“Don’t tell me you haven’t felt this heat between us,” she said.

Stacy held her breath, waiting for Patrick to lie.

“I’ve felt it,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

She leaned back to look up at him. She wanted to see his face, to read all the emotion there.

“I am attracted to you. But duty doesn’t always allow me to do the things I want.”

Heaven save her from logical, steadfast men. “You’ll be right here with me. You said yourself we can’t do anything else until the morning.” She took his hand and kissed his palm. “I need you tonight. And I think you need me.”

Patrick’s eyes met hers, the intensity of his gaze pinning her back against the pillows and stealing her breath. “If you’re sure this is what you want,” he said. “Because once this starts between us, I don’t know if I can stop …”

Rocky Mountain

Rescue

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CINDI MYERS is the author of more than fifty novels. When she’s not crafting new romance plots, she enjoys skiing, gardening, cooking, crafting and daydreaming. A lover of small-town life, she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in the Colorado mountains.

To Delores Fossen — my friend, cheerleader and best roommate ever.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Excerpt

Chapter One

When the first gunshots sounded, Stacy Giardino ran toward them. Not because she was eager to face gunfire, but because her three-year-old son, Carlo, had been playing in the front of the house, where the shots seemed to be coming from. “Carlo!” she screamed, and tore down the hallway toward the massive great room, where the boy liked to run his toy cars over the hills and valleys of the leather furniture and pretend he was racing in the mountains.

Men’s voices shouted over one another between bursts of gunfire. One of the family’s bodyguards ran past her, automatic weapon at the ready. Stacy barely registered his presence; she had to reach Carlo.

The living room of the luxurious Colorado vacation home was a wreck of overturned furniture. Stuffing poured from the cushions of one of the massive leather armchairs and a heavy crystal old-fashioned glass lay on its side in the middle of the rug, ice cubes scattered around it like glittering dice. But whatever had happened here, the combatants had moved on; the room was deserted, and the tattoo of automatic weapons fire sounded from deeper within the interior of the mansion.

“Carlo?” Stacy called, fighting panic. If any of those stupid men had hurt her son, she would tear them apart with her bare hands.

“Mama?”

The frightened little voice almost buckled her knees. “Carlo? Where are you, honey?”

“Mama, I’m scared.”

Stacy followed his voice to a dim corner under a built-in desk. She knelt and peered into the kneehole space—into the frightened brown eyes of her little boy.

She held out her arms and he came to her, his arms encircling her neck and his face buried against her shoulder. She patted his back and breathed in the little-boy smells of baby shampoo and peanut butter. “Who were those men, Mama?” he whispered. “They came running in, and they had guns.”

“I don’t know who they were, darling. And it doesn’t matter.” The attackers could have been law enforcement agents, members of a rival crime family or different factions of the Giardino family turned against one another. Stacy didn’t care. They were all part of the cruel, violent world of men that she had to navigate through every day. That was what life was like when you married into the mob—always running and hiding, never knowing who you could trust.

The family had come to Colorado on vacation, but there was no getting away from the reality of their life, from the danger. Her father-in-law, Sam Giardino, had been at the top of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list ever since his escape from prison the year before. Which was why they were staying here, on this remote mountain estate outside of Telluride, instead of in a condo near the resort like normal tourists.

And even while relaxing, Sam was directing the family “business,” cutting deals, making threats and building up his evil empire. Putting everyone around him in more danger.

They could all do away with each other, for all she cared. The only other person who meant anything to her was Carlo.

She stood, straining to lift the boy, who was getting almost too big for her to carry. “I’m going to take you some place safe,” she told him. “Just hang on to Mommy, okay?”

He nodded his agreement and she headed back down the hall, toward the stairs to the basement, where the safe room was located. The man who’d built this house—some billionaire who was a friend of Sam’s, or who owed him a favor, since men like her father-in-law never had real friends—had built the concrete bunker and stocked it like those preppers she’d read about, people who were waiting for the end of the world.

Maybe this was the end of her world, she thought. Her husband, Sam’s son, Sammy Giardino, had been battling his father for months now. Maybe those arguments had erupted into all-out war and Sammy was trying to wrest control of the family “business.” She wouldn’t bet against her father-in-law in that conflict; Sammy only thought he was tough. His father was the hardest, coldest man she’d ever known. He’d even pledged to kill his own daughter after she’d testified against him in federal court.

When she reached the top of the stairs, Carlo shifted against her. “They’re not shooting anymore,” he said.

Carlo was right; the gunfire had ceased. Muffled voices came from the back of the house, but they sounded more like normal conversation than angry outbursts. Should she move toward them and try to find out what was going on?

She stroked her son’s soft blond hair. “What did the men look like, Carlo? The ones with the guns?”

“They were really big, and they had helmets covering their faces.”

Not any of the thugs Sam Giardino employed, then. She’d never known them to wear helmets. These men sounded like law enforcement, maybe a SWAT team. They’d found Sam’s hiding place at last. Would they take Sammy away this time, too? She had no idea if federal agents could tie her husband to any of the Giardino family crimes. Women weren’t supposed to concern themselves with the “business” side of things. In any case, Stacy never wanted to know.

She started down the stairs. She’d expected to meet others moving toward the safe room. Where was Sam’s mistress, Veronica, and the cook, Angela, and the guards whose job it was to protect the women? Surely the cops wouldn’t have gotten to them all.

But here she was, all alone with Carlo. Nothing new about that. Even in a room full of Giardinos she was the outsider, the one who wasn’t one of them. They tolerated her and she tolerated them, but none of them would have been sorry to see the last of her.

How ironic to think she might be the one to survive this day. To escape. The thought made her heart beat faster. For four years, all she’d wanted was to get away from the hold the Giardinos had on her. She wanted to start over, somewhere safe with her son, where no one knew her and she knew no one. She didn’t need other people in her life; she only needed Carlo.

As soon as the coast was clear—as soon as whoever had attacked the house had left—she’d find a car and drive as far away as she could. Maybe she’d even go overseas somewhere. She’d get a new identity, and a job. She’d rent an apartment, or maybe a little house. Carlo could go to school and they’d have a normal life. Just the two of them. Dreams like that had kept her sane all these years she’d been trapped. The idea that she might finally make them come true renewed her strength, and she all but ran toward the basement.

The basement was dark, but she didn’t dare risk turning on the light. She groped along the wall, toward the hidden door at the back that led into the safe room. Inside, she’d be able to watch the other rooms in the house on closed-circuit television and see what was going on. The room had its own generator, its own ventilation, air-conditioning and heating system and enough food and water to sustain a whole family for a month. She and Carlo wouldn’t need to leave until she was sure they would be safe.

She was halfway across the room, feeling her way around a stack of packing boxes, when she froze, heart climbing her throat at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The tread was heavy—a big man—and he was moving slowly. Stealthily.

She cradled Carlo’s face against her chest. “Shh,” she whispered in his ear.

Light flooded the room. She pressed herself against the wall, hidden by the boxes, and blinked at the brightness. The scrape of a shoe against the concrete floor was as loud as a cannon shot to her attuned ears. She held her breath, and prayed Carlo would keep still. Her arms ached from carrying him, but she held on tighter still.

“Who’s there?” The question came from a man, the voice deep and commanding. A voice she didn’t recognize. “Come out and you won’t get hurt.”

She crouched lower and peered between a gap in the boxes at a man dressed in black fatigues and body armor. He carried an assault rifle at the ready, but had flipped up the visor on his helmet to scan the basement.

Carlo squirmed in her arms and whimpered. She patted his back. “Shh. Shh.”

“Who’s there?” the man demanded. He swung the gun toward her hiding place. The sight of the weapon aimed at her turned her blood to ice.

“Don’t shoot!” she squeaked. Then with more assurance, “I have a child with me and I’m unarmed.”

“Move out where I can see you. Slowly. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

Holding Carlo firmly to her, she moved forward. The boy squirmed around to look, his little heart racing against her own.

The man kept his weapon trained on her as she moved out from behind the boxes. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

He glanced around, as if expecting someone else to loom up behind her. Apparently satisfied she’d told the truth, he aimed the gun toward the floor. “Who are you?” he asked.

She met his gaze directly, letting him see she would not be bullied. “Who are you?”

“Marshal Patrick Thompson, U.S. Marshals Service,” he said.

“Stacy Franklin,” she said. Franklin was her maiden name, but she didn’t have any desire to introduce herself to this lawman as one of the Giardinos. “And this is my son, Carlo.”

“Hello, Carlo.” He nodded to the boy. His expression was still wary, but he had kind eyes, blue, with lines fanning out from the corners, as if he’d spent a lot of time outdoors, squinting into the sun. Carlo stared at him, wide-eyed, his fingers in his mouth.

Thompson turned his attention back to Stacy. “I’ll need you to come with me,” he said.

“Come with you where?”

“First, upstairs. We’ll take a preliminary statement from you, and then I’ll need you to come with me to our headquarters in Telluride.”

“Are you arresting me? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“No, I’m not arresting you, but you are a witness, and we may need to take you into protective custody.”

She had no intention of letting anyone take her into custody, but she kept that to herself. She knew the law; though Sammy had been the one with the law degree, Stacy had written all his papers and helped him study for all his tests. She’d read the textbooks and listened to the online lectures and studied alongside him for the bar exam. None of it was knowledge the Giardinos thought a woman needed to know, but she would use it to her advantage now.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

Marshal Thompson didn’t answer. He motioned for her to move ahead of him. “Come with me upstairs and we’ll talk more.”

She climbed the stairs, aware of him right behind her, a broad-shouldered, black-clad guardian who smelled strongly of cordite and hot steel from his weapon, which must have recently been fired.

He led her into the living room, where other men milled about, taking pictures and measurements. She sat. Carlo scrambled out of her arms and retrieved one of his toy cars and began driving it along the arm of the sofa.

Marshal Thompson removed his helmet and sat on the arm of the sofa, his weapon on the table beside him. He had short, light brown hair and he looked tired—as tired as Stacy suddenly felt. “What is your relationship to the Giardino family?” he asked.

She thought about lying, saying she was a maid. But they’d check her story and learn her real identity soon enough. She lifted her chin, defiant. “I’m married to Sammy Giardino.”

His gaze shifted to Carlo, who was making motor noises, guiding the toy car along a seam in the leather upholstery. “This is Sammy’s son?”

“Yes.” She patted his chubby leg in the corduroy overalls he was already outgrowing. He was her son—Sammy had contributed half his DNA, but she had given the boy her heart and soul. He was the one thing that had kept her sane in this crazy household.

“How long have you been in this house?”

She should probably demand a lawyer, or refuse to answer his questions altogether. But she didn’t really care about the answers. The sooner she told him what he wanted to know, the sooner he’d let her go. “We arrived on Sunday. Five days ago.” Five days of unrelenting tension in which Sammy alternately sulked and sniped, while his father looked smug. Visitors came and went at all hours, and twice she’d awakened deep in the night to hear arguments between father and son, shouting matches she’d fully expected to end in a hail of bullets.

“Why did you come to Telluride?” Thompson asked.

Because I didn’t have the option of staying behind, she thought. “We came on vacation,” she said. “To ski.” Carlo had loved the snow. He’d spent two half days in kiddie ski school, thrilled by the rare opportunity to hang out with boys and girls his own age. It was tough to arrange playdates when you lived with a mobster.

“Who else is in the house?”

“A lot of people. I don’t even know all their names.” This wasn’t exactly true, but she was wary of telling Thompson anything he didn’t already know, like the fact that her fugitive father-in-law had been here. If Sam had managed to escape, she didn’t want him finding out she was the one who had betrayed him.

“Any other women?” Thompson asked.

Why did Thompson care about the women? “There was the cook, Angie. A woman named Veronica.” No point explaining her role as Sam’s latest mistress. “My sister-in-law, Elizabeth Giardino.” Elizabeth had been a big surprise, showing up for lunch today as if her father had never threatened to murder her.

“That’s all?”

She looked up at him through the fringe of her lashes. “All the women.”

“And the men?”

She looked around the room, at the masculine furniture and big-screen television, at the black-clad men who dusted for fingerprints and took photographs from every angle. “There were a lot of men here. There always are.” The women were merely ornaments. Accessories. Necessary for carrying on the family name, but otherwise in the way. They were kept in the background as much as possible.

“Was there anyone here who wasn’t a member of the family?”

“You mean besides all the bodyguards?”

“Besides them, yes. Any visitors?”

“Elizabeth was a visitor. She doesn’t live here.”

“Anyone else?”

She shook her head. “But I don’t keep track of everyone who comes and goes.”

“Because you’re not interested?”

“That, and because I don’t want to know about the Giardino business.”

“Sir, the M.E. says he’s finished in the library,” one of the black-clad officers addressed Thompson.

Thompson nodded. “All right. Then you can seal off the room.”

“Where is everyone?” Stacy asked. The first shock of the invasion had worn off and uneasiness stole over her like a virus, making her feel sick and a little dizzy. “The other women and the rest of the family.”

“They’re being taken care of. You were the only one unaccounted for. Where were you when the shooting started?”

“In the bathroom, if that really makes any difference.”

The double doors leading into the hall opened and a man in black backed into the room, wheeling a gurney. Stacy stared at the figure on the gurney, covered by a white sheet. A bone-deep chill swept through her. “Who is that?” she asked, forcing the words out.

“Mrs. Giardino—” Thompson put out his arm to stop her, but she threw off his grasp and ran to the gurney.

The men wheeling it past stopped and looked at Thompson. “Sir?”

“It’s all right.” Thompson glanced at Carlo, who had crawled under the coffee table and was absorbed in orchestrating elaborate car crashes. “Let her look.”

She hesitated, staring at the outline of a face under the white sheet, afraid of what she’d see there, yet knowing she had to look.

The man at the head of the gurney leaned over and flipped back the sheet.

Stacy gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Thompson’s hand rested heavy on her shoulder. “Can you identify this man for me, please?” he asked.

“That’s my husband,” she whispered. In death, he looked older than she remembered, his skin waxy and slack, the cruelty gone from his expression. “That’s Sammy,” she breathed, and staggered back into the marshal’s arms.

Chapter Two

Marshal Patrick Thompson considered himself a good judge of character, but he wasn’t sure what to make of Stacy Franklin Giardino. When he’d stepped into the basement of that backcountry mansion, the last person he’d expected to encounter was this woman who looked like a college girl or a rock star, not a mobster’s wife. She was all of five foot two and probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet. She had fine, sharp features and huge gray eyes, and her short, platinum blond hair only made her look more elfin and vulnerable.

Dressed in leggings, an oversize sweater and short leather boots, she looked more like the little boy’s big sister or babysitter than his mother, but a double-check of the background files on the Giardino family confirmed she was indeed the wife—or make that, the widow—of the late Sam Giardino Junior, and the boy, Carlo, was the heir apparent of the Giardino mob family.

Patrick stood in a darkened office at the police station the feds were using as their temporary base in Telluride and studied Stacy and her son through a one-way mirror. The boy was eating cookies, painstakingly separating each cookie into two halves, licking all the filling out and then nibbling away the cookie portions. Stacy watched her son, scarcely moving except to occasionally cross and uncross her legs.

Nice legs, he thought, though he told himself he wasn’t supposed to notice them. He wasn’t supposed to think of the women he was assigned to protect that way. They were victims or suspects or witnesses. But he was a healthy, single man and sometimes...

“What do you think?”

Patrick flinched, and looked over his shoulder at the man who spoke, FBI special agent Tim Sullivan. Though his first impulse was to say that Stacy was a very appealing woman, he knew that wasn’t what Sullivan wanted to know. “She says she doesn’t know anything about the Giardinos’ crimes—that the women were kept in the dark.”

“Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

“Maybe.” Patrick turned to look at Stacy again. Beneath the carefully applied makeup he detected dark circles of fatigue beneath her eyes. Earlier, she’d been so fierce, like a mother bear protecting her cub. Now she looked more vulnerable. “What makes a woman align herself with a criminal like Sammy Giardino?” he asked.

Sullivan moved to stand beside him. “Maybe she didn’t know he was a crook until it was too late.”

“Then why not leave? Why stay in a marriage with a man like that?”

“That answer’s easy. You don’t divorce a mobster. You know enough about them to be dangerous, and as long as you’re married, you can’t be compelled to testify against them.”

Had Stacy been trapped like that? The thought made his stomach twist. “She had to have known what he was like before they married,” he said. “The background report on her says her father is a shipping merchant who’s suspected of having some shady dealings with the Giardino family.”

As if sensing someone watching, she turned and looked directly into the mirror. Her eyes were hard and cold. So much for thinking she was vulnerable. He’d seen women like her before. They were hostile to law enforcement, uncooperative and difficult. But it was his job to protect her, so he would.

“You want me to talk to her?” Sullivan asked.

“No, I’ll do it.” Patrick picked up a file folder from the corner of the desk and stepped out into the hall.

Stacy looked up when he entered the room. Carlo had finished his cookies and lay stretched across two chairs, his head in his mother’s lap. “When can we go?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper. “It’s going to be Carlo’s bedtime soon.”

“I’ll drive you to your hotel soon.” He sat, one hip on the table beside her, a casual pose that was supposed to help her relax, but there was nothing at ease about the rigid set of her shoulders. With one hand she smoothed her son’s hair, over and over. “We’ll provide protection for you until we’re sure you and your son are safe. If we decide to press charges against anyone else, you may be asked to testify, and in that case you’ll be under our protection until the trial. After that, you’ll have the option of going into Witness Security and assuming a new identity.”

“No.” The hand that had been stroking her son stilled. “I won’t do that.”

Not an unusual reaction to the idea of starting life over as someone else. It took time for most people to come around. “You and your son could be in danger,” he said.

“I can take care of my son.”

“We can talk about this more later. For now, you’ll be assigned an agent for protection.”

If looks really could kill, the hate-filled stare she directed at him would have felled him like a shot. He pretended not to notice. “Do you have family you want us to notify—parents, siblings?” he asked.

“I’m an only child.”

“Your parents, then.” He consulted the notes in the file. “Your mother and father, Debby and George Franklin, live in Queens?”

“I don’t want to see them.”

“Why not?” Had there been a rift when she married Giardino?

“That’s none of your business.”

He conceded the point and let his gaze drift to the boy. The key with a hostile witness was to find some point of connection. “How is your son?”

“He’s tired and confused. He wants to go home.” Her expression softened and she stroked the boy’s hair again—a honey color several shades darker than her own. “I haven’t told him about his father yet. I’m not sure he’d understand.”

“And how are you doing?”

The hardness returned. “If you’re worried I’m all torn up because my husband’s dead, don’t be.”

“So you’re not upset?”

“I’m not. I hated him.”

“Then why did you marry him?”

She shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She pressed her lips together in a thin line. He thought she wasn’t going to say anything, but he waited anyway. Had she really hated her husband, or was this a ploy to distance herself further from the Giardinos and their crimes? “My father and his father arranged for us to get married,” she said. “I scarcely even knew him.”

“Come on. This is the twenty-first century. And it’s America, not the old country.”

Her expression clouded. “I told you you wouldn’t understand.”

He let the words hang between them, hoping she’d elaborate, but she did not. She didn’t look away from him either, but kept her gaze steady and challenging, unflinching.

He shifted, and his leg brushed against her arm. She flinched and he moved away. This wasn’t right, him looming over her this way. He pulled up a chair and sat beside her, turned to face her. “I wanted to ask you a few more questions about today,” he said.

“I can’t tell you anything about the Giardinos.”

“You were married to Sam Giardino’s son for four years. You lived in the Giardino family home during all that time. I believe you know more than you think you know. Did people often come to the house to discuss business?”

She remained silent.

He removed a photograph from the folder—an eight-by-ten glossy used by Senator Greg Nordley in his campaign. “Have you seen this man before? At the house or with Sam or Sammy somewhere else?”

She scarcely glanced at the photo. “Where are the other women—Victoria and Elizabeth? Have you asked them these questions?”

The women were at this moment in other interrogation rooms, being questioned by other officers. “They’re safe. And yes, we’re talking to them.”

“They’ll tell you the same thing I will—we don’t know anything. We weren’t allowed to know anything. Women in the Giardino household were like furniture or children—to be seen and not heard.”

“I’m surprised you put up with that kind of treatment.”

Anger flared, putting color in her cheeks and life in her eyes. She looked more striking than ever. “You think I had a choice?”

“You strike me as an outspoken, independent young woman. Not someone who’d let herself be bullied.” When she’d stepped out into the basement, the boy in her arms, she’d looked ready to take him on, despite the fact that she was unarmed.

She looked away, but not before he caught a glimpse of sadness—or was it despair?—in her eyes. “If you lived in a household with men who thought nothing of cutting a man’s face off if he said something they didn’t like, would you be so eager to speak up?”

“Are you saying the Giardinos threatened you?”

“They didn’t think of them as threats. Call them promises.”

“Did they physically abuse you?” His anger was a sharp, heavy blade at the back of his throat, surprising in its intensity.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

He shifted, wanting to put some distance between himself and this woman who unsettled him so. She was alternately cold and vulnerable, in turns innocent and calculating. He pretended to consult the file folder, though the words blurred before an image of Stacy, cowering before a faceless thug with a gun.

“Does the name Senator Nordley mean anything to you?” he asked, forcing the disturbing image away.

“He’s a senator from New York. What is this, a civics test?”

“We believe the senator was at the house shortly before we broke in this afternoon.”

“I didn’t see him.”

“Did you see Sam Giardino with anyone in the past few days who was not a regular part of the household?”

“No. I stayed as far away from Sam as I could.”

“Why is that?”

“He and my husband were fighting. I didn’t want to get caught in the cross fire. Literally.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“Control of the family. Sammy wanted his father to give him more say in day-to-day operations, but Sam refused.”

“But Sam was the natural successor to his father, wasn’t he?”

“Supposedly. But Sam used to taunt him. He’d threaten to pass over Sam and hand the reins over to his brother, Sammy’s Uncle Abel.”

Patrick leafed through the folder. He found no mention of anyone named Abel. “Who was Uncle Abel?”

“Sam’s younger brother. He was the black sheep no one ever talked about—because he wouldn’t go into the family business.”

“But Sam threatened to turn things over to him instead of to Sammy?”

“It was just his way of getting back at Sammy. Abel had nothing to do with the business and hadn’t for years.”

“Where is Abel now?”

“He and Sam’s mother—Sammy’s grandmother—live on a ranch somewhere in Colorado.”

The hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck stood up. There was something to this Abel Giardino. Maybe the Colorado connection they’d been looking for. “Did you ever meet Abel?”

“He and the grandmother came to our wedding. He looked like some old cowboy.”

“And the mother?”

“The mother was scarier than either of her sons. She didn’t approve of me and threatened to give me the evil eye if I wasn’t good to her only grandson.” Stacy shuddered, and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “After meeting her, I know why Sam was so mean.”

“All the more reason for us to offer you protection.”

“I told you, I don’t want your protection!”

At the sound of her raised voice, Carlo stirred and whimpered. She bent over him and made soothing noises. In that instance she transformed from cold and angry to warm and tender. The contrast struck him, made him feel sympathy for her, though he didn’t want to. She was a member of a crime family, probably a criminal herself. She didn’t deserve his sympathy.

When the boy had settled back to sleep, she looked at Patrick again. “Please, just let us leave,” she said.

He stood. “I’ll have someone take you to your hotel.”

He left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. He found Sullivan in his office down the hall. “Have you heard of Abel Giardino?” Patrick asked.

Sullivan shook his head. “Who is he?”

“Sam’s brother. He supposedly was never involved in the family’s crimes. He lives with his mother somewhere in Colorado.”

“Could he be the reason Sam was in the state?”

“It would be worth checking out. Stacy says Sam talked about choosing his brother to succeed him as head of the family, instead of Sam Junior.”

Sullivan made a note. “Did you get anything else out of her?”

“Only that she apparently hated her husband’s guts. And she doesn’t appear to have fond feelings for any of the rest of the family.”

“No confirmation on the senator?”

“She said she hadn’t seen him around.”

“Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

“Hard to say. She’s not one to give anything away. I’ll ask Sergeant Robinson to take her and the boy to the hotel for the night and we’ll try again in the morning.”

He called the sergeant’s extension and gave the officer his orders: take Mrs. Giardino and her son to the hotel they’d selected and stay on guard until someone else came to relieve him.

He returned to his office and sat back in his desk chair. He liked to review a witness’s answers while they were fresh in his mind. He looked for patterns and inconsistencies, for vulnerabilities he could exploit or new information he needed to explore further. Certainly, he wanted to know more about Abel. But he wanted to know more about Stacy, too, and how she fit into this sordid picture of a family of criminals.

Instead of thinking about what Stacy had said, his thoughts turned to everything she hadn’t said. Why had her father and Sam arranged for her to marry Sammy—if that had indeed happened? What had the Giardinos done to make her so afraid? Was she really as ignorant of their dealings as she claimed?

And why did she get to him, making him forget himself and want to comfort her? Protect her? Was she just a good actress, accomplished at manipulating men, or was something else going on here? He needed to understand so he could avoid making a wrong move in the future.

A sharp knock sounded on the door. “Come in.”

Sergeant Robinson, a thin, balding officer, leaned in. “Sir?”

“What is it, Sergeant? Why aren’t you with Mrs. Giardino?”

The sergeant’s gaze darted around the office, as if he expected to find Stacy Giardino standing in the corner. “She’s not with you?”

“No. She’s in interview room two. I told you that.”

The sergeant swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “The interview room is empty, sir. Mrs. Giardino is gone.”

Chapter Three

Stacy wasn’t about to wait around for Sergeant What’s-his-name to haul her off to a hotel room that would be little better than a prison. She’d had enough of men telling her what she could and couldn’t do and where she could and couldn’t go. Now that Sammy was dead, she had a chance to start life over, but she was going to do it on her own terms.

She checked the hall to make sure the coast was clear, then woke Carlo. “Time to go, honey,” she said, hoisting him onto one hip.

“Where are we going, Mama?” he asked.

“We’re going to stay in a hotel. Won’t that be fun?” She kept her voice to a whisper, but tried to sound excited for Carlo’s sake. “They’ll probably have a pool and you can go swimming.”

“Will Daddy be there?”

His face was so serious—too serious for a little boy. “No, Daddy can’t make it. But you and I will have a good time, won’t we?” Soon, when things were more settled, she’d have to tell him about his father. Though Stacy had long ago ceased to like, much less love, her late husband, Carlo adored his daddy, even though Sammy had spent less and less time with the boy in the past months. She wasn’t sure a three-year-old would understand death, but Carlo would be devastated once he accepted his father wasn’t coming back. She’d postpone that pain for him a little longer.

Once in the hallway, she headed for the door marked Stairs. Less chance of running into anyone than if she risked the elevator. Fortunately, she only had to go down two floors and there was a back door. Probably where all the smokers went to sneak a cigarette, she thought, and slipped out, praying an alarm wouldn’t sound.

The door opened into a parking lot at the back of the building. Only a few cars sat in the glow of overhead lights. A stiff breeze blew swirls of snow around her feet as she hurried across the concrete. She needed to find her way onto the main drag and lose herself in the crush of tourists.

She followed the sounds of voices and music to Telluride’s main street, where she fell into step behind a crowd of adults and children—a big family group on vacation, she guessed. A quick check over her shoulder told her the brawny marshal wasn’t following her—he was tall enough she’d have spotted him, even in this crowd. And he had the clean-cut good looks and alert attitude that pegged him as law enforcement from half a mile away.

She checked the shops along the street and spotted one that advertised children’s clothing. A woman with a kid wouldn’t stand out in there. She set Carlo down and pretended to look through the racks of clothing while he headed for the toy box against the wall. She needed a plan.

“Can I help you find something in particular?” an older woman in a black wool skirt, pink blouse and boots asked.

“You have such great stuff here,” Stacy gushed. “I wish I had more time to shop. I just ducked in here while I’m waiting for my husband. But I’ll be back tomorrow when I have more time.”

“Your son is adorable,” the woman said, and she and Stacy both turned to watch Carlo fitting big foam blocks together.

“Thank you.” Stacy offered her most dazzling smile. “He’s going through that phase where he just loves trains and buses and airplanes. Does Telluride have a bus station?”

“Not really. Some of the hotels run shuttle buses to the airports, and there are buses to the ski area.”

“Thanks. I was just curious.” She could rent a car to get away, but that required a credit card and ID and would be easy to trace. She pulled out her phone and pretended to read a text. “Got to go. Come on, son, we have to go.”

“But I want to stay here and play,” Carlo said.

“We’ll try to come back tomorrow and stay longer.” She held out her hand and Carlo took it.

On the sidewalk once more, she tried to think of her next move. Maybe she could catch an airport shuttle. Anything to get out of town. She set off walking toward a high-rise on the corner where she could see several tour buses and a crowd of cars waiting for their turn to unload beneath the portico.

As she’d expected, the building was a hotel, and a busy one, crowded with people coming and going. Perfect. She’d just be one more anonymous woman in the crowd. She threaded her way through a line of tourists unloading luggage and skis from a shuttle bus and entered the lobby. She made her way to the front desk and turned on the charm for the clerk, a harried-looking young man with thinning blond hair. “What time is the airport shuttle?” she asked.

“Telluride, Montrose or Durango?” he asked, not even looking up from his computer screen.

She hesitated. “Um...”

“The bus to Durango leaves in ten minutes, but the one for Telluride will be right behind it.”

“Great. Thanks.” Durango it was.

She took a seat behind a potted plant and gave Carlo her phone to keep him occupied. She was showing him how to get to the games she’d downloaded for him when the phone rang, startling her.

She stared at the number. A 303 area code—Denver. Those marshals were probably based in Denver, weren’t they? She hit the button to ignore the call, but a few seconds later, the chime sounded, indicating she had a message.

She hesitated, then decided to listen to the message. Maybe it wasn’t the marshal at all.

Patrick Thompson’s deep, velvety voice filled her ears. “Running away is not a good idea,” he said. “Call me back at this number and I’ll send someone to pick you up. I promise you’ll be safe with us.”

“Right.” She was supposed to trust the people who had shot her husband. At least that was the story Thompson himself had given her. Apparently Sammy had killed his father, then turned the gun on his sister, but still, it was a federal agent who’d put the bullet in his back that killed Sammy. And though this Patrick Thompson guy had been nice enough when he was interviewing her, he was probably like all the rest—he thought she was like Sammy—a lowlife mobster, or even worse, his tramp of a wife. Why would they be so concerned about her safety? They really wanted her to tell all she knew so they could pin the Giardino family crimes on someone. But after today, no one was left to blame, except maybe for a few thugs who’d been following Sam and Sammy’s orders.

She switched off the phone, hoping that would keep them from being able to trace its signal or GPS or whatever the feds used to keep tabs on people. She was tempted to leave the phone behind, but being that cut off from any resources felt too dangerous.

A deluxe passenger van pulled up and the driver announced the Durango airport shuttle. Stacy and Carlo joined the line of people climbing on board. “Name, miss?” The driver was checking off names on a list on a clipboard. He was a middle-aged man with a round face and an underdeveloped chin.

“I’m not on your list,” she said. “I was hoping I could buy a ticket on board.”

“I’m only supposed to take advance reservations.”

Stacy shifted from foot to foot. Everyone was staring, the people behind her starting to grumble. She leaned toward the man, keeping her voice low, and at the same time giving him a look down the V-neck of her sweater—hey, she’d use whatever she had to pull this off. “Please,” she said. “I just found out my mother is in the hospital and I was able to get a flight out of Durango to see her and I’ve got to get there. I can pay cash.” And he could keep the cash and never tell anybody, if he was so inclined.

“Fifty dollars.” He didn’t even hesitate to bark out the sum.

She opened her purse and fished out two twenties and a ten. One thing about living with a mobster—they believed in paying cash and kept a lot around.

“Where’s your luggage?” the driver asked.

“I already put it back there.” She nodded toward the back of the bus, where a porter was loading suitcases.

On board the bus, she settled into a seat near the back, Carlo beside her. “Where are we going, Mama?” he asked.

“To that hotel I told you about.” Once at the airport, she’d head to baggage claim and call one of the hotels that offered a free shuttle. She’d pay cash for a room and give a fake name. After dinner and a good night’s sleep, she could decide what to do next.

Carlo settled with his face pressed to the glass, looking out the window. Stacy leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She was on her way. Not safe yet, but she would be soon.

* * *

“SHE’S HEADED TOWARD Durango.”

Patrick leaned over the tech they’d assigned to trace Stacy’s cell phone signal and studied the laptop screen and the little green dot that pinpointed her whereabouts. His last two calls to her had gone straight to voice mail, so he assumed she’d turned off her phone. Apparently she hadn’t realized it still sent out a signal, even when switched off.

“What’s in Durango?” Agent Sullivan asked.

“Maybe this Uncle Abel?” Stacy had said he had a ranch in Colorado, but she’d been vague about where.

“Someone else is in Durango today,” Sullivan said. He held out his smartphone, which showed the front page of the Durango paper, with a story about Senator Nordley’s speech to a political group in town.

Patrick’s stomach churned. He’d wanted to believe Stacy’s innocent victim act. Had everything she’d told them been a lie? “That’s a little too convenient for coincidence,” he said.

“Should we call Durango police and ask them to intercept her?” Sullivan asked.

“No. I’ll go.” He reached for his jacket. “I want to watch her, see what she does. And the fewer people who know about this, the better for security.” He turned to the tech. “Keep tracking her. I’ll stay in touch by phone.”

The night was bitterly cold and blustery, big flakes of snow swirling in the parking lot security lights as he made his way to his Range Rover. He threaded the vehicle through the crowds on Main, then took the highway out of town, turning on the road up to the ski resort. This would take him over Lizard Head pass, through the small towns of Rico and Delores and into Durango. Stacy probably had a forty-minute head start on him, but he wasn’t worried about following her too closely, not as long as she had her phone with her.

Provided she hadn’t been smart enough to stash the phone, maybe in a bag that was now on board the shuttle while she ran the opposite direction. But he was going with his gut and the belief that she was headed to Durango herself.

He’d learned to trust his gut in his years with the U.S. Marshals, but things didn’t always play out the way he wanted. Most recently, he’d agreed to allow Elizabeth Giardino, who’d been in Witness Security as Anne Gardiner, to go to the house where her father had been holed up with the rest of the family. The opportunity to catch a man on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list after he’d been on the loose for over a year had been too tempting, especially since Elizabeth had been so determined to take the risk.

But her brother had almost killed her, and Patrick blamed himself.

He wasn’t going to risk losing another woman in his care; he wouldn’t let Stacy Giardino get the better of him.

When he reached the outskirts of Durango, he phoned the tech back in Telluride. “You still have her on radar?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. She was at the airport for a little bit. Then she was on the move for a bit, but she’s stopped again. If you give me a moment, I can pinpoint an address.”

“All right. I’ll hold.” He guided the car past well-lit shopping complexes down a main street lined with bars, restaurants and hotels. Like Telluride, Durango was filled with tourists celebrating after a day at the nearby ski area. It was the kind of place where it would be easy for a stranger to get lost in the crowd.

“Sir, I’ve got an address for you.”

“Go ahead.” Patrick leaned over and switched on his GPS.

The tech rattled off an address on Second Street. “I show it’s a motel. Moose Head Lodge.”

“Got it. Thanks.” He hung up, keyed the address into his GPS then did a U-turn and headed back toward Second Street.

The Moose Head Lodge was a low-slung log-and-stone structure set back from the road. Two long wings stretched out from the central building, with doors for each room opening into the parking lot. Patrick parked the Range Rover across from the entrance and went into a lobby straight out of a Teddy Roosevelt nightmare, complete with a stuffed grizzly bear by the front counter.

“May I help you, sir?” asked the clerk, who looked scarcely old enough to shave.

“I’m looking for a young woman who just checked in. About five-two, short, pale blond hair. She probably had a little boy with her.”

“I’m not allowed to give out information on our guests,” he said.

“You can give me the information.” Patrick flipped open his credentials on the counter.

The boy’s eyes goggled. “Y-yes, sir. A woman like the one you described checked in about fifteen minutes ago. She’s in Room 141—out back.”

“What name did she register under?”

The boy turned to a computer and rapidly typed in some information. “She registered as Kathy Jackson. And she paid cash for her room.”

“I need to reserve the closest vacant room to hers I can,” Patrick said.

“That would be 142—right next door.”

“I’ll take it.” He handed over his government credit card and filled out the reservation information.

“That room has two double beds and a microwave and minifridge,” the clerk said as he handed over the card key.

“Is there someplace I can order in food?” He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was beginning to catch up with him.

“There’s a pizza place that delivers. The menu is in your room.”

“That’ll do.” He drove the Rover around and parked in front of his room. There was no reason Stacy should recognize it, but in case she was looking out the window to see who had arrived, he kept the vehicle between him and her door and entered the room quickly.

Once inside, he made his way to the wall that separated his room from hers and pressed his ear against the sheetrock. The muffled music and voices from the television obscured any other sound at first, then he heard what he was sure was a child, and the unintelligible answer in a woman’s voice.

They were there, probably in for the night, but he’d stay alert just in case. If anyone came to see her, or if she left to go out, he’d know. In the morning, he’d follow her and see where she went. Who she talked to.

He ordered pizza and listened to the sounds of splashing from the bathroom next door. Probably the boy getting a bath, but the disturbing image of Stacy in the shower drifted into his mind. Though she was petite, she had a good figure. Was he a creep for fantasizing about a woman he was supposed to protect? Or merely human for thinking about an attractive woman who was separated from him by only a wall?

And her own resistance to having anything to do with him. Maybe her years with the Giardinos had made her wary of trusting anyone, especially those on the right side of the law. But he couldn’t take the chance that some offshoot of the family—or their enemies—would come after her. The other women were in protective custody, and agents were busy tracking down everyone connected with the family and piecing together evidence for a multitude of crimes. Stacy was the only loose end at the moment.

After the pizza was delivered, he wedged the door open an inch, the better to hear any activity next door. He ate, then lay on the bed fully clothed, his weapon on the blanket beside him. All was quiet next door, even the TV silenced. He didn’t expect to sleep much, if any, but he was used to long nights. He’d learned how to get through them and catch up on his rest later.

In spite of Patrick’s resolve to stay awake, he must have drifted off. He woke to the sound of a woman screaming in the room next door.

Chapter Four

Instinct propelled Patrick out of bed, weapon drawn and ready. A dark sedan idled in front of the room next door, a bulky figure at the wheel. A woman’s wails and the crying of a child shattered the predawn stillness and sent a jolt of adrenaline through the marshal.

He slipped out of his room, keeping to the shadows, out of reach of the parking lot lights. The door to Stacy’s room stood open and just as he started to move toward it, a man ran out, Carlo clutched to his chest.

“Halt!” Patrick shouted, and shot wide, in front of the man. He didn’t dare aim directly at him, too fearful of striking the child.

The kidnapper scarcely slowed as he returned fire, the shots muffled by a silencer. Patrick ducked into deeper shadow as bullets splintered the brick to his left, shards stinging the side of his face. The man tossed the boy into the backseat of the car and dived in after him and they took off, tires squealing.

Patrick fired, aiming for the vehicle’s tires, but the car raced away too fast. Breathing hard, blood running down his face, he stared after the kidnappers, trying to make out the license plate number or any identifying marks on the car. But the plate had been obscured with mud, and the car was like a hundred other sedans in the city.

Heart pounding, he raced to Stacy’s room. “Stacy?” he called when he reached the open doorway.

The silence that greeted him turned his blood to ice. He groped for the light switch and light illuminated chaos. The covers lay in a tangle, half off the bed, and a chair and a lamp were overturned.

“Stacy!” he called again. “It’s me, Patrick Thompson. Are you all right?”

A whimper drew him to the bathroom. Weapon at the ready, he advanced toward the room. The overhead light glowed harsh on white tile and porcelain. He leaned into the doorway and found Stacy in the shower, fully clothed but slumped against the tile, blood running from a gash above her left eye. She moaned as he knelt beside her. “Stacy, can you hear me?”

She opened her eyes and stared at him, her expression blank. He knew the moment memory of all that had happened returned. Her eyes filled with tears and she struggled to stand. “Carlo! They’ve got Carlo!” she gasped, her voice ragged with terror and pain.

Patrick urged her back into a sitting position. “Tell me exactly what happened,” he said.

“You have to go after them!” She gripped his arm, fingers digging painfully into his skin. “You have to get Carlo.”

He gently pried her hand off his arm and cradled it in his own. Her fingers were ice-cold. “They drove away in a car,” he said. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to track them down, but I need your help. The more you can tell me, the more I’ll have to use in my search.”

The devastation in her eyes touched him. Gone was the cold, uncooperative woman he’d interviewed at the police station. Now she was a mother grieving for her child. She slipped her hand from his grasp and touched the cut on her head. “He hit me with the butt of his pistol.”

Patrick found a washcloth and wet it from the tap, then pressed it against the gash. “Who was he? Did you recognize him?”

“No. I’m sure I never saw him before in my life. But he knew who I was. He called me Mrs. Giardino, and called Carlo by name, too.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t know him?”

“Nothing about him was familiar, but it was dark and I was asleep when they burst in. Everything happened so fast.” She slid her hand under his and took the washcloth. “What are you doing here? When did you get here?”

“I followed you here last night. I’m in the room next door.”

“You were spying on me.” Her eyes flashed with accusation—but that was better than the despair that had filled them seconds earlier.

“You ran away,” he said. “I wanted to see where you were going. Who you talked to.”

“How did you know where to find me? I didn’t see anyone I knew....”

“Your phone gives off a tracking signal even when it’s off.” He sat back on his heels and studied her for signs she might be going into shock. But color was returning to her cheeks and she seemed more alert. “I’m surprised Sam Giardino let you have a standard phone like that.”

“The men used throwaway phones, mostly, but they didn’t care about the women. We weren’t important enough for anyone to be concerned about where we were.”

He took out his own phone. “I’ll call the local police. They can put out an AMBER Alert. We might be able to stop them before they get very far.”

“No!” She clutched at his arm again. “No police. He said if the police came after them they’d kill Carlo.”

“If the police get to them quickly enough they won’t have time to hurt the boy.”

“No, please! I can’t risk it. He said at the first sign of the cops they would cut Carlo’s throat.” She choked back a sob, struggling to keep it together. “Can’t you go after them? You and I?”

“We’d have a much better chance of catching them with the police involved. An AMBER Alert will have everyone in the state looking for them.”

“They’ll see the notices on the news and Carlo will die!” Her voice rose, near hysterics.

He slid the phone back into his pocket. “I won’t call them just yet. Tell me anything else you remember. Even little details might be important.”

She nodded and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hands. She’d taken off her makeup, so that she looked much younger. More vulnerable.

A gentle tapping sounded on the door. “Ms. Jackson? Are you all right?” someone asked.

“I’ll take care of this,” Patrick said. He rose and moved quickly to the door and peered through the peephole. The desk clerk stood on the other side, looking around nervously.

Patrick opened the door. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Oh!” The clerk looked startled. “I, uh, I thought this was Ms. Jackson’s room.” He frowned at the number on the next door over—Patrick’s room.

“Ms. Jackson is fine,” Patrick said. “What did you need?”

“One of the guests called the front desk and said they heard gunshots coming from this room.”

“They must have heard a car backfiring.” The lie came easily; no need to involve this clerk until Patrick had made up his mind how to handle this.

“They sounded really certain.”

“I think I’d know a gunshot, don’t you?”

“Of course. Of course.” He tried to see past Patrick, into the room. “And Ms. Jackson’s okay?”

“She’s fine. But she’s not dressed for company.” He winked and the clerk blushed red. No doubt the guy thought Patrick’s story about conducting surveillance on Stacy had been an elaborate cover for an affair.

“I’ll just, uh, get back to the front desk.” The young man backed away. “If you need anything, just, uh, call.”

Patrick shut the door and hooked the security chain, then returned to the bathroom. Stacy had moved from the shower to the toilet, where she sat on the closed lid, head in her hands. She looked up when he entered the room. “Who was that?”

“The front-desk clerk. Someone reported gunshots.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him it was probably a car backfiring.” He knelt in front of her. “Now tell me everything that happened.”

She took a deep breath. “When I woke up, he was already in the room. He must have had a key or something, because I never heard a thing. Carlo was sleeping beside me and the guy already had hold of him, pulling him out of bed. That’s what woke me.”

She put the washcloth back over the gash, which had slowed its bleeding. “I screamed and he ordered me to shut up. I was terrified, finding a guy in my room like that. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘What are you doing with my son?’

“‘Carlo is coming with me, Mrs. Giardino,’ the guy said. ‘If you know what’s good for you, you won’t interfere.’”

The guy might as well have told the sun not to shine. “Was there anything distinctive about his voice? An accent or anything like that?”

She frowned. “Not really. I mean, he sounded American, but not from anyplace in particular. He told me if I called the police he would kill Carlo—that if anyone followed them, they’d cut his throat.” She bit her lip, fighting fresh tears.

“What did you do?” Patrick prompted.

“I tried to pull Carlo away from him. Carlo woke up and started crying. I wouldn’t let go of Carlo, so the guy hit me.” She winced, whether in real or remembered pain, Patrick couldn’t say. “I staggered back and he grabbed me and threw me in here, then ran out with Carlo. I heard more shooting in the parking lot.”

“He was firing at me. Your screaming woke me. I tried to stop him, but he was using Carlo as a shield. I couldn’t get off a good shot.”

“He wore a mask,” Stacy said. “A ski mask. I couldn’t see his face. But his voice didn’t sound familiar.”

“There were two of them,” Patrick said. “The driver was a big, bulky guy. The one who snatched Carlo was slighter. The car was a dark sedan with mud smeared across the license plate.”

“You saw them! Then you could find them.” Her eyes lit up with hope. “They won’t suspect you—you’re not in uniform, or driving a cop car. They probably don’t even know you’re here. I didn’t, so why should they?”

“Except they shot at me. And I shot back.”

“But they wouldn’t have gotten a good look at you. Please, Patrick. Say you’ll help me.”

Only a colder man than him could have been immune to the pleading in her eyes. He wanted to promise her that he’d find Carlo, and soon. That he would protect them both from whoever was threatening them. He wanted to make that promise, but the knowledge that he might not be able to keep such a vow held back the words.

“Let’s go back to my room and take care of that cut on your head,” he said. “Then we’ll decide what to do.”

He found Stacy’s coat and purse and draped them over her shoulders, then steadied her while she slipped into her boots. The gash had stopped bleeding and though she’d probably have a heck of a headache for a while, he hoped the damage wasn’t more serious.

He led her to his room and shut the door behind them. She sat on the bed he hadn’t slept in. “You’ll be safer here with me,” he said.

“I wasn’t safe tonight. How did they find me?”

“If we can track you by your phone, they can, too.”

She stared at the purse on the bed beside her. “Should I destroy the phone?”

“Not yet. The kidnappers may try to reach you through that number.”

“Do they want money?” she asked. “Is that what this is about—ransom?”

“If they knew the Giardino family, they know Sam had money. Maybe they want to take advantage of his death to get their hands on some of it.”

“Then maybe they won’t hurt Carlo.” Fresh tears filled her eyes and she covered her mouth with her hand, as if to hold back sobs.

Patrick squeezed her shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but you need to pull yourself together. For Carlo’s sake.”

She nodded and made an effort to compose herself. He pulled out his phone again. “Who are you calling?” she asked.

“My office. I want to find out if anyone has noticed any unusual activity related to other people we’re tracking in this investigation.”

“You can’t tell them. The kidnapper said—”

“I won’t do anything I think will endanger Carlo. Why don’t you go into the bathroom and clean the rest of the blood off your face while I make the call.”

She glared at him, but stood and did as he asked. While she was out of the room, he’d talk to his supervisors about getting her into WITSEC right away—before the people who’d come after Carlo decided to come after her, too.

* * *

STACY STARED AT herself in the hotel bathroom mirror. She looked horrible—no makeup, blood matting her hair, an ugly bruise forming above her left eye. But what did it matter, with Carlo gone? Who would have taken him? Some enemy of the Giardinos, intent on revenge? Someone after money? She closed her eyes against the pounding in her head and tried to think, but her mind offered up no answers.

She debated eavesdropping on Marshal Thompson’s phone call, but she didn’t really want to hear what he had to say. And she needed to stay on his good side—he was the only one who could help her find Carlo. He’d seen the men who’d taken her boy, and he had weapons and a car and she presumed some training in tracking people. She wasn’t going to do better right now.

She told herself she ought to be angry he’d followed her to Durango, but if he hadn’t, she’d really be stuck with no one to turn to. And he’d been a decent enough guy. He’d listened to what she’d had to say and hadn’t tried to order her around as if he automatically knew what was best. That was a change from the men she was used to dealing with.

Not that he wasn’t all man. A woman would have to be half-dead not to notice those broad shoulders and muscular arms. He was taller and bigger than any of the Giardino men; she felt like a shrimp next to him. But that was okay. Being around him made her feel...safe. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

He knocked on the door as she was washing the last of the blood out of her hair. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her head, turban fashion, and opened the door. “What did they say?” she asked.

“They agreed we shouldn’t involve the local police. It might endanger the boy and it could jeopardize our investigation.”

“What investigation? You keep using that word, but what are you investigating—me?”

“Not you. In fact, I want to move you into WITSEC right away. When we find Carlo, we’ll bring him to you.”

“No.”

“I know you don’t like the idea, but it’s the best way to protect you and—”

“No. I’m not going anywhere until we know what happened to Carlo. When you find him, I’m going to be there.”

“I can’t track criminals with you in tow.”

“I’m not going to get in your way, and I can help.”

“How can you help?”

“I know how to shoot. I know how to keep quiet and stay out of the way and most of all—I know my child. In a tense situation, he’ll come to me and I can keep him calm.”

His mouth remained set in that stubborn line, his gaze boring into her, but she refused to let him intimidate her. She was through with men who tried to boss her around. “I won’t go into WITSEC,” she said. “If you don’t let me go with you, I’ll search for Carlo on my own.” With no car, no gun and not even a clear picture of where she was, searching on her own wasn’t a choice she wanted to make, but she could steal a car, buy a gun and read a map if she had to. She’d do whatever it took to find her boy.

“My first job is to protect you.”

“Then you can do that by taking me with you to look for Carlo. Now come on. We’re wasting time talking about it. We need to go after them.”

She tried to push past him, but he stopped her, one hand on her shoulder. “You can’t go out with wet hair. You’ll freeze.”

She pulled the towel from her head. “I don’t care about my hair. It can dry in the car.”

“You won’t be any good to Carlo, or to me, if you catch pneumonia.”

“Fine.” She turned and grabbed the hair dryer that hung by the sink. “But as soon as my hair is dry, we leave.”

She expected him to leave her to the task, but he remained in the doorway, reflected in the mirror, his gaze fixed on her. She tried to ignore him, but that was impossible; even if the mirror hadn’t been there, she could feel his eyes on her, sense his big, brooding presence just over her shoulder. Why had he said that, about her not being any good to him if she got sick? Did he really think she was such as important witness in his mysterious “investigation”? He certainly didn’t need her any other way.

Except maybe in the way men always seemed to need women, a traitorous voice in her head whispered. She shifted against an uncomfortable tightness in her lower abdomen, an awareness of herself not as mother, wife or daughter, but as a young, desirable woman. She’d buried that side of herself when she married Sammy Giardino—that it should resurface now astounded her. She’d heard of people who reacted to stress in inappropriate ways, for instance, by laughing at funerals. Was her response to tragedy and peril going to be this odd state of semiarousal? She couldn’t think of anything less appropriate, especially if she was getting turned on by some big brute of a cop.

She switched off the hair dryer and whirled to face him. “What are you staring at?” she asked.

She expected him to say something about her looks—to tell her she was pretty or sexy or a similar come-on. It was the sort of thing men always said, especially when they wanted to talk you into their bed. Instead, he straightened and uncrossed his arms. “I was thinking how wrong the Giardinos were to take you for granted,” he said, then, not waiting for an answer, he turned away.

She stared after him, confusion and pleasure warring in her. What some cop thought of her shouldn’t matter, but she wasn’t used to compliments—if, indeed, he’d meant the comment to be flattering. The fact that he saw past her physical presence to something in her character left her feeling off balance. She was used to people taking her for granted—not mattering to others was a kind of camouflage. It kept you safe. For this man to really see who she was past her skin felt daring and dangerous.

“Are you coming?” he called.

“Yes!” She grabbed up her coat and purse and followed him across the parking lot to his car—a black SUV that looked like something a rich tourist would drive, not a federal agent. If Carlo’s kidnappers saw this vehicle behind them, they wouldn’t be suspicious.

“Don’t get your hopes up that this is going to work,” he said as she buckled her seat belt. “If these guys are pros, they’ve already switched cars and headed out of town.”

“But maybe they didn’t,” she said. “There isn’t much traffic this time of night. Maybe we’ll see them. They don’t expect anyone to come after them, so maybe they’ll be careless.”

“That’s a lot of maybes.” He started the engine and put the vehicle in gear. “But criminals have done dumber things.”

They turned onto the dark, deserted street and headed toward the highway. Streetlights shone on dirty snowbanks pushed up on the side of the road. They passed few cars; Stacy studied each one closely, but none contained anyone who looked like the man who had attacked her and taken Carlo.

They drove to the edge of town, then turned back and headed in the opposite direction. Patrick turned into a motel parking lot. “Look for a black sedan with mud on the plates,” he said. “It’s a long shot, but they may have holed up somewhere close.”

Scarcely daring to breathe, she leaned close to the window and studied each vehicle they passed: old trucks, new SUVs, brightly colored sports cars. But no black sedan.

They checked four more motels with the same results. Patrick cruised through a silent shopping center. “I think they’ve left town,” he said.

Profound weariness dragged at her. If she closed her eyes, she might fall asleep sitting up. Yet how could she sleep when Carlo was out there, frightened, held captive by strangers? “What do we do now?” she asked.

“We need a plan.” He turned the car back toward their motel. “And we need more clues.”

She took out her phone and stared at it, willing it to ring. “If they’d just call and tell us what they want,” she said.

“Maybe all they wanted was Carlo.”

Carlo was all she wanted, too. He was all she had in this world. She couldn’t accept that he’d disappear from her life this way. “He has to be out there somewhere,” she said.

Patrick didn’t answer. In the blue-white light of street lamps he looked grim and forbidding, shadows beneath his eyes and the golden glint of beard across his jaw. He looked like a man who wouldn’t give up. She held on to that hope like a lifeline in a pitch-black sea.

Back at the hotel, she sank onto the edge of the bed. Her head throbbed and her eyes were scratchy from crying, but the physical discomfort was nothing compared with the pain of missing Carlo and feeling so helpless to do anything to protect him. “I’m going to look next door,” Patrick said. “See if I can spot any clues. I’ll need your key.”

She fished the card from her purse, but didn’t release her hold on it when he reached for it. “Give me your key,” she said. “I’m going to the lobby for a soda. There’s a vending machine there.” The drink might settle her stomach and help her feel more alert.

They exchanged keys and she followed him out the door and walked past her room to the lobby. She kept out of view of the desk clerk, not wanting to explain the gash on her head, and found the vending machines in a back hallway. A handful of quarters later, she held a can of diet cola and a regular cola. Patrick didn’t strike her as the diet type, but he’d probably appreciate the caffeine as much as she did.

Outside once more, she shivered in the cold that seemed to sink into her bones, despite the ski parka she hugged around herself. The parking lot was quiet and profoundly silent. Her footsteps on the concrete echoed in the stillness. The rooms she passed were dark and silent, as well. She and Patrick might have been the only ones here.

She hunched her shoulders and increased her pace. The sooner she was back with Patrick, the better she’d feel. And maybe he’d found something in her room that would lead them to Carlo.

She turned the corner of the building and strong arms grabbed her from behind. A man’s thick fingers clamped over her mouth and a sharp blade pricked at her throat. “Make a sound and you’re dead.”

Chapter Five

The scent of Stacy’s perfume—something expensive and floral—lingered in her hotel room. Patrick stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene, searching for anything that might provide a clue as to the identity of Carlo’s kidnappers. The double bed still bore the indentations where mother and son had slept, and a single strand of white-blond hair glinted on the pillow. Patrick studied the hair and thought of the woman who had left it behind—such a compelling mix of strength and frailty, reserve and openness. She refused to cooperate in letting him protect her, and that only served to make him more determined to keep her from harm.

He turned away from the bed and examined the dull-brown carpeting, which was worn and matted, especially in front of the door. But a fresh smear of mud caught his eye. He knelt and with the tip of a pen, pried up a quarter-size fragment of the still-pliable clay. He sniffed it and caught the definite odor of manure—from horses? Cows?

He found an envelope in the desk drawer and slid the mud sample inside. He could have someone analyze it to narrow down the probable source, but dirt alone wouldn’t be enough to find a man who didn’t want to be found.

He searched the rest of the room and the bathroom and closet and came up empty-handed. Stacy had come here with nothing but the clothes on her back. What had she planned to do? Where would she have gone from here?

He would ask her, but he doubted she’d tell him. She definitely kept things to herself. I know how to keep quiet and stay out of the way, she’d said. Is that how she’d survived in the Giardino household—by being invisible? He’d known women like that, who suppressed every opinion and action and feeling in order to survive living with an abuser. In the end, they almost always ended up hurt anyway. Anger flared at the thought that Stacy had been forced to live that way.

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He was turning toward his own room when a muffled sound made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He waited and the sound came again, very faint, from up the walkway and around the corner.

The rough brick of the building scraped against his jacket as he flattened himself against it, his gun drawn and held upright against his chest. He moved sideways, one silent step at a time, toward the corner. A quick glance down this side of the motel revealed nothing incriminating. Then he spotted the darkened niche that held trash cans and a fire extinguisher. Nothing moved within that shadowed space, yet his heart raced in warning. He cocked his weapon, then slid a mini Maglite from his pocket and directed the beam into the darkest recesses of the alcove.

And into the terrified eyes of Stacy.

“Drop the gun or she’s dead!” barked a man’s voice.

Patrick carefully uncocked the weapon and let it fall to the sidewalk. “Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want?”

A man, middle-aged and bulky with muscle and layers of clothing, moved out of the niche, dragging Stacy with him. Her gray eyes were wide with fright, all color drained from her face. But the bright red blood that beaded where the blade of her captor’s knife met her neck stood out against her pale skin. The wound made Patrick see red of a different kind, and he sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to maintain calm.

“Stay there,” the bulky man ordered. “My friend will be along in a minute to take care of you.”

Patrick ignored the threat. Whether it was real or not, he needed to focus on the man in front of him and learn all he could about him in order to know how to defeat him. This guy didn’t look like the one who’d taken Carlo; he was shorter and stockier. He wore dark slacks and a black overcoat and a stocking cap, but no mask.

“Where are you taking me?” Stacy asked, her voice quavering.

“Shut up!” the man said, and a fresh trickle of blood leaked from beneath the blade of the knife.

Stacy’s eyes widened, but she kept talking. “Are you taking me to Carlo?” she asked. “If you’re taking me to my son, I’ll go willingly.”

“My boss wants to see you.” Like too many people, Stacy’s captor apparently couldn’t follow his own advice about keeping quiet.

“Who is your boss?” Patrick asked.

“One more word out of you and I cut her throat.” He jerked Stacy more tightly against him and she gasped. Her eyes widened again, but not in pain this time. Patrick whirled around in time to see a second, thinner man move toward him. His knees slammed into the concrete walkway as he dropped to the ground and air reverberated with the sound of the shots that sailed over his head.

Stacy screamed and fought wildly against the man who held her. Patrick was torn between trying to save her and dealing with the second man, who had lowered his weapon to fire again. Stacy distracted them both as her heel connected hard with the stocky man’s kneecap and sent him reeling. Patrick dived for his gun, rolled and came up firing as the second man let loose another volley of shots. The man fell back, shot in the chest, and Patrick leaped to his feet and pointed his weapon at the stocky man.

But Stacy’s attacker was already running away across the parking lot. Patrick took off after him, pounding across the pavement, but the stocky man’s bulk was deceiving; he quickly outpaced the marshal and was swallowed up in darkness.

Breathing hard from the exertion and the altitude, Patrick returned to Stacy. She stood with one hand to her throat, staring down at the wounded man, who lay inert, blood seeping from the chest wound. “Are you all right?” Patrick touched her shoulder and looked into her eyes. Some of the terror had receded, replaced by the weariness of someone who had seen too much to process.

“I’m okay.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know about him, though.” She indicated the man on the ground.

Patrick knelt beside him. “Who sent you?” he asked.

The man gave no answer; he appeared unconscious.

“I’ve called 911.” The desk clerk, wide-eyed and breathless, raced up to them. “I heard the shots.” He gaped at the man on the ground. “Who is he? Is he dead?”

Patrick searched the man’s pockets and found a wallet and a driver’s license. “This says his name is Nathan Forest.”

“What happened?” The clerk turned to Stacy. “You’re bleeding! I should have asked for an ambulance.”

Patrick replaced Forest’s wallet and stood. “This man and his companion tried to mug Ms. Jackson.” He took Stacy’s arm. “We’d better go.”

She nodded, and didn’t try to pull away when he turned her toward his room.

“Shouldn’t you wait for the police?” the clerk asked.

“You can tell them everything they need to know.” Patrick hurried with Stacy down the walkway and into his room, where he shut and locked the door. Then he led her into the brightly lit bathroom. “Tip your head back and let me have a look,” he said, one finger under her chin.

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