Stranded With The Suspect. Cindi Myers

type of man might have gotten by on wits and cunning alone, but Metwater was used to paying his way out of trouble.

      He was the son of a man who had made a fortune manufacturing plastics in Chicago. He had a twin brother, David, who had reportedly embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars from the family business before Metwater Senior’s death. Without his dad to reign him in, David had really gone off the rails, racking up gambling debts, dabbling in the drug trade and getting in deep with the Russian mob. He had died under mysterious circumstances, supposedly killed by organized crime members he had tried to double-cross.

      Meanwhile, Daniel kept on managing the family business, serving on the boards of various charities and cleaning up the mess his brother made. David’s death, he told the press, cut him deeply, to the point where he sold the family business and took to the road, preaching peace and poverty to a growing list of followers, who eventually followed him to the public lands of Colorado, where they set up camp in the Rangers’ jurisdiction.

      The good twin and the bad twin. A classic cliché. Simon didn’t buy it. He figured Daniel had been every bit as corrupt as his twin, but managed to hide it better. Nobody was the saint the press made Daniel out to be.

      Simon knew a few real saints—nuns who lived real vows of poverty and worked to save children in border-town slums, doctors who used their own money to fund clinics for the indigent, police officers who faced down corruption and paid the ultimate price when they were assassinated for refusing to look the other way.

      But Simon was no saint. Working for Immigration and Customs Enforcement, he had sent widows and orphans back to uncertain futures and poverty because they had the bad luck to be born on the wrong side of the border. He didn’t believe in mercy for those who broke the law, and he had little patience for whiners and weaklings.

      And he knew there was a special place in hell for men like Daniel Metwater, who took advantage of the lost and lonely.

      Beautiful Andi Matheson was a little of both. She had the kind of ethereal beauty that drew the eye. The first time Simon had seen the blonde there in Metwater’s camp, he had a hard time not staring. She had been born into privilege and by all accounts was a spoiled socialite who had never been denied anything—all reasons enough for him to dislike her, which he had been prepared to do.

      Then he had looked into those sapphire eyes, and the hurt and fear in them had hit him like a sucker punch. Stripped of her beauty-queen gowns and protected privilege, he had seen her for the lost, struggling soul she was. From that moment on, Simon had appointed himself Andi’s guardian. Which is why he patrolled the hallways and public areas of the hotel, alert to anything that might signal danger.

      He was torn between the desire to station himself outside Andi’s door, and the need to find and question the man who had spoken to her at the elevator. Simon sensed a threat from that man. If he could deal with the stranger, then he could focus on Metwater.

      In the hotel bar, The Ship Tavern, he spotted a familiar blond head—the man who had approached Andi outside the elevators. He entered the bar and was immediately engulfed by a wave of noise—a dozen conversations rising over the blare of two TVs and the clink of glasses. The gleam of brass—brass railings, brass light fixtures, brass ornaments on the wall—caught and reflected back the light from old-fashioned ship’s lanterns and faceted chandeliers. Simon squeezed past a shapely brunette in a sequined cocktail gown. She smiled warmly and looked him up and down. “Hi, handsome,” she breathed.

      He ignored her and continued on until he reached the bar, and eased in beside the blond man, who immediately turned to see who had joined him. Simon nodded in greeting. The blond returned the nod, and gave no indication that he recognized Simon. “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

      “Fat Tire,” Simon said. When the bartender had walked away, Simon turned once more to the blond. “I saw you talking to Andi Matheson earlier,” he said. He seldom wasted time with subtlety. In his experience, a direct confrontation was more likely to catch people off guard.

      The blond tensed, one hand slipping inside his jacket. “Who are you?”

      “Are you going to shoot me right here in this bar because I made a simple remark?” Simon kept his voice even as he turned to accept the beer from the bartender, who flicked a glance at the blond.

      The blond brought his hand back out in the open and nodded to the bartender. “My friend thinks he’s so funny,” he said, his English very good, but definitely with a hint of a Russian accent.

      The blond waited until the bartender had walked away before he spoke again, keeping his hands outside his coat. “Who are you?” he asked again.

      “I’m a friend of Ms. Matheson’s,” Simon said. “Who are you?”

      “You’re the man in the elevator.” Understanding lit his eyes.

      “Who are you and what do you want with her?” Simon asked.

      “I am also a friend.”

      “That’s not what she says. She says she never saw you before.”

      “She doesn’t remember.” He sipped his drink—something dark and thick in a small glass. “It was at a party, with a lot of people.”

      “When? Where?”

      “Why are you so interested?”

      “It’s my business to be interested.”

      The blond studied Simon more closely. He tensed again, eyes narrowed. “You’re a cop,” he said.

      Simon didn’t deny or confirm, but met the blond’s glare with a hard look of his own.

      “I don’t like cops,” the blond said.

      “I don’t like people who bother Ms. Matheson. She said you asked her about Daniel Metwater.”

      The blond contemplated the liquid in the glass. “Her boyfriend. He’s putting her up here, isn’t he?”

      “What makes you think that?”

      “I have a connection at the front desk.” He cut his eyes to Simon, his expression wary. “Are you after her for something—or is it Metwater you want?”

      “Right now, I’m interested in you.”

      “I’m a man having a drink in a public bar.” He drained his glass and set it down on the bar with a hard thunk. He pulled a heavy gold money clip from his pocket, peeled off a twenty and laid it on the bar. “Good night.”

      “Leave Ms. Matheson alone,” Simon said.

      “Watch your back,” the blond said softly, but loud enough for Simon to hear.

      Simon started after him, only to be blocked by a group of men and women who pushed toward the bar. By the time he got free, he reached the door just in time to see the blond pushing through the glass doors of the hotel lobby to the street.

      Simon returned to the bar and paid for his beer, then walked back into the lobby. A quick scan satisfied him that the blond hadn’t returned. But Simon had added the Russian to the short list of people who might be a danger to Andi.

      He made his way back to the fourteenth floor and the room two doors down from Andi’s. His bosses were going to scream when they got the bill for the suite, but it couldn’t be helped. If Daniel Metwater—or the Russian—tried to get to Andi, they would have to get past Simon first.

      * * *

      SIMON’S VISIT HAD banished all hope Andi had of resting. Not that she had been sleeping much lately anyway. She missed having other women around to talk to—that had been one of the best things about joining the Family. An only child, she had never realized how comforting it could be to have other women around you—sisters who understood your concerns and were always willing to listen or offer advice. Casual acquaintances you didn’t live with could never understand you as well as family. A check of the clock showed it was only eight thirty, so she dialed the number for her former tentmate at the