had to pull herself together. Equal parts anger and angst rolled through her veins. Anger at Geoff Griffin, the man who’d managed to elude all her attempts to link him to the stack of claims the audit department funneled her direction every month. Griffin was the only one who’d figured out that she’d spent quite a bit of her free time away from Midwest Mutual, working every angle she could come up with. How in the world had he known about her off-the-books investigation?
The only positive in this fiasco was that she now had confirmation that her activities were making him nervous. Was it his goal to see her in prison? From every document she’d obtained, she knew the man covered his tracks too well. Someone inside Midwest Mutual must be helping him. It was the only explanation for his ability to know her every move.
The bank account was a bonus. Just further proof that her husband was a control freak and had failed to follow through on one more of his promises. Kira thought of the divorce papers that were gathering dust in her bill organizer. Even when she’d made the effort to erase his memory, he’d avoided the sheriff’s attempt to serve him with the papers.
Why hadn’t she tried harder to track him down? She wanted to forget their relationship, right? So what did it say about her that she remained linked to him?
And now, angst over the latest revelation that she was somehow involved. The bank account the FBI had found was much too convenient. It also meant she’d have to make a concerted effort to find her almost ex-husband. Josh could sweet-talk his way out of walking naked through a ladies’ Bible study. Yes, he was that charming. Totally untrustworthy, but charming...like a snake.
She had only herself to blame. This is what happened when you trusted the wrong person. This is what happened when impulse overruled common sense. And this is exactly what happened when you lived a lie without giving any consideration to the consequences.
She’d survived far worse than this, hadn’t she?
It was time for her to demand answers from the man who’d left her broken and alone. If it meant the difference between prison and freedom, she would use every morsel of information she’d gathered to track him down.
Dalton Matthews slapped the sawdust from his well-worn jeans and scowled at the gray Ranger pickup parked a half mile or so down the gravel lane to his house. It was a little late for the welcome wagon to come knocking, since he’d no longer be considered a newcomer. If his streak of bad luck continued, another snooty reporter from News Channel 9 was probably close enough for him to strangle.
He scanned the area and then jogged down the road to check for the intruder. Anger swelled and added to his frustration when he found the truck unoccupied. He stared inside the unlocked cab. The keys hung from the ignition and a black leather purse was sideways on the seat amid some fast-food wrappers and a few empty water bottles. But the most interesting item of all was a digital camera partially hidden under a road atlas.
Damn the paparazzi for their never-ending attempts to breach his privacy and twist the knife deeper in his gut. He should have known they wouldn’t allow him a moment’s peace. Not with Gossip Girl magazine offering three hundred grand for any picture of him in exile.
He swiped the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. Let the owner hike to the main road and hitch a ride. Or maybe he’d call the sheriff and have them arrested for trespassing. As an afterthought, he removed the memory card from the camera and pocketed it, as well.
As he retraced his steps to the house, he noticed the door to the storage shed swaying in the breeze. He was certain he’d closed it earlier after placing extra lumber inside. He scanned the yard once more before checking his pockets for his phone. Maybe he ought to call the sheriff first and delay a confrontation.
Instead, he rushed to the building’s entrance and shouldered his way inside. His annoyance ratcheted up another notch when, even in the dimly lit space, he spotted the trespasser picking her way through various pieces of scrap wood littering the floor.
A woman with blond hair falling below her shoulders and a shapely rear end clad in faded blue jeans.
“What are you doing out here?”
The startled woman pivoted and stumbled, tripping on the uneven surface and pitching sideways. He instinctively extended his arms, but he wasn’t nearly close enough to break her fall. She whacked her head on one of the wide wooden support beams and crumpled to the floor.
He was paralyzed by memories of another time and another woman. His attempts at revival had been futile back then. The sickness of that moment clogged his throat, as it had so frequently in the early days. He’d clutched a lifeless form in his arms while he’d bargained with God for another chance.
Hurrying forward now, he knelt beside the stranger and moved a length of hair from her brow while avoiding the cut over her right eye. Blood flowed down her temple, forming a small puddle near her ear. He lifted her in his arms and strode outside, hoping the late-afternoon sun would provide a better view of her injury.
She was softer than he remembered a woman being, probably because his memories of the opposite sex were in the distant past. A pink lacy bra was visible beneath her green short-sleeved shirt. Only a pervert would recognize a front-hook bra on an unconscious woman. One more reason for annoyance to fuel his actions.
He shifted her in his arms and forced his eyes away from her undergarments as he crossed the last thirty feet to the house. Spying another large scrape on her forearm brought him to a halt. What if she needed an ambulance?
He didn’t relish the thought of alerting anyone to his location or having her arrested so she could blab to the highest bidder. Right now he needed to make sure she was all right and stem off any possible lawsuit she might have in mind. People got a bit crazy when they had their sights set on some easy money, a lesson he wished he’d never learned.
After taking the front porch steps two at a time, he caught the bottom corner of the screen door with his booted foot and kicked it open. His living room rivaled an obstacle course. All the kitchen appliances and furniture had been relocated to the small room because the new granite countertops hadn’t arrived yet. The path to the stairwell was tight, forcing him to turn sideways and adjust his hold on the woman when her feet caught on his oversize recliner.
He maneuvered the narrow stairway to the second floor, slipped into the first doorway and laid her on the unmade bed. She looked so out of place, and so pale, with the dark circles rimming her eyes matching the shade of gray from the sheets covering the mattress. He caught himself reaching for her wrist and counting the beats before he comprehended he’d been holding his breath. This woman had a pulse, unlike Lauren.
He dropped her hand and stepped away from the bed, working to calm his racing heart. He never relived the day he’d found Lauren without the benefit of a strong drink. But all the same, the image was there, sinking into the gap in his brain he hadn’t managed to fill despite the physical labor blending the days together.
The woman moaned, one ashen forearm covering her eyes as she rolled closer to the side of the bed. He jerked forward, catching her shoulders before she could topple to the floor. She shuddered in his grasp as he settled her against the pillow and pressed a handful of tissues against her injury.
Her eyes opened a fraction of an inch and long lashes fluttered against the brow already shadowed with purple, predicting an impending bruise. Lifting her hand to her forehead, she winced, before glaring at him with utter contempt. “You hit me?”
“Of course not.” Perhaps she’d used this ploy before.
“You must have,” she said, as her gaze bounced around the sparsely furnished room. “Where am I?”
“You’re lost,” he offered, seriously tipping the scales in the generosity department. This little fiasco had scam written all over it, and he was through playing the game.
Removing his cell phone from his pocket, he scrolled to find the number