Czytaj książkę: «Worth The Risk»

To my family, who accompany me

on every journey.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

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

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz-buzz-buzz.

The insistent vibration so closely matched the one in Meredith Jamison’s head that she didn’t immediately recognize that the two things were separate.

“Ugh,” she groaned and rolled over on the couch.

The couch.

Why was she sleeping there? She had a perfectly comfortable mattress just one room away.

Right, she remembered. Wine.

The market research company where she temped had just landed a big client and she’d let herself be talked into celebrating. The third glass had led to a cab home, which led to the couch. Then the dull throb in her head. Thank God her tiny apartment in Bowerville, Washington—a small city outside of Seattle—didn’t have an east-facing window. Sunlight would’ve killed her.

“Ugh,” Meredith said again.

She worked to extract herself from sleep mode, but it still took her a few more seconds to clue in that the incessant buzzing wasn’t random. It was her phone, lodged somewhere between her uncooperative body and the lumpy cushions. She longed to block out the sound with a pillow. But there was no pillow. Because she wasn’t in her bed.

Dammit.

Meredith eased herself to a sitting position, shoved the lingering vestiges of her hangover to the back of her foggy mind and pushed a hand into the couch. Several forceful digs put the phone within reach. She closed her fingers on the noisy little device and yanked it out, shooting it a dirty look as it stopped buzzing before she could answer it.

Her irritation only lasted as long as it took to scroll to the missed call.

Tamara.

Seeing her sister’s name on the little screen made her heart hurt as much as her head. Meredith genuinely couldn’t recall the last time she’d spoken with her. Which was worse than being able to pinpoint an exact split in their close relationship. Not so long ago, they’d spoken every day. Then every week. Finally, that dissolved into a monthly lunch. And now...the rift seemed impossibly wide. So wide that Meredith hesitated to call her back.

Taking a minute to think about it, she closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for whatever lecture Tamara undoubtedly wanted to deliver. Though younger by two years, the woman was always brimming with advice. Or criticism thinly disguised as advice, as the case often happened to be.

Meredith had never been sure if that particular dynamic—advisor and advisee—was the result of her sister’s wildly successful marriage counseling program, or if it was the other way around. Either way, Tamara was never at a loss for telling Meredith what she ought to be doing. But they were still family, and as crazy as Tamara made her, Meredith couldn’t ignore her. With a sigh, she pressed her thumb onto the call-back button, then lifted the phone her ear. It rang three times, stopped abruptly, clicked a few times and went dead.

Meredith pulled her cell away from her face and stared at it. She wouldn’t have been all that surprised if Tamara sent her straight to voice mail, but the quick hang-up was a little much.

Besides which, she’s the one who called me.

Annoyed, Meredith hit redial. This time, it rang once before her sister’s breathy voice came through.

“Hello?”

“Tam—”

“Merri? Is that you?” The abrupt reply was barely louder than a whisper.

Even more than the hushed tone and the tremor in the question, the nickname worried Meredith. It was an old one. One that Tamara used when they were partners in crime, united against whatever trouble they were causing at any given moment in childhood. And she hadn’t used it for fifteen years or more. Hearing it now ate away at any irritation Meredith had felt just moments earlier.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Oh, thank God.” Her sister’s voice shook. “I need your help. I snuck the phone out, but—”

There was a click, and the line was silent again.

Help?

Worry tickled every part of Meredith’s body.

Had Tamara ever asked her for help in a desperate tone like that? She doubted it. Her sister was a type-A go-getter. If she did request assistance, it was because she wanted it, not needed it. And very likely, she thought she would be doing Meredith a favor by accepting whatever her sister offered.

Meredith shoved aside the thoughts and the questions, knowing the only way to get answers was to ask. She dialed Tamara’s number again.

Voice mail. Damn.

She tried one more time with the same result.

Double damn.

“What’s your deal, Tamara?” she said to the silent phone.

She’d automatically assumed that whatever Tamara needed had to do with her internet-based business. Everything did. The all-consuming world of Tamara’s business—Get Better with Billing—never ceased to amaze Meredith. And not in a good way. Tamara had legions of followers and a whole host of haters. Hate mail and stalker fans. A gated house and money to burn. Every part of the marriage-counseling business impacted every part of her existence. Which, as it so happened, often extended to Meredith. The second someone found out Tamara was her sister, nothing else mattered.

Tamara Billing, celebrity counselor.

Meredith Jamison, celebrity counselor’s sister.

It was clear who played the role of helper and who played the role of helpee.

Concern crept into her heart, and she tried to dismiss it. Wouldn’t her sister have called her sooner if something was wrong? Really wrong? And why was Tamara sneaking around with her own phone? The emotional distance between them wasn’t so great that Tamara would think she couldn’t reach out if she was in some kind of trouble. At least not as far as Meredith thought.

She cursed the fact that her sister had done away with her home phone in favor of her cell and scrolled reluctantly through her address book again until she found her brother-in-law’s name and office phone number. She’d do just about anything to avoid calling the man. The animosity was mutual, and likely—no, not just likely, definitely—the biggest source of discord in this sisterly relationship. But if anyone would know what was wrong with Tamara, it would be Nick. The one thing she couldn’t fault him for was his unwavering love for her sister.

With gritted teeth, Meredith dialed.

A crisp, feminine voice answered halfway through the first ring. “Johnson, Johnson and Levi.”

Meredith recognized the woman’s voice—Hettie had been Nick’s office assistant for years—but in an attempt to keep things impersonal, she replied in an equally professional tone. “Nicholas Billing, please.”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Billing isn’t currently with us.”

For a heartbeat, Meredith thought the woman was announcing Nick’s death. Then she clued in. “He doesn’t work there anymore?”

“Meredith? Is that you?”

She cringed as she realized that in her surprise, she’d given herself away. “Yes, it’s me.”

“Nick didn’t tell you he left?”

“Nick doesn’t tell me much nowadays.”

This time the pause was more than a little awkward. “Oh. Right. You know...we still miss you working around here.”

Meredith bit back an urge to remind the woman it had been five years, and instead asked, “Why did Nick leave?”

“I wish I knew. He said he was taking a trip. But he cleared out his desk and cut off his cell, too. Said he’d be getting a new number. When I made a joke about wondering if it was a permanent vacation, he didn’t seem amused. I don’t think anyone else even noticed. But a week’s gone by and he hasn’t come back— Oh, hang on.”

Hold music filled the earpiece and Meredith tapped her short, unpolished nails on the couch cushion beside her. Her brother-in-law’s departure from the law firm surprised her. He’d been working there for a decade—straight out of law school, in fact—and had to be close to making partner. Had he quit? She couldn’t imagine he’d been fired.

“Miss?” Hettie’s voice came back on the line, and it had become clipped once more. “I’m afraid I don’t have another number for Mr. Billing.”

Meredith frowned. “Is someone listening?”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m afraid I can’t give you any more details, but Mr. Howard has been assigned all of Mr. Billing’s cases, if you’d like to speak to him instead?”

The other woman didn’t wait for a reply and the hold music drifted through again. Meredith waited impatiently, and when Hettie came back on, it was in a much quieter, far more muffled voice.

“Sorry. The police just got here. And it’s kind of weird...they just asked about Nick, too.”

Meredith’s worry came back with a vengeance. She beat it back and reminded herself that Nick’s specialty as a defense attorney was white-collar fraud. He was considered an expert in the field, and though the police hated having to go up against him, they often used him as a consultant for their side. Or at least they had, back in the days when she worked with Nick. Still...

“Are they there for a case?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“I don’t know. I don’t have them booked in for anything. But maybe. You know Nick. He likes to keep the balance. I’m sorry, Meredith. I have to hang up. I hope everything’s okay.”

The line went dead, leaving Meredith staring down at the phone.

The police are looking for Nick, right at the same second Tamara comes asking for help? A coincidence?

Possibly. But if not, it added a whole new level of concern. Of course, if Tamara needed help with something Nick-related, Meredith was the last person she’d call. So that brought her right back to Tamara’s counseling business. And try as she might, Meredith couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. She let out another sigh and decided that the best thing to do was to swallow her pride and make the three-bus trip across town to her sister’s mini-mansion. Before she could change her mind, she slipped into some jeans, ran a brush over her hair, brushed her teeth, then snapped up her purse and made her way the door. She swung it open, then froze.

On the other side, blocking the exit, stood a man. A stranger. Who, in spite of his slightly slumped stance, had to be well over six feet tall. At just a hair’s breadth over five foot ten, Meredith found it impossible not to notice when a man was that tall.

Even in heels, she thought, I’d need to look up at him.

And standing across from him like this, she felt damn near petite. Especially factoring in the wide cut of his shoulders and the way he took up the entire door frame.

He cleared his throat and slid his sunglasses up—which were entirely unnecessary anyway—from his face to sit on his dark, near-black hair, showing off the clearest blue eyes she’d ever seen.

An unexpected tingle of attraction swept through Meredith, temporarily overriding the ache in her head and filling it with dizziness instead.

Definitely too much wine.

Except his gaze raked over her, too, moving from her messy ponytail to her plain but fitted T-shirt to her slim-cut jeans. It was an appreciative look. One that said the immediate attraction wasn’t one-sided.

But there was also something about the way he took in every detail of her appearance that made Meredith think he never missed a thing. Which finally reminded her that as much as she was enjoying ogling him, she had no idea who he was or what he was doing on her doorstep.

Probably got the wrong apartment number.

The neighborhood where she lived wasn’t fantastic, but the one thing her building did have going for it was the glorified bouncer of a doorman. He wouldn’t let in a stranger, not without buzzing him up.

Meredith took a breath, cleared her throat and—sounding far too awkward considering it was her house and he was the one who didn’t belong—asked, “Um. Can I, um, help you? With something?”

His reply was a rumble that matched the day-old growth of beard on his ruddy cheeks. “Depends.”

She stared at him. “On?”

“On whether or not you’re Tamara Billing’s sister.”

And just like that, the vague worry that something was wrong swelled to a crescendo. The man standing in front of her was either a cop bearing bad news, or he was the source of the bad news himself. What she needed to do was find out which one applied.

* * *

Private investigator Samuel Potter watched the changing expressions on the blonde’s face with interest. Puzzlement. Irritation. Fear. Resolve. Then schooled blankness.

Mesmerizing.

The word popped into his mind, then stuck.

He hadn’t been expecting her to be so pretty. Or for her to have a soft, feminine voice that wrapped around him like silk and held him hostage. He hadn’t thought too much about her at all, actually. Except in terms of being a starting point for his missing-persons investigation, of course.

The second she opened the door, though, he’d been unable to stop himself from dragging his eyes over the length of those oh-so-long, trim legs, then up to her slim waist—visible even under that plain shirt—then across the swell of her breasts to that tied-up pile of hair.

Sam ground his teeth together.

Finding the target was his goal. Finding the target’s sister attractive...was not.

Focus.

He’d already lost the element of surprise, which was so key in getting people to answer questions honestly. Not that he assumed Meredith Jamison would be a liar, but he knew from experience that the more time people had to prepare, the more hesitant their replies became.

“Are you?” he persisted.

He was already sure of the answer. Her initial reaction had given it away. But Sam needed her to confirm it anyway. Thoroughness. A necessary part of his investigation.

“Am I what?” she replied.

Sam fought an unprofessional eye roll. “Are you Tamara’s sister?”

She bristled visibly.

She doesn’t like being the sister of an internet celebrity.

Sam noted that fact and automatically stored it in the back of his mind; it was the kind of thing that might come in handy later. His business was all about the details—reading people and using their “tells” to get to the truth.

“I do have a name.” Her tone was just shy of defiant, and Sam noted that, too.

“Which I’m hoping is Meredith Jamison,” he said drily.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you hoping my name is Meredith Jamison?”

Sam blinked. He wasn’t used to be challenged. Just his physical presence—six foot three, two hundred and ten pounds and perpetually scowling—made people back down. The attractive woman in front of him showed no sign of budging. If anything, her face grew more stubborn by the second.

Great.

“Well?” she prompted.

Sam suppressed a groan. What he needed to do was come up with a way of convincing Meredith it would be in her best interest to help him out. Which it was, of course. Her sister was missing, even if she didn’t know it yet, and Sam was her best bet at finding her.

He tried to relax his body, to make himself appear as open as possible. He even managed to lift one corner of his mouth in a smile.

“Assuming you’re Ms. Jamison... I just have a few questions about your sister. Easy-peasy. Then I’ll get out of your way.”

“What kind of questions?” She clearly didn’t buy his feigned pleasantness in the least.

“When was the last time you saw or spoke to Tamara?”

“Why?”

Sam clamped his jaw down tightly for a frustrated second, then released it. “Do you always need to know the why of things?”

“I do when those things involve a man showing up on my doorstep asking about my sister.”

Sam couldn’t blame her for her defensiveness or for the fear that lay underneath it. But he also couldn’t go into detail about his investigation. The confidentiality clause requested by his client prohibited him from disclosing more than the vaguest details. It tied his hands and made his job that much harder.

“There’s no cause for alarm, Ms. Jamison,” Sam ventured. “I’m just trying to get in touch with Tamara.”

“Fine. I’m guessing you have some ID to go along with the rest of those questions, then?”

“ID?” he repeated.

“A wallet? A badge, maybe?”

She definitely knows something. And she thinks you’re a cop. Sam examined her face for a moment, then amended the thought. No, not quite. She knows something and she’s trying to figure out whether or not you’re a cop.

He just wasn’t sure which answer she wanted. The truth—that he’d once been an officer, but wasn’t any longer—certainly wouldn’t do.

“Do I need ID to ask questions?” He kept his tone as friendly as he could manage.

Meredith stepped backward, and he knew his window of opportunity was about to close.

And so was the door. Literally.

He realized it with about a second to spare. Sam lifted his hand, intending to close his fingers on the door so he could hold it open. Instead, they landed on Meredith’s wrist. They closed on her silken skin. The unexpected feel of it under Sam’s rough hand sent his pulse skyrocketing. Desire jolted through him, sucking the air from his lungs.

Slowly, he brought his gaze up to Meredith’s face. Her eyes were wide with a surprise that matched his own, and they were as pretty as the rest of her. A liquid green that reminded Sam of the ocean at midnight. Drown-in-me dangerous.

As Sam watched, she drew in a breath and the tip of her pink tongue came out to lick the edge of her bottom lip. Then she whipped her arm from his loose grasp and slammed the door in his face.

For a long second after it happened, Sam stood frozen to the spot, processing. He’d just violated about a half a dozen of his own on-the-job policies, and the result was an epic failure. He hadn’t solicited a single piece of information or acquired the slightest hint as to where to go to next. The only thing that would make it worse was if the girl panicked and contacted the local authorities. There was nothing Sam hated more than cutting forcibly through red tape in order to get the job done. Especially the most basic of jobs, like this one.

He took a breath, counted to thirteen—because ten wasn’t quite enough—and reminded himself that Meredith was currently his one and only lead. Even if he put that aside, he’d also taken a hefty advance payment from his client. He would work as hard as he could to trace the target. So he couldn’t walk away, even if he wanted to.

Is that what you want to do? Just walk away?

He flexed his hand. It still tingled from the brief contact. It screamed of a precarious road ahead, should he choose to pursue his investigation via Meredith Jamison. He should want to walk away, just for that reason alone. But he didn’t want to.

His eyes sought the closed door.

To knock, or not to knock, that is the—

The thought cut off abruptly as one noisy crash, then a second, echoed through the door. Silence followed the bangs.

What the hell was that?

Every protective instinct Sam had roared to life.

“Ms. Jamison!” he called as his fist hit the door.

No answer.

He thumped again. “Ms. Jamison! Meredith!”

Still nothing. He rattled the handle. Locked. He shook the knob harder.

“Meredith!”

Break down the door!

With a heave, Sam obeyed the self-issued command, slamming himself into the wood. The frame rattled, but held. He took several steps back, then ran at the door, shoulder first, his full body weight behind the second attempt. This time, his effort paid off. The wood buckled then cracked, and at the same time, the hinges ripped from the wall. For a moment, Sam and the door stayed suspended in place. Then they both crashed inward.

Ignoring the sharp ache in his shoulder, Sam pushed himself to his feet and put his hand on his sidearm. Caution and subtlety were already a write-off. He moved through the apartment quickly, room to room, calling her name as he searched.

Bedroom. Empty.

Bathroom. Empty.

Kitchen, closets, living room. Empty, empty, empty.

Then he spotted a shattered vase on the floor beside the patio door. He moved toward it quickly, found the latch undone and slid open the glass. With a careful look up and down, then side to side, Sam stepped outside. A large potted plant had fallen over, its contents spilling onto the deck. Another lay in pieces, red clay littering the ground.

For a panicked second, he thought Meredith had been taken forcibly, but his brain argued against it, pointing out the details. Aside from the plants and the vase, nothing indicated a struggle. There had been no screams. And an intruder wouldn’t have taken the time to shut the patio door.

She’d made a run for it.