Ty glanced at his watch. If he were a betting man, he’d give her five, maybe ten minutes before she erupted.
He walked to the other end of the hall and went into the room he’d set up as an office—among other things—after he’d gone to work for Elite. He checked the comms equipment connected to their private system, sent the message that they were here and safe, then left it in monitor mode with the notification signal on. They’d agreed on periodic check-ins, but if they turned up something he needed to know, he didn’t want to miss it. It was also powerful enough to send a notification to his phone, as long as he was on the property.
Then he headed back to the kitchen, wondering how far afield Mitch’s idea of supplies wandered from Ashley Hart’s. Since the guy’s taste ran more to burgers and fries than caviar, he could only imagine. He was perusing the stack of steaks in the freezer, grinning at the addition of some bags of frozen veggies as a token, when what he’d been waiting for happened. He heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, coming down.
What he hadn’t heard was the shriek he’d almost been expecting. But then, she didn’t really know. Yet.
He surreptitiously watched as she walked around the great room, with her phone held up in front of her. Ah. Checking to see if there was a signal elsewhere in the house. So she didn’t immediately jump off a cliff when cut off. That seemed significant somehow.
Then she headed for the door out onto the deck, still staring at the uncooperative screen of her phone. She reached for the door handle, clearly intending on heading outside.
“Ms. Hart.”
She stopped. For the first time, the phone came down. She looked back at him over her shoulder. And his heart nearly stopped. Damn, why did she have to look like...that? It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, or so obviously smart, she was...she was so alive it fairly crackled around her.
“What?” she finally asked when he couldn’t seem to find his voice.
He made himself focus. “Don’t go outside alone.”
She frowned. “I thought you said your family owned the surrounding fifty acres and the house is protected with alarms?”
“And the lake with open access is twenty-five yards away. That’s an easy pistol shot.” He pointed back toward the grove of cottonwoods they’d driven through. “A pro could do it from back there. Throw a rifle into the mix, and the shooter could be outside the property line and still take you out.”
“If you think I’m going to sit inside for two weeks—”
She stopped when he held up a hand. “Just don’t go out alone.”
She turned around to face him, then. Her brow was furrowed as she looked at him. “If it is that professional you mentioned, and that someone is not even on your property to set off any of your alarms, why would you being with me make a difference?”
He hesitated for a moment, then decided on the truth. Maybe it would jolt her into taking this more seriously.
“Because he’ll likely go for the bigger threat first.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
A little to his surprise, she didn’t argue the assessment. She merely looked at him consideringly. “And you accept that?”
“It’s part of the job.”
“Then tell me, Mr. Colton, once you’re dead, what, exactly, am I supposed to do?”
Her voice was cool and calm. A little too much so for his comfort. But she did have a point. He’d planned to do this later, when she’d settled in, but the subject had come up now so there didn’t seem much point in delaying it. Besides, it would postpone the inevitable blow up a little longer.
“Come with me,” he said. Then added a careful, “Please.”
He started back down the hall toward the office. She did follow without arguing, to his relief. He opened the office door, and nodded at her to step inside. She looked around, clearly surprised, no doubt by the rather stark utilitarian room and equipment.
“What is this?”
“Three things,” he said briskly. “This room is bulletproofed and sealable from the inside. If you have to, you head for here and hit that pad beside the door.”
“So it’s like a panic room?”
“Yes,” he said, realizing the Harts probably had something similar. You didn’t have the kind of wealth they did and not be aware you were a target for those who wanted to take it, not earn it. And somehow inheriting it seemed even worse to that sort of person, no matter that Ty knew Ashley’s father had doubled the family fortune through his own efforts.
“Okay.”
“Secondly—” he turned to the comms setup, pointed to a large red switch “—you flip that, push down that button and yell for help.”
She seemed to consider that, as well. “What if no one answers?”
“They will. 24/7. They’ll know where you are, so all you need to do is tell them what happened.”
“You mean that you’re dead?” she asked sweetly.
She was either the coolest customer he’d ever dealt with, or the coldest. And when he found himself thinking he’d like to have the discussion about the difference between those two with her, he knew he was in trouble. He was going to have to stay seriously on his guard.
“Exactly,” he said, doing his best to sound unruffled. “You’re under threat, and that’s real. I didn’t bring you here because it’s unfailingly safe. No place is, and you need to be aware of that. I brought you because it will be harder for anyone to get to you here.”
He saw her look around the office, saw her gaze snag on the first-aid locker on the wall beside the door. It was, as was everything Elite, stocked with the latest and greatest, and included a smaller portable case that held lesser amounts of everything in the main locker. Just about any kind of situation was covered, although if pressed he’d have to admit he’d only learned the minimum on some of the newer stuff. The injuries he encountered tended to be pretty basic, and if it was anything more complicated than a broken bone or a minor knife or gunshot wound, he was out of his depth, anyway.
Her gaze shifted to the locker on the other side of the door. The one with the actual lock on it. And for the first time some tension crept into her voice. He was glad to hear it. “I’m guessing the things in there are what make the things in there—” she gestured back at the locker marked with the red cross “—necessary?”
He smiled inwardly at her correct guess; there was a weapon in there to handle nearly anything. “Mostly they stop them from being necessary.” Her gaze shifted to his face. He didn’t remember from his admittedly somewhat hasty research that this had ever been one of her issues, but he asked anyway. “Don’t care for weaponry?” His tone was just a hair too polite, but she answered evenly, with a glance at his side, where his jacket concealed his holster, that told him she was fully aware he was armed.
“It has its purpose and function.” Her voice was cool again. She was back in control. “And given my family has had full-time armed security for years, it would be very hypocritical for me to crusade against their tools.”
“Points to you again, then.”
She met his gaze, and he didn’t think he’d mistaken the amusement in her eyes. “As someone once said to me, I’ll take all the points I can get.”
He couldn’t help it—he let out a chuckle. “I think you’re ahead at the moment.”
“I shall endeavor to stay there.”
She said it so snootily he knew she was putting it on. And a moment later, she was grinning at him, proving it. She was quite an unexpected package, was Ashley Hart.
Ashley Hart, richest heiress in the civilized—or uncivilized—world, Colton. Remember that.
“What’s the third thing?”
He blinked, yanking his mind out of what was threatening to become a groove. “What?”
“You said this room was three things. You gave me two.”
“Oh. Yeah. You already guessed.” He walked over and pressed his thumb to the scanner on the weapons locker. A moment later, it clicked and disengaged. He pulled open the double doors, wondering if she’d freak at the sight of the rather impressive array. He looked back over his shoulder at her. Those delicately arched brows were lowered, but she didn’t look intimidated, or particularly worried. Not worried enough for him, anyway. He didn’t want her scared, but he didn’t want her relaxing her guard, either.
Knowing the likely answer, he said, “I’ll leave out something simple, just in case. A revolver, so no chance of a jam.”
She came closer, scanned the racks that held everything from the mentioned revolver to a semi-auto rifle.
“Actually,” she said casually, pointing at the single shotgun there, “I’d be more comfortable with the Mossberg.” He blinked. She smiled at him. “Assumptions again, Mr. Colton?”
“Apparently. When and how did you pick up that particular bit of know-how?”
“My father took up trap and skeet shooting when I pitched a fit at age eight over him hunting live birds. I learned along with him.”
“You any good?”
“Quite.”
He studied her for a moment before he asked quietly, “Could you shoot a human being if you had to?”
To her credit, she didn’t give him a snappy comeback. And after a moment, she nodded. “Under certain circumstances, I could.”
“But you won’t shoot a bird? A bit illogical, don’t you think?”
“It’s perfectly logical. The bird is innocent, being hunted while unaware, just trying to go about its life. A human has made a conscious choice.”
For a moment, he just looked at her. She was surprising him on every hand. “Okay, now you’re really ahead on points.” He reached up and lifted the Mossberg 500 Tactical from the rack. “Twelve-gauge, five plus one, you know?” She nodded. “Want the pistol grip?”
“No. I’m not used to it, so it would just distract me.”
“Good call.”
When she took the weapon he held out to her, she took it with a familiarity that told him she hadn’t been lying. Not that he thought she was. So far, she’d been honest to a fault. She studied it for a moment, and he pointed out a couple of things he guessed were different from the version of the weapon she was used to, for their tactical purposes.
“It fires pretty true,” he said, “but we can take it out in the morning for you to fire a few so you can be sure.” He gave her a wry smile. “No shooting range gear, I’m afraid. But I can throw something for you.”
“That will do,” she said.
“What’s the difference between trap and skeet, anyway?”
She gave him a sideways look. “Testing me or do you really want to know?”
He held up his hands innocently. “I want to know. I’ve never done either.”
“Skeet, the targets come across your field from the sides, and always at the same speed and height. Trap, they come from all directions and are moving away, not across.”
“Trap sounds like it would be trickier.”
“They both have their challenges.” She took the box of shells he held out then and quite proficiently loaded the weapon. Then she looked at him. “Are we leaving it in here?”
He shook his head. “You might need quicker access. There’s a rack in the great room.”
She nodded, and soon the weapon was settled securely on the rack next to the door leading out onto the deck. It was already getting dark, the days growing ever shorter this time of year. It was also getting colder, so he set about building a fire in the fireplace. With the limited wood in the rack.
“What was that look for?”
She’d startled him. Again. He hadn’t realized he’d been grimacing. “Just acknowledging that the last person here was my father.”
“Meaning?”
He nodded toward the half-empty firewood rack beside the hearth. “It’s sort of an unspoken rule you refill that when you leave. He never thinks about the next person who’ll be here.”
“Sounds...annoying.”
“Yeah, well, that’s my father.”
“Rude or just thoughtless?”
“Oh, he’s quite capable of being both. If it’s not business-related, he doesn’t much care. He—never mind,” Ty cut himself off, wondering how on earth he’d let his father become a topic of conversation with this virtual stranger. Especially now, when Colton Construction was facing mounting problems, both personal and legal. Problems no one would appreciate him blabbing about to that stranger.
Except...she didn’t feel like a stranger. He felt as if he already knew more about her, in these few hours, than he’d expected to.
Thankfully, she didn’t press. Instead, she pulled her phone out once more and again started wandering the house. He knew perfectly well what she was looking for, what she wouldn’t find. Finally, she made a swipe and a couple of taps on the screen, studied it for a moment and her brow furrowed in that now familiar way.
Here it comes...
“Okay, this is ridiculous. I can’t get any kind of a carrier signal. And it’s telling me there’s no Wi-Fi in range.”
He braced himself. Straightened up from where the fire was starting to take off. Then turned to face her.
“That’s because there isn’t any.”
For the first time, she looked blank. Which told him a lot. “Any what?”
“Of either.”
She stared at him. “You don’t get a cell signal here?”
He pointed to the wall in the kitchen, where an old, rather nauseatingly yellow phone hung. “That’s not there because it’s pretty.”
She blinked. “A landline? Seriously?”
“Very seriously. It’s that or nothing out here.”
“Wow.” She looked back at her phone.
“Might want to turn the phone off, save the battery.”
She looked as if he’d suggested she cut off a finger. “I’ll turn off the carrier function, so it’s not searching for a signal,” she said, and did so. “But why is there no—” She stopped abruptly, and her eyes grew wider as she stared at him. “You don’t have Wi-Fi, either?”
“Nope.”
She was starting to look as if she were sliding into shock. “Tell me you at least have broadband?”
“I try never to lie.”
She muttered something he was pretty sure there was a rude internet acronym for. “I haven’t had to deal with dial-up since I was...what, seven?”
“You still won’t have to.”
She brightened. “Oh, that was mean. What, you have a satellite connection or something?”
“Nope. No satellite.”
“Then what?”
He sighed. Loudly. Then, bracing himself for the blast, he very carefully said, “You, Ms. Hart, are offline. Completely. For the duration.”