Wanted Woman. B.J. DanielsЧитать онлайн книгу.
to the floor.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered his head to his hands. Her body would wash up. Then all of this would be over. He took a deep breath, rose and picked up the phone. Carefully he put it back on the nightstand, thanking God that his wife Teresa was at her mother’s and wouldn’t be back for a few more days. Plenty of time to get this taken care of before she returned.
As he headed for the door, he tried not to worry. Once Margaret Randolph was dead, no one would ever find out the truth. And it would never get back that he hadn’t taken care of this problem twenty-seven years ago as he’d been paid to do.
One moment of kindness… He scoffed at his own worn lie. He’d done it for the money. Plain and simple. He’d sold the baby instead of disposing of it. And he’d never regretted it—until Paul Randolph found out the truth. Now Rupert had to take care of things quickly and efficiently before everything blew up in his face. No more mistakes like the one he’d made the other night at the pier. There was no way he should have missed her. He’d been too close and was too good of a shot.
He tried to put the mistakes behind him. Look to the future. And the future was simple. If Margaret Randolph wasn’t floating in Puget Sound with the fish, she soon would be.
MAGGIE STARED at the sheriff’s deputy uniform and tried to breathe. Jesse Tanner was a cop? Last night he’d said he knew the sheriff. She’d just assumed because it was a small town, everyone knew everyone else.
She stifled a groan. Not only had she stayed in the house of the local deputy, but now he might have the plate number on her bike. If he’d had reason to take it down.
Fear turned her blood to ice. He could find out her last name—if he didn’t already know. Worse, he could tell Blackmore that not only was she alive but that she was in Timber Falls.
But why would Jesse Tanner run the plate number on her bike? She hadn’t given him any reason to. Cops didn’t need a reason though. And everyone knew they stuck together.
Except Jesse was different. He didn’t act like a cop. Didn’t insist she go to the doctor last night or the sheriff this morning. Didn’t ask a lot of questions.
She tried to calm her pounding heart. Her hands were shaking as she wiped down the faucets and anything else she might have touched. Were her fingerprints on a file somewhere? She didn’t know.
She thought she remembered being fingerprinted as a child. She knew her parents had worried about her being kidnapped. How ironic. And she’d always thought it was because of their wealth.
As she opened the bathroom door, she half expected the deputy to be waiting for her just outside. The hallway was empty. She stood listening.
Silence. Tiptoeing down the hall, she passed his open doorway again. He had rolled over, his back to her now. She prayed he would stay asleep as she eased into the screened-in deck where she’d slept.
She picked up her boots, her jacket and the saddlebag stuffed with most of the ten grand from the pier. Then she looked around to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind before she limped quietly down the stairs.
At the bottom, she glanced at his paintings as she pulled on her boots, the left going on painfully because of her ankle. What she now knew about the man upstairs seemed at odds with his art. Jesse Tanner and his chisel-cut features, the deep set of matching dimples, the obsidian black eyes and hair, the ponytail and the gold earring didn’t go with the deputy sheriff’s uniform.
There was a wildness about the man, something he seemed to be trying to keep contained, but couldn’t hide in his artwork. The large, bold strokes, the use of color, the way he portrayed his subjects.
Her favorite of the six paintings propped against the wall was a scene from a Mexican cantina. A series of men were watching a Latin woman dance. The sexual tension was like a coiled spring. In both the work and the painter.
He was talented, too talented not to be painting full-time. So why was he working as a sheriff’s deputy? He didn’t seem like the type who liked busting people for a living. Quite the opposite.
She glanced around the cabin. She liked it. Liked him. Wished he wasn’t a cop. She told herself she shouldn’t feel guilty for just running out on him.
Last night she’d been shaken from her accident, hurt and exhausted. She had needed a refuge and he’d provided it, asking nothing in return. He would never know how much that meant to her.
Under other circumstances, she would never have left without thanking him. But these were far from normal circumstances, she reminded herself and remembered the glass of whiskey she’d drunk last night.
Going to the sink, she turned on the faucet and washed both glasses thoroughly, then dried them. Being careful not to leave her prints anywhere, she set the glasses back on the cabinet shelf with the others and wiped down the faucet and handles just as she had in the bathroom upstairs.
She knew she was being overly cautious. But maybe that was why she was still alive.
Her bike was sitting outside, her helmet on the seat as if he’d put it there to let her know it was ready to go. He’d fixed the kickstand and straightened the twisted metal, as well as the handlebars. The bike was scraped up but didn’t look too bad considering how close a call she’d had. Now if it would just run as well as it had.
She strapped on the saddlebag, then climbed on the bike, rolled it off the kickstand and turned the key.
The powerful motor rumbled to life and she felt a swell of relief—and appreciation for the man who’d fixed it. As she popped it into gear, she couldn’t help herself. She glanced up at the house, then quickly looked away. He was a cop. She had learned the hard way not to trust them. Not to trust anyone. If she hoped to stay alive, she had to keep it that way.
JESSE TANNER stood at the screened window watching her leave. He’d been awakened by the sound of running water downstairs and had half hoped she was making coffee. He should have known better.
But he couldn’t help worrying as he watched her ride off into the dawn. Last night after he’d finished with the bike, he’d looked in on her. He felt guilty for snooping but he’d looked into the heavy saddlebag and seen the bundles of money. Maybe she didn’t believe in traveler’s checks. Maybe she’d withdrawn all of her savings from the bank for a long bike trip. Or maybe she’d robbed a savings and loan.
Either way, she was gone and not his problem.
Nor should he be surprised she would leave like this without a word. Last night he’d gotten the impression she wasn’t one for long goodbyes.
Still, he would have made her pancakes for breakfast if she’d hung around. Hell, he hadn’t had pancakes in months, but he would have made them for her.
He went downstairs, foolishly hoping she’d left him a note. He knew better. Her kind didn’t leave notes. No happy faces on Post-Its on the fridge, no little heart dotting the i in her name. She was not that kind of girl.
He made a pot of coffee and saw that she’d washed their glasses and put them away. He stood for a long time just staring at the clean glasses as the coffee brewed, then he poured himself a cup and took it back upstairs while he showered and dressed in his uniform hanging on the back of the bathroom door, all the time dreading the day ahead.
It wasn’t just the biker chick with the bag of money and worry over what she might be running from that had him bummed. She was miles away by now.
His problem was Desiree Dennison. He’d recognized the little red sports car that had sideswiped the biker last night. He couldn’t turn a blind eye to what he’d seen: Desiree leaving the scene of an accident.
But the last thing he wanted to do was go out to the Dennisons and with good reason.
Chapter Four
Maggie cruised through Timber Falls in the early morning, surprised to find the town even smaller than the map had