In the Arms of a Stranger (Entangled Ignite), page 18
She didn’t know what to say, what to do. “I’m sorry.”
He took a deep breath, lowered his arms, and turned back toward her. “Look, I want you. Badly. You have to know that.” He laughed. “A blind man could see how badly I want you.” He reached out and touched the corner of her mouth. “I could get lost in you.” He dropped his hand. “But you’re the kind of woman who deserves a hell of a lot more than what I can give.”
“I—”
“Please, listen to me. I can’t touch you anymore, do you understand? If I do—” He cut himself off.
Dumbfounded, she tried to nod, but her body wasn’t functioning correctly.
“Abby,” he said raggedly, “we can’t afford for me to want you.”
Chapter 12
They ate the donuts in silence. JP gave himself a mental kick. If only he’d kept his mouth shut—in all ways—he could have sat at the table with Abby, enjoyed the donuts and milk. And her. The simple things. But no, he had to go and scare the woman half to death. She’d backed away from him and disappeared into the bathroom for a few very long minutes. When she’d come out, she hadn’t said anything.
And that had said it all.
“There’s a public library about a half hour away,” he said, breaking the tense silence. When he’d bought the donuts he’d made a few calls from a convenience store. A very brief and edgy conversation with Jonathan Ethridge had ended when the older man told him he’d start looking into who had access to Wade and JP’s last assignment. That was the best JP could hope for at this point. If Ethridge hadn’t lied to him, that is.
“We can find out more about Asa Pickett, too. They’ll have Internet there,” she said, perking up at the news.
Of course. She wanted to get on with it.
“The postcard was of Texas,” she said. “Wade’s family had a small ranch outside of Amarillo when he was young. He said he sold it. Do you think he bought the place back?”
“That would have been expensive.” Damn. He should not have said that. He could tell she was wondering where Wade got his money. And how much of it he’d hidden from her.
“We’re guessing. We don’t know,” he added, standing. “Pack your things and let’s get out of here.”
“I’m ready,” she said.
She gathered the dishes from the table while he got his spare gun and more ammunition from the closet. As he reached for it, a thought occurred to him.
“Do you know how to shoot?”
She paused at the sink. “A .22 rifle.”
“What about a handgun?”
“I’ve never shot one.”
“You knew the safety was on when you handled one of mine.”
“Wade taught me that.”
Of course he would. He’d be concerned about safety. They had a child. JP ruthlessly pushed aside a stab of jealousy. “This,” he said, reaching into his backpack for his Ruger Mark II, “has the least recoil. You should easily be able to point and pull the trigger.”
She met his gaze and nodded. “Show me.”
He did, trying very hard not to touch her, aware that she was trying just as hard not to touch him, standing on his front porch. But when he did brush his fingers over hers and she flinched, he stopped and took her hand. “Damn, Abby. I’m sorry I said anything.”
“No need,” she said, pulling her hand away.
He released her. “Please don’t feel like you have to avoid me. I’m going to keep my hands to myself, I swear. I’ll only touch you if it’s necessary.”
She nodded, biting her lip. “Maybe if…”
“What?”
“Don’t laugh.”
He shook his head. “I won’t.”
“If we pretend we’re both professionals, doing a job. That might make it easier.”
He smiled, admiring her spirit. If doubting the efficacy of the idea. “We can try.”
That got them through the basics of the Ruger, which JP tucked into her bag. He slipped on his windbreaker to hide his holster, and packed his spare along with extra ammunition in his own bag. Then he closed up the cabin he’d never shown to another soul, and they drove away.
Professionals doing a job.
Right.
When pigs could fly.
…
JP pulled the Taurus into a diagonal parking space in front of the library, part of a cluster of municipal buildings in a small town. Another Norman Rockwell painting.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, reaching for the door handle.
“I’ll come with you,” Abby said firmly.
He paused, his gaze steady on hers. “There’s no need. I can do the search.”
“I know. I’d just rather see the results myself than be told.”
The existence of another alias had obviously shaken her faith in Wade. JP couldn’t blame her, especially considering what he’d believed for so long about his late partner.
He didn’t know what to expect from this other alias. Finding out the truth could hurt her. But she was an adult. He wanted to protect her, but she had to know the whole truth at some point. He understood that now.
“All right. Come on,” he said finally.
The library had eight computers. No ID required. Abby stood beside him as he signed in as Paul Ransom.
After accessing several Texas Panhandle online phone books and county tax offices, he found a listing for Asa Pickett. The address read Shamrock, Texas, but the ranch was well outside the town limits. Property records indicated it was a large spread, bigger than anything he could comfortably expect Wade to own.
“Dorie,” Abby said, her attention on the monitor, “is Asa Pickett’s wife. See how it reads his name, then says ‘or Dora P. Pickett’?”
God, how he hated this. If Wade owned this place as Asa Pickett, there was no way he didn’t take money in exchange for treason. No way he could afford such a huge spread without an illegal source of income. But he could see what Abby cared about was the wife—the other family, if it existed. Because that would mean Wade had not been the man either of them had known.
“It’s a cover, like Luke’s Mary,” he assured her. For her sake, he hoped he was right about that. For his own, he prayed they’d find a logical explanation for how Wade could own a multimillion dollar ranch.
She nodded once, totally unconvinced. But they had an address. The address could lead them to answers. JP prayed they would be answers she could live with, answers that allowed him to regain his life.
Reflected in the monitor, he saw a woman walking toward them. Quickly, he opened a hotel chain webpage he’d left on the bottom bar of the monitor.
“Do you need any help?” the blonde asked.
“No, thanks,” he said, smiling at her.
She glanced for a second at the screen, then back at him. “Let me know if you need to print anything. That gives some people trouble.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “Thanks.”
She looked at the screen before turning to walk away. When she reached the desk, she whispered to one of her coworkers. The other woman looked at them.
He didn’t like it. He cleared the cookies and the history, rebooted the computer, and without thinking, reached for Abby’s hand. “Let’s go.”
She flinched slightly when he touched her, then relaxed. He rubbed his thumb over the top of her hand to keep her from pulling away.
Once outside, she asked, “What was the rush? We had other things to check.”
“Those women were interested in what we were using the computer for.”
She gaped at him for a moment. “How can you be so blind?”
“Blind?”
“That woman wasn’t interested in what you were reading, she was interested in you.” Abby shook her head. “Wow. You’re way too involved in this spy business. She just saw a sexy guy and wanted—”
He watched her stop herself, watched as a blush crept up her face, and laughed.
“She wanted that, huh?” he said finally.
“You’re a little…focused,” she said, her expression wry.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said, willing to let her slip of the tongue pass.
But she had said it. She’d thought it. She was thinking about him.
And she wasn’t thinking of him as her late husband’s partner.
…
Abby pulled the seat belt across herself as JP walked around to climb in the driver’s seat.
He was very focused. It was the way he did everything. One hundred percent. And when he brought all that male intensity to bear on her, she was helpless to resist. That’s what had happened. She wasn’t some lonely woman pining for a man, ready to jump on anything in pants.
Widow, she reminded herself.
All of this—meeting him, coming here—was because of Wade’s death.
Which again brought her back to reality.
This woman, Dorie, was real. She’d given Wade a postcard with her signature. She wasn’t like Mary, some figment of Wade’s imagination, designed to provide him with a cover should he ever need it. The farm, ranch, whatever it was, was real. It couldn’t exist without care. Wade had sent money, lots of money. For the ranch? Or for Dorie Pickett?
“How long will it take us to get there?” Abby asked JP.
“Six or seven hours. We should be there before dark.”
They drove most of the day, alternating the driving. Through the rest of Arkansas, then across Oklahoma, following miles of freeway, moving from a lush landscape to one more arid. The trees got smaller the farther west they went. If Abby hadn’t had so many thoughts crisscrossing her mind, she would have enjoyed what she was seeing. She’d never been this far from home before. She’d attended a large university, worked, but always in the South. She’d come home to her small community, she’d taught school, she’d married.
They stopped a few times along the way. She watched the travelers at the convenience stores, watched parents deal with their children, adults dealing with elderly parents. At a gas station in the middle of Oklahoma, Abby went inside to use the bathroom. When she came out, JP was squatting, talking to a little blond girl, no more than three or four years old. She was showing him something in the palm of her hand while her mother looked on. The little girl said something, her mother looked startled, but JP laughed. The wonderful, rich laugh she hadn’t heard since—when? How long had it been since she’d seen him with Cole? How long had she known him?
A lifetime ago. If she hadn’t taken the initiative, hadn’t found Wade’s papers, she wouldn’t be here now. She’d still be waiting…for God knew what. There was a lesson in that.
She should dictate her own life.
Screw waiting.
JP said something to the little girl, who listened intently. He reached out and touched her chin and the child smiled, a huge, wonderful smile that made her glow. The little girl looked toward Abby. Her mother smiled and looked her way, too. JP waved at the child as she ran to her father, then stood, and walked toward the store.
“Your husband,” the mother said to Abby with a smile. “He’s very sweet. Did you hear what Lindsay said to him?”
“No.”
“She asked him to be her Prince Charming.”
With a chuckle, Abby asked, “What did he say?”
“That she would be a beautiful princess for her very own prince when she’s all grown up, just as beautiful as his own real-life princess.” The woman watched JP open the store door and disappear inside. “You’re very lucky.”
Abby nodded, murmured polite good-byes, and climbed back into the Taurus.
Lucky? More like a total fool. Seeing JP with that child had opened her eyes to a startling truth.
In three short days, she’d fallen completely and utterly in love with JP Blackmon.
…
JP maneuvered the Taurus over the gravel and dirt road. They’d gotten something to eat in Shamrock. When he’d asked about the Pickett ranch, the waitress gave him directions. Sunset was still at least two hours away. Abby sat quietly beside him as they drove, scanning their surroundings. They turned into an arched entrance gate that bore the name Double P Ranch in square letters.
He’d noticed a subtle change in her in the last few hours. She seemed more pensive, less interested in the changing landscape than she had been when they first set out. And he’d felt her eyes on him, often, during the long drive.
“Big, isn’t it?” she murmured, looking to her right at acres of hayfields, still immature and green. To the left, a herd of longhorn cattle grazed on the short grass of a field that extended to yet another. The house and ranch buildings, a couple of barns, a silo, a corral with a cattle chute, lay over a half mile away.
“Yes, it’s big.” A functioning ranch. A large ranch. It must cost a lot of money to have someone run a place like this. The money Wade had sent this Asa Pickett was peanuts in the scheme of an operation this huge.
What the hell had Wade done? Who the hell was Asa Pickett? Was that really an alias, or was it a real person?
As JP pulled the car up to the house—large with a wraparound, roofed porch—it was obvious that it was well cared for. Nothing was in disrepair. Even the pickup trucks were relatively new.
“And being run by someone,” Abby said, echoing his thoughts. “I wonder who.”
And how. Where did the money Wade had sent come from? Payoff money? Had there been other betrayals, other dirty deals, perhaps extending over years? Wouldn’t JP have known?
“I need to look around, make sure it’s safe,” he said. “Stay here.”
He got out and walked around the house, checking through a couple of windows. There was a woman inside. Was this Dorie? If that was her real name. No one else was about, at least not that he saw. It all looked innocuous. And totally legit. Still, he checked his Glock and walked back to the car. Abby had rolled down her window while she waited for him.
“Want to stay in the car?” Maybe he could mitigate some of whatever he found inside. “Let me see what’s going on first?”
“No,” she said firmly. “If this is Wade’s place, I want to know if he has…” She swallowed. “I’d rather see for myself.”
JP nodded, and with one more look at her pale face, opened the car door.
They walked up the five steps that led to the porch, then to the front door. She took a deep breath, tossed her hair back off her shoulders, and nodded once, as if preparing herself for a dreaded encounter.
Which, he supposed this was. No way could she be comfortable with the knowledge that all this was Wade’s. Hell, he wasn’t. JP was downright terrified. It reinforced what he’d believed from the moment he realized Wade had set him up. He’d started having doubts the past couple of days, started believing perhaps Wade had been set up, too. But this place? No way could this be Wade’s if he hadn’t gotten money by turning traitor.
JP rang the doorbell. He heard footsteps. A woman called out, “Coming!”
Beside him, Abby flinched. But she squared her shoulders and held her head high. This was costing her so much. Despite having sworn he wouldn’t touch her again, he put his arm around her in support. “Ready?”
She nodded. “Ready.”
…
JP’s hand across her shoulder made Abby want to turn toward him, bury her head against his chest, and make everything go away. But this was her new reality, the one she had to deal with.
The door opened.
The woman was middle-aged. Wade’s age. She looked like a Dorie—rounded, her short hair graying, her skin tanned. She wore blue jeans and a denim shirt over a white T-shirt. Her eyes were beautiful, a deep sky blue.
“Yes?” she said, looking up at JP.
“We’re here to see Asa Pickett.”
“Asa’s not here,” the woman replied. “I’m his wife, Dorie. Can I help you?”
Abby thought she’d prepared herself for this. Yet nothing could have prepared her for it.
Dorie was real.
Abby took a shallow breath, her mind scrambled to find an alternative explanation. Something other than wife.
But there was none.
“Wade Price sent me,” JP said.
Dorie Pickett’s eyes widened, then she took a quick, deep breath. “You’re—” she blurted, then stopped herself. “I—”
“Who do you think I am, Mrs. Pickett?” JP asked.
“You’re—No. But—” Dorie Pickett stopped herself again, her hand at her chest.
“Mom!” came a male voice from behind the woman.
Dorie looked confused, turned once, then turned back to stare at JP. “I—”
“Mom,” a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, said. Dressed in Army camo, he came to stand directly behind his mother. The name on his pocket read Pickett. He stopped as he saw them. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t know someone was here.”
Dorie was still staring at them. Finally, she said. “This is our son, David.”
“Sir, ma’am,” David Pickett said.
The tone of his voice registered with Abby like a distant echo. The young man’s voice, his stance, his build, all were Wade’s. She felt light-headed, suddenly shaky. She put her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. Her eyes stung.
“Here, honey,” Dorie said, taking her arm. “Come inside. Sit. You look too pale.”
Abby allowed herself to be led to a large leather couch. She’d never fainted, ever, and somehow didn’t this time.
“David, get me the portable phone and two glasses of ice water.”
The young man turned and left. He walked just like Wade.
It was surreal. Impossible. Five years. More. She’d known Wade for seven years. Seven years. This woman had been here all along, with their son. Wade had never said a word about them.
She’d been blind. Stupid. So easily deceived. She had to swallow down the bile that rose to her throat.
“Thanks,” Dorie said to her son, who handed her the phone. “Now, go get that water, please.”
“Sure, Mom,” he said, looking down at Abby before leaving.
His eyes, even his brows were Wade’s. Cole’s.
Dorie punched keys on the phone, waited a moment, then said, “Come home now.” She listened.
Abby could hear a low male voice on the other end of the line.
