She moved against him, his name on her lips. Randall ground his teeth together as the pleasure ripped through him. It's just sex, a panicked little voice said in a last-ditch effort to convince him he wasn't in miles over his head.
But his heart was hopelessly lost, entwined with hers in a ritual as old as time. He'd allowed her to reach into him and touch the deepest part of him. She'd asked for his heart.
He'd given her his soul.
Chapter 19
The flight from Denver International to Washington National was as tumultuous as the emotions stumbling around inside him. Randall had never felt so uncertain. He doubted his competence as an investigator. Worse, he doubted his ability to protect Addison. He'd been torn between hiding her in a hotel in another state and taking her with him. But she'd insisted on coming along. The hell of it was he didn't want the responsibility of her safety. Tate played for keeps. Randall knew fully there were no second chances. If he screwed up, Addison would die. It was as simple and tortuous as that.
He gazed thoughtfully at her as she slept in the seat beside him. Her skin was soft and pale in the gray light seeping in through the jet's window. Her brown hair lay in unruly curls at her shoulders. Her full lips were slightly parted, her jaw relaxed. In sleep, she looked young and so vulnerable he wanted to find a place to lock her away where he knew she would be safe. It was that incredible innocence she possessed that made his hackles rise at the thought of anyone harming her. She had no idea how vulnerable she was. She couldn't imagine because she'd never been exposed to the blacker side of human nature.
He'd made love to her twice back at the hotel. His pulse kicked at the thought of everything they'd shared. She was the only woman in the world who could make his heart race. In the short time he'd known her, she'd become the center of his world. It was as though she was a life-sustaining nutrient he'd been deprived of his entire life. He couldn't get enough of her, knew he never would.
He thought about his plans to move back to D.C. and wondered how he could have let this happen. How could he have been so stupid, getting tangled up with a woman as decent and kind as Addison? But he supposed loving her had been inevitable from the very beginning. Just as leaving her was. He didn't want to hurt her, but he knew she'd be better off for it in the long run. He didn't even want to think about the shape he'd be in after he walked away.
The Boeing 767 dipped into a turn. Simultaneously, the uncertainty wrenched at his gut. They would be landing in twenty minutes. Right or wrong, he'd brought Addison with him. He winced inwardly as a little voice reminded him that it wasn't too late to turn back. There was still time to take her back to Colorado and check her into a hotel in Boulder or Colorado Springs.
But when he thought of the lengths Tate was willing to go to cover up his dirty little secret, Randall knew he'd made the only decision he could. He didn't want her out of his sight. Tate had already murdered four innocent people. He wouldn't hesitate to kill again. Randall knew as only a man of kind could that Tate's efforts were only going to get bolder—and that he and Addison both were his targets.
The thought sent a spike of fear through him.
Tate was a powerful man in the city of Washington. He was well connected, with a sterling reputation that wouldn't tarnish easily. He wouldn't go down without a fight. He was slick and smart with the cunning of an animal that killed for the sheer convenience of it.
They were on Tate's turf now, Randall thought darkly, two birds swept into the vortex of a tornado, their fate left to the eye of the storm.
* * *
Two hours later, after changing cabs twice, Randall and Addison checked into the Wyndham Bristol on Pennsylvania Avenue under the assumed names of Mr. and Mrs. Richard White. Using cash, he paid for two nights.
As Addison unpacked, Randall dialed Georgetown information, a little surprised, but glad, that there was still a listing for Holsapple Investigations. Not quite sure what he was going to say, he dialed the number and waited. A familiar voice answered on the second ring. An ally at last. Someone he could trust. Relief swept through him. "Taking on any new clients these days?" he asked.
There was an instant of surprised silence, then a guffaw of laughter. ''Well, if it ain't the devil himself. What the hell you doin' back in D.C.? Thought you hightailed it to Denver to play Magnum, P.I., for a while."
"Clean air and mountains get to you after a while."
"Kind of like traffic and crime, huh?"
He watched as Addison carried their coats to the closet and hung them neatly. "Can you meet me? I need to get your opinion on a problem I encountered with a case."
"Well, it's just me and Jack Daniels these days. Where do you want to meet us?”
"I'm staying at the Wyndham Bristol. Can you meet me in the lobby?"
"If I'm not there in twenty minutes, start without me."
* * *
Clint Holsapple wasn’t at all what Addison expected. She'd imagined him as a big and boisterous Texan donning a ten-gallon Stetson and ostrich-skin boots. Instead, he was a scholarly looking man, short of stature, with wire-rimmed glasses, blue jeans, and a red goatee. He looked more like a college professor than a cowboy turned private investigator.
Randall, having brought Clint up to the hotel room, introduced them.
Surprising her, Clint took her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Pretty lady, it's a pleasure," he drawled, his beard tickling the top of her hand. "You always could pick 'em, Talbot." He winked at Addison. "Lucky devil."
"You're going to get me into trouble, Clint." Randall checked the hall, then closed the door, turning the deadbolt behind him.
The older man smiled. "If I got this picture right, you already are."
Curious about the silver-tongued Texan, Addison eased her hand from Clint's and motioned to the sofa opposite the fireplace. "It sounds as though you two used to spend a good deal of time together," she said.
"Yeah, just me and Randall and our old friend J.D."
"J.D.?" Addison felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
"Jack Daniels," Clint replied.
Randall strolled over to the bar and returned with a bottle and three glasses. Without meeting her gaze, he set the glasses on the coffee table and poured. "I thought you'd be back in Texas by now," he said.
Clint reached for his glass. "There's but one thing that can keep a Texan from Texas."
"Don't tell me you got married." Randall slid one of the glasses toward Addison.
She caught his gaze, hoping he recognized her concern that he'd poured himself a drink, but he looked away.
"Met a gal right here in Georgetown," Clint said. “We're not married yet, but I plan on asking her as soon as I get up the nerve. She owns a little bar and grill over on Wisconsin Ave. We've been together almost a year now."
Crossing an ankle over his knee, he studied the young man and woman before him. "You want to tell me what this is all about? You two look like a couple of rabbits holed up from a pack of coyotes."
Randall took a long pull of whiskey. "We're in trouble, Clint. I don't even know where to start because it's a wild story and you're not going to believe any of it."
The older man laughed easily, his hands corning down on his knees. "You're talking to someone who's been living in Disneyland for the last twenty years. I just about seen it all, amigo."
Trying to ignore her growing uneasiness over the glass of Whiskey in Randall's hand, Addison listened intently. Randall explained in detail everything that had happened, beginning with her search for her biological parents and their deaths ten months ago, and ending with the attempt on Jack's life and the fire at his office.
For several tense minutes, the only sound came from the drumming of rain against the window and the hiss of the gas logs in the fireplace. The room had grown chilly and she steeled herself against a shiver that hovered at the base of her spine.
"Jesus H. Christ," Clint said when Randall finished. "I don't do much political work anymore, but I'v
e known for years Tate was a slimy son of a bitch." He rubbed his face and beard with big hands, then looked at Randall over his fingertips. "Mostly women, a few shady investments. But damn if the TV cameras don't love that good-lookin' mug of his. Imagine him running his senatorial campaign on a family values ticket. Don't that beat all?"
Addison hated to think that the man they were talking about was her biological father. A man whose image filled her with hatred, shame, and stone-cold fear.
"Anything we can dig up on him and take to the media?" Randall asked.
Clint shook his head. "He's got a whole army of P.R. goons dedicated to keeping him squeaky-clean. Especially now since he's announced that he'll be a candidate for the Senate in November. I take it you've gone to the police?"
"The locals back in Denver," Randall said. "Unofficially, the Wall Street Journal. But they're going to be cautious."
Clint nodded, as if finally understanding why they had come to him. ''They're not going to touch him without definitive proof."
"We don't have that kind of time."
"No, you don't." Clint's gaze slid to Addison, then back to Randall. "Tate's running a dangerous show. He's got a lot at stake. Everything, in fact. If he's running scared, you two don't stand a chance. I hate to tell you this, but you're probably still alive because you've merely been lucky."
"Here I was taking the credit," Randall said dryly.
Addison couldn't believe they could joke about something so serious. "That's hardly comforting," she said.
"Comforting's for mothers and whores." Surprising her, Clint leaned forward, put his hand over hers, and looked at her over the top fun of his spectacles: "But if you play your hand right, you can bluff him into making a mistake that'll cost him the game."
Her only thought was that it wasn't a game.
"I'm not willing to take a chance with her." Randall's eyes skittered to Addison, then back to Clint in a silent directive. "I don't want her involved."
"You know as well as I do that she's your ace in the hole."
Realizing she was gripping the armrest of the wingback so hard her knuckles hurt, Addison relaxed her hands and met Clint's gaze. "What do you have in mind?" she asked, forcing a toughness she didn't feel into her voice.
Randall shot her a nasty look.
"They always say the best defense is a good offense," Clint began. ''Until now, you've been on the defensive. Tate's not going to expect you to come at him." He turned to Addison. "Call a meeting with him. Play him a little. Tell him you'll go to the media if he doesn't meet with you."
"We've already gone to the media," Randall cut in.
Addison knew Randall was only trying to protect her. If the situation had been different she would have been flattered by his staunch protectiveness. But the intensity of his argument, combined with the fact that he was allowing his emotions to impede his decision making, left her distinctly uneasy.
"He doesn't know that," Clint said without looking at him.
"You need to think like a liar." His eyes latched on to Addison. "Make Tate think you want to blackmail him. That's a surefire way to get his attention. He'll come at you with both barrels."
"He won't touch it," Randall said. ''There's no way he's going to meet with either of us."
Clint smiled. ''The man's ego's bigger than Texas, man. He's gonna want to meet his resourceful young offspring. I imagine you've given him a run for his money so far." He reached for the bottle of whiskey and refilled his glass. "He'll want to get a good, long look at her before he kills her."
"Goddammit, Clint." Rising suddenly, Randall stalked to the fireplace, his back to them.
"But why the meeting?" she asked. "How will that help us prove anything?"
Randall turned toward them, his face dark with anger. "Clint wants to wire you for sound, Addison. That's his specialty. Bugs, wiretaps, goddamn human electronics. It'll be up to you to get Tate to fess up on tape."
Her throat constricted. She swallowed quickly to hide the lump of fear that had crept up it. "An unauthorized recording, even if he incriminates himself, can't be used against him."
"Not in court," Clint began, "but it'll damn sure be enough to speed up an investigation. The media'll love it." Addison didn't even have to consider. She wanted her life back. All of it. Her peace of mind. Her freedom. She wanted to be safe again. She wanted to be able to walk into her coffee shop and not break out in a cold sweat every time the front door opened. She was tired of having to look over her shoulder every time she left her apartment or got out of her car.
"I'll do it." She had too much at stake not to speak up, not to fight back against a man who'd already taken so much away from her.
Randall spun on them, legs parted, eyes alight with anger. "I don't want her close to him." He jabbed a finger at Addison. "Dammit, you're not going to do it. I won't allow it. There's got to be another way. I'll meet with him."
Clint shrugged, unimpressed by the younger man's wrath. "He won't meet with you."
"He knows she hired me."
"He doesn't know you love her."
Randall just stood there breathing hard, glaring at Clint as if the words had rendered him speechless.
Addison's heart rapped in a steadily increasing rhythm against her breast. She looked at Randall and wondered fleetingly if it could possibly be true.
Without looking at her, he crossed to the coffee table, poured two fingers of whiskey into his glass, then tossed it back in a single gulp. "I don't want her alone with him and that's final. There's got to be another way."
Addison watched him, realizing for the first time that the only reason he was drinking was to drive her away. Damn him. Couldn't he see she wouldn't let him manipulate her like that?
Shaking his head, Clint studied his glass. "I've dealt with this kind of scum before. It may take some time, but he's going to come after you." He looked at Addison. ''We can do it at my gal's restaurant."
Randall glared at him. "Out of the question."
Clint glared back, an equal, matching everything in the younger man's stare less the desperation . "That's why you came to me, son. You'd already thought of this. You were just hoping I'd have a better idea. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I don't."
Randall sat on the sofa next to her. She could feel the anger pouring off him, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. She'd made her decision, and she wasn't going to back down. Randall would just have to come to terms with it.
"What's the restaurant like?" he asked.
"Dark, jazzy, and just obscure enough for him to feel safe. Far enough down on Wisconsin to be considered quiet. The clientele are regulars, mostly happy hour. We're busy late on the weekend. A weeknight would be perfect."
"He'd spot me," Randall said.
"There's an adjoining banquet room we use for larger parties. We can rig up a camera and sound system. We can keep an eye on her from there."
Randall cursed. "I still don't like it."
Clint shrugged, turned to Addison. "Think you can do it?"
Refusing to let them see that her hands were shaking, she pressed them together and looked from one man to the other. ''Tate murdered my parents. I'll do whatever it takes to put him away.”
Randall's eyes burned into her, but she refused to look away. She couldn't. He was too angry. She was too afraid. Dammit, she wasn't going to back down. This wasn't his decision to make.
As if realizing they needed to discuss it further, Clint rose. "Let me know before I get any older," he said. He smiled at Addison. "It was indeed a pleasure meeting you, Miss Fox. I only wish it were under different circumstances."
She smiled back, charmed once again by his grandfatherly manners. "Likewise. We'll be in touch."
At the door, the two men spoke in low tones and then Clint passed a holstered pistol to Randall. They shook hands, then Clint was gone.
Chapter 20
Randall didn’t like being wrong. Worse, he didn't like being wrong and fighting for it anyw
ay. He'd lost all sense of objectivity the moment he'd touched Addison back at that cabin, and he hadn't even realized it—until now.
He'd lost his edge. Christ, she was thinking more rationally than he was. If he agreed to Clint's plan, he would be putting her right in the line of fire. How could he live with himself if he let Tate hurt her?
Turning away from the door, he dropped the holster onto the console table, then picked up the bottle of whiskey, taking it to the bar. Without looking at her, he pulled out a shot glass, filled it, and slammed it back, hoping the slow burn would stop the anger and fear from consuming him completely.