Slow Burn (Buchanan-Renard #5)

Slow Burn (Buchanan-Renard #5) Page 24

She would have to suffer in silence. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow, thinking that if a scream escaped, the pillow would muffle the sound.

“Kate, are you trying to suffocate yourself?”

Now that’s a plan. She was laughing when she sat up. “I always put a pillow over my face when I’m thinking.”

He was wearing a pair of khaki shorts that rode low on his hips. They were zipped but not buttoned. His stomach was flat, hard. He didn’t bother with a T-shirt. He was sexy, no doubt about it. She refused to look into his eyes, fearing he’d know he was getting to her.

She grabbed the notepad from the bedside table and a pen. “I’m going to write down the names of the people I think would like to kill me.”

He stretched out on the bed, adjusted the pillows, and stacked his hands behind his head. “Wouldn’t it be quicker to write down the names of the people who don’t want to kill you?”

“That’s not funny,” she said. “People enjoy my company. They do,” she insisted when she thought he looked skeptical.

“I sure enjoyed you.”

She wasn’t in the mood for teasing. Ignoring him seemed to be the only logical course of action. Kate began to write names, and in no time at all, she’d filled two pages and was working on a third. She suddenly stopped. She was struck by what she was doing, and why. Granted, the notepad was small, but still, two and a half pages? Oh, dear Lord.

“Kate, what’s the matter?”

“It just hit me . . . what I’m doing. If someone a month ago had told me I would be making this kind of a list, I wouldn’t have believed him. Good heavens, Dylan,” she cried out, “look at all these names.”

He rolled to his side to face her. “You aren’t going to panic on me, are you? You’re safe now. Right this minute you’re safe. Concentrate on that.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not freaking out, so you can stop talking to me in that keep-her-calm-until-we-get-the-straitjacket-on-her voice. It all sort of overwhelmed me for a moment, that’s all. Two shocks in one night . . .”

“What do you mean, two?”

He would have to zoom in on that slip, wouldn’t he? Realizing she loved him was a bigger jolt to her system than her long list of suspects. Maybe because the truth had snuck up on her and then . . . boom.

“Kate?”

“It’s work related,” she lied. She rotated her pen between her fingers while she once again concentrated on the list. “I’m not going to sleep until I’ve crossed off at least one of these names. I’d feel like I was making some progress,” she explained before he could ask a third time. “You could help, you know.”

He was on his back again staring at the ceiling. He looked half asleep.

She thought he was ignoring her until he said, “I guess you could cross off the artist, Oregano.”

“Cinnamon,” she corrected. “Her name is Cinnamon. I’ll bet she’ll be devastated to know the explosion wasn’t meant to kill her. She was getting a lot of mileage out of the publicity.” She sighed as she added, “I didn’t put her name on my list so I can’t cross her off.”

She read him the names she’d written. All of the MacKenna brothers made her list, and she had even included Anderson and his assistant. She couldn’t remember his name.

“Terrance,” he supplied.

“I honestly don’t think Anderson or Terrance or Vanessa MacKenna is involved, but I included them because they were in the office when the video was played. I also put Carl’s name on the list, but I can surely cross him off, can’t I?”

“No, you can’t. He’s guilty until proven innocent.”

“That’s not how it works. It’s the other way around.”

“Not when it comes to your life. He’s involved in some way,” he added. “I just don’t know how yet.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and studied her list for another minute or two.

She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to add Jackman. She wrote the name and was putting the pen down when he added, “And his associates.”

She was becoming more and more frustrated. “I’m going to put a name down and then I’m going to cross him off, got that? What about Reece? Should I put him on the list?”

Her voice was becoming shrill. She knew she needed to calm down before she lost it. She just wasn’t sure how.

“Why are you so relaxed about all this?” she demanded.

“Waiting’s always tough. I’ve got good people gathering information for me. I have to be patient, and so do you.”

“Easier said than done,” she said. “Are you sorry you got involved?”

“No.”

The answer was abrupt, almost angry. Kate thought she might have offended.

“What about the weasel’s wife who took your ribbon? Would you feel better if you put her name on the list and crossed it off?” he asked.

“She didn’t take my ribbon. She and her husband are trying to steal my company.”

“But you’ve got a plan to stop them, don’t you?”

She was able to smile again. “Yes, I do. And when I’m finished with them, I assure you they’ll want to kill me.”

He laughed; she’d sounded so gleeful. “That’s my girl.”

She tossed the pad and pen on the table and turned the lamp off. The room was suffused in moonlight filtering in through the sheers.

“Good night,” she whispered.

He didn’t respond. Had he already fallen asleep? Or was he faking it so she’d stop talking and give him a little peace?

She knew she wasn’t going to get any rest. All she could think about was Dylan. She wanted to sleep with him, and for a minute or two she was actually able to pretend that she only wanted to be held in his arms, but she was deceiving herself and she knew it. She wanted it all. She wanted to feel him moving within her, to touch every inch of him.

She thought about his mouth, his hot, sexy mouth, and what he could do with it . . .

“Kate?”

She nearly came off the bed. “Yes?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“I thought I heard you groan.”

“Oh. Maybe I did. I can’t sleep.”

“You just turned the lamp off. Don’t you think you should give yourself a couple of minutes before you decide you can’t sleep? Is there anything I can do to help?”

If he only knew. “Like what?”

“You’re going to have to tell me.”

She was certain she heard amusement in his voice. Did he know what his nearness was doing to her?

Hold on a minute. What about him? Was she affecting him the same way? He was the sex maniac, not her . . . until recently, anyway, or more specifically until she’d spent the night with him. Was he toying with her?

“No. I can’t think of a thing you could do to help me.”

She waited for a reaction and was disappointed when she didn’t get one. Several long minutes passed in silence. She couldn’t even hear him breathe.

And then a long drawn out sigh. “Katie?”

“Yes, Dylan?”

“Am I coming over there, or are you coming to me?”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Morning came all too soon, and she awoke with no regrets. After the night they’d shared, she probably should feel a little awkward around him, and when she thought about all the things he’d done to her and she’d done to him, she should at the very least find it difficult to look him in the eye. But regrets? No, there were no regrets.

She was thankful she woke up before he did. He was sleeping on his stomach with one arm hanging off the bed. The pillows and sheets and blankets were on the floor. It had been a wild night, all right. And glorious.

Kate didn’t start worrying until she was in the shower. Had she said something she shouldn’t have in one of those passionate moments when he was driving her out of her mind? Had she told him she loved him? Dear God, she didn’t, did she? She couldn’t remember. She prayed she hadn’t. But if she had . . . what then? Pretend she hadn’t? She couldn’t think of anything better to do, and so she settled on that. Senators did it all the time, and under oath no less. They pretended they hadn’t known . . . whatever. And if lying was good enough for a congressman, by God, it was good enough for her.

Okay, it had finally happened. Dylan had made her completely crazy.

She’d never get out of the shower if she didn’t stop thinking about him. There was so much she needed to get done today. She had promised Anderson that she would look through the binder. He wanted her to understand how the uncle had amassed his fortune, she supposed. And his advisors and accountants would be on hand to answer questions. No choice, she decided. She had to read the thing.

But there were also the photos of her father. She’d been too weary last night to look at them.

Kate hurried to get dressed. She packed her makeup and toothbrush in her bag and opened the door.

Dylan was just getting out of bed. He didn’t look awake, though. His hair was tousled and he was naked. As he walked toward her, her stomach quivered.

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully.

He grunted a reply. Obviously not a morning person, she decided.

He passed her, grabbed her arm, and before she had time to prepare, he kissed her. She wanted to put her arms around him and lean into him. His body was so warm and . . .

She pulled back. Her thoughts were going to get her in trouble. “I’ve got reading to do, and you need to wake up.”

With the least amount of coaxing she would have gone back to bed with him. She rushed to the table and grabbed the binder and the envelope of photos. She heard the bathroom door shut, and she relaxed. She was safe from acting out her lustful thoughts, and hopefully when he came out of the bathroom, he’d be dressed.

She went to her bed, kicked her shoes off, and sat with her back against the headboard. Ready now, she opened the binder and began to read . . . and became sick in no time at all. That horrible old man had documented each acquisition with boastful notes in the margin, and after reading about fifteen pages word for word, she understood the pattern and skimmed over the rest.

He made his fortune buying companies, stripping them, and selling off what was left.

If Anderson had told her that Compton had been a shrewd businessman and had carefully built his portfolio by buying and selling properties, Kate probably wouldn’t have thought much about it, and she doubted she would have been repulsed. Lots of clever, driven men and women made their fortunes wheeling and dealing, and Kate would have assumed Compton fit into that category. But seeing what he had done, and how he had done it, on paper, made all the difference. He used deceit and false promises, anything, it seemed, to get what he wanted. He certainly didn’t have any scruples. The number of lives, the dreams he’d destroyed over the years, the jobs and security of faithful employees he’d snatched away . . . all that meant nothing to him, nor did the families of those who were dependent on the income of the companies he closed. The human element wasn’t his concern, and compassion wasn’t in his nature.

The only thing Compton MacKenna ever cared about was money, and how to make more.

What he had done wasn’t criminal. But it was immoral. And he had gone to his grave proud of his accomplishments. Had he compiled this testimonial to his conquests just to impress her?

Dear God, he believed she was like him.

Reading his financial history validated her initial decision. She could not and would not spend a single dollar of his money on herself, her family, her company, or her future.

Compton MacKenna was a selfish, cruel man. She was not like him, and she meant to prove it. Whatever she decided to do with the money had to be perfect, and when she was done, she hoped Compton would roll over in his grave.

Shoving the binder aside, she reached for the envelope and opened it. Her mood immediately improved. There were ten photos, all black and white.

Her father had been a handsome boy. He looked dashing in his school uniform. He was definitely a child of privilege, she thought, as she studied one photo of him in a polo outfit standing so proudly in front of a horse. In another photo he was about four or five years old, and he was standing on a lawn, smiling into the camera. In the background was a house—no, not a house, a mansion. Had he lived there?

There weren’t any photos of him with his parents or other relatives. She thought that was odd and wondered if there were other pictures of her father packed away somewhere. She made a mental note to ask Anderson to find out.

She was just tucking the last photo back into the envelope when Dylan joined her.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Almost.”

She put the envelope and binder in her overnight bag.

Dylan was folding linens and placing them back on the bed with the pillows he’d already picked up. He noticed what she was doing and asked, “Don’t you want to take that binder in the car so you can look it over?”

“I’ve already looked through it.”

“Were you impressed? I got the idea that whoever put it together for you thought you would be.”

“I wasn’t.”

She checked the bathroom and closet to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind, but Dylan had already straightened them. Even the damp towels in the bathroom had been folded and left on the vanity.

They stopped for breakfast at the hotel coffee shop, but neither one of them was very hungry. As soon as they were back in the car, he checked the map again so he could avoid highways as they made their way toward Silver Springs.

“I should call Anderson,” she said. “I don’t want him to plan on seeing me at three.”

“But you might see him at three,” he said. “It all depends on how we work things out.”

“We’re going back to Savannah? Won’t that be dangerous? That’s a terrible idea. I’m warning you now. If we walk into that office and I see a basket of flowers anywhere in the vicinity, I won’t be responsible for my actions. I’ll do something terrible. I just know I will. I don’t know exactly what that will be, but I assure you I cannot endure getting blown up again, and I won’t let you get hurt. No, it’s out of the question. We simply can’t go back there. My mind’s made up.”

He did try to interrupt her during her tirade, but she was on a roll and wouldn’t be stopped. When she finally had to take a breath, he said, “We don’t know yet if we have to go back to Anderson’s office. He might be able to bring the papers to us.”