Deadly Competition. Roxanne Rustand

the man ran his hand through his thinning hair. “West—she wanted to go west, I think.”

      “You think?”

      “No—maybe south. Down New Orleans way.”

      Dean fought the urge to wrap his hands around the man’s scrawny neck. “Maybe,” he said with lethal calm, “you could be a little more specific.”

      “I—” sweat beaded on the ticket clerk’s forehead “—I think she wanted a ticket for New Orleans but didn’t have enough cash. Close, but not enough. I’d say that would put her somewhere in southeast Louisiana, but I swear I don’t remember.” He pulled out a map, unfolded it and drew a circle with his forefinger over the area just north of New Orleans. “Prob’ly here.”

      Dean slapped a personal business card down on the counter. “If you remember anything else, call me. Day or night. This gal is on the run, and she’s wanted for murder. Got it?” He slid a fifty across the counter. “If I find out that you’re covering for her, you can bet I’ll be back.”

      “I—I don’t even know her,” the man protested, licking his lips. “Why would I do that?”

      Dean gave him a long, hard stare, then rocked back on his heels, satisfied. Despite the threat, the guy hadn’t wavered. Which meant that Dean now knew which direction to go, and soon, Katherine would be very, very sorry that she’d dared to run off.

      How could she not realize that she had no choice—that he owned her, body and soul?

      FOUR

      Mandy wrapped her arms around herself and shivered as she stared out at the predawn darkness. Darkness that could hide anyone who wanted to lie in wait for her.

      Loomis was a small, nondescript town. Dean would never think of her choosing a place like this, far away from the ostentatious show of wealth that her father had orchestrated for his family until the day he died. No symphonies here. No Chicago country clubs with thirty-thousand-a-year fees that kept out what he termed “the riffraff,” as if he hadn’t come from those same roots.

      And definitely, there were no maids to clean or cooks to craft exquisite meals that would be eaten in silence and candlelight at the polished African mahogany table in a dining room meant for thirty, though it had been just the two of them for the past fifteen years.

      Past luxuries which now presented a dilemma that no cookbook or homemaking magazine could resolve fast enough. She had to prepare breakfast and lunch for just herself and Sarah, but Clint came home for supper, and during her first two weeks here she’d managed only a few passable casseroles. Grilled pork chops that inexplicably remained raw in the center while they charred on the outside. Chicken that ended up dry and tough.

      Bless him, Clint hadn’t said a word, other than to murmur an apology about the “cantankerous stove,” but she knew better and suspected that he did, too.

      She turned back to the counter and gave the gooey gray mass of dough—which hadn’t raised even a millimeter in the last hour—a poke with a spoon, then sighed and dumped in more flour. Sarah had said something about Clint loving “caramelly rolls” yesterday, and it had seemed like a good plan then: surprise the boss with a favorite treat to stay on his good side. Job security.

      But after tiptoeing into his kitchen during the wee hours and spending an hour scouring cookbooks in search of a recipe for which she could find all the ingredients, then laboriously measuring and stirring them together, the kitchen looked like a war zone and the project still appeared to be a lost cause.

      At the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, she backhanded flour from her cheek and prepared a breezy smile. “Good morning. You’re up early.”

      “You are, too. I didn’t hear you arrive.” He walked in dressed in khakis and a soft blue oxford shirt, his dark hair damp and curling from his morning shower. She felt her heart start a silly little dance and hoped he didn’t pick up on her reaction to him.

      He eyed the mixing bowl with interest. “Coffee cake?”

      “Rolls. Except they don’t seem to be turning out very well, and I’m about to give up.” She shot an uneasy glance at him. “Sarah said you liked these, so I hoped they would be a nice surprise.”

      Bracing his hands on the counter, he leaned over the cookbook and scanned the ingredients. “Eggs?”

      “Yep.”

      “Sugar?”

      “Check.”

      “Looks like you got the flour. Yeast?”

      “Check.” She nodded confidently, then felt her smile slip as she pulled open the microwave door and found the glass measuring cup inside, just where she’d left it. “I was…um…warming up water for the yeast. Is it too late?” Expecting an irritable retort, she felt herself automatically tense.

      The vertical dimples bracketing his mouth deepened when he looked up at her. “I think so.”

      “I—I’m sorry.”

      He gave her an odd look. “No big deal. I usually just make some coffee at my office. I really appreciate you trying, though. It was—thoughtful.” He pulled a loaf of whole wheat bread out of the bread box. “I need to leave in a few minutes, but maybe you and Sarah would like some cinnamon toast when she wakes up?”

      “Good idea.”

      Their eyes connected for a long moment. She suppressed a shiver when she read something unexpected in his—curiosity, a hint of attraction?

      He abruptly cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. “Maybe we can all meet for lunch? Sarah might enjoy that.”

      During the past days, Mandy had focused on the little girl. On keeping the living room and kitchen tidy, and on trying to come up with something edible for each supper. She’d also focused on avoiding Clint as much as she could.

      Proximity meant conversation.

      Conversation meant the potential for questions.

      And even casual questions could dig a little too deep, demanding answers she didn’t dare give…though spinning lies would only get her in deeper trouble, because she was the worst liar on the planet.

      Coupled with her uneasiness about spending time downtown, meeting for lunch was the last thing she wanted to do. But how could she refuse?

      “I…of course. Whatever you say.”

      Lifting his set of truck keys from the rack by the back door, he started to leave but then turned back. “You’re doing fine,” he said with a smile. “Relax.”

      Relax? The concept was too foreign to even imagine, but she managed an awkward laugh. “Thanks.”

      He was a solid man. A good and caring man—the kind she’d always hoped to meet someday. Even his smile touched her in some deep, indefinable way, making her wish she could get to know him better. How ironic was it that she’d now met someone like him while she was in danger and on the run, and couldn’t possibly stay?

      She waited until she heard the sound of his truck rumbling toward the highway, then she sank into one of the kitchen chairs and rested her forehead against her folded arms on the table.

      And wondered if it would do any good to pray.

      Cradling a cup of coffee from Bitsy’s Diner in one hand, Clint turned off County Road 23 into the driveway of his construction firm. After taking his usual swing past the outbuildings, he parked next to the two-story, white clapboard house that he’d remodeled for the Herald Construction Company business office.

      Clint should have been thinking through a problem at work, but during the drive he found it was Mandy who filled his thoughts. Images of her lovely smile. The sound of her sweet laughter. Her quick flashes of humor, and her gentleness with Sarah.

      The past four months had