A cop. Grady couldn’t believe it. She dives out of the chopper on a freaking mountainside and lands in the lap of a cop? It was over. No way they’d get their hands on her now.
Except…
Why hadn’t Kincaid known she was safe? He hadn’t sounded like a man trying to set a trap. He’d sounded frantic. Grady knew how to read voices, to read the nuances, body language and eyes. He could smell intentions, feel motives. Home in on weaknesses like a smart bomb on a target. Something wasn’t tracking right. But what?
Faint heart never won fair lady.
It didn’t exactly fit. Prudence Knight wasn’t fair, and his heart was careful, not faint. He pushed back his chair and walked over the window. The sky had cleared, leaving behind a view that was postcard perfect. If snow and mountains were your thing.
They weren’t his. He wanted sun. He wanted heat—the sultry rich kind of heat where he could buy himself a new future and erase his past. A place where he could avoid people like Leslie if he wanted to.
Leslie. Had he heard he’d made his first kill? He hadn’t called to whine—or gloat—yet. Grady had a feeling Leslie would like it. A destructive rage lurked beneath his sunny, idiot-son surface, but Grady’d bet it wouldn’t stay down for long, now that Leslie had taken first blood. He might need to remove Leslie from the picture sooner than planned. Some monsters, unleashed, raged out of control. Leslie was weak and impractical. Everything he did was driven by emotion—mostly rage and jealousy for those in control.
How long would it take for Leslie to turn on him? When would it occur to him that Grady controlled him as much or more than his father? Yes, it was time to eliminate Leslie from the board. A pawn who thought he was king was too dangerous to have around.
Which did nothing to help him figure out where Prudence Knight was or what Luke Kirby planned to do with his catch of the day.
Maybe he should toss in a line and see what he could pull out?
He dialed Kincaid again. He answered on the first ring. Even in the single tersely snapped, “Kincaid,” Grady could hear that the fear in his voice had built, not lessened. So he didn’t know. He hung up without comment. Now was not the time to deal with Kincaid, not without the girl in hand.
Which left him with the multi-million dollar question. Why hadn’t Kirby phoned home? Since he couldn’t answer it, he’d do what he could to make sure he couldn’t get home with the prize.
He knew they’d skied out of the mountains, so Kirby was innovative and willing to switch gears when necessary. He looked at the picture his contact in the police department had faxed to him. Strong, determined, stubborn. A worthy opponent. He stared at the map. What would I do if I were on the hop and not sure what was happening or who my enemy was?
For sure he’d trade in the skis as soon as possible. But they hadn’t rented a car. No contact with any of the police or sheriff departments between the cabin and Denver. They had the bus stations covered, too.
Where are you? And how do we smoke you out? He frowned, then reached for the phone again. A few calls and some judicious faxing. Had any of his army seen this man?
The wait wasn’t long before the phone rang. It was Larry.
“I saw this guy, but the woman he was with didn’t look nothing like Knight. And not a scratch on her.” He sounded frustrated and aggrieved. “I think they got on the bus.”
Bingo. In a few minutes, he had his army moving in on Denver like locusts bearing down on a field of grain.