No Rules (3 page)

Not public knowledge?

Oh! The implication registered with a jolt, and Jess felt her mouth open in surprise as the real reason for her parents’ divorce became clear. Poor Mom, abandoned for a male partner, and a much younger one at that. She stared at the man who seemed a perfect example of what women found attractive. You just never knew.

“You mean you and my father…” she began.

Donovan scrunched his eyebrows momentarily, then gave her an incredulous stare. “Not
that
kind of friendship. Jesus.” He shook his head in apparent disbelief. “Look, Jessie—”

“Stop calling me that. It’s Jess.” Jessie was Daddy’s little princess, his pride and joy, and that part of her life had died long ago.

“Fine. Jess. Are you sure Wally didn’t contact you in any way? Send something in the mail, maybe a map? Leave a message on your phone? A note with his lawyer?”

She shook her head in stubborn annoyance. “I told you, we’d been out of touch for fifteen years. No notes, no calls.” It wasn’t exactly true. She paused, then decided the whole truth, no matter how personal and private, might help convince him that things hadn’t gone the way her father had led him to believe. “Okay, he did stop by to see me a few days ago,” she admitted, then immediately held up a hand to ward off the excited look on his face. “No, wait. It was a brief visit, two hours tops, and he never mentioned your name. He didn’t talk about anything important. Not his work, not current events, not anything relevant. The fact is,” she said, then hesitated, an attempt to soften the blow. After all, he had been her father’s friend, “he didn’t make much sense, as if his mental abilities had deteriorated. It was sad. He never gave me anything, either, so I can’t possibly have whatever it is you’re looking for.”

She’d swear he hadn’t heard anything after the first sentence. He stepped closer, close enough that she smelled wet leather and the faint scent of pine, as if he’d been rolling around under the trees. On him, it was disturbingly manly. He reached for her, closing one gloved hand around her arm, holding it a little too tightly in his intensity. She shrank back at the big dose of alpha male, more imposing than any man she’d ever met. The fact that her rapid breaths were due to a thrill that most definitely was not paralyzing terror must mean she’d made progress with her therapy.

“If Wally spoke to you, he told you,” he insisted. Satisfaction and anticipation at getting what he wanted filled his dark eyes.

She blinked hard, startled by how compelling that look was, knowing it shouldn’t feel so damn sexy. It was smoldering, for God’s sake. Something was wrong with her. The combination of fear and anger must be messing with her hormones. Clearing her throat, she mentally reached for the point where she’d lost their conversation. “Told me what?”

“Whatever it was he wanted me to know. I don’t know. You tell me.”

She shook her head, as much to clear it of the overwhelming sense of drowning in a sea of pheromones as to tell him he was wrong. “He didn’t say anything. Not unless you’re expecting a message about furry woodland creatures.”

“What?” Confusion made him squint as his hand dropped away. She told herself the sudden sense of loss did not mean she missed his touch.

“That’s what we talked about. Bunnies and beavers and a wolf. Characters in a children’s fairy tale.”

“There has to be something else. Think.”

“There isn’t.”

He shook his head with annoyance. “Wally wouldn’t go to the trouble of diverting through Houston when he was…when he was so pressed for time, just to discuss drivel like that.”

She noted the hesitation, as if he’d changed what he’d been about to say, but that wasn’t the part that made her temper flare. “That
drivel
is my career, Mr. Donovan. I write children’s books. Good ones,
award-winning
books. My father was talking about ideas for a story. It just proves his loss of contact with reality. I’m sorry to tell you it was a reversion to childhood, the kind of thing you see with dementia. My first book was based on a story he’d told me when I was growing up, and apparently he knew that. He was reliving the past.”

Donovan was unmoved. “No he wasn’t. You’re talking about your childhood, not his.”

She frowned. “Whatever. It had nothing to do with anything.”

“Impossible.” His gaze pinned her as if he might draw information straight from her mind. Their depths were mesmerizing and far too close for comfort. She tried to focus on something else. The stubble on his cheeks drew her gaze until she realized her fingers itched to touch the purely male roughness. Not appropriate. The scar on his chin was safer, until she imagined smoothing her thumb over the indentation. Annoyed at having another tactile desire, she frowned and looked away, wondering what was wrong with her. Good Lord, would she have to add split-personality disorder to her long list of psychoses?

“Why did you agree to meet him?”

“What?” She pretended puzzlement, embarrassed to admit she knew what he meant. Resenting her father had become more than a habit; it was almost a comfortable state, hating him for rejecting her rather than allowing herself to feel perpetually hurt.

“You don’t seem to like him, so how did he get you to agree to meet him?”

“Curiosity,” she admitted, shrugging to minimize its importance. “He said he had a great idea for a story. A writer can’t afford to reject great ideas.” Saying it reminded her not only of the story her father had told, but his eyes as they drank her in, noting her every move and occasionally going dreamy and distant. His wistful looks had tugged at those old, fond memories, and hurt more than she wanted to admit.

Forget it, forget it.
“I think he just said it to get me to meet him.”

Donovan’s face lit up with a smile, causing her stomach to do strange flips. “So he used the story as a lure so he could give you the information he needed me to have.”

The thought of her father tricking her into a meeting didn’t sit well. “That’s not possible. I told you, he didn’t say anything important.”

“You didn’t
recognize
it as important. But he said it, believe me. Think. Every word he said.”

She huffed her irritation. “I don’t have an eidetic memory, and I was distracted. I can’t recall every single word. I’m sure he made a comment about the weather, or about the menu, but so what?”

“There.” She nearly jumped at his exclamation. “That’s it. We use code phrases about those exact things. I knew it.”

“Who is
we
? And why the hell do you use code phrases?”

Donovan’s joy lasted another two seconds before his abrasive personality kicked back in. “Look, this could take some time. Right now I need to get you out of here.”

He moved to take her arm again, but she shook off his hand and stepped backward. “Oh, no, I’m not the one leaving. You are.”

“You can’t stay here, Jessie. The same people who killed your father are after you, and they know where you are.”

She tipped her head, as if shifting the words in her brain might help them make sense. She’d actually started to wonder if what he claimed was true until he got to the part about killing her father. Donovan was either operating under a misconception, or he was more paranoid than she was. Or…“You can’t wait to get rid of me so you can go through this house, can you? You probably already have buyers lined up for the Persian rugs and antique hookah pipes. There must be a small fortune in the furnishings, and they mean nothing to you but a nice windfall.”

He waved her accusation aside. “There’s nothing in the house I want. I’ve already checked.”

“You what?” Her outrage rose to squeaky levels. “You went through this house without my permission?”

“Key, remember? I checked the files and computer logs; it’s not here. Whatever your father wants me to know, he left with you, just like he said he would in his last message. You can have the rest.”

“I… Do you mean you don’t want the rugs? Or the paintings?”

“It’s all yours. Right now I just want to save you from the people who killed Wally and who are trying to kill you, too.”

The paintings were hers. Her elation lasted several seconds, until reality crept back in. He was still operating under some paranoid delusion of murder and intrigue. “You’re mistaken,” she said, a gentle way of saying the more accurate phrase:
You’re crazy.
“My father died of a heart attack; the sheriff told me so when he first called.”

“I spoke with the coroner and the sheriff yesterday evening, Jessie, and I examined Wally’s body. Your father was injected with a drug that stopped his heart. He was murdered.”

Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s true. He was killed after a day of questioning and torture. Since the men who did it have already tried to kill you twice, I’d say you’re next on their list. I’m taking you someplace safe so we can figure out the information Wally died to keep secret.”

It was too much, even for a woman who dabbled in paranoia. At least her delusions of the dangers that lurked in everyday situations were more realistic. This guy was a freaking nutcase, possibly as crazy as the man who had attacked her. What in the hell was happening in Nipagonee Rapids?

A bin of lunatics was running loose in the north woods, that was what, and she fallen into the middle of them. The theory made as much sense to her as his absurd claims about torture and murder.

“You’re crazy,” she declared. When he didn’t loosen his grip, she went back to the tactic of pacifying the lunatic. “Look, Mr. Donovan, I’m grateful for your concern, but I’m perfectly safe here. No one even knows I’m here, because I’m still registered at the Valley View Motel.”

“I found you, didn’t I?”

She frowned. “Yes, but—”

“I’m not the only one.”

The hardness in his eyes made her pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ask the dead guy in the garage, the one who came to kill you. Where’s your suitcase?”

“
What
?” It felt like he’d socked her in the jaw, it took so long to get her mouth working. She licked her lips. “What dead guy?”

He didn’t wait for her response, ducking down the hall into the first bedroom. “
Three
suitcases?” His incredulous voice carried back to her. “For three days? Are you fucking kidding me?”

He reappeared with her carry-on bag slung over his shoulder, rolling two stacked suitcases behind him. “Come on, let’s go.” When her frozen feet didn’t move, he grabbed her hand and tugged her along like a fourth piece of luggage.

It had to be awkward pulling all that weight plus a resisting woman, but he made it seem effortless. She tried to plant her feet but his hand held hers in an iron grip and she ended up staggering after him. “Let go. You can’t do this.” she insisted, fear edging into her voice, as she made a futile grab at the kitchen counter.

He could, and did. She barely had time to gain her balance as he opened the back door. Then he was tugging her into the attached garage, closing the door behind them. Darkness enveloped them.

He tugged her alongside her father’s car. “Stay here and don’t move,” he ordered. Releasing her hand, he opened the back door of the car and began tossing her bags inside.

Stay with the stranger who was trying to take her against her will? The hell she would. It smacked of every fear her mother had instilled in her for the past fifteen years—fear of conspiracies, fear of others controlling her life, fear of men.

Spinning on her heel, she took advantage of the dome light inside the car, heading for the door they’d just come through, determined to slam it behind her and barricade it with a chair. Donovan might not have pulled a knife, but he was acting as crazy as the guy who had, and no way was she allowing him to—

She stopped abruptly. Against the back wall of the garage, half hidden by the car, a man lay on the cement floor. Half-closed eyes seemed to stare at her, but they were unfocused and unblinking. Undeniably dead.

Holy shit. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she smothered a gag as she took it all in, wide-eyed. The slack face with Middle Eastern features. The arm draped awkwardly across his body. The jacket, unzipped and twisted as if he’d been dragged. The dark stain covering almost all of one leg.

“Goddamn it,” Donovan muttered. “I told you not to move.” A distant part of her brain registered the car door slamming shut as his hands gripped her shoulders, turning her around, walking her dazed body to the other side of car. All she heard was the chanting in her own mind:
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God
…

He pulled and pushed, and she followed his unspoken direction, moving automatically, sliding into the passenger seat, vaguely aware that he buckled her seat belt before closing the door and rounding the car to get behind the wheel. The sudden loud whir of a motor signaled the garage door opening.

The car roared to life and he backed it out quickly. Her stunned gaze took in the briefly lit scene before the door came down again—the motorcycle on the far right that hadn’t been there before—Donovan’s, she realized—and the dead body against the wall. Oh my God.

“You okay?”

She turned slowly, staring at him. “There’s a dead man in the garage.”