Will the truth finally be revealed?

An Undercover Justice romance...

Undercover detective Rush Atkinson has finally infiltrated the crew of Jesse Garibaldi, the man suspected of killing his father years ago. But when Jesse orders him to “take care of” Alessandra Rivers—who’s been looking into her father’s death—Rush is forced to choose between maintaining his cover on his quest for revenge...and his sudden desire to protect Alessandra at all costs.

Amazon bestselling author MELINDA DI LORENZO writes in her spare time—at soccer practices, when she should be doing laundry and in place of sleep. She lives on the beautiful west coast of British Columbia, Canada, with her handsome husband and her noisy kids. When she’s not writing, she can be found curled up with (someone else’s) good book.

Also by Melinda Di Lorenzo

Undercover Justice

Captivating Witness

Undercover Protector

Undercover Passion

Undercover Justice

Worth the Risk

Last Chance Hero

Silent Rescue

Trusting a Stranger

Deceptions and Desires

Pinups and Possibilities

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Undercover Refuge

Melinda Di Lorenzo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09406-1

UNDERCOVER REFUGE

© 2019 Melinda A. Di Lorenzo

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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She made her way down the stairs, mindful of how hard her feet hit the wood and vigilant of her surroundings.

At the bottom, she took a deep breath then started another trek, this one over rocks and dirt and the occasional wayward root. It was a steep climb, and by the time she reached the tree line, Alessandra was slightly out of breath. So she paused to pull in a few gulps of oxygen. And when she did, she realized she could hear a masculine voice. Low enough that she couldn’t discern the words. But audible enough that she recognized it.

Rush. Thank God.

Her mind quickly connected the dots. The flash she’d seen was likely his phone, and he’d probably just sneaked off to have a quiet conversation. But the relief at having an explanation was short-lived. Because as Alessandra lifted her foot to move closer again, and opened her mouth to call his name, a light bit of wind kicked up and carried his voice to her. Clearly now, so she could completely make out his words.

“I’ve really got no choice,” he growled. “I have to get rid of her.”

The two statements were rough, angry and ominous. And they made Alessandra stumble. For a few seconds after her miniature crash landing, she didn’t move. She didn’t know if she could.

Do I run? Do I pretend I never heard any of it and go for a more subtle escape? Or do I confront him? Or—

Her tumble of frightened thoughts stopped short as a new sound carried to her ears. It was the crash of a man, pushing through the bushes. Rush was headed her way.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the fourth and final installment in my Undercover Justice series. I’m so excited to bring you the elusive Detective Rush Atkinson. Not that I like to play favorites, but I do have a soft spot for this particular hero. He once told his brothers-in-arms that if it weren’t for the fact that he was seeking justice for his slain father, he might’ve slipped onto the wrong side of the law. And I love this about him.

Rush is rough. He’s gruff. He’s definitely not an easy man, and he’s not going to be tamed. Not even by love. But that’s one of the things that makes Alessandra so perfect for him. She’s a free spirit. And I hope you think they’re as tingly, meant to be as I do!

Happy reading,

Melinda

To all those who love a bad boy with a good heart.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Detective Rush Atkinson was sure of two things. One. Someone was following him. And two. They were going to be sorry.

Gritting his teeth, he stepped a little harder on the gas. The Lada protested immediately. The lumbering old vehicle—built in 1972 and seemingly held together by sheer willpower alone—had a strong preference for moving at a slow and steady pace. It was good on the back roads and got the job done, and it usually suited Rush just fine. Of course, he wasn’t usually being stalked up a mountain road. If he’d thought that was even the vaguest possibility, he would’ve grabbed his second-favorite vehicle. A monster of a motorcycle that he’d pieced together with his own two hands. A source of pride.

“A source of speed, too,” he muttered as he took another quick glance in the rearview mirror.

He knew his look wouldn’t yield anything. Not on the straight patch of road. So far, he’d only caught glimpses of the car on the wider bends. It was a silver hatchback. One of those hybrid electric vehicles, Rush thought.

Strange choice for a stalker.

He didn’t really have time to muse on it. Or the desire to, as a matter of fact. He was supposed to be meeting with his “boss,” Jesse Garibaldi—aka the man he was trying his damnedest to put behind bars—in just under five minutes. He should’ve been early. Would have been early, if some fool wasn’t tailing him. No way was he going to make it on time now. He’d been trying to give the silver hatchback the slip since the second he realized it was following him.

“For your own good,” he grumbled at the unseen driver.

Really, he was doing them a favor. Garibaldi wasn’t the kind of man who welcomed uninvited guests. Not on this side of things, anyway. Inside the small town of Whispering Woods, he might be thought of as a businessman and philanthropist and an enthusiastic lover of tourists, but Rush knew better. The man was a murderer.

Fifteen years earlier, when they were both barely more than kids, the other man had killed Rush’s father and Rush’s friends’ fathers. Garibaldi had set off a pipe bomb at the Freemont City police station in order to destroy some kind of evidence. He’d been successful, and the three men who died were nothing more than collateral damage to him. A good lawyer had seen to it that he got off. Now, a decade and a half later, Garibaldi was entrenched in the small tourist-driven economy of the mountainside town. A pillar. But all of the goodwill and investment were a front for something more sinister. Using the truly good people of Whispering Woods, Garibaldi had set himself up with a tidy little drug empire. In came the heroin. Out went a series of doctored paintings, laced with the deadly mixture of opiates and paint, and no one was the wiser.

Except us, Rush thought grimly as he swung the wheel and veered off the concrete road and headed onto a small dirt-packed one.

Just a couple of months earlier, he and his partners had discovered Garibaldi’s out-in-the-open hiding place. They’d pieced together his method. Now, with two of his three partners holed up in Mexico, and the third on hiatus in Europe, it was Rush’s job to put the final nail in the coffin. Something he was eager to do. It was going to happen any day now, too. Garibaldi was organizing something big. A meeting with a buyer, Rush believed.

It was the perfect moment to make the bust. All he had to do was to get his pseudo-boss to trust him enough to disclose the details and include him in the exchange. He was well on the way there. In the short time since Rush had used his connections to secure a position on Garibaldi’s crew, he’d already risen from grunt man to enforcer to errand-runner.

Gonna be hard to get any higher than that if you’ve got a stalker tagging along.

He guided the Lada around a corner and took yet another look in the rearview. He wasn’t surprised to see the flash of silver through the trees. He still dropped a curse as he slowed down. Being wrong wouldn’t have been so terrible in this case.

Just up ahead, the road ended in a wide circle. It was a popular spot for seasoned hikers to the head up into the mountain. At the moment, Rush just wanted to use it as a U-turn. He’d circle back around, catch sight of whoever was at the wheel of the hatchback, memorize the details of their face, then head back into town so he could place a call to Garibaldi. His boss would be unimpressed that he hadn’t shown up, but it was better than the alternative, and Rush would come up with a good excuse. He was a smooth liar. A natural by-product of spending his entire career in undercover roles.

He tapped his finger on the steering wheel as he reached the wide crescent-shaped end of the road and used it to turn the Lada around. He pushed his foot to the gas again—more gently this time—and got the vehicle up to cruising speed. His hands tightened a little on the wheel, but other than that, he kept his body perfectly relaxed, betraying no hint of apprehension at the encounter that he knew was coming any second.

“C’mon, you little silver weasel,” he said under his breath. “Give me a good, five-second look.”

When the other vehicle didn’t immediately appear, Rush frowned. He was sure—so sure—that it had been tailing him. He would’ve bet his badge on it.

“So where the hell are you, buddy?” he muttered, slowing to a near crawl.

Maybe the driver’s trying to avoid a confrontation, he reasoned.

Lord knew he wouldn’t want to get in a fight alone in the woods with one of Garibaldi’s thugs if he could avoid it. And he was supposed to be one of thugs, so that was really saying something.

It wouldn’t be an easy feat to get away unnoticed, though. Aside from coming up the way he’d done himself—or maybe being pulled up in a spaceship’s tractor beam—there was no other way to simply turn and go.

Rush dragged his gaze back and forth, considering it. What would he have done if the roles were reversed? There were thick shrubs on either side of the narrow road, and deep ditches, too. He wondered if a smaller car could’ve managed a complicated turn. Or if the driver might’ve backed all the way out. He thought the latter would take too long, and the former would require both confidence and skill.

Or...you could just be wrong about being followed. He sighed and eased his foot off the brake pedal. Maybe the flash of silver was in your head. Or it was an animal. A gray wolf. Or a—

His thoughts cut off as he reached the end of the dirt road. There, hanging half in and half out of the ditch, was proof that his imagination hadn’t run wild. A silver Prius. And something unexpected. Someone unexpected. A woman, standing beside it.

Without meaning to, Rush ran his gaze over her. Toe to head instead of the other way around. Unconsciously drinking in her eclectic appearance.

On her feet, she wore a pair of flip-flops—dark brown and made of some kind of woven fabric. Her pants were loose, wide-legged, cinched at the waist with a string, and a color that reminded Rush of the beach. She had on a plain white T-shirt, which was far too large. She’d tied it in a knot just above her hip, and the collar hung off her shoulder, revealing a tantalizing expanse of skin.

As Rush lifted his eyes to her face, his throat went a little dry. He was close enough to see the frustrated look on her face. Close enough to note her perfectly arched brows and full lips. Her cheekbones were high and honey-kissed. Touched by a few loose tendrils of the darkest auburn hair, the rest of which was piled up in a loose bun. There was no denying her allure. So Rush didn’t bother to try. Especially since staring at her nearly made him lose control of his vehicle.

It was actually the jarring bounce as he hit a bump that made him come to his senses.

The woman wasn’t someone he’d met over the cantaloupe section in the grocery store. She wasn’t someone he’d locked eyes with from across the room in a bar. She was the person who’d stalked him. Followed him from who knew how many miles, for who knew what reason.

Maybe you should stop and ask?

The question pricked at him as he coasted by. It nagged at his conscience as he looked in the side-view mirror and saw her jaw drop open as though she was stunned by the fact that he wasn’t stopping. Her arms came up in a frantic wave. For a second, he wavered. He found himself fighting for a reason to stay. Then he forcefully reminded himself that as attractive as she was, and as helpless as she seemed, it was that very thing that made her all the more dangerous. Cynics like him knew that pretty packages didn’t always have pretty contents. And he stepped on the gas.

* * *

Alessandra Rivers watched, stupefied, as the man in the truck sped up, then kept going. She spun slowly to stare at the back end as it rumbled away.

Is he seriously just going to leave?

She stood still, certain he was going to turn around. He had to, didn’t he? Even if chivalry was out of fashion—and really, Alessandra wasn’t all that interested in being a damsel in distress, anyway—there was still some human decency to speak of, wasn’t there? What kind of person left someone visibly stranded on the side of the road like that?

And she was 100 percent sure he’d seen her. Even his mirrored sunglasses and his curved brim hat couldn’t hide the fact that his gaze had slid over her.

But the truck didn’t show any sign of coming back. No approaching engine. No renewed cloud of dust. And now Alessandra could feel a thick ball forming in her throat. Dread and worry. And threatening tears.

She drew in a breath and closed her eyes, trying to ward it all off. It was a hard sell.

She’d been lost on the back roads of Whispering Woods for a good fifteen minutes before even spotting the rusted-out hunk of junk and the stranger who’d just abandoned her. At first, she’d been so glad to see him that she actually forgot to react. By the time she’d stuck her arm out the window, he was gone. And she’d tried—hard—to catch up. But her Prius wasn’t much good on anything that wasn’t smooth, and every few feet she seemed to hit a deep pothole that inevitably made the car bounce, her heart pound and her teeth knock together. It didn’t help at all that the guy in the truck seemed to be on some crazy mission to take as many weird turns as possible. Alessandra had been relieved when he turned up the dirt path with the no-exit sign at the front.

But the relief was short-lived. It went straight down into the ditch along with the front end of her stupid little car. And hope followed it. Or maybe not followed it. Maybe the hope disappeared up the road along with Mr. Blue Truck.

With a frustrated exhale, Alessandra turned back toward her vehicle. She had a sudden overwhelming urge to kick the door. Multiple times. It was an unusual sensation, and not just because it was such an aggressive thing to want to do. Alessandra prided herself on having a very even temper. On channeling inner calmness and on projecting an outer peace. She wasn’t much into relaxing candles, meditation or yoga. Those had been her mom’s things. But when life went wrong, a few deep breaths and a reminder than she had a million things to be grateful for was usually enough. And even when that didn’t work, she always had her own inner strength to draw on.

Except today, she thought. And maybe every moment of the last two weeks.

Or to be more exact, the last thirteen days. Not that Alessandra was particularly superstitious, but that did seem a little coincidentally unlucky.

Thirteen days ago, she’d found the letter in an old box of her mom’s stuff. Tucked in between a box of incense, a bundle of sage and a pile of tarot cards. She’d only opened it because she’d recognized her father’s handwriting on the outside of the envelope, and she’d known exactly what it was. A love note.

Throughout her childhood, her father had left them scattered in secret places for her mother to find. Her mother had requested that the notes be buried with her, lovingly explaining to Alessandra that they were far too private to leave out in the world.

But when Alessandra had found this one, she’d felt no guilt at opening it. Not an ounce. She saw things like that as kismet. Meant to be. And really, she’d just been hoping to hear her dad’s voice in her head. Her mother had only been gone for two years, but he’d passed fifteen years earlier, and sometimes it was hard to remember him.

As Alessandra had unsealed the envelope, she’d been excited. But a first glance had changed the excitement. She’d been unsettled. Then surprised. And finally, stunned beyond all reason.

The paper was like a patchwork quilt. A hundred tiny pieces, torn up, then painstakingly taped together.

For a minute, she’d just stared at it without reading it, wondering why it had been destroyed, then considering the amount of effort required to reassemble it. When at last she did read it, squinting through the Scotch tape at the faded ink to make out the words, her breath had stuck in her throat. The content was a shock.

Dear Mary,

I can’t imagine what my death did.

I’d undo it if I could.

Do you remember our honeymoon?

I’ll live there. Always

Love you forever,

Randall

As she recalled the words again, a renewed trickle of fear made Alessandra shiver, and anxiety sent her heart rate spiking.

She questioned once more if the note held any underlying meaning. A secret message of some kind. It seemed like such an odd thing to write, then destroy. Had father done it himself because he never intended her mother to see the letter? Or had her mother been the one to do it? And if so...why?

From the moment Alessandra read the letter, things had only gone downhill. There was a police report that resulted in a friend’s supposedly accidental death. Then a fire at the surf shop Alessandra called home. And finally, an unexpected invitation to meet with an old family friend. Jesse Garibaldi. Who’d informed her that he now called the small tourist town of Whispering Woods home. The very place her dad referred to in his letter. Where her parents had spent the weeks after their private ceremony, and where they’d joked that Alessandra had been conceived. What were that chances that it was a coincidence?

She shivered yet again, a chill running through her in spite of the sun overhead.

“Don’t think about any of that,” she ordered aloud to herself. “Focus on getting out of this moment, then think about the rest.”

But it was a little hard to maintain a cheerful outlook with her car hanging half in a ditch. She couldn’t even tell herself that it was half out, and somehow put a good spin on it. Especially when she was unable to call for help. The first thing she’d done when she realized she was lost was to go for cell phone. But at the exact moment she pulled it from her purse, she’d hit a bump. The phone went flying. As she’d tried to grab it, she’d knocked over her coffee. And of course, the coffee spilled directly onto the phone. By the time Alessandra pulled off the road—which she should’ve done in the first place—the phone was nothing but a dismal black screen of death. And it still showed no sign of magically self-repairing.

Okay. Deep breath. Then make a list. What are the positives?

For a second, she couldn’t think of a single one.

“Well,” she finally said. “I’m not dead. So there’s that.”

But the thought was a little too dark to be truly humorous.

Alessandra looked down at her car again. She vaguely recalled things about ropes and pulleys and levers from high school science. But she had a feeling that trying to hoist a car out of a ditch was slightly more complicated than moving a paper airplane with a drinking straw and elastic band. A bit of a different scale.

“Okay, then,” she muttered. “I guess the only thing to do is to walk until I find some help.”

Wincing at the generally sorry state of her car, she climbed back into the ditch and leaned through the driver’s side door to grab her oversize patchwork bag from the front seat. She eyed her suitcase in the back seat, but decided to leave it. There was no way of knowing exactly how long she’d have to walk, and she didn’t want to weigh herself down too badly.

And besides that, she told herself, you’re going to be able to get help, and you’re going to get back here just fine. It’s not like a wild animal’s likely to come along and steal your clothes and toothbrush.

Feeling slightly more positive, she made her way out of the ditch back to the dirt road. She lifted her hand to shield eyes, glanced in the general direction of the sun and tried to gauge the time. Noon, maybe? And she thought she could tell which way was west. With a determined spin, she took a few steps. Then stopped almost immediately as a growl filled the air. Her eyes widened. She swallowed nervously and started to turn back to her car, half expecting to see that a bear or a wolf had taken an interest in her belongings. But aside from her familiar car, the ditch was as empty as it had been a moment earlier.

Then she clued in.

She closed her eyes and listened. The growl became a rumble, which grew louder and closer. And more familiar.

Slowly—not wanting to let herself give in to false hope—Alessandra opened her eyes and focused her attention toward the end of the road. Not really aware that she was doing it, she squeezed her fingers into fists and bounced a little on the balls of her feet.

Please, please, let it be him.

And suddenly, there he was. Or there his truck was, anyway. Barreling toward her at full, furious speed. Almost as if the fact that he was headed her way made the driver angry.

For a second, Alessandra’s feet stayed rooted to the spot, puzzlement outweighing worry. Why would he come back if it was just going to make him mad? As the truck got closer, dirt flying up hard, Alessandra’s brain gave her a little tap, and she realized that if she didn’t move, there was a good chance she might be mowed down. But she no sooner started to jump out of the way than the blue truck came to a grinding halt, and the driver’s-side door came flying open with a force that matched the speed at which the vehicle had approached. Quick and fired up. It was enough to freeze her again. It was also enough to send a sharp zap of curiosity through her. And the curiosity only deepened as the driver jumped out.

Alessandra watched as he planted his steel-toe boots firmly in the dirt and spread his dark-denim-clad legs hip distance apart, then just stood there, unmoving. She had the impression that he was assessing the situation. And maybe her, too. It was disconcerting, and an inexplicable sweat broke out on her upper lip. But she couldn’t seem to speak. So she just took advantage of the silent, still moment to look him over as thoroughly as he was looking over her.

He was lean, but not skinny. In fact, he had corded muscles on the lower half of his inked arms—just visible because he had his long-sleeved charcoal-gray T-shirt pushed halfway to his elbows. As she stared at the bit of exposed ink, a prickling heat built just under the surface of Alessandra’s skin. For a moment, the warmth threw her off. But it didn’t take long to realize the source. She—or her body, anyway—found him attractive.

She sucked in a breath, tried to calm her suddenly racing heart and forced her eyes to his face. He still wore the dark reflective glasses, and he had a ball cap emblazoned with a truck logo pulled down over his forehead. Even though his cheeks and chin were dusted with a salt-and-pepper beard, what she could see of his skin was smooth and at least as young as her own. The contrast, which created a slightly enigmatic look, did nothing to ease the quick thrum of her Alessandra’s pulse.

But then she spotted something that flew straight at her like a bucket of icy water.

One of the truck driver’s hands hung loosely at his thigh, fingers flexing. The other hand was poised over—but not quite touching—a shiny metal gun.

Chapter 2

Rush saw the pretty redhead catch sight of his weapon. He noted the way her eyes widened nervously, and how—when she tipped her gaze back up—they stayed that way. Not like a deer in headlights. She was startled, but there was no hint in naivete in her gaze. There was intelligence. Some kind of understanding. And an undercurrent of fear, which made Rush feel surprisingly guilty. Though even acknowledging all of that still didn’t prepare him for what happened next.

She jumped at him. So quickly and so unexpectedly that he didn’t have a chance to react the way he should have. The way he was trained to. Instead, he kind of stumbled backward, flailing his arms a little. He actually had to catch himself on the still-open door of his Lada.

The whole thing only stunned him more. No one ever got the drop on him. Not the police coming up against him when he was undercover, and not the guys he turned in at the end of each case. For the sun-kissed redhead to do it now...it was almost unfathomable.

He expected her to continue with her leap. To knock him to the ground and disarm him. So it was another surprise when she simply used her advantage to turn and run. Her flip-flops smacked against the ground in an almost comical way. She cast a final, heartbeat-long look over her shoulder, then leaped over the ditch and darted into the woods.

“What the hell just happened?” Rush growled, staring at the space where the redhead had just disappeared.

Before he could come up with a logical explanation for the way she’d run off rather than taking the clear advantage, a distinctly feminine, distinctly terrified scream carried out of the foliage. The scream did for Rush what seeing the woman waving at him from the side the road hadn’t; it sent his protective instincts into overdrive.

Without a second thought, he set off at a run. His long legs brought him to the ditch, then over it. They carried him through the low brush, then into the trees. There, just inside the first patch of shade, he paused and whipped his head back and forth.

“Hey!” he called, then paused as he realized he didn’t have a name to call. “Uh. Red? You out here?”

He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to scream again, or not. On the one hand, it would sure as hell help him locate her. Let him know she was alive as well. On the other hand, he didn’t have much desire to hear the ear-piercing shriek a second time, and he didn’t want her to have to go through whatever it was that caused it again, either.

“Red!” he yelled a little louder.

A faint reply—words, but not ones he could hear enough to understand—floated up from somewhere just ahead. They had a strange, echoey quality he couldn’t quite place. So he took a few steps forward, then paused again.

“You there, Red?”

There was a few seconds of silence before he heard her voice again, a mutter that made Rush wonder if she was really answering him at all.

“I don’t know if—” She cut herself off, then added another string of incomplete sentences. “God. What if...no. I just—no.”

“Red?” he replied, puzzled this time. “You okay?”

“You know...” said her disembodied voice. “Some of us gingers find that nickname offensive.”

For no good reason at all, Rush felt the need to ask, “Are you one of those gingers?”

She didn’t reply immediately, and he could perfectly picture her face—a face he didn’t even know, for crying out loud—puckering up as she thought about what to say. He could easily imagine her arched brows buckling together in a frown. Even though it was completely impossible in reality, he swore he could practically hear a sigh escaping from her full lips.

“No,” she finally called.

“Okay, then, Red,” Rush replied. “Keep talking so I can get to you.”

The request was met with more silence.

“Now would be good,” he prodded.

She did answer this time, but her tone was somehow muted. “Are you going to shoot me?”

“Shoot you?” he echoed before recalling the reason he was chasing her in the first place.

He nearly laughed. Just a few minutes earlier, he’d been furious at himself for leaving her on the side of the road. Then more furious at himself for being weak enough to go back. He knew damned well it wasn’t because he needed to know why she followed him. Although that would’ve made perfect sense. The real reason was far more basic. Far more base.

From the moment he pulled away, Rush couldn’t stop seeing flashes of her tanned skin. Her throat. Her shoulder. The thin line between her tied-up T-shirt and the waistband of her pants.

If she’d been a sixty-five-year-old man with a bushy beard and dirty old jogging pants, he wouldn’t have turned around. Or maybe he would’ve just stuck around in the first place. At the very least, he would’ve saved himself the trouble of the ridiculous inner argument. Yet there he was, standing in the middle of the woods, searching for his stalker and worrying more about her well-being than he was worrying about his own.

And you forgot all of that?

“Um. Mr...Sunglasses?” The redhead’s voice—a little clearer but still hesitant—dragged him back to the fact that he was supposed to be doing something.

“Mr. Sunglasses?” he repeated, tipping his head to listen for her reply.

“Well,” she said, “it was a toss-up between that and Mr. Blue Truck.”

“It’s a Lada,” he corrected as he took a few steps in what he thought was the right direction.

“A what?”

“The ‘truck’ is actually a Lada.”

“Oh. Does that matter?”

“Well, it’s not really a truck. It’s more of an off-road vehicle.”

“It looks like a truck.” The statement had a stubborn note that made Rush smile.

“It’s not, though,” he said. “Technically.”

“Technicalities are that important?” she asked.

Rush’s smile slipped away. The flippant way she said it made him sure it wasn’t a dig of some kind. She wasn’t aware of his past. She couldn’t possibly have a clue about just how much weight a technicality could have in someone’s life. In his life. But it was still a damned good reminder that he wasn’t in Whispering Woods to make friends. He was there to right a decade-and-a-half-old wrong.

“Is there a particular reason you were following me?” he asked. “Or is stalking something you do for fun on Wednesdays?”

“I wasn’t following you,” she replied.

Her voice sounded impossibly close. Like she should be standing just in front of him.

Rush stopped walking, his eyes narrowing as he searched the dense trees for a sign of her. “You expect me to believe it was a coincidence that you made every turn I made while keeping a few hundred feet behind me?”

“That’s...well. Okay. Yeah. I can see how that could seem like stalking,” she said. “I mean. I was following you. But I wasn’t following you. If that makes sense.”

Weirdly...it did.

“Are you telling me all of this is because you took a damned wrong turn?” he asked.

“I was lost. It happens.” She said it like a shrug.

He considered it. He supposed she could be telling a story to cover up her true intentions. He had plenty of experience with liars, though, and if the redhead was one, she had to be damned near perfect at it. The thing that really tipped him in favor of believing her was her scream. He was damned sure it’d been genuine.

“Are you still there?” she called.

“Yeah. I’m still here. And I’m pretty sure you’re still lost.” He took two more steps.

“I’m not lost,” she told him. “I’m right down—”

Whatever else she said was swept away as Rush took another step, then fell.

Not over.

Not in a tumble or a trip.

Down.

An undignified holler and a stream of curses escaped his mouth. His back bumped painfully over dirt and roots and God knew what else and he scraped his way—down, down, down—into what appeared to be a pit in the middle of the forest floor. At the bottom, he hit the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth and cut away his breath. Remarkably, he was sure he wasn’t otherwise hurt.

He tried to inhale. To regain some sense of control. Instead, when he opened his eyes, the oxygen whipped out of his lungs again. The redhead sat in front of him, and her hair had ripped out of its bun, her lips were parted in surprise, and her gaze—the biggest, bluest one he’d ever seen—was fixed on him. Drawing him in. Holding him there. It gave Rush the strangest conflict of emotion he’d ever experienced.

Part of him was angry all over again. This woman, whose name he didn’t even know, had ruined his whole day. More than ruined it. She’d sent him barreling needlessly through the back roads that surrounded Whispering Woods. Then somehow got him to set aside reason and self-preservation in the name of coming back for her. Both of which stopped him from meeting with Jesse Garibaldi and pared down his chances of making the headway he’d been hoping to make. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she now had him stuck in a literal hole. Probably eight feet down.

But in spite of it all, another, surprisingly forceful part of him wondered if being lost in her eyes might actually be worth it.

* * *

The small space was suddenly much smaller. And for a several moments, the forced intimacy was almost overwhelming. Crouched down the way they were, there was only room for a few scant inches between Alessandra and the man who’d slid to a stop just in front of her. In fact, the space between their knees was nearly nonexistent. Alessandra could feel the heat of his body, the air a conduit from the denim of his jeans to the cotton of her pants. She was sure that the slightest shift would result in a touch. And for some reason, the idea sent her heart thumping.

You should be scared, a small voice in her head pointed out. The man has a gun. And he’s probably even less impressed now than he was when he pulled up in the truck.

Unconsciously, she dropped her gaze to the holster at his hip. The weapon was still there. But it didn’t worry her. Mostly because she spied something that was a greater concern. Something that should probably have been the first thing she realized. Something that seemed impossible to have missed, even in the wild, dirt-flying moment.

The man’s fall had caused an automatic reaction on her part. She’d shot out a hand, maybe to steady him, maybe to reassure him, it was hard to say. Either way, the result was the same. Her fingers were wrapped around his wrist. And for the life of her, Alessandra couldn’t get her brain to make them unfurl to release him.

She drew in a sharp breath as she tried to make her hand cooperate. The inhale was a mistake. Her nose immediately filled with a woodsy, masculine scent. It mingled with the smell of damp, loose dirt. And even though Alessandra had been an ocean girl her whole life—raised on the beaches of the Washington coast—and loved the salt-tinged ocean air, the pleasant, earthy aroma struck a chord somewhere inside her.

Startled by the sensation, she jerked her head up, which earned her the first full view of the truck driver’s face. He was no less attractive up close, either. And there was something about his appearance that perfectly matched his scent.

In the somewhat muted light—filtered and cooled by the trees overhead—she could see that his eyes were deep, deep brown. The color of freshly brewed coffee. Alessandra’s favorite indulgence. A steaming cup on a cool morning. They were just as warm and inviting, too. She’d also been right about his age. In spite of the sweep of gray across his temple and the matching smattering of white in his beard, he definitely wasn’t much over thirty, if at all.

Alessandra’s stare fell to the slash of pink that cut through his thick stubble. His lips. Not excessively full, but somehow appealing. She could easily picture them curling up in a smile. Parting as he laughed at some piece of dry wit. And—in a surprising turn of her mind—she could imagine the feel of them, too. Soft but firm. Warm like his skin under her fingers.

Embarrassed, Alessandra jerked her eyes away from his mouth. But when her gaze found his eyes again, she saw that the warmth she’d spied before was gone. In its place was careful neutrality.

A mask, she thought, even though she had no reason to assume a single thing about the stranger’s state of mind. Or maybe a shield.

But when he spoke, it was with just enough antagonism that she suspected she was right.

“Why in God’s name didn’t you warn me?” he growled.

“I did scream,” she reminded him, at last able to drop her hand from his wrist.

“Yeah. In a way that made me think you’d been attacked. Not in a way that made me think, ‘Hey, I fell into a hole, so be careful.’ Which might’ve been more prudent.”

“Prudence wasn’t foremost on my mind.”

“No?”

“No. I was a little preoccupied with not wanting to get shot.”

“Is there some reason why someone you’ve never met might want to shoot you?”

Try as she might, Alessandra couldn’t stop her mind from slipping to the note and to everything that she’d experienced since finding it. And it made the question strike a nerve.

“Is there a reason why you might pull a gun on someone you’ve never met?” she countered.

He didn’t react, except to divert the conversation from the question by tipping his face toward the opening above them and muttering, “I need to get out of here.”

“I think you mean we need to get out of here,” Alessandra corrected, inching back so she could push herself to her feet and look up. “Because it’s definitely going to take two of us.”

He grunted an acknowledgment, then stood up as well. And even though the opposite should’ve been true, it made the space between them smaller. Or maybe it was just an illusion, created by the fact that now, instead of sitting across from him, she was standing nearly flush against him. They weren’t touching, but she could still feel his strength. He was compact but solid. Probably just barely topping six feet—not that much taller than her own five-foot-nine height. But his body had a palpable denseness. Like every bit of him packed a muscle-bound punch. It was impossible not to be aware of it.

Alessandra tried anyway. She stared up for a second more, and a solution popped to mind. What she needed was a good old-fashioned boost. Of course, getting one would involve deliberately being in physical contact with the gruff stranger. Being near enough to know just how deep that woodsy scent of his ran, and to confirm that he was as solid as she presumed him to be. But it was still the easiest and most logical answer. So she cleared her throat, preparing to suggest it.

But when she spoke, something entirely unplanned came out instead. “I feel like I need to tell you something. In the name of transparency. Because it’s my fault you’re down here. And if I don’t say something, then I feel like I’m doing you a disservice.”

His brown eyes were unreadable when he looked down at her, but he was near enough that she could feel the slight increase in tension in his body.

“All right,” he said evenly. “Tell me.”

“It was kind of a lie,” Alessandra replied.

“What was?”

“I’ve never met a ginger who minded being called Red.”

He stared at her. “Why’d you lie about it?”

She drew in a breath. “I was trying to make a personal connection.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to back it up and explain that.”

“You know...so you’d have to ask my name. And if you asked my name, then you might feel less inclined to...uh...kill me.”

“Kill you?”

“If you happened to be some kind of hired killer.”

His eyebrows lifted marginally, and she swore his lips twitched with a hint of amusement. “If I was a hired killer, and I was hired to kill you, wouldn’t I already know your name?”

Alessandra sagged a little. “I didn’t say I thought it through very well.”

Now one of his eyebrows went even higher, and his response was flat. “Unless I was hired to kill someone else, and you’re a witness. And therefore collateral damage.”

She stood up straighter, her mouth going dry as her eyes dropped to his weapon once more. Why hadn’t that occurred to her?

Maybe because everything you think you know about killers is based on questionable late-night crime dramas on TV?

“Thinking about trying to wrestle it away from me?” he asked in a low voice.

Her eyes jerked up, and she knew her answer was both too quick and too emphatic. “No!”

“Good. Because you wouldn’t be successful. And I’d hate to accidentally get shot in the foot.”

“I wouldn’t...” She trailed off as she caught another twitch of his lips. “You’re just making fun of me, aren’t you?”

His face stayed straight. “I’m actually more concerned for your safety now than I was when I thought you might’ve been eaten by a bear.”

“You are mocking me. But I don’t care. It’s more normal to not know how contract killing works.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“You have to admit. It’s not really normal at all to assume someone is a contract killer.”

Alessandra pressed her lips together, forced her mind not to dwell, then sighed and said, “Normal’s relative, isn’t it?”

“So I hear.”

There was a grimace in his words, but he didn’t elaborate on what he meant. And before Alessandra could inquire about it—and she was strangely curious about him and about what his normal was—he turned his attention away from her and back to the opening above.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She craned her neck up to follow his gaze. “I think you should give me a boost so I can climb out.”

“Then what? You find a branch, hang it down and pull me up?”

“It works in the movies.”

His eyes found hers again. “So it’s safe to assume you believe everything you see on TV or in the theater?”

Alessandra’s face warmed. “Are you always this antagonistic?”

“Only when I’m not out shooting strangers.”

“Funny.”

“Good to know that you think so.” His voice was dry. “I’ve been told my humor’s too macabre for most.”

He brought his gaze back to her. His eyes were cool. Assessing. It made her wonder if she’d just imagined that glimpse of heat in them before. She started to shift from one foot to the other, then stopped abruptly as her knee brushed his.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

Up went one of those eyebrows of his. “You’re going to have to do more than bump into me if you want a hand getting up there.”

Even though there was no possible way he meant the words to have the dark, sexy edge that they did, Alessandra couldn’t help but hear some innuendo. And truthfully, it gave her a little thrill.

She forced out a breath and made herself speak in a neutral voice. “Does this mean you’re buying into my idea?”

“It means I’m wondering if I can trust you to stick around long enough to make sure I get out, too.”

“I wouldn’t leave you here.”

“No?”

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. My car’s in the ditch, remember?”

“That’s true. But I’ve got some rope in the Lada. Keys are in there, too, so...” He shrugged.

She rolled her eyes. “Right. I’ll just steal your not-really-a-truck truck, and I’ll be on my way.”

“You assumed I was an assassin. I don’t think suggesting you might commit a crime of opportunity is on the same level.”

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“Probably not,” he admitted. “Come closer.”

She started to tell him she didn’t think she could get closer—there was barely breathing room as it was—but he made the first move anyway. He dropped to a crouch, threaded his fingers together at knee level, then cleared his throat and looked up expectantly.

“Step up, bend a bit, put your hand on my shoulder, and let me know when you’re stable,” he told her.

Alessandra only hesitated for a second before lifting a foot and pressing it into his hands. She took another moment to put her hand on his back, though. It seemed more personal. More intimate. And unsurprisingly, when she did touch finally touch him, he was rock solid.

And warm.

She shook off the too-pleased voice in her head and pushed up from the ground. She expected at least some give, but his palms didn’t move.

“You good?” he asked with no sign of strain in his voice.

“I’m up,” she confirmed.

“Okay,” he replied. “Move your other hand to the side of hole. Make sure it’s firm, but keep your hand loose enough that you can let your fingers crawl up as I hoist you.”

“You’re going to hoist me?” She didn’t know why she sounded so surprised.

“That’s generally what happens when someone gives someone else a boost,” he said drily.

“Right,” she muttered. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“I think I can get you high enough that you should be able to rest your elbows on the ground above us. Put a knee or a foot on my shoulder if you have to.”

“All right.”

“Here we go.” He pushed her up, slowly but easily. “Hey, Red?”

“Yes?”

“I forgot to ask you...what’s your real name?”

She started to answer him, but a familiar, masculine voice from overhead beat her to it.

“Alessandra,” it announced.

And it startled her so badly that she wobbled, then tumbled straight back down into the truck driver’s arms.

Chapter 3

Hearing his boss answer the question from above nearly made Rush drop the redhead—Alessandra, he told himself—straight to the ground. At the last second, he managed to stick his arms out to snatch her from the air. Her body hit his hard enough that he stumbled back and let out an “Oof!” and the noise earned an echoing chuckle from Jesse Garibaldi.

Rush was just glad that the other man was too far up to see his expression. He was sure the wave of displeasure and unease that hit him at the man’s unexpected appearance had slipped past his usual mask. As he worked to get the carefully indifferent look back in place, he realized a little belatedly that while Garibaldi might not have spied the look, the woman in his arms definitely had. Her expression told him as much. It was easy to see the curiosity in her baby blues. Easy to read the question on her partially parted lips. She was looking right at him, far too interested for comfort’s sake.

And she knows Jesse Garibaldi.

That changed everything. Even if Rush couldn’t really say what “everything” meant to start out with. It was enough to make his mouth set into a thin line, and he eased her to ground, then directed his attention up, speaking in the gruff, slightly angry voice he knew Garibaldi would expect.

“You just gonna stand up there and laugh at me, boss?” he called without looking up. “Or send down some help?”

“What?” Jesse replied. “Looked like you were doing fine without me.”

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“Hmm. Now that’s a damned fine question.”

Garibaldi stepped back and issued an order to someone while Rush mentally gritted his teeth. It really was a damned fine question. How the hell had Garibaldi tracked him there? And why? Who was Alessandra to the other man? Rush didn’t get a chance to come up with any answers before a pair of thick arms appeared overhead.

“Send my friend Al up again,” Garibaldi ordered. “Ernest here will tug her out without breaking one of her nails. Or one of his own, for that matter.”

Rush forced out a dry laugh. “I’m sure that’s foremost on Ernest’s mind.”

He turned back to Alessandra—for some reason it grated on him that Garibaldi had a nickname for her—and unceremoniously dropped down, slid his arms around her calves, then lifted her straight up. She let out a little squeak. She wobbled, too, and her hands slammed to his shoulders to steady herself. The effect was immediate. Overwhelming.

Her summery smell—light sweat, a kiss of salt and something else entirely—wafted up to him. Through him, somehow. Like he could taste it and absorb it. He almost wished he could do both for real.

Then her hands released his shoulders to stretch up to the man who waited above, and things grew even worse. With the motion, her shirt lifted, exposing her stomach. And just like that, it—she—was pressed to Rush’s face.

The smell of her had permeated his senses, but her skin...it seemed to permeate his very existence. Soft. Buttery. He couldn’t escape it. Hell. He didn’t want to. He wanted to turn his face so that his lips would meet her bared flesh instead of his cheek. He wished—like a crazy man, he was sure—that he didn’t have the beard so there was no barrier between them.

Then she was gone. Yanked up by Ernest and his meaty paws. Like an even crazier man, Rush felt a rush of resentment. Not quite jealousy. Not that he was going to admit, anyway. There was definite, undeniable annoyance at the loss of contact, though.

Been too long since you went out with a woman, eh, Atkinson?

He answered the silent, self-directed question in a mutter. “Clearly.”

“Did you say something to me?” Alessandra’s voice carried down, and when Rush looked up, he saw that she was hanging over the hole.

“Nope,” he lied. “Just eager to get the hell out.”

Garibaldi appeared beside the redhead, a sly smile visible on his face. And just as Rush did nearly every time he saw the man, he fought a bubbling fury. Garibaldi looked just like anyone else. Nondescript, even. Brown hair, tidily cut. Smooth face. Casual but expensive clothes.

It only made Rush resent him more. The man who was responsible for his father’s death ought to stick out. He didn’t deserve the exterior normalcy. Or even the smooth voice he directed Rush’s way now.

“You want Ernest to try to pull you up, too?” he asked.

“I think I’d rather dig my way own way out,” Rush said, covering his distaste by bending over to snag his hat and sunglasses from the dirt.

When he’d shoved both items back on, he looked up and saw that Garibaldi and Alessandra had slipped out of sight. A moment later, though, a thick piece of rope dropped over the edge. Rush gave it a tug, found it secure, and started to pull himself up. It reminded him unpleasantly of high school PE. Hand over hand, he climbed to the top, waving off Ernest’s offer of help.

“Well,” said Garibaldi. “Now I know that sitting at the bottom of a pit doesn’t help your mood any.”

Rush didn’t even have to try to curl his lip. “Think it would improve yours?”

His boss didn’t react. It was the kind of relationship they’d built over the last few weeks. Rush playing up the role of bad-tempered, slightly resentful underling—which barely scraped the surface of how he really felt about being near the other man—who always pushed the envelope. His tough-guy act was supposed to be a way into Garibaldi’s good graces without the need for brownnosing. Some men were insecure in their power and appreciated a suck-up, but it’d taken only a few days to figure out that wasn’t the case with Jesse Garibaldi. The man wanted people he could trust not to fold under pressure, and he was secure enough in his own hold over his shady business that he didn’t worry about being personally challenged.

It was all a game. Rush knew it. He was sure the other man thought of it that way, too.

But the difference between his awareness and mine is that I actually know what the object of the game is. He just thinks he does.

Rush adjusted his ball cap and met his boss’s eyes, deliberately avoiding a glance in Alessandra’s direction. No need to make an overt acknowledgment of her presence. If Jesse Garibaldi had something to say about her, he would.

“So. I missed our meeting,” Rush stated instead.

Garibaldi chuckled, then nodded toward the redhead. “Actually, it looks like you brought the meeting to me.”

Rush flicked a quick, indifferent glance in the woman’s direction. “I always thought you preferred brunettes.”

“Hey!” Alessandra protested. “I know what you’re implying, and I don’t—”

Garibaldi cut her off with another laugh. “Relax, Al. I’m afraid Rush’s manners are a little lacking, and his humor’s off-color.”

“You mean he’s a giant jerk?” the redhead snapped.

Now Rush did turn to face her, raising an eyebrow and speaking before he could think to stop himself. “A giant jerk who followed you into a hole in the ground just to save you.”

He tensed and waited for her to point out that he’d fallen in. Maybe to point out his somewhat foolish assumption that he’d thought she was tailing him through the woods. Instead, she scrunched up her face a little and turned to Garibaldi. Which irked Rush in the same way her nickname had. The two obviously knew each other well.

“I’m sorry, Jesse,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to insult your friend. Even though he insulted me.”

“Did he really jump in there to save you?” Garibaldi replied. “Sure doesn’t seem like his style. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this man do something that wasn’t to his own direct benefit.”

Rush snorted. “How am I supposed to get ahead if I’m always thinking about someone else?”

“True enough,” his boss said easily, then smiled at Alessandra. “Want to explain how you wound up in the hole in the first place?”

Rush stood back and waited—again—for the redhead to tell Garibaldi what had happened. Instead, she more or less left out his part in the events. She explained that she’d been lost, and that the final wrong turn had resulted in disaster.

Rush wanted to narrow his eyes. He had a feeling she was deliberately leaving out any mention of unintentional stalking and accusations of hit man status. He just didn’t know why. She sure as hell didn’t seem like the type who’d be interested in saving him a bit of embarrassment. Not that he couldn’t or wouldn’t play it off if she brought it up.

But still...

His gut told him she was hedging around the exact circumstances for some other reason. It made him more than curious, and he was so busy musing over it that he all but tuned out what Garibaldi was saying. It was only a very specific sentence that drew him back out of his own head and into the conversation.

“...so the two of you should be nice and cozy in the cabin,” his boss was saying. “It’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

Rush felt his forehead crease. “What?”

“You hit your head on the way down, Atkinson, or what?” the other man asked.

“Feel like I must’ve,” Rush muttered.

He glanced at Alessandra. She had a strange mix of emotions on her face. She looked nervous and apologetic, and both of those were laced with a hint of defiance. It only made Rush frown harder.

He sighed. “Sorry, boss. Back it up. Who’s staying in a cabin? And why?”

Garibaldi gave him a truly speculative look, and Rush straightened his shoulders a little, cursing the fact that he was giving the other man a reason to question even a single aspect of his cover. He couldn’t afford doubt. He needed his so-called boss to trust him. To rely on him. To give him access to whatever the hell he was working on, so that Rush could catch him in the act and promptly throw him in jail.

It was Alessandra who broke the silence by clearing her throat and speaking up. “Jesse was explaining that things are pretty busy in town now that tourist season is in full swing. He’s got some business associates staying at his place. Which he forgot when he invited me up for the week.”

“Total brain lapse,” Garibaldi confirmed. “Anyway. I feel terrible, but Al drove five hours from up near Seattle, and I didn’t want her to turn around and drive home, which is why I texted—or tried to, anyway—directions to one of my private mountainside cabins instead.”

Rush said nothing. His mind was momentarily overloaded with more questions and concerns. There was pretty much zero possibility that Garibaldi had “forgotten” the hordes of people in town. The man had his fingers in every piece of tourism pie in all of Whispering Woods. From the five-star lodge to the seasonal rentals throughout the town to the companies that ran off-road tours in the summer and taught ski lessons in the winter, there wasn’t a single damned thing that didn’t have his name attached to it somewhere. He even owned 90 percent of the real estate along Main Street. It was all a front. A clever way to hide the money he brought in through his drug smuggling business. But he was far, far too smart to be genuinely unaware of the things that allowed him to do what he wanted. So why would Garibaldi invite a “friend” into town, only to not be able to offer her a place to stay? Who was she to his boss? Who was she, in regard to his boss’s business?

A shadowy lick of wrongness crept in, and Rush had an urge to roll his shoulders to rid himself of it. He forced himself to stay still, though, and spoke in a dismissive voice. “Still not seeing what this has to do with me.”

Alessandra’s cheeks were a bit pink. “Jesse thought I might be more comfortable with a tour guide.”

Rush went silent again. The lick of wrongness became a roar of malcontent that demanded attention. Every other oddity aside...why would his boss invite this woman here only to immediately pass her off? Rush kept his lips pressed together until Garibaldi clapped him companionably on the back.

“Told you I had a special assignment for you, didn’t I?” said the other man.

This time, Rush didn’t hide his grimace of dissatisfaction. “Not in the slightest what I had in mind.”

Garibaldi’s eyes turned sharp. “Maybe not. But it might be just the leg up you are after.”

Rush didn’t like the dirty tingle down his spine. He’d made no secret of his desire to move up in Garibaldi’s world, but he couldn’t think of a good or pleasant reason for this particular assignment to help that along.

He turned to Alessandra, expecting her to be an ally in the protest. After all, she’d come a fair distance only to be handed over to a stranger by the very man she’d come to visit. But if she had objections, she didn’t voice them. The oddity of it struck Rush almost as hard as the feeling that something was very wrong. He tapped his thumb against his knee. Just once. Then nodded.

“All right,” he said slowly. For show. Like he was doing everyone a favor. “I’ll do it. I’ll play tour guide. But it damned well better be worth my while.”

He spun on his heel, grinding his teeth together with very real frustration. Dirt kicked up around him, but he didn’t let the need to cough take over. He didn’t look to see how closely Garibaldi, Alessandra and Ernest followed him, either. Though he wished he could.

He wanted to spin, wipe the speckles of dirt from his face and demand to know what the hell was going on. He knew too well that any kind of reaction would’ve been out of place with his projected persona. If Garibaldi was testing him, he wanted to pass. So he just kept going, shoving his way through the woods with vigor.

When he’d almost reached his Lada, though, he realized his trek had been uselessly vicious. A quick turn sideways told him that the two other men and the redhead had matched his pace. They were just coming out of the trees. Alessandra even smiled as Garibaldi said something and lifted a branch for her to step under.

Yet another spasm of irritation hit Rush.

He strode the rest of the way toward his truck, and made it as far as putting his fingers on the door handle before Garibaldi’s voice stopped him.

“Hang on, Atkinson,” said his boss. “Need to get you something from my car. Meet me over there in a sec.”

Wary—but not willing to take a chance on arguing—Rush dropped his arm and turned to the nondescript sedan on the other side of the road. As he walked toward it, he pretended not to hear the pleasant chatting that carried to his ears as Ernest retrieved Alessandra’s bags from her car. He ignored the big man when he came to the car and climbed into the driver’s seat, too. He also didn’t look over as Garibaldi promised the pretty redhead a tow truck ASAP, then excused himself. In fact, he didn’t move at all until his boss took a position beside him and cleared his throat.

“I know you’re not thrilled about this,” said the other man.

Rush grunted. “Nope. But you’re the boss. I’m just here to do as I’m told.”

“We both know that’s not how you work.”

“We both know I work, period.”

“True enough. You’re an exemplary employee.”

Internally, Rush snorted at the use of the word employee.

Aloud, he said, “An exemplary tour guide, you mean?”

“I need someone I can really trust here, Atkinson,” Garibaldi said.

Rush decided some skepticism was in order. “Gotta say that I honestly don’t get it, boss. You said she’s a friend and that you invited her up. If you’re too busy to show her around, that’s fine. I’m on board. And you know I’m not in the habit of questioning the stuff you want done...but I’m just not seeing why this is so significant.”

Wordlessly, Garibaldi cast a nearly blank look toward the Lada. Rush followed his gaze. Alessandra sat inside the vehicle now. Her eyes were forward, but it was easy to see that she was nervous, even from as many feet away as they were. She had her plump bottom lip sucked in, and her fingers twirled a piece of hair, then released it, then twirled it again.

An unusual twist of worry pricked at Rush.

“You sure this isn’t something you want to do yourself, boss?” he asked.

The other man reached out and opened the car door before he replied, “I’m sure. I really prefer to keep my hands clean.”

Rush’s throat constricted. “What do you mean?”

Garibaldi smiled a dark smile, then leaned a little closer. “Take her to the cabin where you were supposed to meet me. Find out what she knows about my operation. Then take care of her.”

Chapter 4

Alessandra breathed out, watching as Rush and Jesse continued their conversation. She was sure her instincts should be screaming at her to argue with what was about to happen. To protest against being carted away by a stranger. But something in her gut told her that Rush was the safer bet. It was strange. She’d known Jesse Garibaldi since they were kids. Their fathers had been buddies. Yet seeing him today—hearing him call her the old nickname—made her want to walk very quickly in the other direction. And that feeling that his invitation wasn’t a coincidence solidified even more.

Are you sure that’s not just a bias created by Dad’s letter? she asked herself.

As she thought about it, she bit her bottom lip so hard it hurt. Truthfully, it was a possibility. The last thirteen days definitely had her on edge. Suspicious of everyone and everything.

Except for a certain not-a-truck truck driver.

It was true. As uneasy as she’d been about the first sight of his weapon, her crazy run into the woods had been a knee-jerk reaction more than anything else.

She sneaked another quick look in his direction. In their direction. Then quickly looked away as she realized both men were looking at her, too. Jesse with a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes, and the brown-eyed stranger—whose first name Alessandra still didn’t know—from behind his sunglasses. She assumed his look was displeased. Brooding, even. Because as much as he’d tried to be dismissive about being ordered to be her own personal tour guide, she was 100 percent sure that he hadn’t been happy about it.

And why is Jesse ordering anyone around, anyway? she wondered.

She fought an urge to look yet again. The last time she’d seen him was at her mom’s funeral, and the interaction had been brief and specific to the situation. Words of condolence and a promise of getting together more often than they had in the past. But nothing had ever come of it. In fact, until now, Alessandra hadn’t even known where Jesse was living. And if it hadn’t been for the circumstances driving her forward, she was sure she would’ve found some excuse not to come at all. Aside from the friendship their fathers shared, she wasn’t sure they had enough in common to make maintaining the connection a priority.

Jesse was a few years older than she was, and even when they were younger—she a kid and he a teen—she’d regarded him with a strange kind of awe. Jesse had always been clean-cut. Mild-mannered and average-looking. Ready with a smile. A go-with-the-flow guy. But she’d seen him manipulate his own father so easily that no one in the room noticed. She’d been sure he could tell someone—anyone, maybe—that black was red and red was white and that they would just buy it. He that was slick. That smart. Always determined to get his way. And rarely didn’t get it.

She, on the other hand, was anything but slick. She spoke her mind when she shouldn’t. Her mom had told her ad nauseam that her middle name ought to have been “stubborn,” and Alessandra couldn’t deny it. She’d turn down a deal if it didn’t sit right, and would probably do so to the detriment of her own livelihood. That wasn’t to say that she was over-the-top altruistic. It was just that she let her emotions lead it all—her heart, her head and her mouth on far too many occasions. It was even how she ran her surf shop. On gut instinct rather than savvy.

Used to run.

She flinched at the mental reminder. Eventually, the insurance would kick in. Eventually, she would get her home and her shop and her life back. She’d rebuild.

“But that’s not the point,” she said out loud to herself.

But what is the point?

She wasn’t really sure. Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. The men were focused on each other now, instead of her, thank goodness. Discussing something intently.

She breathed out. Maybe the point was just that she didn’t feel comfortable with Jesse. That slight bit of awe she’d felt as a kid had morphed into something else. Intimidation, maybe? He still had that same easygoing demeanor. It was clear that he’d put his wits to good use, and his business in Whispering Woods was thriving. The welcome sign on the way into town even had his company logo on it. But something felt off. The gut that Alessandra used for her business transactions was screaming it. Jesse had lackeys, for crying out loud. Like Ernest, the terrifyingly burly man who seemed to communicate in grunts. And Mr. Sunglasses, who she realized was currently striding toward the not-truck with a scowl.

“Crap,” she muttered, quickly turning her gaze to her lap.

But her concern over being caught staring was unfounded. As the sour-faced man flung open the door and climbed in, he didn’t even glance her way. He didn’t speak as he started the truck, either. And the negativity was rolling off him like a dark cloud. If Alessandra hadn’t been so worried about his reaction, she might’ve tried to roll down the window in an attempt to cleanse the air.

She knew she should probably be asking for some more details about their destination. How far away was it? Would there be a phone? Other amenities? Would anyone else be staying there, too, or was she stuck with the stone-faced—but undeniably attractive—driver? But her usually overexcited tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. And after a few more moments of weighted silence, she settled for closing her eyes and performing one of her mom’s favorite breathing exercise instead.

In-in-out. In-in-out.

Deep in.

Out-out-in. Out-out-in.

It was almost enough to distract her. Or it might’ve been, if the man called Atkinson hadn’t chosen to cut through her moment with a throat-clear. At the sound, Alessandra’s eyes flew open, and her head swiveled toward her reluctant tour guide. He was staring straight ahead, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

“So which is it?” he said, his abruptly gruff tone making her blink.

“Which is what?” she replied.

“Al, or Alessandra?” He sounded annoyed by his own question.

Alessandra frowned. “What?”

“Your name. Which do you prefer?”

“No. I mean. I know what you’re asking, but—” She cut herself off and shook her head. “Never mind. A lot of people call me Al.”

“Like Jesse.”

“Yes.”

He went silent again. Brooding again.

The moments ticked by, the air thickening with some unnameable tension.

Alessandra breathed out and started to close her eyes once more. But her companion spoke again, his tone just as irritated as it had been a minute earlier.

“Think I’ll just stick with calling you Red,” he told her.

“Fine by me,” she replied curtly.

She tried again to shut her eyes, but then narrowed them at him instead.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“What do you prefer to be called? Mr. Sunglasses or Surly Stranger?”

“I’m not surly,” he said.

“You are,” she argued. “But that wasn’t an answer to my question.”

“It’s Rush.”

“What’s a rush?”

He tipped his head in her direction for the briefest second, and she could swear his lips were twitching with amusement. “My name.”

Her face warmed. “Oh. That’s...”

“Unusual,” he filled in.

“Yes.”

She noticed that his hands had relaxed a little.

“My dad named me,” he explained. “He said my mom was always in a hurry. Couldn’t even wait until she got to the hospital to have me. I was born in a convenience store parking lot.”

Alessandra surprised herself by laughing. “That can’t possibly be true.”

“I’m afraid it is.” His tone was rueful now, rather than resentful. “Probably the source of my surliness.”

“I thought you weren’t surly.”

“Yeah, well...maybe just today. It hasn’t exactly been ideal for me.”

“Me neither. Falling into a hole then being pawned off on a stranger wasn’t exactly on my to-do list for the day.”

He paused, one thumb moving restlessly on the wheel. “What was on your list?”

The question was casual, and the paranoid part of Alessandra’s brain asked if it might be a little too offhand.

Relax, she said to herself. It’s just small talk.

She let out a silent exhale. “Well. I guess I assumed that Jesse would show me the town. Maybe take me for a bite to eat so we could catch up.”

His thumb stopped its movement, and his hands squeezed tighter. “You’re old friends?”

Alessandra frowned. She was starting to think his fingers were his tell.

“Our parents were,” she said. “What about you? How long have you known Jesse?”

The fingers held their knuckle-whitening position. “Just a few weeks. I was looking for work, and a mutual acquaintance referred me.”

“So you’re in property development, too?”

“Hardly.” His hands relaxed, just marginally.

“What do you do, then?” Alessandra asked.

Tight fingers. “Anything your friend asks me to, apparently.”

The words had an undeniably ominous ring to them, and Alessandra couldn’t suppress a shiver. What instructions had Jesse left him with? And just how far would he take “anything”?

She swallowed nervously and tried to push down the need to open the door and jump out. “Sorry.”

Rush turned his head her way, and she sensed some heavy scrutiny behind those mirrored sunglasses of his.

“Sorry?” he repeated.

“I’m sure you’ve got better things to do,” she replied. “So if you want to just leave me at the cabin or whatever, I get it.”

“And risk getting fired?” He said it lightly, but his hands gave him away—they were so tense that it looked painful.

She forced a laugh. “I’m sure Jesse wouldn’t fire you for not wanting babysit me.”

“Oh, yeah? When was the last time you told him he couldn’t have what he wanted?”

Alessandra couldn’t help but notice that the question reflected her own earlier thoughts on Jesse. But she didn’t comment on her wholehearted agreement.

“Honestly,” she said instead, “if I’d known he was going to be too busy to have me here, I wouldn’t have come.”

As soon as the words were out, she realized they weren’t true. Her reason for accepting Jesse’s invitation had nothing to do with the man himself, and everything to do with her need for answers about her father’s note. Nothing would’ve kept her away. It occurred to her—a little belatedly—that Rush might be able to give her a clue. Or at the very least, help her decide whether or not Jesse, the note and her father’s death really were connected. The way she was starting to dread they might be.

She tried to think of a way to steer the conversation in a direction that would flow naturally in the direction she’d need it to take. But for some reason, she couldn’t think of a subtle segue into, Hey. Does your boss’s business include anything shady? You know...like the untimely death of an old friend and a creepy, postmortem note that led me here? Thankfully, though, she didn’t have to. Rush kind of the led things there himself.

“So you were saying that your parents and Jesse’s parents were friends?” he said, picking up the previous thread with that the same too-casual tone.

She nodded; there was nothing to hide about their shared pasts. “Our dads were, anyway. Before they each died.”

Rush’s jaw ticked, and a quick look at his hands told Alessandra that the topic was far from comfortable for him. It made her curious, and for an odd second, knowing why seemed more important than anything else.

“My dad was killed in an accident,” she added, carefully gauging his reaction. “Jesse’s was killed in a police incident a little while before that. Less than a month apart, actually.”

Now Rush’s profile was as rigid as his grip. “Sorry to hear.”

“It was a long time ago now. But it was definitely a hard time in both our lives.”

“It made you close?”

The question sounded almost like an accusation, and Alessandra frowned, but shook her head and answered honestly anyway. “No. I was only eleven—almost twelve—at the time. Jesse was fifteen or sixteen. So not a ton of common ground.”

Rush persisted. “Still. A loss like that could create a bond in spite of an age gap.”

“I guess it could. But I had my mom, and we leaned on each other a lot. And Jesse...” She trailed off, thinking about it.

What had happened to him after his dad died? Alessandra had fuzzy memories of the senior Garibaldi’s funeral. She knew Jesse had been there. She recalled specifically that he was a pallbearer, and that he’d given a brief eulogy. And after that, she couldn’t remember much of anything. It seemed funny, now, that she hadn’t really put much thought into what he’d gotten up to. Her own father’s passing had happened so quickly after, and her plate had been full of her own problems. The only thing she really had a clear memory of was a phone conversation she’d overheard about a year after the fact. Right that second, she could actually recall it quite vividly. She’d walked into the kitchen to grab an apple from the bowl on the counter. Her mom, dressed in her typical flowing skirt and embroidered blouse, had been standing with her back to Alessandra.

“I don’t know,” her mom said into the phone. “Jesse always seemed like a good kid. But my client was utterly sure that she saw him.”

There was a pause while the person on the other end said something Alessandra couldn’t hear.

Then her mom shook her head. “No. She saw an old photo of the kids and us on my desk. I think she commented by accident.”

Another pause. Another headshake.

“No,” her mom said. “A court stenographer.”

At that moment, Alessandra had accidentally dropped her apple to the floor, and her mom had turned, then quickly diverted the phone conversation to a new topic. At the time, it had piqued Alessandra’s interest only mildly. She’d had other things going on. A new, cute boy at school who she and her best friend both liked. A dismal grade in PE. And all the other general drama of being thirteen.

Maybe you should’ve paid a little more attention.

“Hey, Red? You still with me?” Rush prodded, and Alessandra realized she’d been sitting in silence for a little too long.

“I’m here,” she replied quickly.

“You didn’t finish your sentence,” he told her. “Jesse what?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “With his dad gone, it couldn’t have been easy. I think he was in a bit of trouble of some kind.”

“Trouble.” It was a flat statement rather than a question, and it was followed by silence, which made Alessandra turn her head sharply toward him.

Is it just me, she thought, or did this conversation get a little more intense than the average bit of small talk?

She waited for him to say something else. Maybe another question that would confirm her thought. But he was quiet, his eyes focused out the windshield. His jaw was still, his firm-looking lips pressed together. He didn’t even seem to notice the prolonged look she was giving him.

Her eyes drifted to his hands. They were moving in a pulsing squeeze. Rush was tense—brooding and surly again—no doubt about it.

Alessandra worried at her lower lip with her teeth. What was it that made him like that, over and over? As she stared at his fingers, she realized she’d been subconsciously leaning toward that idea that it was something to do with her. Maybe it didn’t make a lot of sense. They didn’t know each other in the slightest. But he’d seemed extra strained when asking about her nickname. And again when she’d suggested just leaving her at the cabin and told him what she’d thought her plans might be. And a third time when talking about her father’s death.

Alessandra had no clue why the details of her life would bother Rush Atkinson. But the evidence seemed to be pointing that way.

But not a second ago, she reminded herself.

His last bit of tension was definitely centered on the idea that Jesse had been in trouble fifteen years earlier.

Why? Then her mind suddenly seized on a different explanation for his repeated little tell, and she wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. It’s not me. It’s Jesse.

Jesse’s nickname for her. What Jesse was going to do with her while she was in town. And Jesse’s father’s death.

It was Rush’s boss that made him so tense. But why? What did it mean? And was it in any way helpful to Alessandra’s own search for answers?

She opened her mouth—though she wasn’t sure exactly what she was going to say because no way could she just come out and ask—but snapped it shut quickly as Rush pulled off the main road and onto a gravel one. It wasn’t the change in scenery that gave her pause. After all, she was expecting to be taken to a cabin, and had assumed it wouldn’t be right along the street that led into Whispering Woods. What did make her stare was that fact that she recognized the scenery. The trees overhead that arched into each other. The wide patches of oddly white rocks on either side of the gravel. And of course, the cabin itself, which flashed into view between the trees.

It was small and made of natural cedar. It sat up on the hills, nestled against the rock, and Alessandra knew for a fact that the veranda in the front was bigger than the building itself, and that there were exactly forty-seven stairs leading up to it. Just like she knew—even though she supposed a lot had probably changed in three decades—that the windows had once held cream-colored curtains, flecked with tiny bluebells, and that the double bed inside had once had a matching duvet. She recalled it perfectly. Because her parents had an entire collage of photos dedicated to the place. It was their honeymoon spot. The same one mentioned in the torn-up, patched-together note.

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