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

Two days later when a breathless Slade and Jamie had returned as husband and wife, Randi had announced she was leaving.

“Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind?” Matt had demanded. He’d slapped his hat against his thigh and his breath had steamed from his lungs as all four of John Randall McCafferty’s children had stood near the burned-out shell of the stable.

“This is beyond insanity.” Thorne had glared down at her, as if he could use the same tactics that worked in a boardroom to convince her to stay. “You can’t leave.”

“Watch me,” she’d baited, meeting his harsh gaze with one of her own.

Even Slade, the rebel and her staunchest ally, had turned against her. His crutches buried beyond their rubber tips in a drift of snow at the fence line, he’d said, “Don’t do it, Randi. Keep J.R. here with us. Where we can help you.”

“This is something I have to do,” she’d insisted, and caught a glimpse of Striker, forever lurking in the shadows, always watching her. “I can’t stay here. It’s unsafe. How many accidents have happened here? Really, it’s best if I leave.” All of her brothers had argued with her, but Striker had remained silent, not arguing, just taking it all in.

Until last night. And then all hell had broken loose.

So she’d left and he’d followed her to Seattle. Now she realized she’d have one helluva time getting rid of him. It galled her that her brothers had hired him.

“What makes you think you’ll be safer in Seattle than Grand Hope?” Thorne had asked as she’d packed her bags in the pine-walled room she’d grown up in. “You’re still not healed completely from the accident. If you stayed here, we could all look after you. And little J.R, er, Joshua, would have Molly and Mindy to play with when he got a little bigger.”

Randi’s heart was torn. She’d eyed her bright-eyed nieces, Molly bold and impudent, Mindy hiding behind Thorne’s pant leg, and known that she couldn’t stay. She had things to do; a story to write. And she knew that if she stayed any longer, she’d only get more tangled up with Striker.

“I’ll be all right,” she’d insisted, zipping up her bag and gathering her baby into her arms. “I wouldn’t do anything to put Joshua in danger.” As she’d clambered down the stairs, she’d heard the twins asking where she was going and had spied their housekeeper, Juanita, making the sign of the cross over her ample bosom and whispering a prayer in Spanish. As if she would haul her own child into the maw of danger. But they didn’t understand that in order for everyone to be safe, she had to get back to her old life and figure out why someone was trying to harm her.

And Joshua. Don’t forget your precious son. Whoeverit is means business and is desperate. She noted that Striker was still seated in his truck. Waiting. Damn the man. Quickly she closed the blinds, then took a final glance around the small nursery. Hardwood floors that were dusty, a cradle stuck in a corner, a bookcase that was still in its box as “some assembly” was required and she hadn’t had time.

Because you were in the hospital.

Because you nearly died.

Because someone is determined to kill you.

Maybe, just maybe, your brothers have a point.

Maybe you should trust Kurt Striker.

Again she thought of the night before. Trust him? Trust herself?

What other choice did she have?

Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. If Kurt could figure out where she’d hidden Joshua, then the would-be killer, whoever he was, could as well. Her insides knotted. Why would anyone want to harm her innocent baby? Why?

It’s not about Joshua, Randi. It’s about you. Someonewants you dead. As long as the baby isn’t with you,he’s safe.

She clung to that notion and set about getting her life in order again. She made herself a cup of instant coffee and dialed the office. Her editor was out, but she left a message on his voice mail, checked her own e-mail, then quickly unpacked and changed into a clean sweater, slacks and boots. She wound a scarf around her neck and finger combed her short hair, looking into the hall mirror and cringing. She’d lost weight in the past five months, indeed she now weighed less than before she’d gotten pregnant, and she was having trouble getting used to the length of her hair. She’d always worn it long, but her head had been shaved before one of her lifesaving surgeries to alleviate the swelling in her brain and the resulting grow-out was difficult to adjust to though she'd had it shaped before leaving Montana. Instead, she went into the bathroom, found an old tube of gel and ran some of the goop through her hair. The result was kind of a finger-in-the-light-socket look, but was the best she could do. She was just rinsing her hands when her doorbell buzzed loudly several times, announcing a visitor. She didn’t have to be told who was ringing the bell. One quick look at her watch showed her that it had been one hour and five minutes since she’d last faced Striker. Apparently the man was prompt.

And couldn’t take a hint.

“Great,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a towel and discarding it into an open hamper before hurrying to the front door. What she didn’t need was anyone dogging her, bothering her and generally getting in the way. She was a private person by nature and opposed anyone nosing into her business, no matter what his reasons. Reining in her temper, she yanked open the door. Sure as shootin’, Kurt Striker, all six feet two inches of pure male determination, was standing on her doorstep. His light brown hair had darkened from the raindrops clinging to it, and his green eyes were hard. Wearing an aging bomber jacket and even older jeans, he was sexy as hell and, from the looks of him, not any happier at being on her stoop than she was to find him there.

“What’s with ringing the bell?” she asked, deciding not to mask her irritation. “I thought you had your own key, or a pick, or something. Compliments of my brothers.”

“They’re only looking out for you.”

“They should mind their own business.”

“And for your kid.”

“I know.” She’d already stepped away from the door and into the living room. Striker was on her heels. She heard the door slam behind him, the lock engage and the sound of his boots ringing on her hardwood floors.

“Look, Randi,” he said as she stopped at the closet and found her raincoat. “If I can break in, then—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m way ahead of you.” She slid her arms through the sleeves and glanced up at him. “I’ll change the locks, put on a dead bolt, okay?”

“Along with putting in an alarm system and buying a guard dog.”

“Hey—I’ve got a baby. Remember?” She walked to the couch, found her purse and grabbed it. Now…the computer. Quickly she tucked her laptop into its case. “I don’t think an attack dog would be a good idea.”

“Not an attack dog—a guard dog. There’s a big difference.”

“If you say so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go to the office.” She anticipated what he was about to say. “Look, it wouldn’t be a good idea to follow me, you know? I’m already in enough hot water with my boss as it is.” She didn’t wait for him to answer, just walked back to the door. “So, if you’ll excuse me—” She opened the door again in an unspoken invitation.

His lips twisted into a poor imitation of a smile. “You’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

“Why? Because of the money?” she asked, surprised that the mention of it bothered her, cut into her soul. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? My brothers have paid you to watch over me, right? You’re supposed to be…oh, hell…not my bodyguard. Tell me Thorne and Matt and Slade aren’t so archaic, so controlling, so damn stupid as to think I need a personal bodyguard… Oh, God, that’s it, isn’t it?” She would have laughed if she hadn’t been so furious. “This has got to end. I need privacy. I need space. I need—”

His hand snaked out, and fast as lightning, he grabbed her wrist, his fingers a quick, hard manacle. “What you need is to be less selfish,” he finished for her. He was so close that she felt his hot, angry breath wafting across her face. “We’ve been through this before. Quit thinking about your damn independence and consider your kid’s safety. Along with your own.” He dropped her arm as suddenly as he’d picked it up. “Let’s go. I won’t get in the way.”

The smile he cast over his shoulder was wicked enough to take her breath away. “Promise.”

Five

“Don’t even think about riding with me,” she warned, flipping the hood of her jacket over her hair as she dashed toward her Jeep. The rain had softened to a thick drizzle, a kind of mist that made visibility next to nil. It was early evening, the sky dark with heavy clouds.

“It would make things a helluva lot easier.”

Obviously, Striker wasn’t taking a hint. Collar turned up, he kept with her as she reached the car.

“For whom?” She shot him a look and clicked on her keyless remote. The Jeep beeped and its interior lights flicked on.

“Both of us.”

“I don’t think so.” She climbed into her car and immediately locked her doors. He didn’t move. Just stood by the Jeep. As if she would change her mind. She switched on the ignition as she tossed off her hood. Then, leaving Striker standing in the rain, she backed out of her parking spot, threw the Jeep into Drive and cruised out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of him running toward his truck, but not before she managed to merge into the traffic heading toward the heart of the city. She couldn’t help but glance in her mirrors, checking to see if Striker had followed.

Not that she doubted it for a minute. But she didn’t see his truck and reminded herself to pay attention to traffic and the red taillights glowing through the rain. She couldn’t let her mind wander to the man, not even if she had acted like a fool last night.

She’d let him kiss her, let him slide her nightgown off her body, felt his lips, hot and hard, against the hollow of her throat and the slope of her shoulder. She shouldn’t have done it, known it was a mistake, but her body had been a traitor and as his rough fingers had scaled her ribs and his beard-rough face had rubbed her skin, she’d let herself go, kissed him feverishly.

She’d been surprised at how much she’d wanted him, how passionately she’d kissed him, scraped off his clothes, ran her own anxious fingers down his hard, sinewy shoulders to catch in his thick chest hair.

The fire had hissed quietly, red embers glowing, illuminating the room to a warm orange. Her breathing had been furious, her heart rocketing, desire curling deep inside her. She’d wanted him to touch her, shivered when his tongue brushed her nipples, bitten her bottom lip as his hot breath had caressed her abdomen and legs. She’d opened to him easily as his hands had explored and touched. Her mind had spun in utter abandon and she’d wanted him… Oh, God, she’d wanted him as she’d never wanted another man.