Love Inspired Suspense March 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Protection Detail\Hidden Agenda\Broken Silence (19 page)

“Don't tell me to calm down!”

He pinned both of her arms behind her back and restrained her until she stopped struggling. Her eyes didn't lose their fight, though.

He locked gazes with her. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

She tried to jerk away one more time. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

Ed sighed, waiting for her to wear herself out. “I'm not in the mood for guessing games, so why don't you answer my question?”

“Why don't
you
let me go? Then maybe we can talk.”

He wanted to really see her eyes, wanted to see if there was truth or deceit in their depths when she answered. It was a calculated risk he needed to take. He released her hand and pulled out his gun in one swift motion.

“Back up to the wall,” he ordered. “Slowly. Don't make any sudden moves or you'll regret it.”

She slowly turned, took two steps back and stood stiffly against the flowered wallpaper.

He shined the light atop his gun on the woman, wanting to get a good look at her. She was on the taller side. Slim. Had long hair, light brown and straight, that fell halfway down her back. He couldn't tell what color her eyes were—probably brown, he guessed—but they were big with thick lashes.

He'd been deceived by more than one pretty woman in his day, enough that he was now immune to batting eyelashes and sweet smiles.

“Start talking.” With mild amusement, he added, “Please.”

The woman raised her hands, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. “I'm not looking for trouble. As soon as the storm is over, I'll be gone from here. None of this stuff is mine, but I think you're deplorable if you're going to steal from a dead man.”

“Steal?” He raised an eyebrow, curious now.

“Yes, of course steal.” Suddenly, the woman pressed herself harder into the wall and rubbed her throat. “If you're not a thief, then why are you here?”

Seeing her fear caused something to click in his mind. While he didn't want to be manipulated by a woman, he never wanted to see a woman look that frightened. He especially never wanted to be the cause of that fear.

“Look, I'm not going to hurt you.” To prove it, he put his gun away, tucking it safely into its holster under his sopping wet jacket. “I just wasn't expecting anyone to be here.”

“Believe me. Neither was I. I wasn't even expecting to be here.” She shivered as thunder rumbled through the house again. “Especially not in this storm.”

“Maybe we should start over.” He extended his hand, still cautious and on guard, but some of his edge leaving him after her comment about his dad. “I'm Ed.”

She stared at his hand a moment before reaching forward. Her grip felt tentative, uncertain. She still didn't trust him. Smart woman.

“I'm Bailey. I was Mr. Carter's nurse up until the time he died a week ago. I stayed around trying to take care of his affairs, since he had no family around to do so.”

He heard the undercurrents of judgment in her voice. “He had no family close by, huh?”

Her eyes flickered with emotion. “Just a good-for-nothing son, who never visited. Not even for his father's funeral.” Her words sounded protective and loyal—and judgmental.

“His son sounds like a lousy excuse for a human being.” Ed kept his voice light, tried to disguise the hurt there. He was the master of disguising how he felt. Years of working undercover did that to a person.

“I agree. I would have done anything to spend more time with my own father before he died. Family should be there for each other.” Her voice cracked.

“You're right. Family should be there for each other.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “And why exactly are
you
here, Ed?”

He raised his chin. “Because this is my house now, and I intend on finding out who killed my father.”

TWO

B
ailey stared at the man in front of her.

This
was Mr. Carter's son? The hotshot lawyer from DC who never came to visit his father? Who couldn't even make it to his funeral because of “pressing business”?

She didn't know the man, and already she didn't like him. She didn't have to know him to know his type. He was career-oriented, into the social scene, all about climbing ladders—socially, professionally and financially. People weren't on his priority list or on his radar, for that matter. He only cared if they helped him advance in some way.

“I'm glad you could finally make it,” she finally muttered.

Suddenly, she wasn't scared anymore, just annoyed. Why did this man think he could come traipsing in here after being absent from his father's life for so long?

Probably because he realized his father's last will and testament would be read soon. Ed most likely wanted what was left of his father's fortune. That fit the image she'd developed of the good-for-nothing son.

In the darkness, she could only make out the outline of the man. She could tell that he was tall, that his shoulders were broad. He was wet from the rain, and the moisture brought with it the scent of woodsy cologne. She'd guess, based on Mr. Carter's age and the sound of the man's voice, that Ed was in his midthirties.

Strangely enough, Mr. Carter didn't keep any pictures of his son here at the house. There were plenty of pictures of Mr. Carter's wife, who'd died eight years ago. But none of his son. Bailey had always thought it was odd. She'd asked Mr. Carter about it once, and he'd only said that his son didn't like his picture to be taken.

At that moment, Ed stepped closer. She could feel the coldness of his icy gaze. “I don't have to explain myself to you.”

She raised her chin, not ready to back down. Someone had to stand up for Mr. Carter. Ed hadn't been around to do it. “No, but it's too bad your dad isn't here anymore so you could explain things to him.”

His tone became even cooler. “My dad understood.”

She raised her chin higher, questioning for a moment whether she should be so hard on the man. She realized this was none of her business, that she'd simply been hired help. But how could a son not be there for his father in his dying days? How could he have missed the funeral?

And what was all of this talk about finding the person who'd killed his father? Was that just some kind of front to distract her from his real intentions? His selfish intentions?

She lowered her chin, trying to rein in her emotions, which seemed to be spinning out of control tonight, right along with her imagination. “Your father died of heart failure. You're mistaken if you think someone killed him. You must have gotten faulty information.”

“I'm in the business of information.” He stepped closer.

Even in the dark, she saw his glare.

She'd gotten on his bad side, and rightfully so. But she didn't care. She was leaving here as soon as this storm cleared, and she'd never see this man again. At the moment, she wasn't worried about impressing anyone, especially not Ed Carter.

She stepped closer, close enough to show that she wasn't one to back down from a confrontation. “If you're in the business of information, then you need to check your sources. I was with your father when he died.”

Ed didn't break his gaze. “Then that makes you my number one suspect.”

She sucked in a deep breath, outrage bursting inside her. “You think that I—”

Just then, a crash sounded downstairs.

Ed and Bailey's eyes met and, for a moment, they seemed to agree. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

And standing here arguing would do nothing to help figure out what.

* * *

Ed's muscles tightened when he heard the noise.

He'd hoped to handle one catastrophe at a time.

Now, instead of trying to figure what in the world this woman was talking about, he had to investigate the source of that shattered glass.

If he were less of a gentleman, he might leave this Bailey woman up here to defend herself. But he wasn't that kind of guy. No matter how frustrating the woman might be, she was coming with him.

“Stay close,” he ordered.

She crossed her arms, her gaze defiant and stubborn. “I'd rather take my chances alone.”

“This is no time to be difficult.” He should just leave her. If only his conscience would let him.

“I'm not being difficult. I'm being honest.”

The woman had guts. But he spoke the truth—this wasn't the time to try out her hand at independence. She was his first suspect in his father's death, but he'd learned a thing or two about having tunnel vision in his line of work. Until he had more information, he would keep his eyes open for others. He didn't have enough evidence to make a case against any one person yet.

“Stay with me,” he repeated. He turned, tired of wasting time. He needed to check out that sound.

When he was sure that Bailey was right behind him, he moved toward the stairs. He kept his gun raised, waiting for any sound or sign of approaching danger. Nothing gave any indication that someone else was in the house.

The crash could have been caused by the storm. But until he knew for sure, Ed had to explore every possibility. There were an uncountable number of people out there who'd like to kill Ed or who could have killed his father. Danger was like breathing for Ed—it was a given. He was always on guard. Always suspicious. It was a hard way to live, but he'd gotten used to it—until recently. Something was shifting inside him, and he wasn't sure what or how to handle it.

Despite her bravado earlier, Bailey stayed surprisingly close behind him. He could hear her breaths coming quick and fast. Though he suspected she would never admit it, she was scared.

He stopped at the base of the stairs, and Bailey collided with him. He pivoted in time to see her toppling backward. He grabbed her arm and steadied her before she hurt herself. When he released her, she brushed her shirt off. Getting rid of his touch maybe?

He didn't have time for these games.

He put a finger over his lips to signal silence. She nodded and stayed behind him as they stepped into the kitchen. Wind swept through the room, bringing a chill with it. As lightning flashed again, the ragged edges of one of the bay windows by the breakfast nook came into view.

A tree limb lay half inside, half outside the house.

He let out the breath he'd been holding. The noise had just been nature doing the damage, not anyone dangerous. He lowered his gun.

“It looks like it was the storm after all,” Bailey muttered, stepping out from behind him, her shoulders relaxing some. “A nuisance, but the better of the options racing through my mind. I'll get a broom.”

He tucked his weapon into his jacket. “Know where any plastic is? I need to cover that hole up.”

“Look in the west wing of the house. There are entire rooms with furniture covered in sheets of the stuff. You should be able to find something there.”

Her words were cold. She thought she knew him, knew his reasons for being away. But she had no idea. And he didn't have to explain himself to her. In fact, he
wouldn't
explain himself to her. All of this was none of her business.

He'd come here to figure out who'd killed his dad. He only wished he had more to go on than the cryptic message his father's friend had left him. Then the man had died before relaying any information. Now his father was dead, as well.

As Ed headed into the blackness known as the west wing, he comforted himself with the fact that his father had run a check on Bailey before she was hired. But the best operatives were good. Really good. They slipped by the normal screenings. A few had slipped by high-level screenings.

Until he could identify the guilty party, he'd trust no one.

He was no fool. When his father had told him he was hiring a nurse, Ed had looked into Bailey himself. Her past had seemed seriously lacking. Could that be a sign she was a Goody Two-shoes or that her background had been fabricated?

He stopped at the first room in the hallway. The door creaked open. On the other side, he saw what was probably a ballroom at one time. Pieces of furniture stood like pretend ghosts in a haunted house. Each was covered and draped with either plastic or white sheets.

He grabbed some thick plastic off a wing chair and carried it back into the kitchen. Bailey was already there sweeping up the glass shards on the floor.

“Nails?” he asked.

He didn't have to see her expression to know her thoughts
. If you'd been around more, maybe you wouldn't have to ask me these questions.

He wished he had been around more. He'd wanted to be. But his job had required a lot of him. In essence, it had required his life, and Ed's father knew that. Ed's father had helped him get the position. His dad knew all about the risks, the sacrifices. It came with the territory.

Bailey continued to brush the glass into a trash can. “The toolbox is under the sink.”

While he was gone, Bailey had lit some candles around the room. Warm light flickered at the sink, on the breakfast table and on top of the kitchen island.

Ed found the nails and a hammer—right where Bailey had said they would be—and, after moving the limb from the window, he secured the thick plastic around the frame. At least the room would be protected against water damage. It wouldn't do much to keep intruders out, though. There was little he could do about that now.

While he had the toolbox, he also hammered the back door shut. Bailey watched him, her arms crossed and eyes suspicious. Finally, Ed stepped back and looked at his work. It was nothing to write home about, but it would do. In the morning, he'd see if he could find the supplies to fix the door.

“I'll put those tools up for you,” Bailey offered.

Before he could insist that he could do it, she grabbed the hammer. Their hands brushed, and his heart jolted with electricity. He cleared his throat, brushing off his surprise. “Your hands are ice-cold. Do you have any firewood? We need to get some heat in this place.”

She turned, squatting to return the hammer to its location under the sink. “Yes. A fire would be great. I wasn't successful at starting one myself.”

At least the lack of a fire wasn't an effort to conceal her presence here. “It's going to get cold, and the storm isn't supposed to let up anytime soon,” he finally said. “It looks like both of us are stuck here for a while.”

She stood up and offered what looked like a forced smile. “So it appears.”

He walked into the living room, a grand space with a ceiling two stories high, ornate bookcases stretching the height of the walls, and various seating areas where people could nestle down and catch up.

Too bad there would be no nestling down and no catching up.

He slid his wet coat off, grateful that his clothes underneath were still dry. Then he grabbed some logs and put them on the hearth. He balled up some newspaper he'd found on the floor to use for kindling. Bailey stood close, watching his every move, and finally handed him some matches.

He watched as the paper caught flame. Something about the moment reminded him of how very alone he was now. Both parents dead. No brothers or sisters. No family of his own. There was nothing waiting for him if he left the CIA. Nothing.

“Your father always liked to make fires himself,” Bailey muttered, her voice breaking him from his thoughts. “He never let me help.”

Ed stepped back, waiting for the flames to come to life. “Sounds like my dad.”

He glanced at Bailey. Had he heard sorrow in the woman's voice? She stood there with the sleeves of her sweatshirt pulled over her hands. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her eyes downcast, almost sad. Maybe all of this defensiveness was because Bailey truly did care about his father. He didn't have time to ponder it now.

A moment later, the fire hissed, yawned and finally roared to life. Bailey stepped closer and rubbed her hands together. Orange light danced across her face.

Her very pleasant face.

Not that it mattered to Ed. He squatted there, mesmerized by the flames for another moment.

After a few minutes, Bailey stepped back. Her gaze narrowed as she looked at something in the distance.

Then she froze. Sucked in a quick breath. Stepped back.

Ed sprang to his feet, tense and ready for action. “What is it?”

Her wide eyes met his. “You came in through the back door, right?”

“That's correct.”

She pointed toward the front door. “Then who left those wet footprints there?”

* * *

Bailey grabbed the fire poker and wrapped her fingers firmly around the handle. If there was someone else in this house, she was going to be prepared to fight him or her. Right beside Ed.

She didn't think Ed was the most upstanding guy, but she also didn't think he'd harm her.

Unless he continued to suspect she had something to do with his father's death.

Which was absurd.

Just then, Ed turned from scanning the room. He looked back at her, and she sucked in another deep breath.

The firelight revealed the intricacies of his face.

Startling blue eyes, thick dark hair, perfectly proportioned features. He had a slight scar under his right eye and a small dimple at his chin.

It would have been better if Bailey had remained in the dark about how he looked. At least that way, in her mind, the man would have remained an ogre. Instead, he was good-looking enough for Hollywood. But his looks only added to her initial impression that he was shallow and superficial.

“Were you expecting anyone else?” Ed asked, pulling out his gun.

Bailey shook her head. “No one. Not even you.”

“Anyone else have a key?”

“No. Not even you, apparently.” She bit her lip. She really had to get control of her tongue and stop spouting off everything that came into her mind.