Secrets and Desire: Best-Kept Lies / Miss Pruitt's Private Life / Secrets, Lies...and Passion

“It’s a helluva lot of money,” Matt reminded him.

“Look, Striker, I’m counting on you.” Slade gave up his position near the window. Lines of worry pinched the corners of his eyes. “Someone wants Randi dead. I told Thorne and Matt that if anyone could find out who it was, you could. So are you gonna prove me right or what?”

With only a little bit of guilt he slid the check into the battered leather of his wallet. There wasn’t really any point in arguing. There hadn’t been from the get-go. Striker could no more let Randi McCafferty take off with her kid and face her would-be killer alone than he could quit breathing.

He planned on nailing the son of a bitch.

Big-time.

“Great!” Randi hadn’t gotten more than forty miles out of Grand Hope when her new Jeep started acting weird. The steering was off, and when she pulled to the side of the snow-covered road to survey the damage, she realized that her front left tire was low. And it hadn’t been when she’d left. She’d passed a gas station less than a mile back, so she turned her vehicle around, only to discover that the station was closed. Permanently. The door was locked and rusted, a window cracked, the pumps dry.

So far her journey back to civilization wasn’t going as planned—not that she’d had much of a plan to begin with. That was the problem. She’d intended to return to Seattle, of course, and soon, but last night…with Kurt…oh, hell. She’d gotten up this morning and decided she couldn’t wait another minute.

All of her brothers were now married. She was, once again, the odd woman out, and she was the reason that they were all in danger. She had to do something about it.

But you’re kidding yourself, aren’t you? The realreason you left so quickly has nothing to do with yourbrothers or the danger, and everything to do with KurtStriker.

She glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the pain in her eyes and let out her breath. She was no good at this, and had never wanted to play the martyr.

“Get on with it,” she muttered. She’d just have to change the damn tire herself. Which should be no problem. She’d learned a lot about machinery growing up on the Flying M. A flat tire was a piece of cake. The good news was that she was off the road and relatively dry and protected from the wind under the overhang of the old garage.

With her baby asleep in his car seat, she pulled out the jack and spare, then got to work. Changing the tire wasn’t hard, just tedious, and her gloves made working with the lug nuts a challenge. She found the problem with the tire: somewhere she’d picked up a long nail, which had created the slow leak.

It crossed her mind that maybe the flat wasn’t an accident, that perhaps the same creep who had forced her off the road at Glacier Park, then attempted to kill her again in the hospital, and later burned the stable might be back to his old tricks. She straightened, still holding the tire iron.

Bitterly cold, the wind swept down the roadway, blowing the snow and lifting her hair from her face. She felt a frisson of fear slide down her spine as she squinted, her gaze sweeping the harsh, barren landscape.

But she saw no one.

Heard nothing.

Decided she was just becoming paranoid.

Which was a really bad thought.

* * *

Huddled against the rain, the intruder slid a key into the lock of the dead bolt, then with surprising ease broke into Randi McCafferty’s Lake Washington home.

The area was upscale, and the condo worth a fortune. Of course. Because the princess would have no less.

Inside, the unit was a little cluttered. Not too bad, but certainly not neat as a pin. And it had suffered from neglect in the past few months. Dust had settled on the surface of a small desk pushed into the corner, cobwebs floated from a high ceiling, and dust bunnies had collected in the corners. Three-month-old magazines were strewn over a couple of end tables and the meager contents of the refrigerator had spoiled weeks ago. Framed prints and pictures splashed color onto warm-toned walls, and an eclectic blend of modern and antique furniture was scattered around the blackened stones of a fireplace where the ashes were cold.

Randi McCafferty hadn’t been home for a long, long time.

But she was on her way.

Noiselessly, the intruder stalked through the darkened rooms, down a short hallway to a large master suite with its sunken tub, walk-in closet and king-size bed. There was another bath, as well, and a nursery, not quite set up but ready for the next little McCafferty. The bastard.

Back in the living room there was a desk and upon it a picture, taken years ago, of the three McCafferty brothers—tall, strapping, cocky, young men with smiles that could melt a woman’s heart and tempers that had landed them in too many barroom brawls to count. In the snapshot they were astride horses. In front of the mounted men, in bare feet, cutoff jeans, a sleeveless shirt and ratty braids, was Randi. She was squinting hard, her head tilted, one hand over her eyes to shade them, that same arm obviously scraped. Twined in the fingers of her other hand she held the reins of all three horses, as if she’d known then that she would lead her brothers around for the rest of their lives.

The bitch.

Disturbed, the intruder looked away from the framed photograph, quickly pushed the play button on the telephone answering machine and felt an instant of satisfaction at having the upper hand on the princess. But the feeling was fleeting. As cold as the ashes in the grate.

As the single message played, resounding through the vaulted room, it became evident that there was only one thing that would make things right.

Randi McCafferty had to pay.

And she had to pay with her life.

Two

Less than two hours after his conversation with the McCafferty brothers, Striker was aboard a private plane headed due west. A friend who owned this prop job owed him a favor and Striker had called in his marker. He’d also taken the time to phone an associate who was already digging into Randi’s past. Eric Brown was ex-military, and had spent some time with the FBI before recently going out on his own. While Striker was watching Randi, Brown would track down the truth like a bloodhound on the trail of a wounded buck. It was just a matter of time.

Staring out the window at the thick clouds, listening to the steady rumble of the engines, Striker thought about Randi McCafferty.

Beautiful. Smart. Sexy as hell.

Who would want her dead?

And why?

Because of the kid? Nah…that didn’t wash. The book she’d been writing? Or something else, some other secret she’d kept from her brothers.

She was an intriguing, sharp-tongued woman with fire in her brown eyes and a lightning-quick sense of humor that kept even her three half brothers at bay. True, Thorne, Matt and Slade could have held a grudge. All three of them had ended up sharing half the ranch while she, John McCafferty’s only daughter, had inherited the other half. Though some of the townspeople of Grand Hope thought differently, Striker knew that the brothers were clean, their motives pure. Hadn’t they hired him for the express purpose of saving their half sister’s lovely hide? No, they were out as suspects. They weren’t trying to murder her.

Chewing on a toothpick, he frowned into the clouds that were visible through the window. Most murders were committed because of greed, jealousy or revenge. Sometimes a victim was killed because they posed a threat, had something over on the killer. Once in a while someone was murdered to cover up other crimes.

So why would someone want to kill Randi? Because of her inheritance? Because of her son? A love affair gone sour? Had she swindled someone out of something? Did she know too much? Unconnected motives rattled through his brain. He scratched the side of his face.

There were two mysteries surrounding Randi. The first was the paternity of her child, a closely guarded secret. The second was about a book she’d been writing around the time of the accident.

None of her brothers, nor anyone close to her, professed to know who had sired the baby, probably not even the father. Randi had been tight-lipped on the subject. Striker wondered if she was protecting the father or just didn’t want him to know. He thought it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out who was little Joshua’s daddy. Striker had already found out the kid’s blood type from the hospital and he’d managed to get a few hairs from Joshua’s head…just in case he needed a DNA match.

There were three men who had been close to Randi, close enough to be lovers, though he, as yet, had not substantiated which—if any—she had been intimate with. At that thought his gut clenched. He felt a jolt of jealousy. Ridiculous. He wouldn’t allow himself to get emotionally involved with Randi McCafferty, not even after last night. She was his client, even though she didn’t know it yet. And when she found out, he was certain the gates of hell would spring open and all sorts of demons would rise up. No, Randi McCafferty wouldn’t take kindly to her brothers’ safeguards for her.

He tapped his finger on the cold glass of the plane’s window and wondered who had warmed Randi’s bed and fathered her son.

Bile rose in his throat as he thought of the prime candidates.

Sam Donahue, the ex-rodeo rider, was at the top of the list. Kurt didn’t trust the rugged cowboy who had collected more women than pairs of boots. Sam had always been a rogue, a man none of Randi’s brothers could stomach, a jerk who had already left two ex-wives in his dusty wake.

Joe Paterno was a freelance photographer who sometimes worked for the Seattle Clarion. Joe was a playboy of the worst order, a love-’em-and-leave-’em type who’d been connected to women all over the planet, especially in the political hot spots he photographed. Joe would never be the kind to settle down with a wife and son.

Brodie Clanton, a shark of a Seattle lawyer who’d been born with a silver spoon firmly wedged between his teeth, was the grandson of Judge Nelson Clanton, one of Seattle’s most prestigious lawmakers. Brodie Clanton looked upon life as if it owed him something, and spent most of his time defending rich clients.

Not exactly a sterling group to choose from.