Play Dead. Meryl Sawyer

as she came into the dark loft. She self-consciously rubbed them on her raincoat. It helped a little.

      He was studying her in that disturbing way of his. What was he thinking? His face was utterly expressionless. If he’d been a card shark, she wouldn’t have a clue if he held a winning or losing hand.

      “Wait a few days before you tell anyone you’re alive. Otherwise you’re exposed and the killer might try again. There’s a really talented FBI agent who’s working on your case. See what he and I can find out. The task force might also be able to solve this without putting you in danger.”

      “I’m not worried,” she fibbed. “I’m sure the police will provide protection of some sort.”

      “For how long? Not indefinitely. If this isn’t solved, you’ll be looking over your shoulder until he kills you.”

      He had a point, and she couldn’t deny it. Catching this maniac was essential for her safety. Even if she had protection, how could she live with someone dogging her every move? “All right. I’ll stay out of sight here for a few days.”

      “Not here. Not only is the place a mess, the cleaning lady is coming tomorrow. It’ll take a couple of days to clean up this mess.”

      “I’ll call my aunt—”

      “No way. I’m the only one who will know you’re alive and where you are or you won’t be safe.” He said this with such conviction that she couldn’t argue.

      “How will I pay for a hotel? Credit card activity can be traced, can’t it?”

      “You’ll stay at my father’s place. No one will think to look for you there.”

      “Good idea. If someone should be looking for me, I’m sure they’ll check friends and the hotel, not your father’s home.”

      He stood up and reached out a strong hand to help her rise. She took it, wondering if she’d made the right decision. She shuddered, fear rising inside her like a rogue wave about to engulf her.

      “Let’s get the things you absolutely need. Nothing more. We don’t want to tip off anyone by removing too much.”

       CHAPTER SIX

      MAYBE BLOWING up Hayley’s car so close to an airport hadn’t been the most brilliant idea. Who knew it would activate the Joint Antiterrorism Task Force, which included the FBI and every other police agency on the planet, including Homeland Security? They were asking endless questions, looking at all kinds of records and poking into things that were absolutely none of their business.

      The good news was the arrogant pricks hadn’t discovered squat. They were convinced the car bombing was drug related and were currently pulling Surf’s Up’s records apart, examining every shipment, every business transaction.

      The best news was Hayley Fordham no longer walked the earth. A car bombing might have been overkill but it did the trick. She was dust. There hadn’t been enough to bury.

      The killer wasn’t worried that the forensic team would trace the bomb. The small device had been purchased in Mexico well before the killing. It had been tempting to use it immediately, but waiting and anticipating the murder had been more exciting.

      If the authorities did ID the bomb, they would blame one of the Mexican cartels because one of their men had sold the bomb. Making contact with the sleazy Mexican had been a fluke. But fate was like that. It played into your hands, if you were intelligent enough to take advantage of the situation.

      A smart person went with the flow. A smart person didn’t panic at such an intense investigation. A smart person concentrated on what was important.

      Hayley Fordham was dead. That had been the goal. Mission accomplished.

      THE FRAGRANT AROMA of coffee awoke Hayley on the morning following her return from Costa Rica. For a few seconds she didn’t recognize the room decorated in tan and black where she had slept. A partially open window brought in the rustling of palm trees and the whump-whump of waves battering the shore. She instantly remembered where she was.

      Her limbs seemed leaden as she tried to get out of bed. It was like waking up in someone else’s body. Suddenly, she recalled the car bombing that had killed Lindsey. Her emotions unraveled like an old sweater as she stumbled out of bed and toward the adjacent bathroom.

      A weariness so deep it went beyond the physical gripped her. Shell-shocked. Now she understood what that expression meant. Like a distant star, her past seemed faraway, untouchable. She felt adrift, empty.

      She clutched the counter and gazed at the disheveled face in the mirror. Dark circles limned her eyes and her hair hung in tangled hanks around a haggard face. She didn’t care. Guilt had a stranglehold on her emotions.

      Like a serrated blade, despair ripped through her chest. Lindsey was gone. Someone wanted Hayley dead and had killed her dear friend by mistake. She was precariously balanced on the jagged edge between anger and tears.

      “Pull yourself together,” she told her reflection. “This isn’t helping.” She had a purpose—find Lindsey’s killer. And save yourself.

      She relieved herself and walked back into the bedroom. She found the small suitcase with the few things Ryan had permitted her to take from her loft. Don’t let anyone suspect you’re alive, he’d told her. Take only what you absolutely need.

      She’d allowed him to bring her to his father’s home, not knowing Ryan was living there as well. By the time he’d opened the door of the oceanfront house, her body had shut down, succumbing to weariness and anxiety. She’d realized Ryan was staying there, but she’d merely followed his directions and stumbled into the downstairs guest room while he’d gone upstairs to spend the night.

      Hayley had crawled into bed in her underwear, surrendering to her body’s demand for sleep. Her eyes had closed immediately as she admitted to herself that having Ryan in the same house made her feel safe.

      She quickly showered and brushed out her tangled hair. The situation didn’t call for makeup, she assured herself, but she brushed a little mascara on her eyelashes. She walked out of the guest quarters toward the kitchen area, now smelling bacon as well as coffee. Her stomach rumbled.

      Ryan stood at the counter, his head tilted forward. Seen in profile, his nose and jawline appeared even more chiseled than they had last night. A hairline fracture in her self-composure opened and a knot of pure sensation formed in her chest. Last night had not been a reaction to her grim plight. Sexy didn’t begin to describe him. Ryan Hollister was an extremely appealing guy.

      The faded blue T-shirt he was wearing emphasized shoulders even wider than she’d remembered. Well-washed navy sweatpants hung low on his narrow hips. She was fairly certain he wasn’t wearing anything beneath them. He had a great butt—tight, well rounded. At the thought, she felt herself blushing. Why? She rarely blushed.

      Mentally she gave herself a hard shake. You’re in terrible trouble. Forget Ryan is a hottie. She was grateful for his protection. Nothing more.

      “How’d you sleep?” he asked without turning.

      “I was out the minute my head hit the pillow.” She walked into the room and saw he was beating a bowl of eggs with a fork. “I hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours.”

      “Good.” He turned to greet her with a smile that would have tested a nun’s vows. “Coffee’s made. I’m working on scrambled eggs. That okay?”

      “Sure. I’m starving. I was the only one on the jet. I didn’t want to make the flight attendant mess up the galley, so I just had a soda and yogurt.” Hayley hoped she sounded nonchalant but she felt incredibly awkward. Staying with a man she hardly knew—a guy too hot for words—made her uncomfortable.

      “Fix the toast, will you? I’ll cook the eggs.” He moved over to the range and poured the eggs into a frying