Perfect Victim, The (46 page)

'
'
That's enough
,
" she murmured
.
"Make love to me."

He entered her slowly, watchin
g
her eyes glaze, her mouth tremble. He shook with sensation as her heat sheathed him. He closed his eyes as emotion exploded inside him
.
He cursed fate and thanked God in a single, ragged breath
.

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
l
engths 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
s
tature, 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
.

Cl
i
nt 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've 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
n
o
w si
n
ce he's ann
o
unced that he'll be a c
a
ndidate for the
S
enate in November
.
I take it y
o
u've gone t
o
the p
o
lice?"