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“I wasn’t assigned the story—not officially—but I have this gut feeling that…” Her voice trailed off as she noticed Trent move easily around the room, glancing through the windows, stuffing his hands in his back pockets, closing a closet door with a faulty latch, as if he knew the place inside out. As if he belonged.
Her throat went suddenly dry. Could he have erased her story on Crowley? Destroyed all records she had on the senator?
But why? Good Lord, her head was beginning to pound again. Maybe Crowley was the key to why Trent claimed to be her husband. Goose bumps raced up her arms. This whole theory gave her the creeps and it didn’t make a lot of sense. She swallowed hard and kept her gaze on the screen, unable to look into Trent’s eyes for fear he might read her thoughts. She didn’t want to believe he would sabotage her. Why would he lie about something so easily checked? What would be the point? And if he planned to hurt her…well, he had ample opportunity in a faraway country where the United States government couldn’t touch him. Her palms were slick with nervous sweat. “I think we need to talk,” she said, switching off the computer and swiveling in her chair to face him. He met her eyes in the oval mirror mounted over the fireplace as the machine wound down. Nikki’s throat squeezed, and his gaze, flat and unreadable, didn’t falter.
“You’re right. But we have to do it at my place.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not safe here, Nikki.”
“This is my home and—”
“For God’s sake!” He whirled and stormed back to her, drawing her to her feet. “Get your things—now! We don’t have a lot of time.”
“You’re serious about this danger thing?”
“Dead serious.”
“And when we get to your place?”
“You can ask me anything you want. But move it, now, before it’s too late!”
His harsh countenance convinced her. Swallowing a knot of fear in her throat, she stumbled to the closet and pulled out a couple of pairs of jeans and some sweaters which she stuffed into an empty bag. “Are you going to tell me what we’re running from?” she asked, picking up her makeup case as he grabbed the suitcase she’d dropped on the floor. She struggled into her Reebok sneakers and denim jacket and glared at him. “Because I’m going to remember, damn it, and when I do, there will be hell to pay if I find out you’re a fraud, Trent McKenzie!”
* * *
Trent had never been above telling a lie, not if the situation warranted stretching the truth a little, but this time he’d played out his hand and was about to ruin everything. He’d managed to get himself so emotionally tangled in his own web of deceit that he was trapped. Like a damned fly in a spider’s web.
Mentally abusing himself, he took the corner a little too quickly and the old Jeep slid a bit before the tread-free tires caught hold of the slick street.
He slid a glance at her, small and huddled against the passenger door. Confused, half her memory gone, the other half distorted by people she couldn’t even remember. He tightened his fingers around the steering wheel until they ached.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He wasn’t supposed to care for her. When he’d met her he’d been attracted to her, of course—hell, what red-blooded American male wouldn’t be? She was put together well, with curves in the right places and a face that could stop traffic. Whether she knew it or not, Nikki was a knockout. Even now, with the remainder of the abrasions from the accident casting parts of her face in pink, she was drop-dead gorgeous, in a way never exploited by fashion magazines.
Her eyes were clear and could cut to a man’s soul, her hair was thick and wavy and shimmered under any light and her mouth was bowed into a thoughtful little pucker that caused the crotch of his pants to seem suddenly way too tight.
Her looks had attracted him, and her personality, part pit bull, part banty rooster and another part pure sexy feline, had kept him interested. He’d been around enough good-looking women not to fall into the usual traps, but with Nicole Louise Carrothers he’d swan-dived off a tall precipice and was still falling. Straight into the depths of emotional hell. The woman had a way of getting into a man’s blood and there was no getting her out.
“Damn,” he swore softly. She cast him a quick glance, then stared steadily ahead, through the rain-peppered windshield to the curving streets that wound along the shore of Lake Washington.
Tugging on the steering wheel, he pulled out of traffic and into a long drive that wound through tall fir trees and dripping rhododendron bushes no longer in bloom. The drive was lit by small lights. They rounded the bend, and the house, awash in the exterior lamplight, was visible through the trees.
“This is where you live?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.
“Home sweet home.”
He cut the engine in front of the garage and she stared up at the house, a long, rambling brick cottage that rose to
two stories at one side.
“Somehow it doesn’t fit with the Jeep.”
“I just like to keep you guessing.”
“That much, you do,” she admitted, stepping out of his battered rig and hauling her makeup bag with her. Flipping up the hood of her jacket, she let out a low whistle.
Trent unlocked the door with a key on his ring.
