Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances) (25 page)

The click-click of toenails on terra-cotta tile caused her to
look up. A giant dog raced toward her, its whiplike tail wagging furiously. Thank God April had warned her that Ginger
was friendly and eager to please. She hadn't mentioned how
adorable the dog was with her long nose, bright eyes, and mouth
almost shaped like she smiled in welcome.

"So you're my new roommate," she said with a sigh.

The brown and white dog swiped a cold, wet nose over her
cheek, which, to her surprise, was just the cure for her moment
of self-pity. Renewed, she stood, threw her shoulders back, and
inhaled deeply to give her spirits a lift.

"How about you give me Le Grande Tour?" she said as she
scratched her new best friend's head.

After double-checking that she'd locked the front door,
she strode through the house, Ginger as her escort. First stop,
the kitchen, where she found glass cabinetry, marble countertops, and stainless steel appliances. On the center butcher
block sat a frosted glass vase filled with red and white roses
and evergreen branches. Instantly, her mind kicked back to
the flowers Doug had sent her after their first date.

How long had he planned to string her along with dinners
and flowers? And once he'd reeled her in enough to get the story he wanted, how quickly would he have skipped town?
Certainly before any other reporters learned what he knew.
Joke's on you, Doug. Ace's foolish interest in Becky totally
screwed up your plan to be the one who revealed my true
identity in the public arena.

When exactly had he known who she really was? Had Ace
confided her secret, and Doug had purposely used his injury
to get accepted into Ski-Hab in the hopes of getting close to
her? Maybe the prosthesis was a fake. Could he have pretended
to be an amputee, all the while hiding a fully functioning arm
inside his clothes?

She snorted. Get a grip, babe. No man would chop off a limb
just to find out about you.

God, she was so tired. Her brain couldn't play these games
any longer.

Averting her eyes from the roses and all they represented,
she picked up the notepad beside the vase.

Welcome to The Links was written in precise script. I stocked
the kitchen for you so you'll find basic staples, prepared meals,
and cleaning supplies. If you need anything else, there's a prepaid cell phone on the dining room table. My name and number are already programmed in.

Think of yourself as part of a witness protection program.
Use nothing that can identify you. No bank cards or checks.
Pay any expenses with cash only. If you run low on funds, call
me. April's taking care of all your finances until this is over.
And she said to tell you, "You bet your curvy butt you'll pay
me back."

That comment, so perfectly April, drew a smile from Lyn
when she needed it most.

The letter continued, detailing names and directions to stores
in the area, delivery services for everything from dry cleaning to
pizza, and emergency contact information. As she read through
the pages and finally reached Brenda's signature, her eyelids
grew heavier and she began to yawn.

"Well, Ginger, my girl," she told the greyhound. "I think it's
time for us to call it a night. We'll have plenty of time to get acquainted tomorrow. How about you show me to my room?"

The following morning when Lyn went downstairs for
breakfast, she found the kitchen stocked with everything that
Brenda had promised in her note, and more. Coffee, half-andhalf, fresh fruit, and all her favorite low-carb foods. Only one
person knew enough about her habits to mastermind this minimiracle.

Thank you, April.

Ginger, who'd spent the night on a large sheepskin pet mattress at the foot of Lyn's bed, nudged her hand, then sprinted
for the door.

"Okay, girl." She reached for the folded bit of paper with the
door combination, tucked it into her jeans pocket, and headed for
the foyer's utility closet. Sure enough, the dog's leash hung on a
hook within easy reach. Lyn also noticed the unit's washer/dryer
combo, detergent, fabric softener, dryer sheets, a broom and
dustpan, and a box of tall kitchen garbage bags. Her organized
little heart went pitter-pat.

The townhouse's owner, Michael Berman, was a veterinarian, divorced, with two school-age daughters and a passion for
greyhound rescue. Judging by the photos she'd seen in the family room, he was a fairly good-looking guy. Since he'd opened
his home to her no questions asked, she surmised he was
also generous and compassionate. So why couldn't she have
fallen for Michael Berman, DVM, instead of Douglas Sawyer, RAT?

Don't go there, she scolded herself.

Yeah, sure. Great advice. Too bad her heart refused to lis ten. At least a thousand times over the last twelve hours, she'd
relived that one magic moment underneath the ice angel
wings. Doug had leaned close to her, his warm breath caressing the scrap of her neck between her scarf and her jacket collar. He'd told her about his teenage crush, let her know that he
knew she was really Brooklyn Raine, and before she could
make any excuses, he'd kissed her. And for that one perfect
instant, she'd known bliss.

Aaaargh! Enough! She had to stop daydreaming and get on
with life AD: after Doug.

Ginger concurred by scraping a paw over the steel front
door.

"Okay, okay," Lyn told the impatient greyhound as she
grabbed the leash. "Let's go for a walk, sweetie."

She slipped into her jacket, then clamped the leash to Ginger's collar. The dog did the rest. With a quick yank, Ginger
dragged Lyn out the door and into a sunny, crisp December
day. Even if Lyn wanted to check out the scenery or meet any
neighbors who strolled by on their way to the golf course, the
greyhound had other plans.

Ginger pulled her in a perfect circle around the outskirts
of the community at a runner's pace. When they passed the
guard's station where she'd arrived last night, a different man
in uniform bobbed his flat cap. "Morning, Mrs. Snow. I see
Ginger's in high spirits today."

"I guess so," Lyn managed to say through exhausted panting. She didn't even blink at his use of her alias. Apparently,
April had covered all the bases for her. And Lyn had tried to
lecture her about handling the media? No wonder she and Jeff
had looked at Lyn like she'd suddenly sprouted snakes for hair
that night. April not only knew how to keep the press at bay,
she'd also come up with an amazing contingency plan to keep
Lyn safe and hidden.

Ginger tugged again, nearly upending Lyn. She stumbled,
slamming her toe against the curb. "Is she always like this?"

"She's a greyhound, ma'am." The guard shrugged as if that
enigmatic reply covered a multitude of explanations.

Maybe it did. Lyn knew next to nothing about greyhounds.

"So she is," Lyn said to the guard, just before Ginger hurried
her out of earshot.

Twenty minutes later, they were back in front of the red door
with the white wreath. Ginger galloped up the two cement steps
and sat, waiting, while Lyn fumbled with the paper in her pocket
and tried to catch her breath.

"The least you could do is pant," she grumbled at the dog.

But Ginger simply stared with those soft, melted chocolate
eyes and flashed that greyhound grin.

Shaking her head, Lyn punched in the code and opened the
front door. A digital version of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony
emitted from the kitchen.

The cell phone! Dagnabbit. She'd forgotten to call Brenda this
morning. She unclipped the leash from Ginger's collar, then expended her last spurt of adrenaline in a race to the butcher block,
where she'd left the stupid phone.

She lunged, pushed the ON button, and placed the phone to
her ear. "Hello?"

"Lyn?" a voice full of concern said. "It's Brenda. Are you
all right?"

She let out a long breath. "Yes. I'm sorry. I completely forgot to call you this morning."

"You sound out of breath. What's wrong?"

Explaining would take too long and take too much out of
her. So she opted for the one-word reply. "Ginger."

Brenda laughed. "Oh, right. She's a huge ball of energy, isn't
she? Cute as can be, though, and a real love. Everything's okay
with you then?"

"As okay as it can be."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." Her pounding heart rocketed up her throat. "Why?
Have you heard something?"

"No," Brenda replied. "All's quiet on the western front, which
bothers me more than when there's a buzz. But that's just the
mom in me, looking for chaos in the heart of calm. So for
now, sit tight. If there's news, I'll be in touch. Go relax and
catch your breath. If you need anything, call me."

Brenda hung up, and Lyn placed the phone back on the counter. Ginger, all smiles and wagging tail, looked up adoringly at
her.

Now what? An endless day stretched before her with nothing to do but think. A dangerous pastime.

For three days, Lyn managed to pass hours with Ginger, an
endless stream of idiotic television shows, and the occasional
peek-and-run with Monty the Python. As day turned to night,
night to day, and back again, Lyn had a fairly good idea how a
prisoner felt in solitary confinement.

But by day four, her mind could no longer avoid reliving her
last few hours at home. How an evening of fun and laughter
had become a hurried escape from all that she held dear. At
first, she fought against her pitching emotions with banal distractions. In the family room, she pulled out a photo album.
Curled up on the couch, she flipped through pictures of Dr.
Berman and his kids. Two pretty dark-haired girls with pixie
faces and matching pink bikinis squeezed the stuffing out of
Dad at a water park. The same two girls cuddled with him in
an enormous rope hammock on a white sandy beach. Another
snapshot had the trio huddled around a birthday cake in the
townhouse's kitchen, half a dozen candles glowing in the twilit
room. Page after page of happy memories, of precious family
moments. Just like Richie and Phyllis.

The one thrill Lyn would never know: a family of her own.
She glanced down at the glossy images again and traced a
finger over Dr. Berman's indulgent smile. Doug would have
made a wonderful father.

No. Not Doug.

Actually, yes. Doug. Or, at least, the Doug she'd built up in
her heart. Unfortunately, the real man fell far too short of her
fantasy version.

By afternoon, the tears finally started. And refused to stop.
Ginger tried to help with a nudge here and a lick there. But being a dog, she really had little or no opinion on the perfidy of
human men. Lyn needed more than a cold, wet nose and a run
around the neighborhood. She needed reasons, an explanation, an apology. No more accusations or excuses. Just some straight
dirt.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she headed for the
kitchen. Cell phone in hand, she dialed a phone number as familiar to her as her own at Snowed Inn.

Richie picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Richie?" she rasped through a throat scraped raw from
excessive tears.

"Lyn? Where are you? Are you okay?"

Despite a sudden quake in her knees, she remained standing
in the hope that a stiffer posture would make her sound more
forceful, more in control. "I'm not telling you where I am, and
I'm not okay. I need an explanation from you, Rich."

"Aw, come on, Lynnie. You know me. Come home and we'll
talk."

"No. Talk now. From the hip, Richie."

"Where do you want me to start?"

"Start with your selection process. Why Doug Sawyer?"

"Because he's a decent guy who needed our help. Ace Riordan vouched for him, and I reviewed his medical records as
well as his personal info. He was a perfect candidate on a multitude of levels. He was in decent physical shape, with ski experience prior to his amputation. And even though he's technically
a civilian, he sustained his injuries in combat. You wanted to
start taking on civilians, and I set the plan in motion with a patient who ideally fit the criteria. Accepting Doug Sawyer provided a smooth transition from military to civilian for the
Ski-Hab staff."

Yeah, sure. A smooth transition for everyone but her.

Good thing Richie wasn't in the same room with her right
now. She might have been tempted to strangle him with Ginger's
leash. Instead, she gripped the phone tight enough to make her
knuckles ache. "Except that he's not just a civilian with an ideal
record. He's a reporter. A sports reporter."

"Do you even know Doug Sawyer, the sports reporter?" he
snapped. "Ever read anything he's written?"

"No, but..." She hesitated, but on the next breath added, "What difference does that make? He's a reporter. You know
how I feel about-"

"What I know is that you're lumping him in with Lorenzo
Akers and all his cockroach pals. And that's not fair to Doug
or to you. Maybe once you've read some of his work, you'll
understand why I had no qualms about giving him the green
light. That's all it took for Kerri-Sue to get onboard."