kitchen.

“Can I make it for you?” he asked, his gaze touching the bandage on her arm.

“It's nothing,” she said. “A few stitches.”

“Does anything daunt you?” he asked.

“A great deal bothers me, but in the grand scheme of the past few days, a splinter ranks about a fourth of a point on a ten-point scale.”

“What ranks tenth?”

“My mother.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I should have known that.”

“No, you shouldn't. You don't know me,” she said more sharply than she intended because of her mixed feelings. She wanted him here, yet out of loyalty to Nick, she shouldn't. But she knew she was in over her head and McLean was all she had at the moment.

“I'll make the coffee,” he offered.

“I know where everything is,” she said. “I'll make it.”

But it was more than knowing where everything was. She needed to keep busy. She needed to keep her hands moving.

Even if she hadn't known he was right behind her, she would have felt his presence. Odd that even the air seemed to hum with expectation when he was near. She filled the filter and plugged in the pot, her movements calculated to avoid brushing against him … touching him.

He was silent, too, as the coffee started to drip.

She didn't look at him as she took two cups from the cupboard. Nor when she went to the fridge and found some milk.

Finally she had to turn back to where he leaned against one of the counters, waiting silently for her to accept his presence … to acknowledge she needed him. Did he ever sit? There was a natural restlessness about him. Watchfulness.

And also patience. It was the patience that was disconcerting.

God knew he was trying to practice patience as he watched her make the coffee with quietly determined movements. Her exhaustion was obvious, yet he held back, waiting for her to admit it. Something told him she would resent it if he forced the admission on her. If he tried to take control of her.

Patience was an art he'd never quite conquered, but she was as skittish—and wary—as a mistreated dog. And well she had the right to be.

He knew a cornered animal when he saw one. The last thing he wanted was to add to her anxiety right now. There were enough hunters after her. He was supposed to be the embodiment of a safe haven to her.

The bandage on her arm was a sign of his failure thus far. Somehow he should have prevented that shooting.

“The coffee smells good,” he said after several moments. “It's been a long drive.”

She didn't say anything. He wanted to ask about her mother, but it was obvious she wasn't ready to talk about it yet. Wait, he warned himself. She was like a volcano ready to erupt. He tried to curb his questions by evaluating the house and its furnishings. Surroundings often told him much about a person.

The hallway had been lined with western art. The spacious kitchen was uniquely welcoming with tiles painted with Indian designs and a huge brick fireplace that stretched across an entire wall. Copper pots and pans hung from hooks over a cooking island.

As he stood against the counter, relieved to stretch legs stiff from hours on the highway, a cat walked in, its tail waving high in the air.

McLean stooped and held out his hand.

“That's Sarsy,” Samantha told him. “She doesn't like strangers.”

He was quiet. Didn't move his hand. After several seconds, Sarsy approached him, purring as she butted her head against his hand. He'd always liked animals, and they'd always seemed to like him. Perhaps because he didn't demand anything from them.

Samantha looked startled and then thoughtful.

He thought that undemanding tactic might work best with Samantha Carroll, too.

He drank in the smell of the coffee and watched as she poured a healthy amount into a large mug. No delicate cup with three swallows here.

“Would you like anything in it?”

“No.” He took the cup and sat on a stool next to the island. “Thank you.”

She poured coffee into another cup and sipped it. Her hand shook slightly.

His gaze met hers. The uncanny attraction between them seemed to intensify with every passing moment. He wanted to lean over and take her hand. He forced himself to resist the temptation. He needed to keep his distance, to allow her to come to him … like the cat. “Tell me about your mother,” he said softly.

“I don't know if anything's wrong,” she blurted. “She left a note saying not to worry.”

“But you do?” he probed gently.

“She's been asking me to come home. She had something to tell me. Yet she left a few hours before I was to return. It doesn't make sense.”

“Can I see the note?”

She hesitated.

“I'm not your enemy,” he said.

“I know. You just want to help me even as you try to hurt my brother.” Her voice was slightly edged with sarcasm.

“Not if he's innocent,” he countered, surprising himself. “Don't let the Merrittas influence you,” he said. “They're not worth it.”

It was exactly the wrong thing to say, and he knew it immediately from the curtain that fell over her face. But he had never been tactful, and he honestly wanted to make her aware of the pitfalls of being allied in any way with the Merrittas.

He tried again. “The note?”

He saw her swallow, struggle with the decision. Then her shoulders slumped. “I'll get it.”

She left the room, but he didn't follow. He knew he couldn't push.

She brought it back, and he skimmed over it first, then read it more carefully, looking for nuances. But he didn't know Patsy Carroll, formerly Tracy Edwards Merritta. He could not judge whether she had been forced or not, not without knowing more about her.

“You said there was nothing unusual about the note. She usually called you Samantha?”

“Yes,” she said. “There's nothing there. I've been over it a dozen times.”

“She mentioned a friend. Do you have any idea who that might be?”

“No,” she said in a small voice. “She had friends, but I don't think she had any close ones. My father was her best friend. I thought it was just natural reticence but now I think it might have been fear of exposure.”

“No family?”

A look flitted across her face. A sudden memory? Revelation?

“No,” she said, but this time he didn't believe her. There was something she wasn't saying.

He read the note once again. “Have the local police been called?”

“No. She said she didn't want to talk to you yet. Bringing in the local police would just raise questions.” Her gaze met his, challenged him.

He took another sip of coffee. “You're not going to be able to keep this quiet. Not now. Too many people know.”

“I realize that,” she said with quiet desperation. “But I can't be the cause.”

He said nothing, just continued to watch her.

“I
am,
aren't I?” she said. “If I hadn't gone to Boston—”

“It wouldn't have made a difference,” he said gently. “Merritta's man, Camda, had made calls to him. We recorded them. We knew there was a daughter. We would have found you … and so would whoever is taking shots at you.”

“Why?”

“Because she might have information we need.”

“But it was thirty years ago.” Her eyes pleaded with him.

“It's too late,” he said. He sipped the coffee. It was strong and very good. The kitchen seemed to become smaller. Warmer. Damn, but he liked her.

More than liked her.

Restrain your libido,
he told himself again. He longed to reach over and touch her. But he remembered what happened at the hospital. Too much proximity and combustion happened.

She seemed caught in the moment, too. She looked dazed, but then that might well be plain exhaustion.

She shook her head, as if trying to chase away a thought. “Do you think someone might have taken her?” Her words broke the momentary spell. “I
know
her. I just don't think she would leave like that.” She paused. “At least, I
thought
I knew her.”

The coffee was working. Or perhaps it was the fact she could no longer conceal her fear. Whatever the reason, he knew he had to be very careful. She and her mother could be the key to dismantling the Merritta family. Someone obviously considered them a threat.

Reason dictated that Patsy Carroll, aka Tracy Merritta, had something on the family. Nothing else explained why she was still alive after her defection from the family. What possibly could hang like the sword of Damocles over the Merrittas for thirty years? That's what he needed to know.

Or did he? Did he want to risk the fragile shell of intimacy weaving around them?

You've been working toward this for more than twenty years
. He sought the image that had sustained him through those years. The shot, the blood. His mother's face. Scared. Then empty.

It could happen to Samantha
. He suspected that she knew she was far beyond her depth. He could exploit that, but he didn't want to use her. He wanted to protect her. Hell, he
would
protect her.

Keep her talking. Questions. Gentle questions. And keep lustful thoughts at bay
. “When exactly did you find out about your connection to the Merrittas?” He knew, or thought he knew, but good interviews always went back to the beginning, putting together different sources and clues, then finding the common string.

She looked at him suspiciously, but then shrugged. “Last week. Two men sent by Paul Merritta came by the gallery. They showed me a family photo of Nick and myself as babies with my mother and … Paul Merritta. They said he was dying and wanted to see me.”

He leaned forward. “You had no inkling before that? None?”

“No. I thought David Carroll was my birth father.” She hesitated.

“What did your mother say?”

Her gaze met his. Solemn and honest and full of pain. He knew he was plumbing that vulnerability.

He brushed aside his reservations. He couldn't help her without knowing as much as possible. “Do you know how unusual it is for someone to leave the family?” he asked. “Alive?”

He saw in her face that she knew exactly what he meant. She had a quick mind.