Colorado Bodyguard (10 page)

“Did that upset you?”

“Do I look like an idiot? Of course it upset me. But I just figured there was no reasoning with the woman. It was time to get out the big guns. I called my lawyer and told him to petition the court for an increase in support. She could afford it, and since I didn't have any income at the moment, I figured I'd get it. She had plenty to spare.”

“And did you petition the court?” Rand asked the attorney.

The man started, as if out of a stupor. “Excuse me?”

“Not this guy,” Starling said. “My divorce attorney. I just picked this guy out of the phone book. It's not like I've been in trouble with the law before. Well, maybe a DWAI once, but that was years ago.”

“I'm sorry to interrupt this lovely chat,” the lawyer said, glaring at his client. “But unless you're going to charge my client with something more than this minor weapons violation, I suggest you let him go.”

“A weapons violation isn't a minor charge,” Rand said. “Your client can go back to his cell and wait until the judge either sets or denies bail at his arraignment tomorrow.”

Starling opened his mouth to say something, but a quelling look from the lawyer silenced him. Rand pushed back his chair and stood. “Is there anything else you'd like to tell us about your wife or Alan Milbanks, Mr. Starling?” he asked.

“I hope Lauren's okay,” he said. “Really, I do. She has her problems, but she isn't so bad, really. She doesn't deserve any more hard luck in her life. And if you see her, you can tell her I said so.”

Rand left the room as a bailiff came to escort Starling back to his cell. Marco followed him out. “What do you think?” Rand asked.

“I don't think he's telling the truth about his relationship to Milbanks,” Marco said. “Ten dollars says one of the reasons he's in such financial straits is that he's keeping up a drug habit. I'm guessing one of the reasons he's stayed in Montrose is that Milbanks was a good source.”

“Maybe he's hiding out from the dealers he owes in Denver.”

“Probably. As for Lauren Starling—I don't know. I can see things getting out of hand with her, especially if she had a history of erratic behavior that pushed his buttons. Things went too far and he killed her. Maybe accidental, but then he covered things up.”

“Except that doesn't explain the note on Sophie's car.”

“Maybe he learned she was in town and decided this was a chance to elaborate on the fiction that she'd run away. He was married to Lauren, so he knew her handwriting, the things she would say. He's got a big ego, so he's convinced he can pull this off, divert attention from anyone looking for a body.”

“Maybe.” Marco pulled his keys from his pockets. “Back to headquarters?”

“I'll meet you there later. I think I'm going to nose around the hotels in town a little more to see if I can find out more about what Starling—and Lauren—might have been up to.”

* * *

A
DAY
 
SPENT
 
alternately watching bad TV and flipping through outdated magazines scavenged from the lobby, while waiting for the phone to ring with word about Lauren, left Sophie on edge. She paced the floor and gnawed at a thumbnail, picking up the phone half a dozen times to call Rand and ask if he had any news, then setting it aside. If he knew anything, he'd call her, wouldn't he?

Frustrated with her own impotence, she sat down at the one small table by the window and opened her notebook. Maybe if she made a list of things she could do to help find Lauren, she'd feel better. She uncapped the pen and wrote
1
Then stared for a long moment, her mind blank.

A knock on the door startled her. She checked the peephole, and her heart gave a lurch when she recognized Rand. He wasn't in uniform this evening, instead dressed in tight, dark jeans, boots and a pin-striped Western shirt that reminded her again of an old-west cowboy—only this one had cleaned up to come to town.

She undid the chain on the door and pulled it open. “Hello, Rand,” she said.

“I thought I'd see if I could cash in that rain check on dinner.”

“Oh, uh, well...” Having dinner with him didn't feel like the safest way to spend the evening, either. Being near him distracted her from her purpose more than she wanted. Still, she couldn't think of a way to refuse without being rude, and the thought of sitting alone in her room until she was exhausted enough to sleep depressed her.

“I should change,” she said, looking down at her rumpled jeans and blouse.

“You look fine,” he said. “Great.”

She wasn't used to such flattery, but maybe he was just trying to reassure her. “Just give me a minute,” she said, and retreated to the bathroom.

She returned a few moments later, wearing a fresh blouse, with her hair combed and lips glossed. “Even better,” he said, and opened the door.

As she approached the FJ Cruiser, the dog, Lotte, poked her nose out of the window and gave a low bark. Sophie stumbled back, but Rand caught her, his hands on her shoulders steadying her. “Don't be afraid,” he said. “She's just saying hello.”

“How do you know? Maybe she doesn't like me.”

“Dogs are like people. If you know what to look for, you can read their emotions.” He gave her a gentle push. “Go on, get in the car. You two need to get used to each other.”

“Why do we need to get used to each other?” she asked, but she made her way to the passenger side of the vehicle, keeping her gaze fixed on the dog. But Lotte ignored her, her attention focused on Rand.

“Lotte and I are a team.” He slid into the driver's seat. “She's with me most of the day, and she goes home with me at night.”

“She lives with you?” Sophie had thought the dog would stay in a kennel at headquarters when she wasn't working.

“Of course. She's my partner and I have to take care of her. Did you know that she outranks me?”

“What do you mean?”

“She's a sergeant. I'm only a corporal.” He showed her the badge clipped to the dog's harness. “They do that on purpose, so the handler is sure to respect the dog. Not that I wouldn't respect Lotte.” He scratched the dog behind the ears. She gazed up at him adoringly, mouth open to reveal a lot of gleaming, sharp teeth. Sophie took a step back, her heart racing.

“You sure you don't want to pet her?” Rand asked. “It might help you to see her as a friend.”

Sophie shook her head. “I couldn't.”

He shrugged, and closed the gate that blocked the dog from the front seat. Only then did Sophie get into the vehicle. “I know you think I'm silly,” she said. “Fearing something you love so much.”

“Fear isn't always rational,” he said. “I get that. But I'd like to help you get over your fear, if I could.”

“It might be easier if I started with a smaller dog,” she said. “They look less frightening.”

“Smaller dogs are more unpredictable than a trained working dog like Lotte.”

“Yes, but if a toy poodle bites something, it's less likely to do damage.”

“I guess there is that. What do you feel like eating?”

“Anything.” She hadn't had much of an appetite since Lauren had disappeared.

They ended up at a Mexican food place not far from her hotel; Lotte settled down in the vehicle to wait while Rand and Sophie went inside. They ordered chips and salsa and enchiladas. She drank a margarita, while he stuck to iced tea. She tried not to be obvious as she studied him across the table.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asked.

She flushed. “You pass.” He wasn't movie-star handsome—he needed a haircut and his nose had been broken once, probably a long time ago. She guessed he was a few years older than her—old enough to have the beginnings of fine lines around his eyes. He had the lean, muscular build of an athlete, and an air of competence that probably put most people at ease. She tried to come up with an adjective she would use to describe him to Lauren, but the word that filled her head was
sexy
.

Oh yeah, he was sexy, all right. Forget the badge and the gun and his position of authority. The real reason Rand made her nervous was that he made her feel more like a woman than she had felt in a long time. She wasn't merely a sister or an employee or a neighbor. She was a desirable female who'd been alone too long. Being with Rand made her lose her focus on her mission to find her sister. She forced her mind away from such dangerous thoughts and searched for some safe subject of conversation. “Emma told me you play lacrosse,” she said.

“Yeah, I got into it in high school.”

“What do you like about it?”

“It's a fast, physical game that requires strength, agility and real skill.” He crunched a tortilla chip. “Plus, it's just fun. What do you like to do for fun?”

She forced herself not to squirm in her chair. She hated questions like this, because the answer made her sound so lame. “I like going out with friends and reading. That probably seems boring to you, I know...”

“No, I like those things, too.”

The warmth of his smile made her want to cuddle up next to him. She traced one finger around the rim of her margarita glass. “Why are we here, having dinner together? Did the captain tell you to keep an eye on me?”

“No. I'm here because I want to be.”

“Why? Do you think I'm guilty of something? Or do you feel sorry for me?” She had trouble getting the last words out. The last thing she wanted from him was pity.

He leaned toward her and took her hand. “I'm here because I like you and I want to be with you. I think you're a special woman and I want to get to know you better.” He brushed his thumb across her knuckles, and a hot tremor passed through her, the heat settling low in her abdomen. She forced herself to meet his gaze, and the desire she found there shook her. Her instinct was to pull away, to run from that kind of intimacy.

He tightened his grip on her hand. “You don't have to be afraid of me,” he said.

She ducked her head but didn't pull away, enjoying the warmth of his hand around hers. Enjoying the connection. “I'm not afraid,” she said. A little nervous. Attracted. Aroused, even.

“I really like you,” he said.

“Too bad we didn't meet under better circumstances.” She reluctantly withdrew her hand.

“Do you believe if you don't think about your sister every minute it's going to make a difference?”

“The longer a person stays missing, the less likely there is to be a positive outcome—isn't that what they say?”

“That's generally true, yes.”

“Then I feel guilty even sitting here having dinner. We should be out looking for her 24/7 until we find her.”

“Random searches aren't very effective. You have to rest and regroup and focus on the most likely locations.”

“Then why aren't you searching Richard Prentice's ranch?”

“Believe me, I'd like to go in there and tear the place apart. But we need to build a strong case against him. What if he's innocent?”

“If he's innocent, where is Lauren? Why haven't I heard from her?”

“Try to hold on to the fact that we haven't seen a single indicator of foul play or violence in this case,” he said.

They hadn't seen anything, but that didn't mean Lauren hadn't been hurt, or even killed. She pressed her lips tightly together, determined not to break down in front of him. “I think I want to go back to the hotel now,” she said. “I'm lousy company and I'm tired.”

“Sure.” He signaled the waitress to bring their check. She reached for her purse, but he waved her away. “I'll get this.”

She said nothing else until he pulled to a stop in front of her hotel room. “Thank you for dinner,” she said, fumbling with the seat belt.

“I'll walk you to your door.” He came around to her side of the car, then walked with her up the outside stairs to her room. She kept her head down, lost in a fog of worry, but his hand, pulling her to him, brought her to full awareness again. “The door to your room is open,” he said softly.

She stared dumbly at the door, which stood open about four inches. “I'm sure I locked it when I left,” she said. “Maybe the maid...”

“Wait here.” He drew the gun from his holster and approached the room, staying close to the wall. He stopped to listen for a moment, then nudged the door open with his foot. Nothing happened, so after another pause, he entered, gun at the ready. After another few seconds light spilled onto the walkway and he said, “It's okay for you to come in now. Don't touch anything.”

She froze just inside the door, heart pounding, not comprehending the scene that lay before her, jagged images registering in her mind, like the reflection in a broken mirror—upended suitcase, covers dragged from the bed to pool on the floor, gray-white stuffing from the slashed pillows spilling across the top of the dresser, dresser drawers smashed and piled in one corner. Her gaze shifted to the mirror over the sink in the little dressing area outside the bathroom. Greasy pink letters a foot high and slanting upward spelled out STAY AWAY IF YOU WANT TO STAY ALIVE.

Chapter Ten

The room tipped and wobbled, and gray clouds rushed to swallow Sophie. Then Rand's arm was around her, supporting her as he led her to the bed and gently pushed her down to sit on the edge of the bare mattress. “Put your head between your knees,” he said, pressing on her back until she bent forward and did as he commanded. “Now breathe in, deeply, not too fast. You're going to be all right.”

She gripped his hand, aware of how icy she felt, all over. “Who did this?” she asked when she was able to sit upright and breathe again. She kept her eyes fixed on his, avoiding looking at the violence that had been wrought on the room around her.

“I don't know, but we'll find out.” He continued to hold her hand, worry making him look older, as if she was glimpsing the man he'd be ten years from now. The idea reassured her, somehow. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded and sat up straighter, forcing herself to release her grip on his hand, though as soon as they broke contact she felt bereft, and colder still. “Why would someone do this...to me?”

He shook his head. “Do you want to wait in the car until the local cops get here?”

“Will you wait with me?”

“Yes.”

He led her outside, leaving the door open a few inches, the way they had found it. Lotte whined when Rand slid into the driver's seat, and pressed her nose against the grill. “She knows something's up,” he said, and scratched her through the grate. “She wants to get out and go to work.”

“Would she be able to track whoever did this?” Sophie forced herself to look at the dog, at the powerful muscles of her legs and shoulders, and the alert, forward tilt of her velvety ears. She was a beautiful animal, one likely to strike fear in the heart of anyone she turned against.

Sophie faced forward once more. Lotte wasn't turned against her. Rand wouldn't let the dog hurt her. She had to remember that.

They heard the police getting closer, sirens wailing. Two black-and-whites sped into the motel lot, one behind the other, and skidded to a halt behind Rand's SUV. Rand opened his door. “I'm going to talk to them, but they'll probably have questions for you, too.”

She nodded. “Sure.”

The four officers—a woman, two white men and a black man—stood in a huddle outside the door, talking with Rand. Occasionally one of the men glanced her way, but too briefly for her to read his expression. After a moment, all five of them went into the room, where they stayed for what seemed like a long while.

Lotte panted softly, and Sophie sensed the dog's attention focused on the open room door, as well. Was this because Rand was inside, or because Lotte sensed that violence had taken place in there, the kind of violence she was trained to stop?

After half an hour or more, the female officer emerged from the room and walked over to Sophie's side of the vehicle. “Ms. Montgomery? I'm Officer Cagle, with the Montrose Police Department. I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course.” She glanced toward the room, wishing Rand would join them. But that was silly, she silently scolded herself. She was a grown woman, and she didn't have any reason to be afraid of Officer Cagle.

The questions were ordinary and expected: her basic information, why she was in Montrose, what she'd done that day. Officer Cagle made no comment on the fact that she'd had dinner with Rand. “Do you know of anyone—here or back home in Wisconsin—who might want to do something like this?” the officer asked. “A former boyfriend with a grudge? A coworker who is unhappy with you? A stalker?”

“No one.” She shook her head emphatically. “I lead a very quiet life. I'm not the kind of person who makes enemies.”

“What about the message on the mirror—‘stay away if you want to stay alive'? What do you make of that?”

She wet her dry lips, fighting back the fear. “I...I came to town to look for my missing sister. Maybe...maybe someone who has something to do with her disappearance has heard I'm here and...and they don't like it?”

“Any names?”

Richard Prentice? But why would a billionaire even bother with someone like her? Phil Starling? But wasn't he in jail? She shook her head. “I don't know. It just seems so...so random.”

Officer Cagle slipped her notebook into her pocket and straightened. “If you think of anything, let us know.” She handed over a card. “That's my number, and of course, Officer Knightbridge can put you in touch with us. We're going to need to seal off the room until our investigation is complete, but if you like, you can come in and collect a few personal belongings—just what you'll need for the next day or so.”

She nodded, and followed the officer into the room, stepping gingerly around an officer who was photographing the scene, then skirting debris from the rampage to arrive at the bathroom. She collected her makeup bag—minus the tube of rose-pink lipstick she'd bought only the week before, and which now lay broken in the sink. She kneeled in front of the upended suitcase and reached for a pair of underwear, then snatched back her hand as if she'd been slapped and let out a small cry.

“What is it?” Officer Cagle kneeled beside Sophie.

“My clothes...the underwear...” She choked back another cry and pointed a wavering finger at the pile of garments.

With the tip of a pen, Officer Cagle picked up the pair of underwear on top. It was slashed through the middle of the crotch, neatly sliced through satin and cotton. The other clothes were similarly cut, very precisely across the portions of the fabric that would have covered her most intimate parts.

Sophie turned away, feeling sick.

“It's okay. You're going to be all right.” Rand's voice, soft in her ear. His arms, strong around her, lifting her. “Come with me.”

He led her outside, into the fresh air. She breathed in deep gulps, as if the oxygen could somehow wash away the image of her violated wardrobe. Rand continued to hold her close, until at last her trembling subsided. “I know this feels really personal,” he said. “Whoever did this wants you to feel that way. They're playing a psychological game. But you're stronger than they are. You're not going to let them defeat you.”

“I don't feel strong.”

“You are strong. A weak woman wouldn't have come all this way to help her sister. A weak woman wouldn't have stood up to me and the rest of the Rangers and demanded we help you.”

“Then I guess I've used up all my courage on those things. I don't feel like I have any left.”

“You just need time to regroup and let it build back up.” He took his arm from around her shoulders, but kept his hand resting lightly at her back. “Are you ready to go?”

“Go where?”

“Back to my place. You can rest, and I know you'll be safe there.”

She hesitated. “What about my car?”

“I'll have an officer drive it over.”

She couldn't impose on him that way. He couldn't assume what was best for her. They didn't have that kind of relationship... She opened her mouth to refuse.

What came out was “Thank you. I'll feel much safer there.” In truth, she couldn't think of anywhere she'd rather be right now than with Rand Knightbridge.

* * *

R
AND
 
DIDN
'
T
 
SAY
 
anything on the drive back to his duplex. If Sophie didn't feel like talking, he wasn't going to force her. But he kept glancing at her still figure belted into the passenger seat, her face chalky white. Would it be better if she broke down and cried? Maybe releasing her emotions would be more beneficial than this distant, terrifying calm. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles ached as he fought a rage against whoever had done this to her. He'd tried to make light of the seriousness of the attack, not wanting to worry her, but the discovery of her slashed underwear and clothing had sent a chill clear through him. They weren't dealing with some random punk out to make trouble. Whoever was responsible for this attack had a hatred of women in general—or of Sophie in particular—that could lead to further violence.

All the more reason to keep Sophie as close as possible, where he could ensure her safety. “Here we are, home, sweet home.” He forced a relaxed cheerfulness into his voice that he didn't feel as they pulled into the driveway of the duplex. A quick check of the area revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Marco's half of the driveway was empty; Rand had called and asked him to check in with the Montrose cops, to see what they turned up. The other cars on the street were familiar to him, and lights shone in the neighbors' houses, the yellow of lamplight and the blue glow of televisions.

He let Lotte out of the back of the SUV and she trotted ahead of them into the house. Rand and Sophie followed. Rand flipped on all the lights and led the way toward the kitchen, pausing to kick dirty socks under the sofa and to close an open cabinet door. “Can I get you some coffee or tea, or maybe a drink?” he asked.

“Don't go to any trouble.” She looked around her, and he was conscious of the dirty dishes in the sink and the takeout pizza box protruding from the top of the trash can.

“Sorry it's a little messy,” he said.

“You don't have to apologize. You weren't expecting company.”

“Sit down.” She looked ready to fall down. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.

She sat and he moved to a cupboard and rummaged around until he unearthed some herbal tea he'd bought in an attempt to self-treat a cold one time, along with honey from the same episode. Hot drinks with sugar—wasn't that what people said was good for shock? He set a pan of water to boil. He was debating what to do next when his phone rang.

“Hey, Marco,” he answered. “What's up?”

“We're not getting much out of the hotel room,” he said. “CSI is still trying to lift prints, but the perps probably wore gloves. Is Sophie sure nothing was taken?”

He turned to Sophie. “Marco wants to know if anything was taken from your hotel room.”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I had my money and my phone with me. I didn't bring a laptop or anything like that. Do they really think this was a robbery attempt?”

“Tossing the suitcase and dresser indicates the perp was looking for something,” Rand said. “If nothing is missing, he didn't find what he was looking for.”

“I don't think it was robbery,” Sophie said. “I think whoever it was wanted to frighten me. And I'd say he succeeded.”

“I'm going to put Marco on speaker so you can hear him,” Rand said. “Marco, did you get that about nothing missing?”

“Maybe the perp was looking for the photograph,” Marco said. “The one of Milbanks and Prentice.”

“But I turned that over to you guys,” she said.

“Whoever did this may not know that,” Rand said.

“What good would the photograph do anyone?” Sophie asked.

“It's the strongest link we have between Prentice and Milbanks,” Rand said. It might be the link they needed to finally bring Prentice to justice.

“We're trying to bring Prentice in for questioning,” Marco said. “His lawyers are stalling, but Graham hinted he could arrange for the photo to be leaked to the press. I think that's going to persuade them to be more cooperative.”

“Let's hope so,” Rand said. He said good-night and disconnected the call, but it vibrated again immediately.

“Don't put me on speaker,” Marco said. “I don't want Sophie to hear.”

“Okay.” Rand turned his back and busied himself at the stove. “What's up?”

“One more thing you need to know,” Marco said. “Phil Starling was released on bond this afternoon, about four o'clock.”

“Gotcha.” He hung up and finished making the tea for Sophie, his mind racing. If Phil was out of jail by four, he could easily have driven to Sophie's hotel and trashed her room while they were at dinner. Maybe his feelings for his former sister-in-law went deeper than mere disdain.

Rand fed Lotte her kibble. Sophie watched the dog eat, leaning as far away from the dish as possible without getting up from her chair. “Let's go in the other room,” he said. “We'll be more comfortable in there.”

He took her elbow and escorted her out of the room, keeping himself between her and the dog. He didn't completely understand her fear of Lotte, but he believed she wasn't faking it. They sat on the sofa, where she perched on the edge of the cushion, hands cupped around the mug of tea balanced on her knee.

“Relax. I won't bite.” He kept his voice light, not letting on how much her distance hurt, after the closeness they'd shared not an hour before. Over dinner and even later, after they'd first discovered her trashed hotel room, he'd thought she was letting down her guard with him—enjoying his company, even.

She leaned back against the cushions, though tension still radiated from her.

“Would you like it better if I sat over there?” He motioned to the recliner across the room.

“No. No, this is fine.” She sipped her tea, her gaze shifting around the room, looking at anything but him.

“Do you want me to put Lotte in the other room?” The dog had finished eating and lay on a pad beside the recliner, head resting on her front paws.

“I...I'd forgotten she was even in the room.”

“Then what is it?” He scooted forward to sit closer to her, almost—but not quite—touching her. “Don't you trust me?”

“I trust you.” She swallowed and rubbed one hand, palm down, along the side of her thigh. “But I'm not sure I trust myself.”

“What do you mean?” He tried to read her expression, but she wasn't giving off clear signals. Was she afraid? Angry? Guilty?

“I'm not the person you think I am,” she said.