adding nothing else. She noticed that his eye coloring was variable according to the light—the smoky tint she noticed outside seemed almost like a teal blue in here. He really was extraordinarily good-looking, if one could see past that sneer of cold command. And that ashen complexion…it seemed curiously unhealthy in light of his robust build.
“Thank you,” he told her with another cursory dismissal. “I’ll give it some thought and call you.”
Despite her desire to be rid of him, Constance could hardly believe her ears. The man had been downright desperate to see the place. But now, clearly, his tone was cold—he had no intention whatsoever of calling her, she could tell.
“Fine, Mr. Henning,” she replied with a bare minimum of civility. Never mind her wasted time; at least she’d be rid of him. “Now I really must get back to Mystery.”
“Let me close the shutter and window,” he offered quickly as she started toward them. She could have sworn his limp seemed more pronounced when he crossed to the window. For the first time, she noticed the small tear in his trousers on the back of the left thigh. A dark stain ringed it. The tear and the stain was at odds with the man’s impeccable attire, and she wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that he was in a hurry.
“You forgot to bolt the shutter,” she pointed out as he turned to join her.
“No, it’s fine,” he assured her, his tone brooking no debate on the matter.
She was on the verge of pointing out that it clearly was not locked—she could see a seam of daylight where the shutters failed to join tightly.
Then she spotted it on the bare wooden floor, brightly illuminated in the sunlight flooding through the front door: a glistening scarlet drop that could only be fresh blood.
For a long moment she paused, on the edge of her next breath, cold dread filling her limbs as if they were buckets under a tap. She glanced around and spotted another drop, another—several of them, all marking places where he had walked.
A terrible sense of foreboding gripped her. She had to grab hold of the door to steady herself. Henning, meantime, had stepped outside, waiting for her to lock up.
“Mr. Henning?” she said without turning around.
“Yes?”
“Are you…I mean—Mr. Henning, are you…bleeding?”
The moment she asked, some instinct warned her she should have pretended not to notice. His next comment verified her instinct.
“I’m sorry you had to notice that, Miss Adams. I truly wish to God you hadn’t.”
Fighting a sudden, watery weakness in her calves, she turned toward the yard to confront him. And encountered the single, unblinking eye of the gun in his hand.
Chapter 3
The moment she spotted the gun, Constance felt her heart surge. For a few seconds, an exploding pulse made angry-surf noises in her ears.
He wasn’t actually pointing it at her, but he certainly hadn’t pulled it out for show-and-tell, either.
“I’m sorry, Miss Adams,” he repeated. “You’re too observant for your own good. It would’ve been much…simpler if you hadn’t noticed those bloodstains.”
Maybe it was the influence of too many movies, but the possible significance of his words made her go numb with fright.
That same fear must have addled her reason, she decided, judging from her next comment—which surprised her at least as much as it seemed to surprise him.
“You deceitful bastard!” She spat the words at him with a contempt unmitigated by her fear.
Bastard…the word had a B-movie feel in her mouth, yet it came out automatically from the depths of her anger and indignation. If she had been burned by a dishonest fiancé, this was infinitely worse. So far as she knew, Doug had never sunk to the level of holding a gun on someone.
However, even more surprising than her comment was his reaction to it.
The impact on him was visible and startling. Something desperate and frightened flashed in those variable eyes of his. Not anger, precisely, but somehow she had touched a very raw nerve.
“No,” he told her. “No. It’s…”
His voice trailed off, and he waved his free hand in a dismissive oh-what’s-the-use gesture. “It’s not what you think,” he finished, offering no more.
“Mr. Henning, please, I don’t—”
“It’s Quinn Loudon, not George Henning.”
“Well who ever you are, I don’t understand. You say it’s not what I think it is. I assure you, I don’t know what to think.”
He still stood outside in the newly gathering darkness. Instead of answering her, Loudon cast a nervous glance back toward the road. The temperature was going down with the sun, and she saw him shiver in his business suit.
“Come with me,” he told her.
Alarm made her pulse race. “Where…where are we going?”
“Look, just get a grip, would you? We’re not going anywhere. I’m not a rapist or a killer, and believe me, I don’t want you here any more than you want to be here. Right now I just want to hide the cars behind the cabin, and I want you in my sight while I do it, all right? Do you think both vehicles will fit back there?”
“I really couldn’t tell you,” she said cautiously. “Hiding cars from the law isn’t my specialty.”
“Who said I’m hiding anything from the law? Maybe I am the law.”
She looked at the gun in his hand. “No you’re not. You’re just a criminal swaggering around like a big man, frightening unarmed women. What’s next, a raid on a daycare center?”
Now anger did indeed spark in those compelling eyes of his. But he slipped the gun back into its holster under his jacket.
When she still refused to move outside, he seized her under one elbow and tugged her out into the yard. His grip felt strong as a steel trap and intimidated her into passivity. He could do plenty of damage without a gun, she had to admit to herself with a chill inching down her spine.
“Get in,” he ordered her, opening the passenger door of the Jeep.
The moment she did, she remembered the keys were in the ignition. By the time he’d limped around to the driver’s door, she had managed to lock both doors and scoot behind the steering wheel.
She keyed the ignition and the engine coughed to life. She ground the gearshift into reverse just a moment before he smashed out the driver’s window with the butt of his gun.
She went nowhere. The parking brake held. His hand like a warm vise pressed into her throat.
“Don’t test me,” he growled in a low, rough voice. “I’m a very desperate man, Miss Adams.”
Only one question looped through her mind: Would he really hurt her?
One part of her didn’t think so—some things about him just didn’t seem to tally up as criminal—a violent criminal, at any rate. His speech, for one thing, and his appearance.
Then again, she recalled bitterly, he wouldn’t be the first callow man who fooled the decent with good tailoring. Doug, too, had been a natty dresser with impeccable manners. And face it, she admonished herself. He’d played her like a piano.
Closing her eyes, she surrendered the need to fight. The crime playing out now wasn’t about credit cards and sweet lies of love. She knew nothing about the man before her. The only thing she did know was that he was at least giving her a warning—something Doug had never done. If she was a fool and underrated the man’s evil capacity, she could end up dead. So she had to take heed. She had to.