The Stranger: The Heroes of Heyday (Harlequin Superromance No. 1266) (9 page)

“Down here, at least? What do you mean by that? Where else are you planning to…install things?”

“The whole building,” Tyler said, handing down a thin cable to the man below him, who was tacking the wire to the baseboards. “The shop, as you can see, and then we'll do both apartments. This is Jerry, from Chilton Security Systems. Jerry, this is Mallory Rackham.”

Jerry looked up, his mouth full of brads, and waved politely.

Mallory tried to smile, but it didn't quite work. She gestured toward the back office. “Tyler, may I talk to you alone for a minute?”

He'd known this was coming. He'd even prepared the Chilton men for a fairly cool reception, though he'd assured them it was in the lease that he did have the right to make adjustments to the building as he deemed fit, with or without notifying the tenant.

As Tyler climbed down the ladder, Jerry looked up at him with a sympathetic expression.

“If I'm not out in five minutes,” Tyler said, tucking his polo shirt neatly into his belt, “send help.”

“No way,” Jerry said, grinning. “I'm married, and
I know that look. If you're not out in five minutes, no power on earth can save you.”

At first, it seemed that Jerry was right. When Tyler joined her in the narrow office, Mallory was standing behind her desk, looking like a generalissimo preparing to attack. He shut the door and hoped for the best.

For a few seconds she fiddled with some papers, stiff fingered, as if she needed time to compose her thoughts. Then she looked up, her eyes shadowed and her mouth tense. She looked as if she hadn't slept all night.

“Don't you think you might have discussed this with me first?”

“I would have,” he said politely, “except you made it pretty clear you didn't want to talk to me. I called twice last night, and once this morning, but you didn't answer.”

She didn't have a response for that one. What could she say? She'd been pretty strung out yesterday, when Imogene Jacobson had accosted her at the garden store. By the time he got her back to the apartment, she'd rallied a little and obviously regretted the show of weakness. She'd thanked him at the door but declined to invite him in, and then refused to answer the telephone for the rest of the night.

Which had been fine with him, really. He'd gone back to the garden store, hoping to find Imogene still there. She was a talker, and she'd make a great chapter in his book. But she'd been taken down to police headquarters. By the time the cops were through with
her, she'd either be back in the loony bin or so scared she'd never open up to Tyler on the record.

So, for the time being, he'd had to settle for talking to Linda Tremel. He'd already identified Linda as a potential suspect. She had a husky voice, which might sound masculine if altered, but more importantly she had that bitterness, that impotent anger against a world that hadn't treated her fairly, that so many blackmailers possessed.

She was a talker, too. Even when he told her why he was there, she hardly drew a breath. If was as if she'd waited her whole life for a chance to tattle on her neighbors.

She seemed to think that, because of the Heyday Eight story, he was primarily interested in the sex lives of small-town America. Problem was, most of her gossip was so petty that she ended up saying more about herself than she did about the poor people of Heyday. For instance, she hinted that Mallory Rackham harbored a hopeless passion for Bryce McClintock, which Tyler knew to be pure baloney.

When he got back to the apartment, he'd shredded his notes and tossed them in the trash.

“Look, Mallory,” he said now. “What is your problem with this? Surely, after yesterday, you agree that we need a little more than a dime-store dead bolt to protect this place. Heyday may be ninety percent heaven on earth, but that other ten percent, into which Imogene Jacobson falls, is seriously screwed up.”

She bit her lower lip. “Are you saying you really think Imogene might—”

“I'm saying she already burned down one business of yours. She's still pretty pissed off. Why take chances?”

“I—” She took a deep breath, but didn't finish her sentence. She hadn't relaxed a single millimeter. She absolutely hated the idea of the security system, and for the life of him Tyler couldn't figure out exactly why. Surely it wasn't a power thing? Surely she didn't mind that Tyler owned the building and planned to assert his right to protect it?

Something wasn't right here. He hadn't exactly expected her to kiss his ring in gratitude, but he hadn't expected this level of resistance, either.

“Mallory, I don't think you get it. Personally, I don't give a damn if she burns the place to the ground. I wish she'd burn every building I inherited so I can get the hell out of Heyday.” He frowned. “This is for you, to protect you. Don't you understand that?”

“I understand it,” she said slowly. She looked at him with dark eyes. “I just don't believe it.”

“What?” He had been leaning against the door, his hands in his pockets, but now he straightened and gave her a hard glare. “Why the hell not?”

“Because in my experience, you don't do things for other people. You do them for yourself, to get stories. For all I know, those men are really just installing bugs and spy cameras and tape recorders.”

Spy cameras? He almost laughed, but somehow it wasn't very funny.

“For crying out loud.” Now he really was ticked off. This state-of-the-art security system was costing him thousands. And he had to crawl around helping install it, just to get it up in time to let her open for business as usual at ten.

“You're paranoid, Mallory, did you know that? You think I'd break the law to find out who you talk to on the phone or what kind of bubble bath you use? What kind of secrets could you possibly have that—”

And then it hit him.

Good Lord.

She did have a secret.

She was staring at him, but she wasn't really seeing him. Her face was white, and so were her knuckles. She must not have unclenched her fists since she'd seen his crew in her store, installing wires.

“Mallory.” He leaned toward her. He reached for her hands, instinctively thinking he might be able to rub some life back into them. “Mallory, listen—”

But just then the telephone rang. She turned her wide, unseeing eyes toward it, but she didn't answer it. It rang again. And again, loud in the little office.

Finally it stopped. And in a second or two, Wally, who must have just arrived, stuck his multicolored head through the office door.

“Sorry to interrupt, boss, but this one's for you.” Wally rolled his eyes. “Lucky you. It's Darth Vader again.”

Darth Vader? While Mallory tried to compose her face, tried to take a deep breath, tried to force herself
to reach for the phone, Tyler's mind was moving quickly.

Darth Vader. A man in a black mask. A man whose identity was unknown, though his evil agenda was recognized by everyone who met him.

A man with an electronically distorted voice.

“Mallory,” he said.

But she cut him off.

With a voice that sounded a little like a robot itself, she said, “I'm sorry, Tyler. You'll have to excuse me. I need to take this call.”

W
HEN HER ALARM WENT OFF
at six Friday morning, Mallory squinted toward the window, feeling sure it must be a mistake. Her bedroom was so dark, how could it be time to get up?

She groaned at the sight of the glass panes, which looked as if they were melting with rain. Another gloomy day? Most Virginia springs were rainy, swelling the rivers and urging millions of wildflowers up out of the mud. Ordinarily she didn't mind—it was good for business. It made people want to stay in and read a good book.

But this was too much.

Besides, she was tired, so tired. Her body ached all over, as if she might be coming down with something. The area behind her eyes felt tight and pounded in time with her pulse. She didn't see how she could face another long, gray drive to the ferry.

Damn the blackmailer.

She'd made the money drop only twice so far, but the ordeal was so stressful she already hated the very sight of the ferry. She'd never realized how emotion
ally exhausting it was to be frightened and furious at the same time.

As she sat up, she felt a little dizzy. She pressed her thumbs to the inside corners of her eyes. Her face was hot.

Even at the best of times she couldn't afford to be sick, since it would mean she had to hire someone to watch the store. And she especially couldn't afford it now, with the blackmailer sucking money out of her like a leech.

She rarely ever caught anything. So what was this? Was the stress starting to get to her? Surely this coward who hid behind a telephone and a voice distorter couldn't have defeated her, not after all she'd been through.

Through all the ordeals of the past three years, she'd remained tough. She hadn't fallen apart when she found out about Dan, or when the café burned down, or even when her mother had collapsed in the kitchen that terrible night.

And yet the other day, when Imogene Jacobson had accosted her at Linda's store, she'd thought for a minute she might faint. It was almost as if, ever since the blackmailer had first called, Mallory hadn't been breathing properly. It was like wearing a corset of fear, and the laces just kept pulling tighter and tighter.

And yesterday, when Tyler had reached out for her hand, with that strangely compassionate look on his face, she'd almost fallen for it. That's how weak and mixed up she'd become. She'd almost told him everything.

Thank God she'd caught herself in time. She could handle this alone. But if she ever did get so desperate that she needed help, she would turn to Roddy or Kieran or Bryce. Maybe even the police.

She would never, never turn to
Tyler.
Anyone who was fool enough to take the comforting hand Tyler Balfour offered would be smart to check out what his other hand was doing.

Chances are it would be scribbling down every word you said.

All the better to quote you with, my dear.

 

F
ROM THE SHELTER OF HIS CAR
, Tyler watched as Mallory stood in the pouring rain to buy a ticket for the 11:00 a.m. Green Diamond Ferry. He knew what she'd do next. She'd get on early. She'd slide a small brown packet of unmarked twenty-dollar bills under one of the seats. And then she'd get off again and drive home.

He knew, because it was almost exactly the same scenario Dilday Merle had described to him. The only difference was that Dilday had been told to use the Richmond city bus.

The basic theory was the same. Put the money on a crowded moving vehicle that was scheduled to make many stops in quick succession. The victim would have no idea where or when the blackmailer would board the vehicle to pick up the money. Thus, the blackmailer assumed, there was almost no use even trying to catch him.

The guy was pretty clever, Tyler would give him
that. For his very first payment, Dilday Merle had hired a private detective to stay on the bus and snap a photograph of the person who finally picked up the packet. But the blackmailer must have recognized a sting, because that day no one picked it up at all. The next week, the blackmailer had called Dilday and told him that for his little trick he'd have to pay double.

Dilday could take risks like that. He had the advantage of knowing he was innocent.

But what about Mallory? What sin was she paying for? And was she innocent, like Dilday…or was she guilty?

He watched her as she huddled under her umbrella, waiting for the ferry to finish docking. Her face was just a pale oval inside the hood of her raincoat. He thought he'd never seen anyone look so miserable.

As soon as she stepped onto the ferry, he got out of his car. If he was right, she wouldn't be gone long, and he wanted to be sure to catch her on the way out. Years ago, a policeman he'd interviewed had told him that the secret to getting a confession wasn't thumbscrews or truth serum. It was surgically applied shock.

Catch 'em when they're nervous,
the seventy-year-old decorated cop had said,
and catch 'em by surprise.

Tyler had used it a hundred times, and it hadn't failed him yet. Even if he didn't get his confession in words, he got it in wide eyes, pale cheeks and stumbling, unprepared responses.

But when Mallory saw him, her reaction was more
dramatic than anything he'd seen in ten years of journalism.

She couldn't go white, because she was already whiter than a sheet of fine paper. She didn't rush into ridiculous explanations, because she clearly couldn't speak. She merely made a choking sound, stumbled on the slick exit ramp, then blindly reached for something to steady herself on.

Tyler put out his arm. He had the feeling she took it without registering exactly what it was.

The rain was falling even harder now. Without thinking, he pulled her under the protection of his umbrella. As he wrapped his arms around her, the shell of the umbrella rode so low its metal points pressed into their shoulders, shutting them off from the rest of the crowd.

She didn't protest, though the embrace brought their bodies into full, intimate contact for the first time in all these years. He was shocked by how delicate, fine boned and perfectly female she felt…and by the primitive surging of a protective instinct in his own chest.

Apparently shock worked both ways.

Damn it. This was dumb.

But he had wanted to do this for so long, since the first time he saw her wipe away angry tears over her husband's neglect. This ache had begun three years ago, and he realized that, though he'd ignored it, it had never quite gone away.

“How did you know where I was?” Her voice was muffled, her lips against his raincoat.

“I followed you,” he said. “I knew something was wrong when you got that call yesterday. I—” He paused. “I was concerned.”

She didn't answer. She probably didn't believe him. He was a little surprised himself, but it was true. His first thought had been that he needed to know the truth. If she was in some kind of trouble, she might need help.

His second thought had been the story. The book.

She had no way of knowing how amazing it was. Personal first? Professional second? That hadn't happened to him in a decade.

“We need to talk,” he said.

Finally she lifted her head. “I think I need something to eat first. I don't feel…quite right.”

She wasn't kidding. She looked as if she might be on the verge of passing out. He tilted the umbrella and glanced around the inner harbor. The rain had washed away most of the tourists, and they ought to be able to find a restaurant without a waiting list.

But this area, however quaint, was too close to the scene of the crime, both figuratively and literally. She'd never relax enough to talk openly as long as she feared the blackmailer might be watching her from the next table over.

“I saw a little place a couple of miles back,” Tyler said. “Let's take my car.”

That got a small reaction. She frowned. “My car…”

“We'll get it later. I'm not sure you're up to driving.”

With a sigh, she nodded.

They didn't say much on the way to the restaurant, which turned out to be a tiny diner with five booths covered in sparkling blue plastic, one Formica counter and a huge jukebox.

They were alone, except for the waitress, who was reading a paperback novel, and a burly biker-type at the bar, who kept playing “Wind Beneath My Wings” over and over again while he nursed a Diet Coke.

Tyler got coffee, and all Mallory decided she could handle was some dry toast. When she'd picked at enough of it to bring some color back into her cheeks, he asked her the question that had been driving him insane the past twenty-four hours.

“Do you feel up to talking about it?”

She shrugged. “Do I have any choice?”

He ignored that. She could always simply stonewall him, but he saw no need to remind her of that.

“Is it the Eight?” He spoke in low tones, though he was pretty sure the biker hadn't even noticed their arrival. “Is that what he's got on you?”

Mallory shut her eyes briefly and set down the piece of toast she'd been toying with. When she opened them again, they were shining in the overly harsh diner lights.

“Yes,” she said without inflection. “It's the Eight.”

He felt an odd sinking sensation to hear her confirm it.

Why, he wondered? Surely he hadn't been irrationally hoping that the two blackmail schemes weren't related?

He hadn't been that naive since he believed in the tooth fairy.

He tried to keep on his reporter's face, his reporter's voice. This wasn't personal, though after holding her in his arms it was difficult to remember that.

“Okay.” He took a sip of coffee. “What about the Eight, exactly? Surely you aren't trying to tell me you were—one of them?”

She smiled thinly. “You would think that was terrible, wouldn't you? Inexcusable. You'd think it was disgusting.”

“No,” he said. “I'd think it was a lie.”

She flushed, which on her pale cheeks looked dramatic and oddly unhealthy. “Okay. If you know so much about it, then why don't you tell me? What do you think the truth is?”

He'd been mulling this over for nearly twenty-four hours, ever since he discovered she was getting the Darth Vader calls, too. He had eliminated the possibility of Mallory's personal involvement immediately. She'd been about three years too old and hadn't been a co-ed at Moresville College anyhow. Plus, she was just too innocent. Not virginal, nothing that primitive. Rather, it was a sort of emotional innocence. She hadn't been a hooker. For one thing, she had suffered too much over her capsized marriage, tried too hard to keep it afloat.

In the end, he had narrowed it down to two possibilities.

“All right,” he said. “The way I figure it, the black-
mailer could know that you and your mother were abetting the girls, that you knew what they were up to when they met at your café. The police checked that out, of course, and found nothing. But it wouldn't be the first time they misjudged.”

“It would mean that you misjudged, too.”

He laughed. “It wouldn't be my first time, either. But there's another possibility, and I actually prefer this one.”

The tension around her eyes tightened. Though his first hypothesis hadn't touched a raw spot, she was clearly more afraid of what he might say next.

“The other possibility,” he said, watching her carefully, “is that your sister
did
become a member of the Eight.”

And there it was, the trademark collapse of the perfectly hit target. He'd seen it so many times on the faces of people who had carried a painful secret for too long. Anger that anyone dared breach the fortress, fear at what exposure would bring and, paradoxically, relief that the burden no longer was theirs alone.

The miserable stew of emotions almost always ended in tears. Mallory was fighting them hard, but the red rims and sparkling lashes told him she would soon go the way of all the others.

“Look, Mallory,” he said quickly. Surprisingly, he didn't want her to fall apart, even though, in his experience, the tide of tears frequently swept out the most intimate revelations. She'd despise herself for it later. “I know you hate me right now. I know you think this is the end of the world. But it isn't.”

“Maybe not yours,” she said, her voice thick and tight. “And not mine. But it may well be the end of Mindy's.”

“No,” he said softly. “Not even hers.”

She wouldn't look at him. She turned her face and seemed to be studying the fringed jacket of the biker at the counter. The man was hunched over his grilled-cheese sandwich now, holding his Diet Coke like a beer and singing along with his song in an off-key but heartfelt baritone.

Tyler indulged himself in a long contemplation of her profile, the way he used to do when she was working at the café, and he was just sitting in the corner booth, waiting and watching. She had such a small, fragile face, really. A short, well-defined nose and full lips that seemed overlarge above her pointed, feminine chin. Even from the side you could tell her eyes were a clear, crystal blue that seemed to reflect all the light in the room, like very clean water.

When she looked at you straight on, with that undaunted gaze, she made you forget the fragility. But from the side, she was very young and very vulnerable. The rain had stuck several strands of hair to her cheek. She looked like a little girl who needed to go inside and let her mama clean her up.

“I didn't know about it at first,” she said, without turning back to face him. “When you were there, when your story first ran. I didn't have any idea that Mindy was…”

He waited, but she never finished the sentence. “When did you find out?”

“About two months later. Things were tough—your story made a lot of people suspicious of us, and business was bad. I'd just gotten divorced and moved home. Then Mindy tried—she tried to commit suicide.”