revenge.”
“Has he?” Ransom cleared his throat. “It would help if you could tell me about the money that’s still missing. Since Destina’s release, someone has been sniffing around. I’m sure James knew where it is.”
“The money?” To Cameron, it was just a shadowy mention, in hushed tones, between her parents long ago when she was a child. What did the still-missing funds in the case have to do with her? Or even her father now? The government didn’t pay its witnesses well. James, her mother, Kyle and Cameron had lived in near poverty. Surely Ransom didn’t think… “Why would my father know anything about that?” Unless he thought James was a crook, too. Which he seemed to. “Why would I?”
“Because the one thing that kept you all sane in WP was family. Maybe that didn’t mean as much to Kyle, or whatever he calls himself now, or maybe he got restless and left the program to stay sane himself. But you stayed. A lot longer.”
“I had to. I was still a kid—and then my mother was ill.”
“But after she died…?” he pressed.
“My father was all alone. He needed me while he adjusted to her loss.”
“See what I mean?” Ransom looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Family,” he repeated. “If James knew about that money, then you know about it, too.”
Cameron glared. “By what circuitous route of logic did you figure that out?”
“You love your father. He loved you. He’d tell you everything. No secrets.”
“He didn’t tell me about any money,” she said, her jaw tense, “because he…didn’t…know…about…it…himself.” She spaced the words so he’d understand.
Ransom looked around, as if he’d just now noticed her apartment. “I’d say you’ve already spent some of it.” He gestured at the room. “Look at this place. Fancy address, fancy building. Marble lobby. A doorman. You’re on a relatively high floor—with a good view, I bet—and in New York. Even I know this rent must be well into four figures. You’re what?” he said. “A cook?”
She stiffened. “A celebrity chef.”
“You feed other people. How much does that pay?”
“Not enough right now.” With the admission, she seemed to have walked into his trap again. “That doesn’t mean I steal. Don’t pat yourself on the back too hard, Marshal. You might fall on your face.”
“Deputy Marshal.” Giving her a look, Ransom strolled through the living room.
Her sparse living room.
Cameron watched him take in the old chair she’d bought at a flea market in SoHo, the bare windows. She wasn’t sure she’d ever buy draperies, because she couldn’t bear to shut out the light, the world outside. But she had plans, eventually, to furnish the place. To sink roots at last, for herself.
“It’s an investment,” she said, seeing his appraisal of the barren surroundings. “I need the good address. It gives me an air of respectability, of prosperity. I doubt the kind of clients I solicit—celebrities—would sign on with someone who worked out of a slum, which is more like what I can actually afford.” She hesitated, knowing she was again playing to his preconceived opinion of her. “I assure you, I do earn enough to pay the rent. That’s about all, but for now it has to do.”
Ransom remained silent.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I’m closer,” he admitted, “but not there yet.”
His steady gaze made Cameron’s eyes lower. Her pulse drummed with tension, and something more. She didn’t want to acknowledge the effect that blue gaze was having on her, yet his hot, hungry stare made her tremble inside. Desire flowed, thick and heavy, in her veins before Cameron pushed the response aside like an unwanted thought. This was Ransom. If he chose to believe she and her father were thieves like Destina, she couldn’t prevent it. She didn’t need to like him for it, though. She didn’t need to feel tainted herself.
Wasn’t it enough for him, for the U.S. Marshals, that in the end her father had given his life for justice? To accuse him now, when he could no longer defend himself, of stealing…to accuse her…
“Tell me one thing, Deputy Marshal. How did Destina’s men find my father in Denver?”
“I couldn’t say.” He frowned, his blue eyes turning even darker. “Unless you tipped someone off.”
Fresh anger boiled inside her. “There is no way I would lead anyone—most of all, Destina or his men—to my father. We had an elaborate system for communication, which we used as seldom as possible and always with extreme caution. It was foolproof.”
“Apparently not.”
“How dare you—” Unable to go on, she paced the room. “As for the missing money, I know nothing about it.”
“Destina must think you do.”
“And so do you,” she said to him.
Not answering, he studied the living room again. “Your decor doesn’t look too comfortable. Is there a spare bed I can borrow for the night?”
Cameron’s heart lurched. She had only one bed—actually, a new mattress but on the floor. Next payday she’d buy the frame, then, eventually, a headboard. In the meantime she’d lived too much of her life under the U.S. Marshals. Now, she was done with that.
“Forget it. You’re not staying here.”
“How about a sleeping bag?” He tested the carpet’s softness with a foot.
“I don’t have one.” Cameron flung open the door and pointed a finger. “Out.”
Ransom didn’t budge. “Look, until we can build a case against Destina and he’s back behind bars, I’m going to protect you. Like it or not.” He stared at her. “Until that money is entered as evidence.”
That evidence—which Ransom thought she was part of—seemed more important to him than it did to Cameron, who despised Destina with her very soul. He had ruined her childhood, destroyed her family, shattered her father and caused her mother’s death from overwork and a broken heart. That didn’t mean she believed Ransom.
“Do you have a court order?”
“Do I need one?”
“Definitely. Yes.” Cameron urged him into the hall. “Otherwise, I’m finished with government protection.” And you. “If you remember, the last time we talked was by phone after Dad died. I wanted it to be the last time. Thanks—again—for your condolences.”
Again, he hesitated then apparently changed his mind. His tone gentled. “I told you then I was with James when he died. And I’ve been thinking about what he said. I’ve decided that with his last words he was warning me—warning you.”
Cameron’s mouth trembled. Oh God, Dad. None of what Ransom had said thus far could be true. James wasn’t a thief. She wasn’t in danger.
“He said your name,” Ransom reminded her, his haunted blue eyes on hers. “And something else.” He paused, as if he didn’t want to finish. “He said ‘Ven.’”
“Meaning Destina?” Her blood chilled.
“Think about it.”
But to her surprise, Ransom didn’t argue about staying. He took out a small pad, scribbled on it, then tore off the sheet and handed it to her.
“My cell phone number,” he said, “and the place where I’m staying—with a friend from the NYPD.” Then he stepped into the elevator and, with the closing doors, disappeared—as if he, not Cameron, had vanished into Witness Protection.
Slowly, she crumpled the piece of