Page 10

Nine

RILEY DIDN’T HAVE TO LOOK in the rearview mirror to know he was behind her . Small white globes of light streaked through the snowy night, bouncing off her dash . He was close. Very close. She had to do something, but what?

Think. And think fast.

The cleft. It was suicide in this snow. It was flat-out dangerous in perfect conditions, but he was leaving her no choice.

Taking a steeling breath, she broke right, praying she wouldn’t hit the embankment that ran part of the trek.

She caught air on a hill. Her heart whooshing in her ears, she pressed on. Unwilling to look anywhere other than straight ahead. Even though she was driving blind, she couldn’t risk looking back.

Her muscles taut nearly to the point of pain, she prayed with all her might she wouldn’t go over the edge. She hit a familiar hill on the trail and caught air again. Next came the snake—her nickname for the winding passage.

You can do this . You’ve done it a few dozen times. Just settle and run the course.

No headlights shone behind her now. She’d lost him, and in perfect time; the passage stopped twenty feet ahead. She prayed he wouldn’t be on the main road waiting for her, but it was the path she had to take from here. Swerving out on the branch that shot off the back trail to the main one, she nearly collided with a pair of headlights.

****

He banged the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, the hit vibrating up his arm. He had her, but those men had to get on their trail, whisking in to save her. No doubt her brothers. The PI family. He’d run them. Tracked them. Knew enough about them to match their moves. Now with both closing in the route from either end, he had to disappear. But he’d be back. He’d watch for an opportunity to get the blasted woman away from the protection of her brothers and the third guy who worked at MIS. He needed to get her alone and get the location of the key out of her. Although he suspected it was on her, which meant taking it by force, or taking her with it. Yes . He liked the latter. She was a pretty thing. He wouldn’t mind some one-on-one time with her—as long as she didn’t see his face, but he could manage that.

Reversing into the trees with his lights off, he sank back into the darkness and watched the brothers sweeping in to rescue his target. He grunted. He’d leave for now, but he’d be back.

****

Forty minutes later, Riley’s heart was still lodged in her throat, the blinding headlights flashing again before her eyes—the moment cemented in her brain. Thankfully, she’d swerved in time, and the car turned out to be Deckard’s SUV. Once she was safe with him, Christian took time to sweep the full trail with no sighting of the truck. She’d lost the attacker, but tension still gripped her limbs in a vise. Given the ambush and presence of two people— at least two, given the two vehicles’ tire treads—on their property, her sense of security teetered on the edge.

She ambled down the lane to her house after insisting she was fine and didn’t need one of her brothers to escort her the short distance to her home. But with the odd sensation of being watched raking over her anew. She studied the tree line, searching for shadows, but given the snowfall, the world appeared white. She exhaled. She’d spent the past half hour convincing Deck she didn’t need to stay at his house. She was fine. Or maybe she would be if she kept telling herself that. Wind lashed her back as snow rained down in sheets, covering her boot prints a second after she’d made them. The storm had blown in hard and fast, so Deck had to see to the horses in rapid fashion. Each stood with their blanket on near the lean-tos, except Rambler, who was as stubborn and unruly as her, according to her brothers’ teasing.

Reaching her door, she fumbled with her keys in her mittened hands. She yanked one mitten off with her teeth and wrapped her chilling fingers around it. Finally getting the key in the lock, she turned it, and relief shot through her as she stepped inside her warm house and flipped on the lights, then with one glance around, it died.

Her sofa cushions lay tossed about the floor, her baskets of blankets and mail upheaved—the items strewn across the terra-cotta tiles. Reaching for her SIG, she stepped through the living room, clearing the space. She moved as quietly as possible to the kitchen, and with a solid intake of breath, she spun around the arched opening into the dark room. Her eyes taking a moment to adjust, she blinked and scanned the shadows. The pantry door lay cracked open. She moved for it, her breath tight in her chest. She carefully opened the door. Flour, sugar, and coffee lay strewn on the floor, baskets knocked over, containers shoved to the side. Stepping out of the pantry, she moved for the bedrooms. Clearing the guest room first, then heading for hers. A creak sounded, and she froze.

You’ve got this.

Images of her and Pete’s shootout flashed before her eyes.

This wasn’t that.

The creaking echoed again—coming from her bathroom.

She moved through her room, her throat narrowing and breath coming in shallow spurts. She stepped to the cracked door.

Creak.

She should have called Deck but hadn’t wanted to risk giving away her position in case someone was inside. She had this.

On a mental count of three, she opened the door with the muzzle of her SIG, letting it lead her into the room.

The night-light cast just enough light for her to see. Empty. Relief swelled as she took in the curtains and the window frame creaking in the rattling wind.