Snow Blind
Cassie Miles
“I believe you. Again, I believe you saw a man and heard an engine.”
When she turned her head, her face was only inches away from his. She wished with all her heart that she could be someone he trusted.
“You’re the only one.”
“When I saw that you weren’t in the car, I was scared.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “If anything bad had happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”
She wanted to lean a little closer and brush her lips across his. A kiss—even a quick kiss— wasn’t acceptable behavior, but she couldn’t help the yearning that was building inside her.
“Do you want me to go back to the car?”
“I want you where I can see you. Stay with me.”
Snow Blind
Cassie Miles
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Though born in Chicago and raised in L.A., USA TODAY bestselling author CASSIE MILES has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post.
After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon® Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.
To the brilliant RMFW romance critique group and, as always, to Rick.
Contents
Cover (#u17dbe244-c293-58d1-b0c9-d0c63dad3a1c)
Introduction (#u6a2faff6-7af3-591f-9446-860cb1f1a025)
Title Page (#u94f43012-dffb-5512-b7f7-3535a959475e)
About the Author (#ued746fa1-64e3-5ffd-afde-a32e5cb59cf6)
Dedication (#u34c1674f-a730-5817-9ece-01725b5d8e45)
Chapter One (#ue60be046-fc9d-5578-b6d5-fca1c8e62714)
Chapter Two (#ua57b0fb8-c3a1-5eb4-b470-eb952c95bdbf)
Chapter Three (#u2006ff68-8762-5323-9fb0-c5be6da30e8f)
Chapter Four (#u6d1aa4a4-2552-5fa4-8b87-586ed66ba180)
Chapter Five (#ueab06060-128d-57e1-8748-8e0140293ebf)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_46a3e392-01a4-5176-ad7b-ca2682b4b7a8)
If ninety-two-year-old mogul and client Virgil P. Westfield hadn’t died last night under suspicious circumstances, legal assistant Sasha Campbell would never have been entrusted with this important assignment in the up-and-coming resort town of Arcadia, Colorado. She draped her garment bag over a chair and strolled across the thick carpet in the posh, spacious, brand-new corporate condo owned by her employer, the law firm of Samuels, Sorenson and Smith, often referred to as the Three Ss, or the Three Asses, depending upon one’s perspective. Currently, she was in their good graces, especially with her boss, Damien Loughlin, Westfield’s lawyer-slash-confidant back in Denver, and she meant to keep it that way. With this assignment, she could prove herself to be professional and worthy of promotion. Someday, she wanted to get more training and become a mediator.
“Where do you want the suitcase?” Her brother Alex was a junior member of the legal team at the Three Ss and had driven her here from Denver. He hauled her luggage through the condo’s entrance.
“Just leave it by the door. I’ll figure that out later.”
Before the mysterious death of Mr. Westfield, she and Damien had been scheduled to stay at the five-bedroom condo while attending a week-long series of meetings with the four investors who had financed Arcadia Ski Resort—Colorado’s newest luxury destination for winter sports.
That plan had changed. Damien would stay in Denver, dealing with problems surrounding the Westfield estate, and Sasha was on her own at Arcadia. Nobody expected her to replace a senior partner, of course. She was a legal assistant, not a lawyer. But she’d been sitting in on the Arcadia meetings for months. They knew and trusted her. And Damien would be in constant contact via internet conferencing. Frankly, she was glad she wouldn’t have to put up with Damien’s posturing; the meetings went more smoothly when he wasn’t there.
Drawn to the view through the windows, she crossed the room, unlocked the door and stepped onto the balcony to watch the glorious sunset over the ski slopes. Though the resort wouldn’t be officially open until the gala event on Saturday, the chairlifts and gondolas were already in operation. She saw faraway skiers and snowboarders racing over moguls on their last runs of the day. Streaks of crimson, pink and gold lit the skies and reflected in the windows of the nine-story Gateway Hotel opposite the condo. In spite of the cold and the snow, she felt warmed from within.
Life was good. Her bills were paid. She liked her job. And she’d knocked off those pesky five pounds and fit into her skinny jeans with an inch to spare. Even the new highlights and lowlights in her long blond hair had turned out great. She was gradually trying to go a few shades darker. At the law office, it was bad enough to be only twenty-three years old. But being blonde on top of that? She wanted to go for a more serious look so she’d be considered for more of these serious assignments. Alex tromped onto the balcony. “I can’t believe you get to stay here for five days for free.”
“Jealous?”
“It’s not fair. You don’t even ski.”
He gestured with his hands inside his pockets, causing his black overcoat to flap like a raven’s wings. There hadn’t been time for him to change from his suit and tie before they’d left Denver. Throughout the two-and-a-half-hour drive, he’d complained about her good luck in being chosen for this assignment. Among her four older brothers and sisters, Alex was the grumpy one, the sorest of sore losers and a vicious tease.
She wouldn’t have asked him to drive her, but she’d been expecting to ride up with Damien since her car was in the shop. “This isn’t really a vacation. I have to record the meetings and take notes every morning.”
“Big whoop,” he muttered. “You should send the late Virgil P. a thank-you card for taking a header down the grand staircase in his mansion.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.” Mr. Westfield was a nice old gentleman who had bequeathed a chunk of his fortune to a cat-rescue organization. His heirs didn’t appreciate that generosity.
“Speaking of thank-you notes,” he said, “I deserve something for getting you a job with the Three Assses.”
The remarkable sunset was beginning to fade, along with her feeling that life was a great big bowl of cheerfulness. “Number one, you didn’t get me the job. You told me about the opening, but I got hired on my own merits.”
“It didn’t hurt to have me in your corner.”
Alex was a second-year associate attorney, not one of the top dogs at the firm. His opinion about hiring wouldn’t have influenced the final decision. “Number two, if you want to stay here at the condo, I’m sure it can be arranged. You could teach me to ski.”
He gave her an evil grin. “Like when we were kids and I taught you how to ride a bike.”
“I remember.” She groaned. “I zoomed downhill like a rocket and crashed into a tree.”
“You were such a klutz.”
“I was five. My feet barely reached the pedals.”
“You begged me for lessons.”
That was true. She’d been dying to learn how to ride. “You were thirteen. You should have known better.”
His dark blue eyes—the same color as hers—narrowed. “I got in so much trouble. Mom grounded me for a week.”
And Sasha still had a jagged scar on her knee. “Way to hold a grudge, Alex.”
“What makes you think you have the authority to invite me to stay here?”
“I don’t,” she said quickly, “but I’m sure Damien wouldn’t mind.”
“So now you speak for him? Exactly how close are you two?”
Not as close as everybody seemed to think. Sure, Damien Loughlin was a great-looking high-powered attorney and eligible bachelor. And, yes, he’d chosen her to work with him on Arcadia. But there was nothing between them. “I’d have to call him and ask for an okay, but I don’t see why he’d say no.”
“You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger.”
Alex made a quick pivot and stalked back into the condo. Reluctantly, she followed, hoping that he wouldn’t take her up on her invite. Spending five days with Alex would be like suffocating under an avalanche of negativity.
Muttering to himself, he prowled through the large space. On the opposite side of the sunken conversation pit was an entire wall devoted to electronics—flat-screens, computers and gaming systems.
“Cool toys,” her brother said as he checked out the goodies. “Damien is the one who usually stays here, isn’t he?”
“Makes sense,” she said with a shrug. “He’s handled most of the legal work for Arcadia.”
“He’s kept everybody else away from the project.”
“It’s his choice,” she said defensively. The four Arcadia investors were rich, powerful and—in their own way—as eccentric as Mr. Westfield had been about his cats. They insisted on one lawyer per case. Not a team. The only reason she was in the room was that somebody had to take notes and get the coffee.
“Binoculars.” Alex held up a pair of large black binoculars. “I wonder what Damien uses these for.”
“He mentioned stargazing.”
“Grow up, baby sister. His balcony is directly across from the Gateway Hotel. I’ll bet he peeks in the windows.”
“Ew. Gross.”
Carrying the binoculars, he marched across the room and opened the balcony door. “The guests at that hotel are super rich. I heard there’ll be a couple of movie stars and supermodels at the big gala on Saturday.”
“Alex, don’t.” She felt as if she was five years old, poised at the top of the steep hill on a bike that was too big, destined for a crash. By the time she was on the balcony, he was already aiming the binocular lenses. “Please, don’t.”
“Come on, this is something your darling Damien probably does every night before he goes to bed.”
“No way. And he’s not my darling Damien.”
“I’ve heard otherwise.” He continued to stare through the binoculars. “I’m actually kind of proud. Kudos, Sasha. You’re sleeping your way to the top.”
She wasn’t surprised by gossip from the office staff, but Alex was her brother. He was supposed to be on her side. “I’m not having sex with Damien.”
“Don’t play innocent with me. I’m your brother. I know better. I remember what happened with Jason Foley.”
Jason had been her first love in high school, and she’d broken up with him before they’d gone all the way. But that wasn’t the story he’d told. Jason had blabbed to the whole school that she had sex with him. He’d destroyed her reputation and had written a song about it. “How could you—?”
“Trashy Sasha.” Her brother recalled the title to the song. “No big deal. You could do a lot worse than Damien Loughlin.”
“That’s enough. You should go. Now.”
He lowered the binoculars and scowled disapprovingly at her. “Even if you weren’t having sex with him, what did you think was going to happen this week? You were going to stay here alone with him.”
“It’s a five-bedroom condo. I have my own bedroom, bathroom and a door that locks.” And she didn’t have to justify her behavior. “I want you to leave, Alex.”
“Fine.” He set the binoculars down, stuck his hands into his overcoat pockets and left the balcony.
She followed him across the condo, fighting the urge to kick him in the butt. Why did he always have to be so mean? Alex was the only person in her family who still lived in Denver, and they worked in the same office. Would it kill him to be someone she could turn to?
At the door, Alex pivoted to face her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You got that right.”
“You’re too damn naive, Sasha. You look around and see rainbows. I see the coming storm. This condo is a first-class bachelor pad, and Damien is a smooth operator. You’d better be careful, sis.”
“Goodbye, Alex.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, she flipped the dead bolt, grabbed the handle on her suitcase and wheeled it across the condo into the first bedroom she found in the hallway. Her brother was a weasel for trying to make her feel guilty when she had every reason to be happy about this assignment. The fact that Damien and the other partners trusted her enough to let her take notes at these meetings was a huge vote of confidence. She wasn’t going to be a paralegal for the rest of her career, and she’d need the support of the firm to take classes and get the training she needed to become a mediator.
She unpacked quickly. In the closet, she hung the garment bag with the dress she’d be wearing to the gala—a black gown with a deeply plunging neckline. Too plunging? Was she unconsciously flirting? Well, what was she supposed to do? Shuffle around in a burka?
Across the hall from her bedroom, she found a hot tub in a paneled room with tons of windows and leafy green plants. Damien had mentioned the hot tub, and the idea of a long, soothing soak was one of the reasons she’d agreed to this trip. She’d even brought her bathing suit. Following posted instructions, she turned on the heat for the water.
On her way to the kitchen, she paused in the dining area by the back windows. On a bookshelf, under a signed serigraph of a skier by LeRoy Neiman, was a remote control. She punched the top button and smooth, sultry jazz came on. Another remote button dimmed the lights. Another turned on the electric fireplace in the conversation pit. Though she didn’t want to think of this condo as a bachelor pad, the lighting and sexy music set a classic mood for seduction.
In the kitchen, she checked out the fridge. The lower shelf held four bottles of pricey champagne. Not a good sign. It was beginning to look as if Alex the grump had been right, and Damien had more than business on his mind.
She should have seen it coming. This was Jason Foley all over again, strumming his twelve-string and singing about Trashy Sasha. If she wanted to squash rumors before they started, she’d get a room at the hotel. As if she could afford to stay there. And why should she run off with her tail between her legs? She hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of.
Her fingers wrapped around the neck of a champagne bottle. She was here and might as well enjoy it. She popped the cork and poured the bubbly liquid into a handy crystal flute that Damien had probably used a million times to seduce hapless ladies. And why not? He was single, and they were consenting adults.
“Here’s to you.” She raised her glass in toast to her absent boss and took a sip. “This is one consenting adult you’re not going to bed with.”
Taking the champagne with her, she changed into her bathing suit and went to the hot tub, where she soaked and drank. All she had to do was just say no. If people wanted to think the worst, that was their problem.
The windows above the hot tub looked out on a pristine night sky. As she gazed at the moon and stars, her vision blurred. Was she getting drunk? Oh, good. Real professional. Clearly, three glasses of champagne were enough.
Leaving the tub, she slipped into a white terry-cloth bathrobe that had been hanging on a peg. Though she wasn’t really hungry, she ought to eat. But first she needed to retrieve the binoculars Alex had left on the balcony.
After a detour to the bedroom, where she stuck her feet into her cozy faux-fur boots, she crossed the room and opened the balcony door. The bracing cold smacked her in the face, but she was still warm from the hot tub and the champagne. She picked up the binoculars. Even if Damien was a womanizer, it was ridiculous to think that he might be a Peeping Tom. He probably couldn’t see into the hotel at all.
Holding the binoculars to her eyes, she adjusted the knobs and focused on the nine-story building that was a couple of hundred yards away. Only half the windows were lit. The hotel guests might be out for a late dinner. Or maybe the rooms were vacant. The resort wouldn’t officially be open until after the Saturday-night gala.
Her sight line into one of the floor-to-ceiling windows was incredibly clear. She saw a couple of beautiful people sitting at a table, eating and drinking. The woman had long black hair and was wearing a white jumpsuit, an elaborate gold necklace draped across her cleavage. She was stunning. The man appeared to be an average guy with dark hair and a black turtleneck. Sasha’s view of him was obscured by a ficus tree.
Spying on them ranked high on the creepiness scale, but the peek into someone else’s life was kind of fascinating. Sasha noticed they weren’t talking much, and she wondered if they’d been together for a long time and were so comfortable with each other that words were unnecessary. Someday she hoped to have a sophisticated relationship like that. Or maybe not. Silence was boring.
Despite telling herself to stop spying, she switched to a different window on another floor, where two men were watching television. In another room, a woman was doing yoga, moving into Downward-Facing Dog pose. Apparently, the floor-to-ceiling windows were in only the front room, which was fine with Sasha. She had no intention of peering into bedrooms.
A shiver went through her. It was cold. She should go back inside. But she wanted one last peek at the dark-haired woman and her male companion. They were standing on opposite sides of the small table. The woman threw her hands in the air. Even at this distance, Sasha could tell she was angry.
Her companion turned his back on her as if to walk away. The woman chased after him and shoved his shoulder. When he turned, Sasha caught a clear glimpse of his face. It lasted only a second but she could see his fury as he grabbed the woman’s wrist.
Sasha couldn’t see exactly what happened, but when the woman staggered backward, the front of her white jumpsuit was red with blood. Before she fell to the floor, he picked her up in his arms and carried her out of Sasha’s sight.
She’d witnessed an assault, possibly a murder. That woman needed her help. She dashed into the condo and called 911.
The phone rang only four times but it seemed like an eternity. When Sasha glanced over her shoulder to the balcony, she noticed the lights had gone out in the would-be murder room. Had she been looking at the fifth floor or the sixth?
When the dispatcher finally picked up, Sasha babbled, “I saw a woman get attacked. She’s bleeding.”
“What is your location?”
Sasha rattled off the address and added, “The woman, the victim, isn’t here. She’s at the Gateway Hotel.”
“Room number?”
“I don’t know.” There was no way to explain without mentioning the binoculars. “It’s complicated. This woman, she has on a white jumpsuit. You’ve got to send an ambulance.”
“To what location?”
“The hotel.”
“What room number?”
“I already told you. I don’t know.”
“Ma’am, have you been drinking?”
The emergency operator didn’t believe her, and Sasha didn’t blame her. But she couldn’t ignore what she’d witnessed. If she had to knock on every door to every room in that hotel, she’d find that woman.
Chapter Two (#ulink_0bb342b9-e30a-5f39-91db-e684515826e0)
Responding to a 911 call, Deputy Brady Ellis drove fast through the Apollo condo complex. His blue-and-red lights flashed against the snow-covered three-story buildings, and his siren blared. From what the dispatcher had told him, the caller had allegedly witnessed an assault at the Gateway Hotel, which seemed unlikely because the hotel was a distance away from the condos. The dispatcher had also mentioned that the caller sounded intoxicated. This 911 call might be somebody’s idea of a joke. It didn’t matter. Until he knew otherwise, Brady would treat the situation as a bona fide emergency.
He parked his SUV with the Summit County Sheriff logo emblazoned on the door in the parking lot and jogged up the shoveled sidewalk to the entryway. Five years ago, when he first started working for the sheriff’s department, this land had been nothing but trees and rocks that belonged to his uncle Dooley. These acres hadn’t been much use to Dooley; they were across the road from his primary cattle ranch and too close to the small town of Arcadia for grazing. When Dooley had gotten a chance to sell for a big profit, he’d jumped on it.
Some folks in the area hated the fancy ski resort that had mushroomed across the valley, but Brady wasn’t one of them. Without the new development, Arcadia would have turned into a ghost town populated by coyotes and chipmunks. The influx of tourists brought much-needed business and cash flow.
The downside was the 250 percent increase in the crime rate, which was no big surprise. Crime was what happened when people moved in. Coyotes and chipmunks were less inclined to break the law.
Outside the condo entryway was a buzzer. He pressed the button for Samuels, Sorenson and Smith, which was on the third floor. When a woman answered, he identified himself. “Deputy Brady Ellis, sheriff’s department.”
“You got here fast,” she said. “I’ll buzz you in.”
When the door hummed, he pushed it open. Instead of taking the elevator, Brady climbed the wide staircase. On the third floor, a short blonde woman stood waiting in the open doorway. She wore black furry boots, a white terry-cloth bathrobe cinched tight around her waist and not much else. She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the condo. “We’ve got to hurry.”
He closed the door and scanned the interior, noticing the half-empty bottle of champagne. “Is anyone here with you?”
“I’m alone.” Her blue eyes were too bright, and her cheeks were flushed. Brady concurred with the dispatcher’s opinion that this woman had been drinking. “What’s your name?”
“Sasha Campbell.” She hadn’t released her hold on his arm and was dragging him toward the windows—attempting to drag him was more accurate. He was six feet four inches tall and solidly built. This little lady wasn’t physically capable of shoving him from place to place.
“Ms. Campbell,” he said in a deep voice to compel her attention. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay, sure.” She dropped his arm and stared up at him. “We need to move fast. This is literally a matter of life and death.”
Though he wasn’t sure if she was drunk or crazy, he recognized her determination and her fear. Those feelings were real. “Is this your condo?”
“I wish.” Her robe gaped and he caught a glimpse of an orange bikini top inside. “I work for a law firm, and the condo belongs to them. I’m staying here while I attend meetings.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Wrong again. I’m a legal assistant right now, but I’m going to school to learn how to become a mediator and...” She stamped her furry boot. “Sorry, when I get nervous I talk too much. And there isn’t time. Oh, God, there isn’t time.”
He responded to her sense of urgency. “Tell me what happened.”
“It’s easier if I show you. Come out here.” She led him onto the balcony and slapped a pair of binoculars into his hand. “I was looking through those at the hotel, and I witnessed an attack. There was a lot of blood. Now do you understand? This woman might be bleeding to death while we stand here.”
He held the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focus. The view into the hotel rooms was crystal clear. As unlikely as her story sounded, it was possible.
“Exactly what did you see?”
“Let’s go back inside. It’s freezing out here.” She bustled into the condo, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “Okay, there was a black-haired woman in a white jumpsuit sitting at a table opposite a guy I couldn’t see as well, because there was a plant in the way. I think he was wearing a turtleneck. And I think he had brown hair. That’s right, brown hair. She had a gold necklace. They were eating. Then I looked away. Then I looked back.”
As she spoke, her head whipped to the right and then to the left, mimicking her words. Her long blond hair flipped back and forth. “Go on,” he said.
“The woman was standing, gesturing. She seemed angry. The guy came at her. I could only see his back. When the woman stepped away, there was blood on the front of her white jumpsuit. A lot of blood.” Sasha paused. Her lower lip quivered. “The man caught her before she fell, and that was when I got a clear look at his face.”
“Would you recognize him again?”
“I think so.”
The details in her account made him think that she actually had seen something. The explanation might turn out to be more innocent than she suspected, but further investigation was necessary. “Do you know which room it was?”
She shook her head. “They turned out the lights. I’m not even sure it was the fifth floor or the sixth. Not the corner room but one or two down from it.”
“I want you to remember everything you told me. Later I’ll need for you to write out your statement. But right now I want you to come with me to the hotel.”
For the first time since he’d come into the condo, she grinned. Her whole face lit up, and he felt a wave of pure sunshine washing toward him. He stared at her soft pink mouth as she spoke. “You believe me.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Immediately, he reined in his attraction toward her. She was a witness, nothing more.
“I don’t know. It just seems... I don’t know.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Get dressed.”
She turned on her heel and dashed across the condo to the hallway. He heard the sound of a door closing. As he moved toward the exit, he checked out the high-end furnishings and electronics. Bubbly little Sasha seemed too lively, energetic and youthful to be comfortable with these polished surroundings. She lacked the sophistication that he associated with high-priced attorneys.
It bothered him that she’d expected he wouldn’t believe her statement. Even though she’d related her account of the assault with clear details, she seemed unsure of herself. That hesitant attitude didn’t work for him. He was about to go to the hotel and ask questions that would inconvenience the staff and guests. Brady needed for Sasha to be a credible witness.
When she bounded down the hallway in red jeans and a black parka with fake fur around the collar, she looked presentable, especially since she’d ditched the fuzzy boots for a sensible pair of hiking shoes. Then she put on a white knit cap with a goofy pom-pom on top and gave him one of those huge smiles. Damn, she was cute with her rosy cheeks and button nose. As he looked at her, something inside him melted.
If they’d been going on a sleigh ride or a hike, he would have been happy to have her as his companion. But Sasha wasn’t his first choice as a witness. At the hotel, he’d try to avoid mentioning that she’d been peeping at the hotel through binoculars.
* * *
SASHA CLIMBED INTO the passenger side of the SUV and fastened her seat belt. A combination of excitement and dread churned through her veins. She was scared about what she’d seen and fearful about what might have happened to the woman in white. At the same time, she was glad to be able to help. Because of the circumstance—a strange, unlikely moment when she’d peeked through those binoculars at precisely the right time—she might save that woman’s life.
She glanced toward Deputy Brady. “Is this what it feels like to be a cop?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“My pulse is racing. That’s the adrenaline, right? And I’m tingling all over.”
“Could be the champagne,” he said drily.
She’d all but forgotten the three glasses of champagne she’d had in the hot tub. “I’ve been drunk before, and it doesn’t feel anything like this.”
When Brady turned on the flashing lights and the wailing siren, her excitement ratcheted up higher. This was serious business, police business. They were about to make a difference in someone’s life, pursuing a would-be killer, rescuing a victim.
Her emotions popped like fireworks in contrast to Brady’s absolute calm. He was a big man—solid and capable. His jawline and cleft chin seemed to be set in granite in spite of a dimple at the left corner of his mouth. His hazel eyes were steady and cool. In spite of the sheriff’s department logo on the sleeve of his dark blue jacket and the gun holster on his belt next to his badge, he didn’t look much like a cop. He wore dark brown boots and jeans and a black cowboy hat. The hat made her think he might be a local.
She raised her voice so he could hear her over the siren. “Have you lived in Arcadia long?”
“Born and raised,” he said. “My uncle Dooley owned the land where your condo, the hotel and the ski lodge are built.”
“You’re related to Matthew Dooley?”
“I am.”
That wily old rancher was one of the four investors in the Arcadia development. Dooley was big and rangy, much like Brady, and he always wore a cowboy hat and bolo tie. During most of the meetings in the conference room at the Three Ss, he appeared to be sleeping but managed to come alive when there was an issue that concerned him.
“I like your uncle,” she said. “He’s a character.”
“He plays by his own rules.”
And he could afford to. Even before the investment in his land Dooley was a multimillionaire from all the mountain property he had owned and sold over the years. Brady’s relationship to him explained the cowboy hat and the boots. But why was he working as a deputy? “Your family is rich.”
“I’m not keeping score.”
“Easy to say when you’re on the winning team.” Her family hadn’t been poor, but with five kids they’d struggled to get by. If it hadn’t been for scholarships and student loans, she never would have finished college. Paying for her continuing education was going to be a strain. “What made you decide to be a deputy?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
She sensed his resistance and wondered if he had a deep reason for choosing a career in law enforcement. “You can tell me.”
He gave her a sidelong look, assessing her. Then he turned his gaze back toward the road. They were approaching the hotel. “When we go inside, let me do the talking.”
“I might be able to help,” she said. “I’m a pretty good negotiator.”
“This is a police matter. I’m in charge. Do you understand?”
“Okay.”
Though she was capable of standing up for herself, she didn’t mind letting him do the talking. Not only was he a local who probably knew half the people who worked here, but Brady had the authority of the badge.
After they left the SUV in the valet parking area outside the entrance, she dutifully followed him into the front lobby. In the course of resort negotiations, she’d seen dozens of photographs of the interior of the Gateway Hotel. The reality was spectacular. The front windows climbed three stories high in the lobby-slash-atrium, showcasing several chandeliers decorated with small crystal snowflakes. A water feature near the check-in desk rippled over a tiered black marble waterfall. The decor and artwork were sleek and modern, except for a life-size marble statue of a toga-clad woman aiming a bow and arrow. Sasha guessed she was supposed to be Artemis, goddess of the hunt.
Occasional Grecian touches paid homage to the name Arcadia, which was an area in Greece ruled in ancient times by Pan the forest god. Sasha was glad the investors hadn’t gone overboard with the gods-and-goddesses theme in the decorating. She stood behind Brady as he talked to a uniformed man behind the check-in counter. They were quickly shown into a back room to meet with the hotel manager, Mark Chandler.
He came out from behind his desk to shake hands with both of them. His gaze fixed on her face. “Why does your name sound familiar?”
“I’m a legal assistant working with Damien Loughlin. I’ll be attending the investors’ meetings this week.”
“Of course.” His professional smile gave the impression of warmth and concern. “I’ve worked with Damien. His help was invaluable when we were setting up our wine lists.”
“Mr. Chandler,” Brady said, “I’d like to talk with your hotel security.”
“Sorry, the man in charge has gone home for the day. We’re still in the process of hiring our full security team.”
“His name?”
“Grant Jacobson. He’s from one of our sister hotels, and he comes highly recommended.”
“Call him,” Brady said. “In the meantime, I need access to all video surveillance as well as to several of the guest rooms on the fifth and sixth floors. There’s reason to believe a violent assault was committed in one of these rooms.”
“First problem,” Chandler said, “most of our video surveillance isn’t operational.”
“We’ll make do with what have.”
“And I’d be happy to show you the vacant rooms,” he said. “But I can’t allow our guests to be disturbed.”
“This is a police investigation.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t—”
“Suit yourself.” When Brady drew himself up to his full height, he made an impressive figure of authority. “If you refuse to help, I’ll knock on the doors myself and announce that I’m from the sheriff’s department.”
Chandler’s smile crumpled. “That would be disruptive.”
Brady pivoted and went toward the office door. “We’re wasting time.”
She followed him to the elevator. His long-legged stride forced her to jog to keep up. Chandler came behind her.
On the fifth floor, Brady turned to her. “It wasn’t the corner room, right?”
She nodded. “Not the corner.”
He went to the next door. His hand rested on the butt of his gun.
Hurriedly, Chandler stepped in front of him and used the master card to unlock the door. “This room is vacant. Can you at least tell me what we’re looking for?”
Without responding, Brady entered the room and switched on the light. The decor was an attractive mix of rust and sky-blue, but the layout of the furniture wasn’t what Sasha had seen through the binoculars. “It wasn’t this room,” she said. “There was a small table near the window. And a ficus tree.”
“You’re describing one of our suites,” Chandler said. “Those units have more living space and two separate bedrooms.”
“I don’t see signs of a disturbance,” Brady said. “Let’s move on.”
“The room next door is a suite,” Chandler said. “It’s occupied, and I would appreciate your discretion.”
“Sure thing.”
Brady’s eyes were cold and hard. It was obvious that he’d do whatever necessary to find what he was looking for, and she liked his determination.
The door to the next room was opened by a teenage girl with pink-and-purple-striped leggings. The rest of the family lounged in front of the TV. Though this didn’t appear to be the place, Brady verified with the family that they’d been here for the past two hours.
“No one is booked in the next suite,” Chandler said.
“Could someone unauthorized have used it?” Brady asked.
“I suppose so.”
“Open up.”
Though the layout was similar to the one she’d seen, Sasha noticed that instead of a ficus there was a small Norfolk pine. Brady made a full search anyway, going from room to room. In the kitchenette, he looked for dishes that had been used. And he paid special attention to the bedrooms, checking to see if the beds were mussed and looking under the duvet at the sheets.
“Why are the beds important?” she asked.
“If he carried a body from the room, he might need to wrap it in something, like a sheet.”
A shudder went through her. She didn’t want to think of that attractive, vivacious woman as a dead body, much less as a dead body that needed to be disposed of. The excitement of acting like a cop took on a sinister edge.
On the sixth floor, they continued their search. As soon as she entered room 621, Sasha knew she was in the right place. There was a table by the window, and she recognized the leafy green ficus that had obscured her view of the man in the turtleneck. The room was empty.
“As you can plainly see,” Chandler said, “there are no plates on the table. According to my records, this room is vacant until Friday night.”
Brady’s in-depth search came up empty. No dishes were missing, the beds appeared untouched, and there wasn’t a smear of blood on the sand-colored carpet. But she was certain this had been the view she’d seen. “This is the right room. I know what I saw.”
“What were they eating?” Brady asked.
She frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Think, Sasha.”
She closed her eyes and concentrated. In her mind’s eye, she saw the dark-haired woman gazing across the table as she set down her glass on the table. She poked at her food and lifted her chopsticks. “Chinese,” she said. “They were eating Chinese food.”
“I believe you,” Brady said. “I can smell it.”
She inhaled a deep breath. He was right. The aroma of stir-fried veggies and ginger lingered in the air.
“That’s ridiculous,” Chandler said. “None of our hotel restaurants serve Chinese food. And I don’t smell anything.”
“It’s faint,” Brady agreed.
“Even if someone was in this room,” the hotel manager said, “they’re gone now. And I see no evidence of wrongdoing. I appreciate your thoroughness, Deputy. But enough is enough.”
“I’m just getting started,” Brady said. “I need to talk to your staff, starting with the front desk.”
Though Chandler sputtered and made excuses, he followed Brady’s instructions. In the lobby, he gathered the three front-desk employees, four bellmen and three valets. Several of them gave Brady a friendly nod as though they knew him. He introduced her.
“Ms. Campbell is going to give you a description. I need to know if this woman is staying here.”
Sasha cleared her throat and concentrated, choosing her words carefully. “She’s attractive, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. Her hair is black and long, past her shoulders. When I saw her, she was wearing a white jumpsuit and a gold bib necklace, very fancy. It looked like flower petals.”
One of the bellmen raised his hand. “I carried her suitcases. She’s on the concierge level, room 917.”
“Wait a minute,” said a valet. “I’ve seen a couple of women with long black hair.”
“But you don’t know their room numbers,” the bellman said.
“Maybe not, but one of them drives a silver Porsche.”
“Get me the license plate number for the Porsche.” Brady nodded to the rest of the group. “If any of you remember anything about this woman, let me know.”
The employees returned to their positions, leaving them with Chandler. His eyebrows furrowed. “I suppose you’ll want to visit room 917.”
“You guessed it,” Brady said.
“I strongly advise against it. That suite is occupied by Lloyd Reinhardt.”
The name hit Sasha with an ominous thud. Reinhardt was the most influential of the investors in the Arcadia development. He was the contractor who supervised the building of the hotel and several of the surrounding condos. Knocking on his door and accusing him of murder wasn’t going to win her any Brownie points.
Chapter Three (#ulink_b4514370-2566-524a-a875-23d18e6f9aae)
Frustrated by the lack of evidence, Brady wished he had other officers he could deploy to search, but he knew that calling for backup would be an exercise in futility. For one thing, the sheriff’s department was understaffed, with barely enough deputies to cover the basics. For another, the sheriff himself was a practical man who wouldn’t be inclined to launch a widespread manhunt based on nothing more than Sasha’s allegations. Brady hadn’t even called in to report the possible crime. Until he had something solid, he was better off on his own.
But there was no way he could search this whole complex. The hotel was huge—practically a city unto itself. There were restaurants and coffee shops, a ballroom, boutiques, a swimming pool and meeting areas for conferences, not to mention the stairwells, the laundry and the kitchens—a lot of places to hide a body.
Sasha tugged on his arm. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”
He guided her away from Chandler. “Give us a minute.”
In a low voice, she said, “There’s really no point in going to the ninth floor. The man I saw wasn’t Mr. Reinhardt. He was taller and his hair was darker.”
“How do you know Reinhardt?”
“From the same meetings where I met your uncle.” She shook her head, and her blond hair bounced across her forehead. “There are four investors in Arcadia—Uncle Dooley, Mr. Reinhardt, Katie Cook the ice skater and Sam Moreno, the self-help expert.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Mr. Reinhardt isn’t what you’d call a patient man. He’s going to hate having us knocking on his door.”
Brady didn’t much care what Reinhardt thought. “What are you saying?”
“It might be smart for me to step aside. I don’t want to get fired.”
He tamped down a surge of disappointment at the thought of her backing out. During the very brief time he’d known Sasha, he’d come to admire her gutsiness. Many people who witnessed a crime turned away; they didn’t want to get involved. “Have you changed your mind about what you saw?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“Then I want you to come to room 917, meet this woman and make sure she isn’t the person you saw being attacked.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I think you know the answer.”
“Without my eyewitness account, the investigation is over.”
“That’s right.” He had no blood, no murder weapon and no body. His only evidence that a crime had been committed was the lingering aroma of Chinese food in an otherwise spotless room.
“A few hours ago,” she said, “everything in my life seemed perfect and happy. That’s all I really want. To be happy. Is that asking too much?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She understood what was at stake. As she considered the options, her eyes took on a depth that seemed incongruous with a face that was designed for smiling and laughter.
“It’s your decision,” he said.
“I’ve always believed that life isn’t random. I don’t know why, but there was some reason why I was looking into that room at that particular moment.” She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I have to see this through. I’ll come with you.”
She was tougher than she looked. Behind the fluffy hair and the big blue eyes that could melt a man’s heart was a core of strength. He liked what he saw inside her. After this was over, he wanted to get to know her better and find out what made her tick. Not the most professional behavior but he hadn’t been so drawn to a woman in a long time.
Chandler rushed toward them. Accompanying him was a solidly built man with a military haircut. He wore heavy boots, a sweater and a brown leather bomber jacket. Though he had a pronounced limp, his approach lacked the nervousness that fluttered around the hotel manager like a rabble of hyperactive butterflies.
“I’m Grant Jacobson.” The head of Gateway security held out his hand. “Chandler says there was some kind of assault here.”
When Brady shook Jacobson’s hand, he felt strength and steadiness. No tremors from this guy. He was cool. His steel-gray eyes reflected the confidence of a trained professional with a take-charge attitude. Brady did not want to butt heads with Grant Jacobson.
“Glad to meet you,” Brady said. “I have some questions.”
“Shoot.”
“What can you tell me about your surveillance system?”
“It’s going to be state-of-the-art. Unfortunately, the only area that’s currently operational is the front entrance.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “By Friday everything will be up and running with cameras in the hallways, the meeting rooms and every exit.”
If the hotel security had been in place, they’d have had a visual record of anyone who might have entered or exited room 621. “Was there a security guard on duty tonight?”
“There should be two.” Jacobson swiveled his head to glare at the hotel manager. “When law enforcement arrived on the scene, those men should have been notified.”
Chandler exhaled a ragged sigh. “I contacted you instead.”
“Apparently, we have some glitches in our communications.” Jacobson looked toward Sasha. “And you are?”
“A witness,” she said. “Sasha Campbell.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sasha.” When he returned her friendly grin, it was clear that he liked what he saw. “And what did you witness?”
Wanting to stay in control of the conversation, Brady stepped in. “We have reason to believe that a woman was attacked in her room. Right now we’re on our way to see someone fitting her description.”
“Where?”
“Room 917.”
“Reinhardt’s suite,” Jacobson said. “I’ll come with you.”
With a terse nod, Brady agreed. He could feel the reins slipping from his grasp as Grant Jacobson asserted his authority. The head of security was accustomed to giving orders, probably got his security training in the military, where he had climbed the ranks. But this was the real world, and Brady was the one wearing the badge.
Jacobson dismissed the hotel manager, who was all too happy to step aside as they boarded the elevator. The doors closed, and Jacobson asked, “Where did the assault take place?”
“One of the suites on the sixth floor,” Brady said.
“I assume you’ve already been to that suite.”
“We have, and we didn’t find anything.”
“What about the Chinese?” Sasha piped up.
He shot her a look that he hoped would say Please don’t try to help me.
“Chinese?” Jacobson raised an eyebrow.
Brady jumped in with another question. “What can you tell me about the key-card system?”
“Why do you ask?”
“No one was registered to stay in that room.”
“And you’re wondering how they could get access,” Jacobson said. “The hotel has only been open a week on a limited basis, which means the new employees are being trained on all the systems. In the confusion, someone could have run an extra key card for a room.”
“You’re suggesting that one of the employees was in that suite.”
“It’s possible.” Jacobson shifted his weight, subtly moving closer to Sasha. He looked down at her. “Are you staying at the hotel?”
“I’m in a corporate condo,” she said. “I work for the Denver law firm that’s handling the Arcadia ski-resort business.”
“Interesting.” His thin lips pursed. “How did you happen to witness something on the sixth floor?”
Before Brady could stop her, Sasha blurted, “Binoculars.”
“Even more interesting.” He hit a button on the elevator control panel, and they stopped their upward ascent. The three of them were suspended in a square box of chrome and polished mirrors. They were trapped.
Jacobson growled, “Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Police business,” Brady asserted. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
For a long five seconds, they stood and stared at each other. Their showdown could have gone on for much longer, but Brady wasn’t all that interested in proving he was top dog. He had a job to do. And his number-one concern was finding a victim who might be bleeding to death. Though his instinct was to play his cards close to the vest, he needed help. He’d be a fool not to take advantage of Jacobson’s experience in hotel security.
“Here’s what happened,” Brady said. “Ms. Campbell happened to be looking into the suite. She saw a man and woman having dinner—”
“With chopsticks,” Sasha said.
Brady continued, “There was an argument. Ms. Campbell didn’t see the actual attack, but there was blood on the woman’s chest. She collapsed. The man caught her before she hit the floor.”
“A possible murder,” Jacobson said. When he straightened his posture, he favored his left leg. “How can I help, Deputy?”
Ever since they got to the hotel, Brady had been moving fast and not paying a lot of attention to standard procedures. At the very least, he should have taped off the room as a crime scene. There was enough to think about without Sasha distracting him. “You mentioned that you had two men on site. I’d appreciate if you could post one of them outside room 621 until we have a chance to process the scene for fingerprints and other forensic evidence.”
“Consider it done.” Jacobson pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his leather jacket and punched in a number. While it was ringing, he asked, “What else?”
“I want to check the surveillance tapes from the front entrance,” Brady said.
“No problem.” Jacobson held up his hand as he spoke into the phone and issued an order to one of his security men. As soon as he disconnected the call, he turned to Brady again. “Anything else?”
“Where’s the closest place to get Chinese food?”
“Don’t know, but that’s a good question for the concierge on the ninth floor.” He pushed a button on the elevator panel, and they started moving again. “Now I have a request for you. I’d like to do most of the talking with Reinhardt.”
“Why’s that?”
Jacobson’s brow furrowed. “Because this is his fault.”
* * *
WHEN THE ELEVATOR doors opened, an attractive woman with her white-blond hair slicked back in a tight bun stood waiting. Sasha’s friendly smile was met with a flaring of the nostrils that suggested the woman had just poked her nose into a carton of sour milk.
“This is Anita,” Jacobson said as he guided them off the elevator. “A top-notch concierge. She’s been in Arcadia for less than a week, and I’ll bet she knows more about the area than you do, Deputy.”
His compliment caused Anita to thaw, but only slightly. Her voice dripped with disdain. “Mr. Chandler said you want to see Mr. Reinhardt, but I’m afraid that will not be possible. Mr. Reinhardt asked not to be disturbed.”
“You’re the best,” Jacobson said, “always protecting the guest, always operating with discretion. But this is a police matter.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid not,” Jacobson said.
Brady showed his badge. “We’ll see him now.”
Anita stared at one man and then the other as though she was actually considering further resistance. Changing her mind, she pivoted, led the way to the door of room 917 and tapped. “Mr. Reinhardt, there’s someone to see you.”
She tapped again, and the door flung open.
Sasha found herself staring directly at a red-faced Lloyd Reinhardt. She assumed his cherry complexion was the result of sunburn from skiing without enough sunscreen. The circles around his eyes where his goggles had been were white, like his buzz-cut hair. The effect would have been comical if his dark eyes hadn’t been so angry. His face resembled a devil mask, and he was glaring directly at her.
Through his clenched jaw, Reinhardt rasped, “What?”
Sasha gasped. She had no ready response.
Jacobson stepped in front of her. “We had a conversation last week, and I warned you that the hotel shouldn’t open for business until I had all security measures in place.”
“I remember. You wanted a ridiculous amount of money to keep the computer and electronics guys working around the clock on the surveillance cameras.”
“And you turned me down,” Jacobson said. “Now we have a serious situation.”
“I hope you aren’t interrupting my evening to talk business,” he said. “How serious?”
“Murder,” Jacobson said.
Reinhardt narrowed his eyes to slits. With his right hand resting on the edge of the door and his left holding the opposite door frame, his body formed a barrier across the entrance to his room. The white snowflake pattern on his black sweater stood out like a barbed-wire fence. “I want an explanation.”
“May we come in?” Jacobson asked.
Reinhardt glanced over his shoulder. It seemed to Sasha that he was hiding something—or someone—inside the room. He wasn’t having an affair, because—as far as she knew—he wasn’t married. But what if the dark-haired lady was somebody else’s wife? Or what if she was the victim, lying on the carpet bleeding to death? Sasha cringed inside. Nothing good could come of this.
Reinhardt stepped aside, and they entered. The luxury suite on the concierge level had more square footage than her apartment in Denver. The sofas and chairs were upholstered in blue silk and beige suede. There was a marble-top dining table with seating for eight. In the kitchen area, a tall woman with long black hair stepped out from behind the counter. She wore white slacks and a white cashmere sweater that contrasted with her healthy tan.
Though she wasn’t the woman Sasha had seen through the binoculars, this lady could have been a more athletic sister to the other. After she introduced herself as Andrea Tate, Sasha glanced at Brady and whispered, “It’s not her.”
The conversation between Reinhardt and Jacobson grew more heated by the moment. Jacobson had advised against opening until all the security measures were in place and his staff was adequately trained. He blamed Reinhardt for everything. For his part, Reinhardt was furious that someone dared to be murdered in his hotel.
Reinhardt turned away from Jacobson and focused on her. “I need to speak with Damien as soon as possible. There are liability problems to consider.”
“Yes, sir.” She hadn’t even considered the legal issues.
“Who was killed?”
Sasha froze. Her lips parted but nothing came out. She couldn’t exactly say that a murder had been committed. Nor did she have a name. And she was reluctant to point to the sleek black-haired woman and say the victim looked a lot like her.
Brady spoke for her. “I can’t give you a name.”
Reinhardt whipped around to face him. “My publicity people need to get on top of this situation right away. The grand opening is Saturday. Who the hell got killed?”
“We don’t know,” Brady said, “because we haven’t found the body.”
Though it didn’t seem possible, Reinhardt’s face turned a deeper shade of red. He punched the air with a fist. “A murder without a body? That’s no murder at all. What kind of sick game are you people playing?”
Panic coiled around Sasha’s throat like a hangman’s noose. She wanted to speak up and defend herself, but how? What could she say?
Jacobson sat in one of the tastefully upholstered chairs and took an orange from the welcome basket. He gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat, Reinhardt. I’ll explain everything.”
While Reinhardt circled the glass coffee table and lowered himself onto the sofa, Brady took her arm. “We’ll be going.”
“Wait for me outside,” Jacobson said.
They made a hasty retreat. As soon as the door to Reinhardt’s suite closed behind her, Sasha inhaled a huge gulp of air. It felt as if she’d been holding her breath the whole time she’d been in the suite. She shook her head and groaned.
“You look pale,” Brady said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m in so much trouble.”
“You did the right thing,” he reassured her.
That wasn’t much consolation if she ended up getting fired. Reinhardt had said that she needed to contact Damien, and she knew that was true. But she wanted to be able to tell him something positive. “Is there anything else we can do?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
He crossed the lounge to the concierge desk where Anita sat with her arms folded below her breasts and a smug expression on her face. “I warned you,” she said. “Mr. Reinhardt doesn’t like to be interrupted.”
“Jacobson said you know this area better than anyone.”
“It’s my job,” she said coolly.
“If I wanted Chinese food, where would I go?”
“There’s a sushi bar scheduled to open next month. Right now none of the hotel restaurants serve Asian cuisine. And I’m sure you know that the local diners specialize in burgers, pizza and all things fried.”
Sasha walked up beside him. Her legs were wobbly, but she’d recovered enough to understand what was going on. Anita was acting like a brat as payback for them not listening to her earlier. The concierge would be in no mood to help. The best way to get through to her was to be even snottier than she was.
“She doesn’t know,” Sasha said, not looking at Anita. “She’s not as good at her job as she thinks she is.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Well, it’s true.” Sasha flipped her hair like a mean girl. “If one of the people up here on the concierge level requested moo shu pork, you’d just have to tell them to suck an egg.”
“For your information, missy, I’ve been providing gluten-free Asian food fried in coconut oil for a guest and his entourage since last Saturday. One of the chefs in the Golden Lyre Restaurant on the first floor of the hotel cooks up a special batch. I had it tonight myself.”
“Who’s the guest?” Brady asked.
“Sam Moreno, the famous self-help guru. He has a special diet.”
Sasha should have guessed. One of the main investors of the Arcadia resort, Mr. Moreno was always requesting special foods and drinks. “He’s picky, all right.”
Anita leaned across the desk and whispered, “And he’s staying right down the hall.”
Of course he was. Sasha groaned. She just couldn’t catch a break.
Chapter Four (#ulink_dc3a92e0-05d4-5f41-8374-e0548e4f95c0)
Three hours later Brady drove Sasha back to the corporate condo. His shift was over, and there didn’t seem to be anything more he could do at the hotel. He’d tracked the evidence to a dead end, leaving the matter of the assault-slash-murder unsolved and the hotel staff irritated.
The logical thing would have been for him to drive home to his cabin behind the horse barn on Dooley’s ranch, yank off his boots and go to bed. But he was reluctant to leave Sasha. Halfway through his investigation, it had occurred to him that she might be in danger. If she had, in fact, witnessed a murder, the killer might come after her next.
When he parked his SUV in front of her building, she turned to him with the grin that came so naturally to her. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Hold on, I’ll walk you in.”
“That’s not necessary.”
He hoped she was right and he was overreacting to the possibility of a threat. “Not a problem.”
A porch light shone outside the door to the condo entrance, and a glass panel beside the door gave a view inside. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. When she unlocked the outer door, he followed her inside. She hit the button on the elevator and the doors swooshed open. The interior of the elevator was extra large to accommodate skis and other winter sports equipment.
As she boarded, Sasha said, “I should apologize. I think I got you in trouble.”
The sheriff had been none too pleased when Brady had asked for a couple of men to fingerprint and process the suite on the sixth floor. It hadn’t helped that the room was clean. They’d found nothing to corroborate Sasha’s story.
“Not everybody was ticked off,” he said. “Grant Jacobson was real pleased with the way things turned out.”
Jacobson had used the incident as a learning tool to train his newly hired staff. Investigating a possible homicide also gave him an edge in talking to Reinhardt about the importance of security at a top-rated hotel. His budget had been tripled.
“Jacobson is intense,” she said as she got off the elevator at the third floor. “What’s his story?”
“He’s former military, Marine Corps.” He was a man to be respected. “Did you notice his limp? He lost his left leg above the knee in Afghanistan.”
Her blue eyes opened wider. “I didn’t know.”
“According to his staff, he snowboards and skis. One of the reasons he took this job at Gateway was the availability of winter sports.”
“I’m just glad he’s on our team.”
When she reached toward the lock on the condo door, he took the key from her. “I’ll open it. I should go first.”
“Why?”
“In case there’s someone inside.”
She took a step back, allowing his words to sink in. “You think someone might have broken into the condo and might be waiting for me.”
“I don’t want to alarm you.” He kept his voice low and calm. “But you’re a witness to a possible murder.”
“And he might want me out of the way.”
She was a loose end. An efficient killer would come back for her. Brady drew his weapon before opening the door. “Wait here until I check the place out.”
As soon as he entered, he hit the light switch. At first glance, the condo appeared to be empty, but he wasn’t taking any chances. This possible killer had already outsmarted him once tonight.
Quickly, he went from room to room, taking a look in the corners and the bathrooms and the closets. The only bedroom that was occupied was the first one on the right, where Sasha had unpacked her suitcase. It smelled like ripe peaches, a sweet fresh fragrance that reminded him of her and got under his skin. The only other room that had been used was the hot tub, where a damp towel hung from a rack by the door.
“All clear,” he said as returned to where she was standing.
“Good. I’ve had more than enough excitement for one night.” She peeled off her parka and hung it on a peg by the door. In her white sweater and red jeans, she reminded him of a pretty Christmas package waiting to be unwrapped. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
“I had some Chinese.”
“Me, too. I felt guilty eating it and thinking that this might have been the last meal for the black-haired woman.”
In the restaurant kitchen at the hotel, it hadn’t taken long for them to locate the off-the-menu Chinese food. A cooking station had been set up near the rear exit with fried rice, gluten-free noodles and organic stir-fry veggies available to anyone who came by and scooped a serving into a carryout box.
“That was our best clue,” he said.
“How do you figure? None of the kitchen staff remembered who had stopped by and loaded up on free food.”
“And that’s the clue. The killer was nobody remarkable. He was somebody the staff had seen before.”
“And what does that prove?”
“It’s likely this is an inside job.”
“Somebody who works at the hotel?” she asked.
“Or somebody who has been around this week. A workman. A consultant.”
“It’s a long list of possible suspects.”
He’d gathered a lot of information tonight but hadn’t had a chance to put things together or draw conclusions. Tomorrow when he wrote his report, there’d be time enough to figure things out. He followed her to the kitchen, where she opened the door to the fridge and peeked inside.
She looked up at him. “There’s nothing in there but condiments and champagne.”
“Try the freezer,” he said. “Some of these condos stock up on gourmet frozen deliveries when they’re expecting guests.”
“I’m not hungry enough for a full meal.” She moved to the cabinets above the countertops. “Maybe just a cup of tea. Would you like some?”
His boots were pointed toward the exit. He should go home. He’d delivered her safely and done all that could be expected. “I ought to call it a day.”
She held up a little box of herbal tea bags. “I can make you a cup in just a minute.”
“Good night, Sasha.”
“Wait.” With the tea box clutched in both hands like a precious artifact, she took a step toward him. “Please don’t go.”
The pleading tone in her voice stopped him in his tracks. He saw tension reflected in her baby-blue eyes, and the upturned corners of her mouth pulled tight. Until now she’d managed to hold her emotions in check. Not that she lacked passion. Her moods flitted across her face with all the subtlety of a neon billboard. This was different, darker. “What is it?”
Her brave attempt at a smile failed. “I don’t want to be alone. Tea?”
“Sure.” How could he refuse? He shucked off his dark blue uniform jacket and sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. “I hope I didn’t scare you when I did a room-to-room search in here.”
“I’m glad you did.” Looking away from him, she continued as though talking to herself. “I’d told myself that I didn’t have anything to worry about, but I couldn’t help thinking about what it meant to be a witness. That guy could come after me. But I know I’m safe here. All the doors and windows are locked. This is a secure building.”
“It’s okay to be scared.”
Still holding the tea, she rested her elbows on the opposite side of the counter and leaned toward him. “When I’m worried, it helps to talk about it. Do you mind?”
“Starting from the beginning?”
“We don’t have to go that far back,” she said. “I’ve already decided that I’ll never drink champagne again.”
He remembered her flushed cheeks and bright eyes when he first came to the condo. “Were you drunk earlier?”
“No, but I was silly and unprofessional. If I hadn’t had a glass or two—” she winced “—or maybe three, I might not have picked up the binoculars and looked into the hotel. I wouldn’t have seen anything.”
“Is that what you’d want?”
“Not knowing would be easier. If I hadn’t seen the attack, I could have watched TV and gone to bed and had pleasant dreams.” When she looked down at the tea box in her hand, her blond hair fell forward, hiding her expression. “I have no regrets. I’m glad I saw. That man can’t get away with murder.”
He reached across the counter to comfort her. He clasped her hand in his, rubbing the delicate skin of her palm with his thumb. In a casual way, they’d been in physical contact all night as he guided her through the hotel and bumped against her in the elevator. But this touch felt significant.
Her gaze lifted to meet his eyes, and he felt an instant, deep connection to her. At that moment, she became more than a witness. His instinct was to pull her into his arms and cradle her against his chest until her fears went away.
No way could that happen.
She’d blamed the champagne for making her behave in a less-than-professional manner. What was his excuse? He knew better than to get personal with a witness, especially someone who was only passing through Arcadia. Reining in his instincts, he released her hand and sat back on his stool. “What did you want to talk about?”
“I’m not sure when it started,” she said, “but I’ve been having that weird feeling you get when someone is watching. You know how it is? The hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you see things in your peripheral vision.”
“When did the feeling start?”
“Not when we first arrived at the hotel. Not when we were going through the rooms. It was after we saw Reinhardt and I swallowed my tongue.” Her voice broke. “Talk about being in trouble. I’m up to my armpits. I don’t know how I’m going to find the nerve to show up for that meeting tomorrow.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Oh, but I did. It’s my job to facilitate the discussion and make things easier for the investors. Instead, I created a big fat problem.” A tear slipped over her lower lashes and slid down her cheek. “I’m going to get fired for sure.”
He wanted to wipe away her tears and tell her that everything was going to be all right, but he wasn’t a liar. He was a cop, and the proper procedure for answering a 911 call didn’t include cozying up to the witness.
Circling the counter, he rifled loudly through the cabinets until he located a stainless-steel teakettle, which he filled with water and placed on the burner. When he faced her again, she had regained her composure.
“Okay,” he said, “skip ahead to the time when you felt like you were being watched.”
She thought for a moment. “When we were at the front desk, finding out how the key cards for the hotel rooms worked, I started to take my parka off. I shivered. Then I felt the prickling up and down my arms. It was like a warning. I looked around, but I didn’t notice anybody watching me.”
The front desk was located in the wide-open atrium area where dozens of people came and went. Plus there was a balcony overlooking the marble pond and the statue of the huntress. They could have easily been spotted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt. It seemed like we were making some progress. The key cards were a pretty good clue.”
Using the computerized system, they’d learned that key cards had been made for the suite on the sixth floor. The key had been activated prior to the time when she saw the couple having dinner, indicating that someone could have been in the room. “If the security cameras in the hallway had been operational, we’d have this all wrapped up.”
“Do you think he was planning to kill her from the start?” She bit her lower lip. “That the murder was premeditated?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think it was,” she said. “It took some planning for him to get her alone in that room without anybody knowing.”
Premeditation made sense to Brady. The slick way the body had been whisked away without leaving a trace seemed to indicate foresight. For the sake of argument, he took a different view. “He might have just wanted a free night at a classy hotel, eating free food and enjoying the view.”
“When I was first watching them, I thought they were a couple. They weren’t talking much, and I thought it was one of those comfortable silences between people who have been together for a long time.”
“Like a husband and wife?”
“Not really.” She shook her head. “The woman was all dolled up, and that made me think they were on a date. Her fancy gold necklace isn’t the kind of thing a wife would wear.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too formal. I think she wanted to impress him with her outfit, and he was doing the same by taking her to the expensive suite.” As she chatted, she began to relax. “If he was trying to impress her, he wasn’t planning to hurt her.”
“And his attack wasn’t premeditated.” He found a couple of striped mugs in the cabinet above the sink, and she popped a tea bag in each. “Is that your theory?”
“That’s one theory,” she said. “But it leaves a lot of details unexplained. I saw him pick her up in his arms. He must have gotten blood on his clothes. How could he risk walking through the hall like that?”
The teakettle whistled, and Brady poured the boiling water over the tea bags. He had a couple of theories of his own. “When the forensic guys went over the room, they didn’t find a single drop of blood. Not even when they used luminol and blue light. He was tidy. He could have covered the blood with a jacket and slipped on a pair of gloves.”
She nodded. “And he could get rid of those clothes when he left the hotel.”
Brady didn’t often handle complicated investigations, and he appreciated the chance to discuss the possible scenarios. He probably shouldn’t be having this talk with her, but there wasn’t anybody else. Due to the lack of evidence, the sheriff was going to tell him to forget about this investigation. Jacobson might be inclined to throw around a few ideas, but his plate was full with getting the hotel security up and running.
Brady sweetened his tea with sugar and took a sip. The orange-scented brew tickled his nostrils. “His real problem was disposing of the body. If he carried her any distance, there would have been a trail of blood drops.”
When she lifted the mug to her lips, her hand was trembling so much that she set it down again.
“Sasha, are you all right?”
“It’s okay.” She lifted her chin. “Keep talking.”
Her struggle to control her fear was obvious. He didn’t want to make this any harder for her. “Maybe we should go and sit by the fireplace.”
“I said I was fine.” Her voice was stronger. “You were talking about a blood trail.”
“If he’d planned the murder,” he said, “he could have arranged to have one of those carts that housekeeping uses to haul the dirty sheets.”
“That doesn’t seem likely. How could he explain having a maid’s cart standing by?”
“It’s hard to imagine that he wrapped her up in a sheet or a comforter and didn’t leave a single drop of blood. What if he ran into someone in the hallway?”
“But he didn’t have to go far,” she said, “only down the hall to the elevator. That goes all the way down to the underground parking.”
Brady preferred the idea of the maid’s cart. “He could have been working with someone else.”
A shudder went through her, and she turned away from him, trying to hide the fear that she’d denied feeling a moment ago. “Would there be a lot of blood?”
He didn’t want to feed her imagination. “There’s no way of knowing. This is all speculation.”
“The red blood stood out against her white clothing. It happened so fast. One minute she was fine. And the next...”
Witnessing the attack had been hard on Sasha, more traumatic than he’d realized. And he was probably making it worse by talking about it. He set down his tea and lightly touched her back above the shoulder blade. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She spun around and buried her face against his chest. Her arms wrapped around him, and she held on tight, anchoring herself. Tremors shook her slender body. Though she wasn’t sobbing, her breath came in tortured gasps.
“I’m sorry, Brady, really sorry. I don’t want to fall apart.”
“It’s okay.”
“I can’t forget, can’t get that image out of my head.”
Her soft, warm body molded against him as he continued to hold her gently. He wished he could reach into her mind and pluck out the painful images she’d witnessed, but there was no chance of wiping out those memories. All he could do was protect her.
Chapter Five (#ulink_49e8ba4e-7175-53b2-8b70-20c92c26cd5d)
The next morning, Sasha put on a black pinstriped pantsuit, ankle-length chunky-heel boots and a brave face. After her breakdown last night, she felt ready to face the day. Being with Brady had helped.
Not that he had treated her like a helpless little thing, which she would have hated. Nor had he been inappropriate in any way, which was kind of disappointing. He was sexy without meaning to be. She wouldn’t have objected to a kiss or two. Usually, she wasn’t the kind of woman who threw herself into the arms of the nearest willing male, in spite of what her obnoxious brother thought. But Brady brought out the Trashy Sasha in her.
In the condo bathroom, she applied mascara to her pale lashes and told herself that she was glad that he hadn’t taken advantage. He was different. Brady believed her, and that made all the difference.
She checked the time on her cell phone. In fifteen minutes, Brady would stop by to pick her up. He still had concerns about her safety and wanted to drive her to her meeting with the four investors, and she was excited to see him. As for the meeting? Not so much.
It’d be great if the partners treated her the way they usually did, barely noticing her existence. But she feared they’d be critical about her behavior last night, accusing her of not acting in the best interests of the resort. Applying a smooth coat of lipstick, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and said, “I can handle this.”
Her cell phone on the bathroom counter buzzed. She read a text message from Damien that instructed her to conference with him. In the kitchen, she opened her laptop and prepared for the worst.
Damien Loughlin’s handsome face filled the screen. His raven-black hair was combed back from his forehead. He was clean-shaven and ready for work in a white shirt with a crisp collar and a silk necktie.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he growled. It was so not what she wanted to hear.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“Spying on the hotel through binoculars.” Unfortunately, he had it right. “Why would you do that?”
She didn’t even try to explain. “I witnessed an assault, a possible murder.”
“And then you traipsed over to the hotel and got everybody worked up.”
“By everybody, I’m guessing you mean Mr. Reinhardt.”
“Damn right, I mean Reinhardt. He’s one of my most important clients, and you brought a cop to his doorstep.”
Damien hadn’t asked if she was all right or if she needed anything at the corporate condo, but then again, that really wasn’t his problem. She was his assistant, and her job was to fulfill his needs in the investors’ meeting.
“Last night,” she said, “I was working with the police, following a lead.”
“You’re not a cop, Sasha.” His dark eyes glared at her with such intensity that she thought his anger might melt the computer screen. “I expect more from you.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” she said. “I’m prepared for the meeting today.”
“If anyone asks about last night, I want you to tell them that it’s being handled by local law enforcement. You’re not to be involved in any way. Is that clear?”
“I understand.” But she couldn’t promise not to be part of the investigation. Witnessing a crime meant she had an obligation to help in identifying the killer or, in this case, the victim.
Hoping to avoid more instructions, she changed the topic. “How is Mr. Westfield’s family?”
Damien leaned away from the computer screen and adjusted the Windsor knot on his necktie, a move that she’d come to recognize as a stalling technique. When he played with his tie, it meant he wasn’t telling the whole story. “The family is, of course, devastated by his unfortunate death. Virgil P. Westfield was in his nineties but relatively healthy. He had several good years left.”
Sasha tried to guess what Damien wasn’t saying. “Are the police investigating his fall down the staircase?”
“They are,” he admitted, “and you’re not to share that information with anyone, especially not the Arcadia investors.”
She hadn’t been aware of a connection between Westfield and the people who founded the ski resort, but there were frequent crossovers among the wealthy clients of Samuels, Sorenson and Smith. Damien also represented Virgil’s primary heir, a nephew. “Are there any suspects?”
“Let’s just say that we’re looking at the potential for many, many billable hours.”
That was a juicy tidbit. Was the heir a suspect? For a minute, she wished she was back in Denver working on this case with Damien. If the nephew was charged with murder, the trial would turn into a three-ring circus, given that Westfield was a well-known eccentric and philanthropist who had left a substantial bequest to a feral-cat shelter. Criminal cases were much more interesting than property disputes and corporate law.
“I’ll stay in touch today,” she said.
“No more drama,” he said before he closed his window and disappeared from the screen.
No more drama. The last thing she wanted was more trouble.
* * *
TUCKED INTO THE passenger seat of Brady’s SUV, she fastened her seat belt and watched as he took off his cowboy hat and placed it on the center console. He combed his fingers through his unruly dark brown hair. He looked good in the morning. Not all sleek and polished like Damien but healthy, with an outdoorsy tan and interesting crinkles at the corners of his greenish-brown eyes. She wondered how old he was. Maybe thirty? Maybe the perfect age for her.
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