Mistaken Identity Page 7

  The man disturbed her.

  Ha! Who was she kidding? He disturbed, infuriated and still frightened her just a little. In the cold light of day, his plan to set Becky up as bait seemed even more ruthless than it had last night. Nor would she forgive him anytime soon for his callous decision to substitute one sister for another. And that gun! Even after a restless night spent on a mattress that didn’t in any way measure up to box-spring standards, the memory of Marsh bursting through the bunk-room door with that evil-looking weapon in his hands sent her mind skittering in a dozen different directions.

  Shivering, she tucked the man-sized towel tighter under her arms, and then squeezed toothpaste onto her brush and attacked her teeth. She could still see him in that half crouch, muscles corded, danger radiating from him in almost palpable waves. He’d scared her half out of her wits. She could just imagine his impact on Becky. Her sister would have died. Or melted all over the guy.

  The toothbrush stilled. Fluoride-flavored foam bubbled in Lauren’s mouth. Scowling, she forced the drippy face in the mirror to ’fess up.

  Okay. All right. She could admit it. For a second or two last night, she’d felt an irrational urge to melt all over the guy, too. Not that she would ever do it. The crazy impulse was just a reaction to all that raw, masculine power. And to the fact that Marsh had burst in to rescue her. Only from a set of icy sheets, of course, but he hadn’t known that at the time.

  Disgusted with the path her wayward thoughts had taken, Lauren spit out the toothpaste and rinsed her mouth. She had to get real here—remember who he was and why he’d brought her to this isolated cabin. She was a means to an end. Period.

  Somehow, that didn’t make her feel any better. Nor did the fact that she’d forgotten some absolute essentials in her hurried departure from Becky’s house last night—like a hairbrush, a blow-dryer and a curling iron, to mention just a few.

  Grimacing, she dragged a comb through wet tangles that would eventually dry to an unruly mass of red. On Becky, the natural look meant long, bouncy curls. On Lauren, natural translated to Little Orphan Annie after a close encounter with an electrical socket.

  She gave up after a couple more passes with the comb and took a slug of her now cooling coffee. The chicory-flavored brew had the consistency of axle grease, but acted like a cattle prod on her senses. By the time she finished slapping on a minimum of makeup, she felt ready for her next encounter with Marsh Henderson. It wouldn’t, she suspected, be a particularly enjoyable experience. She’d done some hard thinking after he’d backed out and left her staring at the bunk-room door last night.

  He was waiting for her when she emerged from the bathroom. Mug in hand, he sprawled at ease in one of the sturdy kitchen chairs drawn up to the scrubbed pine table. A covered cast-iron skillet sat on a horseshoe that doubled as a trivet. Beside it was a stack of toast. The coffeepot, thank goodness, occupied another horseshoe in the center of the table.

  He took in her wildly curling hair without comment, although Lauren could swear his eyes widened for a moment before he leaned forward to lift the lid from the skillet.

  “Hope you like your eggs fried.”

  She surveyed the heavily peppered whites and half-cooked yolks floating in a slowly congealing nest with something less than enthusiasm. A black-coffee-and-whole-wheat-bagel woman herself, she wasn’t into grease.

  “I’m not much of a breakfast eater. Just toast is enough for me.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  He said it so easily, as if they’d be sharing a number of morning meals. Her stomach lurching, she sank into the chair opposite his and helped herself to a single slice of toast burnt black around the edges and soggy with butter in the center.

  They ate in silence. Lauren nibbled on her toast, and Marsh cleaned his plate with the healthy appetite of a man used to his own cooking. He was halfway through his eggs when she broached the subject that had kept her awake long after he’d backed out of the bunk room.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night—about cooperating.”

  “Good.”

  He raised his mug and took a triumphant swig. Lauren sensed the anticipation that leaped through him, the sudden tensing of his body. He was waiting for her to pour out everything she knew about David Jannisek. Unfortunately, she knew nothing to pour.

  Not that Marsh would believe her. Until they settled this business of her identity, she occupied the hot seat. For that reason, Lauren had decided that the best defense was a good offense.

  “I’ve also been thinking about your threat to haul me in front of a judge.” She fiddled with a burnt crust for a moment, and then lifted her eyes to his. “I don’t know much about the law, but I do know I have certain rights. I’ve decided to plead the fifth.”

  “What?”

  “The Fifth Amendment. It’s part of our Constitution,” she pointed out with overdone politeness.

  “Thanks for the civics lesson.” His mug hit the table with a thunk. “You’ve been watching too much TV. You can’t take the fifth. You haven’t been indicted for a crime, nor are you testifying in a government proceeding.”

  “You work for the government. That’s proceeding enough for me.” Her chin tipped. “I refuse to incriminate myself or my sister.”

  “Oh, for….” He bit off what Lauren suspected was a nasty little curse and blew out a breath. “That business about the judge and hauling you off in handcuffs was nine parts bluff.”

  “Really? What about the tenth part?”

  He leaned forward, shoving his mug aside. “The offer of protective custody was for real. If the man who wants David Jannisek taken out is as anxious to find him as we are, Becky Smith could be in real danger.”

  “Yet it didn’t seem to matter much last night whether you took Becky or me into protective custody. All you wanted was something or someone to lure Jannisek out of hiding.”

  A line of red appeared across his cheekbones. She had him there, Lauren knew. He couldn’t deny his intent to use whichever sister he’d taken in tow.

  He didn’t even try. “The two goals are not mutually exclusive.”

  The flat statement set her teeth on edge. “That’s funny,” she retorted. “In my book, offering someone protection and setting them up as bait don’t fall into quite the same category.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to you. Or your sister.”

  “How do I know that? How do I know you’re not just determined to score some big coup or win a promotion by bringing down your quarry?” Disdain dripped corrosively from her voice. “What’s riding on this operation, an all-expense-paid trip to Disney World as a prize for the officer who nails this mobster?”

  Marsh almost told her then. Almost gave in to the impulse to set her straight about just how much rode on this operation. The memory of Jake’s stony grief held him back. Ellen’s loss was too painful—and Marsh’s own quest for vengeance too close to the line—to share it with a woman who might or might not be up to her pretty neck in the mess that had led to the vicious shooting.

  “It doesn’t matter why I want him,” he said quietly. “All that matters is that I’m going to get him. But I won’t put anyone in the line of fire to do it.”

  Except himself.

  “You have my word on that.”

  He expected her to throw the promise back in his face. She looked as though she wanted to. Her lower lip was between her teeth again. A frown slanted those dark brows and formed a tiny crease just above her nose.

  It was now or never, Marsh sensed. If he was going to regain her trust, convince her to abandon that ridiculous Fifth-Amendment stand and cooperate, he had to do it now. He dug into his hip pocket and extracted a set of keys.

  “I won’t hold you here against your will.” The keys jingled as he dropped them on the table. “You can leave whenever you want. Or whenever you think it’s safe for you…or your sister.”

  She stared at him for long moments before slumping back in her chair with a sig
h. “I’m staying. Until I know it’s safe for Becky to come out of hiding.”

  Marsh masked his relief by reaching for the coffeepot. He wasn’t sure what the hell he would’ve done if she’d reached for those keys.

  “Let’s talk about what you know about our…”

  The shrill ring of his cellular phone cut into the air. The coffeepot slammed down, sloshing a stream of dark liquid through its dented spout. Marsh ignored the spill, ignored too the startled gasp of the woman opposite him, and dug his phone out of his pocket.

  Had the word gotten back to Jannisek already? Was he ready to deal? His pulse hammering, Marsh flipped up the cover and hit the talk button before the third ring.

  “Henderson.”

  “Hey, partner. How’s it going?”

  Disappointment barreled through him. He fought it down, managed a nonchalant response.

  “It’s going.”

  Pepper Dennis had worked with him long enough to pick up instantly on his careful tone. “Is she there? The Smith woman?”

  Marsh’s gaze snagged on wide-spaced brown eyes flecked with tiny bits of gold. “Right here.”

  Pepper grunted an acknowledgment. “I ran the ID you gave me last night. The license checks out to Lauren Smith, but I couldn’t raise an answer at her home or office. I finally got a line on her assistant. He wasn’t exactly a fount of information at first, but I convinced him it was in his best interests to cooperate.”

  “So what did Ms. Smith’s assistant tell you?”

  The face across from his went still. He noted her sudden stiffening, felt his own muscles get tight as he waited for his partner to report her findings.

  “Only that his boss was supposed to return from D.C. last night and has been delayed,” Pepper related. “I had the guys upstairs run a data search of the airlines’ manifests. They verified Lauren Smith flew in from D.C. to Denver, and then flew out again yesterday evening for Phoenix. She arrived about an hour before you called me. Looks like you’ve got the wrong sister.”

  He’d grown more and more convinced of that in the past twelve hours. Hearing it confirmed didn’t exactly fill him with joy, however. Nor did Pepper’s next comment.

  “I’m sorry, Marsh. I know this screws up your plan. Maybe she can give you a lead on Becky-Babe’s whereabouts before you send her on her way.”

  “She’s not going anywhere.”

  “What?”

  “She’s staying here. For now, anyway.”

  The woman across the table followed his conversation intently, frowning beneath that wild tangle of red.

  “You can’t involve an innocent civilian like this,” Pepper protested. “You’d better get her on the next plane out of Flagstaff.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you? I’m beginning to wonder. You’re putting yourself out on a limb here, partner. Way out.”

  He brushed aside her concern. It was his career—and his sister-in-law who’d taken a bullet.

  “Just keep the communication lines open, Pepper. Jannisek is looking for his girlfriend. He called the Valley of the Sun Inn last night asking for her. I made sure the folks there know Becky Smith is with a special agent of the DEA. Or the woman they think is Becky Smith.”

  “Marsh…”

  “Let me know if you hear anything. Anything at all.”

  The phone flipped shut on Pepper’s grudging agreement. He slipped the instrument into his shirt pocket and regarded the woman across from him.

  “Well?”

  “Well, Lauren Smith’s license checks out, and we’ve confirmed that she was aboard a flight from Denver to Phoenix last night.”

  “And…?”

  “And you’re apparently who you say you are.”

  “And…?”

  Marsh had grilled enough suspects to make them squirm. He didn’t particularly like being on the other end of the grilling.

  “And I suggest we clean up here and take a walk.” He pushed away from the table. “I need some fresh air.”

  “Oh, no!” She intercepted him before he’d taken two steps. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

  Hands on hips, she tossed back the hair that had appeared so smooth and silky last night and now seemed to have taken on another life. “I think an apology is in order here, Mr. Special Agent.”

  “For wanting confirmation of your identity? I don’t think so.”

  “For not believing me in the first place.”

  “Accepting people at face value isn’t an option in my line of work.”

  “Maybe you should think about another line of work.”

  “Maybe I should.”

  He made to move around her. She sidestepped neatly.

  “I’m waiting.”

  He could, he supposed, wrap his hands around her waist and lift her out of the way. Or he could kiss that I-was-right-and-you-were-so-wrong expression off her mouth.

  To his profound disgust, the mere idea translated instantly into a gut-level urge to do just that. With that wild mane and tip-tilted chin, she triggered all the wrong responses in him.

  “All right. I’m sorry you went through some rough moments last night. Satisfied?”

  She pursed her lips, considering the matter. “No, but I suppose that’s the best I’ll get.”

  Marsh tore his gaze from her seductive mouth. The air in the cabin seemed to have closed in on him. A walk in the woods sounded better and better.

  “I’ll clean up here. Get your jacket and I’ll show you around.”

  “Fair is fair. You made breakfast. I’ll help with the cleanup.”

  She reached for the skillet at the same moment he did. The brush of her arm against his was slight, a mere slide of a jersey sweatshirt against denim, yet his muscles jumped like live electrical wires.

  “Just get your coat,” he growled. “You can pull cleanup duty at lunch.”

  She wheeled away without another word, leaving Marsh feeling like ten kinds of a fool. This was absurd. He’d better get himself under control, like right now.

  He should have expected his nerves to go berserk at her touch. He’d spent half the night thinking about her. Analyzing her responses to his questions. Wondering which sister she was. Visualizing her in that damned thong. He’d imprinted her on his mind, the way a cougar imprinted the scent of its prey. Naturally he’d jump like a snake-shy mountain cat when she got too close.

  Still frowning over her effect on him, he dumped the skillet in the sink and fished the phone out of his pocket again. He had put off this call as long as possible. Might as well get it over with now.

  After months of constant communication with the Phoenix detective investigating Ellen’s death, Marsh recognized the strain in Al Ramos’s voice the moment he picked up. Ramos was a good man, but overworked like everyone else on the force. Marsh was about to complicate his life considerably.

  “This is Henderson. I’ve got Becky Smith—or the woman everyone now thinks is Becky Smith.”

  “The hell you say!”

  “She showed up at her house last night.”

  “Dammit, Henderson, you should have contacted me.”

  “I’m contacting you now.”

  Ramos gave that the response it deserved. Marsh barely had time to admire his inventive use of the idiom before the detective zeroed in on his opening statement.

  “What’s this business about everyone thinking she’s Becky Smith?”

  “Our little bird’s holed up somewhere. Her sister came looking for her last night.”

  “So you snatched her?” Incredulity laced the detective’s voice. “The sister?”

  “She agreed to come with me.”

  “Sure she did.” After a few more colorful invectives, he sang a now familiar chorus. “God, Henderson, you don’t have any jurisdiction in this case.”

  “I know.”

  “You get in any deeper and even your hot-shot assistant D.A. brother won’t be able to dig you out.”

  “I’m not askin
g him to.”

  Ramos fired off a few more heated rounds before getting to the matter that concerned them both.

  “Does the woman with you know where Jannisek is?”

  “She says she doesn’t. But she does know where her sister is. She swears Becky’s not with her boyfriend.”

  “And you believe her?”

  Marsh gazed through the window over the sink at dark pines spearing a cloudless blue sky. Did he believe her?

  “At this point, I don’t have any choice.”

  “So what are you going to do now?” Ramos asked with heavy irony. “Use a rubber hose to beat her sister’s whereabouts out of her?”

  “It’s a thought. A very interesting thought. But no, I’m sticking to my original plan.”

  Swiftly, he brought Ramos up to speed on their short detour by the Valley of the Sun Inn.

  “Work your contacts, will you, Al? Make sure the word gets out that I have Becky Smith.”

  “You’re gonna get my ass fired with this crazy plan,” the detective muttered.

  “You got a better one?”

  The grudging silence at the other end of the line served as his answer. He hung up a moment later and turned to find Becky—Lauren—staring at him from the across the room.

  “Who was that?”

  “The detective in charge of investigating the attempt on Jannisek’s life.”

  “I thought you were in charge.”

  “I’m assisting,” he replied without batting an eye. “Come on, I’ll show you around. I don’t want you wandering off and getting lost. We’re a long way from nowhere.”

  Chapter 7

  Dazzling light surrounded Lauren the moment she stepped outside. Stunned by a sense of vastness and seduced by the sharp, cleansing air, she quickly amended the hazy impressions she’d gathered last night. This morning, her artist’s eye saw the cabin as less of a shack and more like a tiny gem in a perfect, jeweled setting.

  Nestled within the protection of tall pines, it faced out over a small clearing. The shack’s weathered siding gleamed the same silvery gray as the fallen logs that littered the clearing. The hand-hewn porch rails were of native timber, planed to a silky smoothness. Lauren knew little about architecture and nothing at all about log-cabin construction, but even she could see that the structure had been crafted by a master hand to blend in perfectly with its environment.