Mac had known without a doubt who she was five days ago, but that was before a bored supreme being decided to have a little fun at her expense: Trish McAllister, maid extraordinaire, whose specialty was scrubbing toilets.
No, she was still a reporter and had no intention of giving that up, especially now with the story of a lifetime at her fingertips.
“I told you, I’m a reporter,” she finally replied. “I do freelance work for various newspapers around the country.”
“You sell stories to them?” Jared asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not going to give them away. It’s better than doing this.” She made a sweeping gesture at her uniform.
His eyes narrowed. “Why haven’t I heard of you?”
“I write under a pen name.”
“What is it?”
Mac pushed her empty plate away, cursing the Fates who had put her between a rock and a hard place.
A rock and Jared Yates.
“T.A. McAllister,” she finally said.
“I’ve never heard of it,” Jared fired back.
She met his glare without flinching. “Do you know every reporter in the country?”
He scowled and his gaze faltered.
Mac pressed her advantage. “Tell me what you know about the murderer.”
“And why would I do that?” Jared demanded.
Mac leaned forward and said in a low intense voice, “Because you want this bastard even more than I do, and working together is the only way to get him.” She could tell she’d struck a nerve, but instead of feeling victorious, she felt guilty for using his guilt against him. But wasn’t that what made her such a good reporter? She found the soft underbelly of her adversary and went for it. Even though she’d slept with Jared, he was no different than any other source. So why had her conscience suddenly decided to lodge a complaint?
“Why are you so hell-bent on catching him?” Jared asked, his eyebrows drawn together.
Yates obviously used the same tactic, and Mac found she didn’t like being on the receiving end. Not one damned bit. “It’s a helluva scoop,” she simply replied.
Jared stared at her as though she were something he’d stepped in while walking through the stable. “You’re after a story. I’m after revenge and justice. If you get in my way, I won’t hesitate to push you aside. Do you understand?”
The frigid tone of the Pinkerton’s voice nearly froze Mac’s blood, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She lifted her chin. “I understand.”
He glanced around. “Let’s find someplace a little more private to talk.”
“How about the Garden Room?” Mac asked without thinking.
Jared’s lips thinned and his jaw muscle jumped. “If we had stayed away from there last night, a woman wouldn’t be dead.”
“Don’t you dare blame her death on me.” Mac’s breath hissed in and out as she fisted her hands. “It takes two to tango, Yates.”
She jumped to her feet and strode to the door, her hands clenching the tray tightly. She piled it and her utensils in their correct places, then stomped out.
Jared caught her wrist and yanked her into a secluded alcove. He grasped her upper arms and backed her against the wall, giving her no escape. His eyes sparked with wrath. She had never seen him so angry and for a moment, she feared he would strike her.
“I’m not blaming anyone’s death on you, Mac,” he said quietly, in direct contrast to his furious expression. “I take sole responsibility for my actions. If I hadn’t been acting like a boy instead of a man, I would have been doing my job.” Self-condemnation replaced his rage.
Mac had the insane urge to wrap her arms around him and comfort him. She could deal with a brash, angry Jared easier than she could this guilt-ridden man. She felt little tremors skating along his muscles and wondered how much longer he could hold himself together. Her own control was fading, and she reached deep down inside herself to maintain her cynicism.
“And if I hadn’t been acting like a love-starved old maid, we wouldn’t have ended up where we did,” Mac said without flinching. “So we can either keep kicking our own asses or we can start acting like adults and stop this son of a bitch before he kills another woman.”
Jared’s anguish transformed to reluctant admiration and his gaze settled on Mac’s lips. She felt the beginnings of his arousal against her belly, and her own desire flared. She closed her eyes, fighting the relentless attraction that scattered her brain cells to the wind.
“Only pheromones,” she whispered.
“What?” Jared asked.
Mac opened her eyes to find Jared’s confused expression inches away. She shook her head. “Nothing. Let’s go find someplace where we won’t be overheard.”
Jared released her and took a step back. Without his hard-planed body pressed against hers, Mac could think more clearly.
“How about your room?” she asked.
“Are you crazy?”
She was on much firmer ground now and planted her hands on her hips. “Where else can we go where we won’t be overheard by curious eavesdroppers?”
Resignation stole across Jared’s features. “All right, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Are you afraid we won’t be able to keep our hands to ourselves?” Mac jeered.
He glared. “If you can control yourself, I can. What if someone sees us?”
Mac rolled her eyes. Sometimes she felt as though she were back in high school trying to make out with her boyfriend. “I think that people around here don’t have enough to keep them occupied and out of another person’s business.”
Jared sighed and took her arm. “All right, but we can at least keep to the back stairs so there will be less chance anyone will see us.”
“Whatever.”
Mac allowed herself to be pulled up the employees’ staircase. They climbed two flights and walked down a long hallway. Jared’s room was at the end; he unlocked the door and then ushered her inside ahead of him.
Mac glanced around, impressed because she knew the maid hadn’t been in, yet the room was neat and tidy. It looked like the Pinkerton detective was anal retentive about cleanliness, in addition to his other annoying habits.
Jared motioned to one of the two chairs. “Sit.”
She did so, then admired the rear view as Jared leaned over to drag out a suitcase from beneath the bed. She had to admit his tight buns more than made up for his annoying habits. She watched Jared unlock the bag and draw out a file of papers filled with handwriting.
“That’s right, no computers,” she mumbled.
Jared’s head swiveled around to her. “What?”
She waved a hand. “Nothing. Are those all your notes?”
He nodded. “From the four previous murders. There are newspaper articles from the Hope Springs Times, too.”
She reached for them, but he pulled them back. “I have one condition.”
Mac rolled her eyes. “What?”
“This is completely off the record. There are some things in here that haven’t made it into the newspapers.” His gaze drilled into her. “And I want to keep it that way. Do you understand?”
“Then why are you letting me read it? I told you I’m a reporter.”
Disappointment shadowed his features. “I thought the most important thing was catching the killer.” He tucked the papers back in the bag. “I guess I was wrong.”
“No!” Mac startled herself by her vehement denial. “You’re right. Catching the man who’s killing these women is more important than a newspaper story. But once he’s captured, I have exclusive rights.”
Jared studied her, his expression closed and forbidding. Mac didn’t like feeling like a bacterium under a microscope, especially when the scientist was Jared Yates.
“All right,” he finally said. “I have your word?”
She held up her right hand. “Scout’s honor.”
His lips eased into a slight smile as he withdrew the papers and handed them to her.
Mac uncrossed the fingers of her hidden left hand and accepted the pile of notes. She sat on the bed, tucking one leg beneath her, and leaned against the headboard.
In a few moments, she was engrossed in the notes and speculations about their killer.
Jared finished writing his notes about the latest murder, and set aside the last piece of paper. He’d filled three sheets as Mac had studied all the information on the previous victims. His gaze strayed to her as it had often done during the past hour. Her puckered brow and the firm set of her full lips revealed her intense concentration as she perused the pages. It appeared that she threw herself wholeheartedly into whatever situation she was in, whether it was making love or doing her job.
She fascinated him. It had been a long time since anyone—man or woman—had confounded him like this. In fact, he couldn’t think of a single person who had managed to surprise him as much as she did. It wasn’t simply her energetic participation in making love, but her odd views on subjects he’d always taken for granted. Would his niece be happier as a doctor or a lawyer than a wife and mother? He hadn’t even considered such a thing.
All he knew was that Mac kept him on his toes and he enjoyed their verbal sparring. Admitting that to her, however, was not an option.
“I see the previous December victims were killed between Christmas and New Year’s. The first—” Mac paused and Jared caught her hesitant glance. He steeled himself for her next words.
“Your fiancée was murdered on the thirtieth, then the second woman was killed on the twenty-eighth.”
Jared came to his feet to pace. “And the third on Christmas Eve. I was under the assumption that the killer would wait until after Christmas again, but I was wrong.”
Mac shook her head. “There’s no pattern, Jared, so you couldn’t have known.”
He stopped in front of her and leaned close. “Maybe not, but I suspected. If I had gone with my hunch, maybe that girl would be alive today.”
“And maybe not,” Mac said softly. Her gaze turned inward. “Even if you had guessed correctly, there’s no guarantee you would’ve been in the right place at the right time.”
He studied her pensive face, wary of her reflective tone. “What aren’t you telling me, Mac?”
She blinked, startled out of her thoughts. At first he thought he’d pushed too hard as she retreated behind a stone mask. Then she spoke and though her tone was flat, her eyes were haunted with anguish. “I had my chance at saving a life, too. I blew it. I knew when, but not where.” She stood and crossed her arms, then rubbed her chin. “The murders in June in my time were the twenty-ninth the first year and the twenty-fifth the second.”
“Your ‘time?’”
“My time in San Francisco,” she said quickly, as her cheeks flushed.
Jared’s instincts told him she was lying, but why? She’d already confessed that she was a reporter working on the story. What else would she be hiding?
Unless she suspected who the killer was.
He squelched the thought. If she did, she would have told him. Wouldn’t she? Another thought struck him and he leaned over to pick up the papers scattered across the bed and searched through them.
As if sensing his agitation, she moved up beside him and looked over his arm. “What’re you looking for?”
“The dates for the June killings that occurred here.”
Mac sucked in a quick breath, but remained silent.
Finally, Jared found what he was looking for. “They were both killed the twentieth. I don’t know what time, however. The bodies were discovered that day, but it was believed they’d been killed sometime during the previous night.” His brow furrowed in confusion. “How the hell did he get from San Francisco to Virginia in four days?”
“Shit,” Mac muttered.
“What?”
She glanced at him hesitantly, which was odd because Mac was rarely nervous. “Train?” she murmured.
“It’s possible, but the killer would have to leave immediately after killing the women in San Francisco.” He paused. “What about those women killed in December?”
Mac dropped her gaze to the papers spread across the bed, though she knew the answers weren’t there. “All of them were killed the night of the twentieth, somewhere around midnight.”
“That only gave him four days to get here this last time.” Jared stalked from one end of the room to the other, raking a hand through his hair. “How does he get from San Francisco to here so quickly? Fly?” He glanced at Mac and saw downcast eyes and pursed lips. “Do you really believe the murderer you’re after is the same one who’s been killing here?”
She shrugged, strangely ambiguous for someone usually so forthright. “The method is the same, including the twists of the wire, but there could be two murderers working together.”
Jared didn’t want to think about two such killers walking around. It was difficult enough to believe that one person could be so evil. “I’ll check out the train schedules, find out if it’s possible for someone to travel across the country in four days.”
Mac nodded, but didn’t comment. Her expression was closed, not giving Jared a clue to her thoughts. He had become accustomed to her vocalizing her opinion and her silence bothered him. Maybe the murders had upset her more than she allowed him to see.
He stepped over to her slumped figure, intending to lay his hands on her shoulders, but stopped short of touching her. “Are you all right?”
She jerked her head up, surprised by his nearness. Some of her usual fire flashed in her eyes. “I was until you nearly scared the hell out of me.”
Jared chuckled with relief. “Sorry,” he said without contrition. He sobered and asked hesitantly, “Are the murders bothering you?”
She glared at him. “Back off, Yates. The only thing we’re sharing is information about the murders. You keep out of my head, and I’ll keep out of yours.”
Both puzzled and angry, Jared couldn’t decide which feeling was stronger. He forced his voice to remain calm and even. “I didn’t ask you for your life history, Mac. I’m only concerned. Seeing the victims is enough to give me nightmares. I thought you might want to talk about it.”
Her fingers tightened around her crossed arms and Jared knew they would leave red imprints on her golden skin.
“There’s a psycho out there killing young women. He isn’t raping or molesting them. He isn’t torturing them. He’s merely wrapping a wire around their necks and strangling them.” She stared at Jared. “What’s there to talk about besides finding a motive for this sick bastard?”
Not a single ounce of emotion colored her voice and Jared shivered inwardly. Was Mac that unfeeling that she could talk about these deaths as she would discuss the weather?
No, that wasn’t fair. He had caught glimpses of agony in her expression, but if she didn’t want consolation, who was he to offer it? Maybe this was her way of dealing with the horrific crimes, and it would be best to respect her wish.
He nodded slowly. “Do you have any idea about a motive?”
She appeared relieved as she shook her head. “Maybe he gets off on the power of life and death? He decides who lives and who dies.”
Jared caught the gist of her speculation, even though he didn’t understand her exact wording. But, then, hadn’t it been like that since the moment she’d fallen into his life?
“Something like being a judge?” he asked.
“Let’s take it a step further—maybe he thinks he’s a god.” Something slid across her features, but it was gone before Jared could identify it. “Why a piano wire?”
He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and began to pace anew. “It must have some significance for him.”
Mac nodded, her lips twisted into a grimace. “Maybe his mother made him take piano lessons when he was a boy, so he punishes other women for what his mother forced him to do.”
Jared halted and stared at her.
“What?” Mac demanded.
“Where did you come up with that?”
She shrugged. “I took a few psychology courses in college.” A twinkle appeared in her eyes. “Just enough to make me dangerous.”
Jared’s mind reeled. “You went to college? Where?”
Mac groaned silently. Damn, she was getting more and more careless. She hated coming up with lies to account for things that defied explanation. Keep it simple; less chance to get tangled up in the web of fabrications.
“I told you I was a reporter,” she stated, as if that explained everything.
Jared neared her, stopping only a foot in front of her. His eyes were blue laser points aimed directly at her. “You show up on a train in clothes I’ve never seen on a woman before. You spout words I’ve never heard before and accuse me of being a liar. Then you change your tune when Esme Sparrow says you’re her cousin, but there is little family resemblance. You become a maid when you are in fact a reporter doing a story on a murderer.” He paused, searching, and Mac held his gaze, afraid if she looked away, he would see through her transparent deception. “What do you plan on becoming next? The queen of England?”
In that moment, Mac wished she could tell him the truth, but that would have been harder to swallow than being the queen of England. “I am a reporter, Jared. That is the honest-to-God truth.”
“Why do I have this feeling you and the truth parted ways a long time ago?”
Mac’s cheeks burned as she stabbed his chest with her forefinger. “The truth is all I have, all I believe in. It’s the reason I became a reporter, to dig past the lies and facades to find the facts. I’d had it up to here,” she drew an imaginary line across her forehead, “with people who showed one face to the world and another behind closed doors.”
Pain jabbed her, striking behind her eyelids and slamming up into her brow. She had to get away from him before she lost it, before she blurted out things she herself would have to confront.
She twirled around and fled. In the hallway, she spotted Jane who was frozen like a deer caught in headlights. She stared at Mac, then her gaze shifted to Jared who stood behind Mac in his room. The shocked waitress spun away and hurried down the carpeted hall.
“Son of a—” Jared swore.
Mac turned to be caught in his murderous glare and her insides seized up. She pressed her arms into her belly. Could she blame him for not even wanting to be associated with her?
That crazy McAllister woman.
She could hear the mutterings as if they’d just been spoken, instead of being echoes from more than fifteen years ago. Before her mother had been institutionalized for her own safety and her daughter’s.
Stifling a cry, Mac swept down the hall in the opposite direction. She heard Jared call to her, but she shut his voice out, hearing only the voices in her past.
She scurried down the back stairs and found herself in the kitchen. Chef Sashenka’s Russian accent washed across her as she listened to him issue orders to his helpers. Before he spied her, Mac ducked out and forced herself to walk calmly through the guests’ dining hall. One person called out to her asking for more coffee, but Mac ignored him.
Finally in the lobby, Mac found shelter behind a large potted plant and leaned her head back against the wall. Pictures and sounds from her childhood plucked at her tenuous control.
She’s crazy as a loon. Keeps singing these old songs.
He doesn’t want you.
You are remanded to the court for placement within a foster home.
You have the devil in you, but don’t you worry, I’ll get rid of him.
The belt descended and Mac jerked as if she could feel the leather lash against her back just as she had so many years ago.
“What’re ye doin’ there, lass?”
Mac’s heart leaped into her throat. It took her a few moments to recognize the grizzled countenance of Jack O’Riley peering at her with something that resembled concern.
She drew a wrist across her cheeks and was shocked to find dampness on them. She hadn’t shed a tear even when her mother died.
“Thinking,” she replied. Stepping out of her hiding place, Mac eyed the sixty-something man’s bloodshot eyes. “Too many Christmas spirits?” she managed to ask with a teasing note.
He smiled self-consciously. “Just a spot o’ good Irish whiskey to celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus.” His stale liquor breath washed over her and she automatically took a step back.
Mac waved a hand in front of her nose. “Must’ve been a helluva spot.”
“Don’t ye know there’s nothin’ small in Ireland?” He winked.
Mac laughed, the bad memories fading under the Irishman’s joshing. “Be careful, Jack. I’ll be thinkin’ that you’re flirtin’ with me,” she said with an affected brogue.
“Now ye’re pullin’ an old man’s leg.”
“Only your leg, Jack.” Mac grinned.
He shook an admonishing finger at her. “You’re a fresh one, Trish McAllister.” A smile lit his liquor-flushed face. “I pity the lad who tries to court ye.”
Mac grimaced. “Then there’s no one to pity.” She glanced around. “It’s quiet today.”
“Aye, but only ’til this evenin’. There’ll be carols sung in the ballroom tonight. A tradition here at the Chesterfield.” His chest puffed up like a robin who’d found a juicy worm.
“You keep doing that and you’ll be popping those buttons off your jacket.”
He sighed. “Then me Bridget will be nailin’ me hide to the wall. Remember, I told ye she used to work here before she married. Now she’s got a little one with another on the way.” Pride filled his bloodshot eyes. “I used ta think she’d never wed, but finally, my prayers were answered and I have wee ones to spoil.”
When Mac had been young and foolish, she’d dreamed of meeting a man who would love her. A man who would be an equal in everything, from lovemaking and child-rearing to housework and careers. But she had expected too much. Maybe that had come from reading “Cinderella” too often as a child.
That kind of fantasy was someone’s idea of a joke, a very sexist joke. Get a life, Cinderella.
Like you have a life? a little voice whispered from deep within Mac.