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A horrible thought occurs to me.
Motherfucker, I’m going to kill Anderson with my bare hands. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I don’t offer that service. I’m a private investigator, not a hitman, though my family does like to speculate, which I find infinitely amusing and entertaining. Listening to their wild theories about what I do is half the reason I’ve never told them. The other half is that it’s none of their fucking business.
“Did Anderson send you?” I ask carefully.
He’s more of an acquaintance than a close friend, given that we met when he hired me to find his daughter who’d gone missing with a sketchy guy. I found Oriana for him and returned her safely, sans abusive boyfriend, of course, who was having difficulty chewing solid food for the next six weeks and subsequently heeded the warning to stay far, far away from Anderson’s daughter. I don’t think he’d set me up, but the woman’s appearance seems a little coincidental, and I’m a firm believer that there’s no such thing as coincidence. But if Anderson thinks it’s acceptable to stock his cabin with a naked woman when I only asked to borrow it as a base camp for work, we’re going to have words that he will not enjoy.
“Anderson?” she echoes. “Like the rock out front?”
“Yes.” I keep my eyes on the doorknob, watching for any movement. She won’t get the drop on me again.
“That’s what my confirmation says—the cabin has a rock out front withAndersonengraved on it. This is my cabin. Where I’m staying.” Her tone invites zero argument, as though her decree should be more than enough to send me packing. It’s cute. And annoying.
I just want a shower, dinner, and to crash until morning, but there’s a big obstacle in that plan. Her.
She has a ‘confirmation’, she said, like a short-term rental booking, I’d guess. Anderson does that with this cabin when he’s not using it, but he assured me it was available and it couldn’t have been located any better to surveil Mr. Webster, who by some stroke of luck is staying at a cabin less than a mile away through the dense forest. It’s perfect, except it’s apparently already inhabited.
“Maybe this is a simple mix-up. I’ll call Anderson and get it straightened out, see if there’s another cabin you can stay in.” It seems like a generous offer to me.
The door jerks open.
She’s dressed in tight yoga shorts and a T-shirt, as though she might need to have her movements totally unrestrained in order to actually kick my ass. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my vacation, a much-needed one, thank you very much. You go ahead and call your buddy, see if he can get you a place to stay.”
She’s pointing a short-nailed finger in my face, trying to be tough, but fear is nearly vibrating in the air around her. Instinctively, I catalog everything about her in an instant. Beyond the red curls and gray eyes, she’s nearly a foot shorter than me. Her full breasts are pearled up beneath the T-shirt, likely a result of the temperature difference between the steamy bathroom and cool cabin. She smells faintly of sandalwood from Anderson’s supplied soap, and there’s a dark freckle to the right of her full lips.
Lips which are pressed together in a flat line as she glares at me. At least I think it’s supposed to be a glare, but at most, it’s a dark look.
I hold my hands out wide, showing that I mean no harm as I placate her. “Sure, let's make that call.”
CHAPTER3
JANEY
Standingwith my ear not-too-subtly turned toward my uninvited guest, I’ll admit that I’m eavesdropping. Normally, I’d feel guilty for intruding, but it seems prudent when you’re trapped alone in an isolated cabin in the woods with a tall, sexy, blond murderer.
At least hesaidhe won’t hurt me.
I’d like to believe that, I really would. But when someone dressed head to toe in black shows up, leaves in their hair, and I’m pretty sure a streak of bird poop on one shoulder, I think I’m fully permitted to freak the hell out. Like he’s been out there in the woods, becoming one with nature, before breaking in here to kill me. Probably.
I was in the middle of my post-shower routine, slathering body oil on my legs, when I suddenly knew I wasn’t alone. I hadn’t heard anything, exactly, but after years of caring for patients who are completely silent but still ‘present’, I’ve developed a sort of sixth sense about these things. At first, I thought Henry had decided to surprise me and had a flash of excitement, but a quick check of his location in the app we share showed me that he was still in the city at work.
I’d sent up a silent thanks that I’d been lazy and stashed my bag in the bathroom because I quickly and silently dug out the bear spray I’d packed, as had been recommended on the Airbnb ad for this cabin, and stepped out into the hallway, ready to scare off a bear smart enough to come in the front door.
Except it hadn’t been a bear.
I think I might’ve preferred a big, Yogi-smart grizzly at this point. Or even a slashing and clawing one like in that Leonardo DiCaprio movie.
Because this man is angry, which is why I’m listening closely and watching even closer. I tend to see the best in people, but I’m not an idiot, so I’m keeping my position by the front door. Ready to make a run for it, just in case.
“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do?” he snarls into the phone. He runs a hand through his hair, finding a leaf which he frowns at as if it personally offends him. He strides to the kitchen, opens a lower cabinet near the sink, and throws the leaf away in the trashcan, obviously familiar with the layout, which gives me pause.
Could he be right? Am I the one who shouldn’t be here? But I can virtually picture the confirmation email in my mind, complete with dates, notes on the location, and the door lock code. Not to mention the dozen times I’ve made lists, checked calendars, and rehashed plans for this vacation. I know I’m right. Probably.
Turning back toward me, he’s nodding, but his jaw is clenched tight, not happy with what he’s hearing. “Fine. Yeah, I know. Thanks, Anderson.” He hangs up, slipping his phone into a back pocket as he meets my questioning gaze. He narrows his eyes, but I can still see the storm raging in their blue depths. “Fuck.”
I almost say ‘your eyes are pretty’ but manage to swallow that not-helpful commentary down for a change. Instead, I ask hopefully, “What’d he say?”
The man sits in the armchair nearest the cold fireplace. “This is a vacation for you?”
