JAKrentz - Uneasy Alliance (9 page)

"Having a place that looks down on things gives me a feeling of security," Torr told her quietly. "I suppose that's why I made sure my place in Portland and the cabin here were built on hillsides. Come inside. It's getting chilly out here. I'll start a fire and we can have something to eat."

Abby swung around on her heel and met his eyes for a long moment. Going inside that cabin was going to change things, decide matters in some indefinable way. This man wanted to be her lover. He had already assumed the role of protector. Tonight she would be eating his food, sharing his fire, sleeping under his roof. The web around her seemed to thicken and tighten as she stood assimilating the probabilities of her future.

"It's too late, Abby. Much too late. Come inside, honey. You'll be safe here." Torr's words were soft and deeply persuasive, promising everything she needed.

For an instant longer Abby hesitated and then she shook off the feeling of being caught up in a spell. She was capable of handling Torr if it came to that. And it would be reassuring to know he was sharing the house with her tonight. His presence, she knew, would help to keep the fears and the worries at bay. The decision made, Abby summoned up a very brilliant smile and went over to the car.

"I'll get the sack of groceries we picked up at that convenience store," she called cheerfully, leaning down to lift it off the back seat of the BMW. A flash of color caught her eye as she glanced inside the paper bag. "You bought some flowers!" she exclaimed in surprise. A small bouquet of tiny yellow roses poked their heads out of a plastic wrapper. They were nestled alongside a bottle of wine and a carton of milk. "I didn't see you pick these up."

"There were a few bunches near the cashier's stand," Torr explained as he turned back to the door to insert a key. "I thought they might add something to dinner."

"Are you going to fry them or boil them?" she asked, grinning.

"It's not nice to pick on people who take life seriously," Torr admonished as he pushed open the door and picked up the suitcases. He nodded for her to step into the tiled hall ahead of him and, traces of the grin still on her mouth, Abby did so. She gazed around with interest.

The interior of the modern cedar home had a professionally rustic look, complete with heavy comfortable furniture and area rugs with beautiful patterns. The orderly discipline she associated with Torr was very evident. There were no leftover ashes in the fireplace, no aging magazines on the slatted coffee table, no unwashed cups on the round oak dining table.

The house had obviously been designed to take full advantage of the view. A wall of glass formed one side of the living room and dining room. With a woman's unerring instinct, Abby headed toward the kitchen with her sack of groceries.

"Oh, lovely! An island. I've always wanted an island in my kitchen." She set the sack down on the wooden butcher-block table, which stood in the center of the functional room.

"Is that what you call it? I thought it was some sort of dining table. But it always seemed the wrong height to eat off of. I thought of buying some stools for it but then I decided I still probably wouldn't use it."

"It's a worktable, not a dining table," Abby informed him with a laugh. "Didn't you know what it was when you ordered it?"

"I didn't order it. I just told the designer to fix the place up and told her how much she could spend. This was the result." He vaguely indicated the handsomely furnished interior. "I haven't used the place all that much since I bought it."

Abby considered that, not knowing how to respond. Had he not used the house often because he was too busy working or because he had other things to do most weekends? To cover her lack of conversation she delved into the sack and began removing items.

"Who gets to arrange the roses?" she quipped, holding them up for inspection.

"You can do it while I take these suitcases upstairs to the bedroom."

Abby went still, her head tipped slightly to one side. "Bedroom? Singular?"

He shrugged. "Bedrooms, plural, if that's what you want."

"It is."

"I was afraid it might be." He picked up the cases and started toward the staircase. "I'll be back down in a few minutes."

Abby watched him leave, absently aware of how easily he carried the two cases up the stairs. A strong man and strong in more than just one way. With him around she was finally able to relax, even joke a little. After the last photograph had arrived that morning, she hadn't believed she would be feeling so much more at ease this evening.

Opening cabinet doors, Abby quickly explored the kitchen until she found a large glass that looked as if it would hold the little yellow roses. She threw the flowers at random into the glass and was standing back to admire her handiwork when Torr returned.

"Mrs. Yamamoto would be shocked," he remarked, surveying the roses.

"Fortunately I'm not being graded tonight." Abby wrinkled her nose in mock defiance. "Unless you were planning on assigning a score?"

"Good Lord, no! To do that I would have to understand your style and intent, wouldn't I?"

"Are you saying you don't understand me?" That information interested her greatly for some reason.

"Not completely. Not yet. But I will, Abby. I intend to devote a lot of time and attention to understanding you." There wasn't a hint of a smile in his eyes now.

Abby turned toward the sink, a head of lettuce in her hand. "You make me nervous when you look so very serious, Torr."

"That's the last thing I want to do. But I suppose I do want you to take me seriously." He moved to stand behind her, not touching her. "You're in my care now, Abby. I want you to trust me completely. I want you to know that you can rely on me." His hand lifted to touch her honey-colored hair briefly. "And ultimately I want you to give yourself to me."

"Torr…"

"I'm not going to pounce, Abby. It's really not my style. Be honest. Can you see me actually pouncing?"

She heard the wistful amusement in his voice and felt an answering tug of humor. "You may have a point. You don't look like the pouncing type." More like the all-consuming overwhelming type, she amended silently. Hastily she searched for a bowl, using the small action as an excuse to step out of his reach. "You know, we're going to have to sit down and talk about just what I'm going to do if and when the blackmailer shows his hand again, Torr. What kind of leverage do I have against him? My first instincts this morning were to run and give myself some time to think, but what good is time going to do? The more I think about it, the more nervous I'm going to get."

"Then don't think about it. Not tonight. We'll talk about it in the morning." He stood like another island in the kitchen, occupying the middle of the floor and watching her intently as she busied herself with the meal. "Just remember that whatever happens, you won't be dealing with it alone. In the end, we may have to call in the police. You do realize that, don't you? As soon as we know who it is, have some idea of what he wants, and some proof of what's going on, we'll have to notify the authorities."

"No!" Abby swung around, her blue eyes wide with dismay. "That's the last thing I want!"

"That's what the blackmailer is counting on, honey. That's why blackmail works in the first place."

"Torr, you promised you'd help me."

"I will."

"Then that means you don't go to the police. If I can't trust you far enough to be sure you won't do that, then I'm leaving."

"Settle down, Abby. I wouldn't do anything without talking it over with you first. You have my word."

There was a quiet arrogance in his voice that told her far more than anything else that he abided by his word. Abby faced him a moment longer and then turned back to the salad. The situation was a precarious one in so many ways—not the least her relationship with this man. She was beginning to feel as if her world were turning slowly upside down, and the threat of losing control made her fumble a bit with the knife she had just picked up to use on the tomatoes.

"Maybe I'd better slice the tomatoes while you start the steaks," Torr suggested, taking the knife from her fingers. He studied her expression a moment longer and then smiled. "On second thought, I think I'll pour us both a glass of wine before we go any further with dinner."

H
e had been right
about the wine, Abby decided a few hours later as she lay in bed and waited for steep to arrive. A couple of glasses had taken the edge off her anxiety, enabling her to relax and even enjoy the meal. Or maybe she had managed that feat because of Torr's calm, insistent manner of handling everything from the conversation to building the fire. Whatever the reason, she had been able to take his advice and put off until morning any further discussion of the mess in which she found herself.

But now as she lay alone in the darkness, the fears began to resurface. It was true that she felt a measure of temporary safety here in Torr Latimer's home, but how long could that last? And what right did she have to burden Torr with her problems?

Of course, she had hardly involved him deliberately, Abby reminded herself wryly. The man had simply taken charge this afternoon and involved himself. She wondered idly if there was anything that could stop Torr once he had been put into motion. A flickering smile touched her mouth as she thought about that, but it faded quickly as other thoughts, more dangerous thoughts, intruded.

Who could have taken those photos? And what could the blackmailer possibly want for them? Perhaps, as Torr had suggested, he would merely demand a steady, draining payoff. The image of paying off a blackmailer for the next several years was enough to make Abby throw back the down-filled quilt and scramble out of bed in restless anger.

As she wandered to the window to gaze down on the meandering swatch of darkness, the Columbia River, she was glad she'd thought to bring along her warmest flannel nightgown. A chill was settling in the house as the night deepened. Perhaps it was purely psychological, Abby told herself grimly. Perhaps the chill was independent of the environment tonight. How had other blackmail victims felt when they had been confronted with the threats?

Angry, helpless, trapped. All those things and more. When she was near Torr, she could push the frightening emotions to the back of her mind, she realized. But when she was alone, as she was now, they began to creep back out of the dark closet where she had tried to confine them.

This morning her instincts had been to run but now she questioned what on earth that was going to accomplish. Would the blackmailer really follow and perhaps reveal himself? What would she do when he did? And who could it be? What did he want?

The questions became a flood, driving her away from the window and into a tense pacing that took her from one end of the beige-and-brown room to the other. Desperately she tried to focus on her surroundings. The bedroom had clearly been designed as a rather neutral guest room, suitable for either a male or a female visitor. Abby wondered what Torr's wife had been like. Had he loved her deeply? There was a sense of relief in knowing that she had never come to this cabin. She had died, apparently, before Torr had moved to Portland. Did he have other family or friends? He was such a quiet, such an
alone
man. She couldn't imagine him surrounded by chattering relatives or even chattering friends. She could, however, imagine him with a woman. Only too clearly!

Damn! Why had that weekend on the coast ever happened?

What was Torr doing now? Probably sleeping in the master bedroom down the hall. She'd had a brief glimpse into the room on the way to her own. Enough to ascertain that in his room the designer had not been particularly neutral. The woman had obviously had a fairly accurate understanding of her client. The huge bed was the focal point of serenely austere furnishings. The color scheme was one of sober blacks and browns, offset by the finely grained furniture and the red-gold hue of the walls. Yes, Abby could imagine Torr with a woman in that bedroom, crushing her softly in that heavy bed.

This was getting ridiculous, Abby decided aggressively. She wondered if she had brought any tablets of tryptophan along with her. The amino acid was reputedly good for inducing sleep. It sold like hotcakes for her. But she couldn't recall having packed any. What else was supposed to work well? Abby paused, thinking. A glass of milk, perhaps? The hell with that, Abby told herself resolutely. She distinctly recalled a beautiful little oak liquor cabinet in the living room. It probably contained a nice bottle of brandy. And a sip or two of brandy might just do the trick.

Trusting the long-sleeved flannel gown to act as a robe, Abby cautiously opened her door and listened for a moment before going out into the hall. The house was throbbing with silence. She padded quietly toward the staircase. There was no sound from Torr's room as she went past, but the door appeared to be slightly ajar. Reaching out, she pulled it softly shut so that he wouldn't hear her rummaging around downstairs.

The thought of raiding her host's liquor cabinet brought a rueful gleam to her eyes as Abby traipsed down the staircase to the living room. At any rate, the midnight sortie was at least taking her mind off other matters.

But the momentary amusement she felt at stealthily finding her way through the shadowed living room to the liquor cabinet faded as the same questions came back to haunt her.