Heating Up (29 page)

T
here was a man in Gia Treadwell's shower. A strange, naked man.

She'd come into her master suite to unpack her suitcase and heard the water running. Figuring that the cleaning people had inadvertently left it on—not good in a drought—she went into the bathroom to turn the faucet off. That's when she saw him through the clear glass shower enclosure: scrubbing his back while singing at the top of his lungs in a wobbly, deranged baritone. Something about Tennessee whiskey.

She froze, let out a blood-curdling scream that anywhere else would've brought in the National Guard, and ran for her life.

But it was a huge, unfamiliar house, situated in the middle of nowhere, and by the time Gia found her way to the front room, feet from the door, the shower intruder was hot on her trail.

“Calm down, lady.” He fumbled with the buttons on his jeans as he dripped water from his bare chest onto the hardwood floor.

She quickly sized him up and came to the petrifying conclusion that he could crush her like a tin can. At least six foot two, he had seventy or eighty pounds on her, every ounce of it solid. Judging by his muscled arms, he could break her neck with one fluid motion. But Gia was a New Yorker. Resourceful. Able to survive the mean streets of the city—and the wolves of Wall Street—on her wits alone. Too bad she'd left her can of pepper spray in her purse on the bed in the master bedroom along with her car keys.

She remembered a self-defense class from years back. The teacher had told a room full of attentive women that when under attack they should try to grab anything that could be used as a weapon. One of the students had bragged that she'd beaten a subway mugger into submission with an umbrella. Scanning the room, Gia's eyes fell on a gun hanging from the wall. It was displayed under a moose head; clearly the weapon that had been used to kill the poor animal. She pried the rifle loose of its bronze hanger and pointed it at Shower Man.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked seemingly unconcerned that she had a firearm aimed at his center mass. In fact, he gave her a brazen once over, something akin to recognition flickering on his face. Then he nodded his head at the gun. “I don't think it's loaded but you should never point a weapon at someone unless you mean to shoot him.”

“I'll shoot you.”

“Yeah, I don't think so. Otherwise you would've removed the safety.”

Uh-oh. She had no idea where the safety was. “You just worry about yourself. Now back up real slow.”

“Where we going?” He glanced behind his shoulder.

“Into the bedroom.”

“Yeah?” He raised his eyebrows. The guy thought he was real funny. “Why don't you let me—”

“No talking.” She needed to concentrate and was re-evaluating the bedroom idea. But that's where her cell phone was. Gia hadn't seen a landline since she'd gotten here.

“I—”

“Shush.” She lifted the rifle so that the muzzle was pointed directly at his chest.

He rolled his eyes but mercifully kept quiet. They made it to the master suite without incident and with one hand Gia held the rifle against her shoulder, using the other one to search her purse for the phone.

Eureka! She punched 9-1-1 with her index finger, put the phone on speaker, and dropped it on the bed so she could resume holding the rifle with both hands.

“9-1-1, what's your emergency?”

Gia would've sworn she saw her captive snicker. She promptly ignored him and told the operator her situation. The cavalry was on its way, thank goodness.

“You think I could put my shirt on before the cops get here?”

“No funny stuff.” She followed him into the bathroom and watched him pull a T-shirt out of a monogrammed leather satchel. Pretty nice luggage for a feckless squatter but she wasn't taking any chances. Not after what she'd been through.

He saw her take note of his case, dragged the tee over his head and said, “If you'd given me a chance to explain—”

“What did I say about talking?”

“Lady, there's something seriously wrong with you.”

“You don't know the half of it. What are you doing?” She poked the gun at him just so he understood that she meant business. And to think she'd counted on being safe here.

“Take it easy. I just want to put this on.” He shrugged into a Western shirt and snapped it closed. She supposed he wanted to look reputable for the police.

“Let's move back into the living room.” She didn't like her chances in the bathroom. Too many sharp items and too easy for him to overpower her in the close quarters.

“Yes ma'am,” he replied, heavy on the sarcasm.

Once in the living room, she jerked the gun a few times, motioning for him to sit on the couch. She preferred not having him tower over her. He sat, stretching his long, denim-encased legs wide, resting his head against the brown leather as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Grinning at her, he said, “Would you mind getting me my boots?”

She grinned right back. “As a matter of fact, I would.”

“Why is it you look so familiar?”

“How would I know?” She knew, of course. “I've never seen you before in my life.”

“Well you sure have seen all of me,” he said, flashing a straight row of pearly white teeth. He clearly liked riling her.

“I wouldn't be so proud of that.” She let her gaze lower to his crotch, pretending to be unimpressed. “You walk here?” She hadn't seen a vehicle in the driveway. Maybe if she had she wouldn't have been caught so off guard.

“It's around the side.”

She inched her way around the sofas, never taking her eyes—or the gun—off him, approached a large picture window and pulled the heavy drapery aside. Sure enough, a shiny Ford F-150 hitched to an equally shiny stock trailer sat parked on the road that led to the barns. Her stomach dropped. Maybe he was a worker. Someone Dana, her real estate agent, had sent to make sure everything on the property was in order. Still, what the hell had he been doing in her shower? In her house? Workers didn't have carte blanche to her private quarters. Dana never would've given him permission for that. She knew how protective Gia was of her privacy and personal safety. Especially her safety.

“How'd you get in here?” she asked.

“Key.” Before he could say more, sirens rent the air.

It was about damn time, though the ranch was a good fifteen minutes from town. Maybe living so far away hadn't been such a smart idea, considering the state of her life these days. She could hear her pulse pounding, surely the aftermath of the adrenaline rush. Her prisoner actually had the audacity to yawn.

Before she could lecture him on his insolence, the police, including the chief, burst into the house with their guns drawn. The chief surveyed the scene and stopped short. “Hey, Flynn.” He dropped his pistol into its holster, carefully removed the hunting rifle from Gia's hands, and passed it to one of his officers.

“Hey, Rhys.” The man . . . Flynn . . . got to his feet and nodded at his rapt audience. “Nut Job here wouldn't let me explain.”

“What's to explain?” Gia said, and turned to the chief. “He was trespassing on private property. I don't know what you call it in California but in New York we call it breaking and entering.”

Rhys let out a breath. She'd only met the police chief once but she got the distinct impression this was one of the trials of being a country cop he didn't particularly enjoy. According to Dana, he'd once been a big-time narcotics detective in Houston.

“Gia, meet Flynn Barlow.” The chief said it like the name would clear up everything. Well, it didn't. She didn't know Flynn Barlow from Adam. More than likely, though, Flynn Barlow was starting to put together who she was.

When Rhys saw that the name Barlow wasn't ringing any bells, he said, “He's the guy who's leasing your property . . . for his cattle.”

Shit! He was that Flynn Barlow. The previous owner, who was now serving time in prison, had made the deal with Barlow's family and as a term of the sale she was forced to stick to it.

“I don't remember the lease including rights to my shower,” she huffed.

Rhys looked pointedly at Barlow.

“Old man Rosser said I should make myself at home until the new owner took over. The T Corporation”—Flynn glared at Gia—“wasn't supposed to arrive for another week.”

“Well the T Corporation is here, so don't use her shower anymore. Problem solved.” Rhys turned on his heels and was about to leave when Gia stopped him.

“Escrow's been closed since fall. This is my place.” She'd even purchased the furniture and the artwork, such as it was. She glanced at Bullwinkle hanging on the wall. “Mr. Barlow had no right using my shower and I want to press charges.”

Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose. “Really? This is how you want to play this?”

After the past six months she didn't know how she wanted to play anything. That's why she'd blown off her meeting with her agent in New York and had traveled to Nugget a week early. She needed peace and to feel safe again. With the death threats, the surprise visits from the feds, the grand jury hearings, she was constantly on edge. No wonder finding Barlow in her shower had turned her into a maniac.

“I guess not,” she muttered. “But this house is off limits, Mr. Barlow.” It was supposed to be her sanctuary.

“Got it,” he said. “I'll just be getting my bag and boots from your bathroom and move on.”

Rhys waited for Flynn to gather his things while Gia sat in the living room feeling more than a little embarrassed.

“You up for good now?” he asked her.

She nodded. For the second time in less than eight months she'd been told she was in the clear. But as long as Evan Laughlin, her ex-boyfriend, was missing, people would always suspect that she'd been part of his scheme. At least here in this Sierra Nevada railroad town, on this large parcel of land, she could hide from her former life. A life that had been abruptly ripped from her control thanks to Evan and her stupidity about men.

“Is there really a T Corporation?” Rhys leaned against the stone wall that housed an enormous fireplace, his face filled with curiosity. His backup had already taken off on another call.

She'd incorporated and had bought the ranch under the phony name to hide her identity, afraid that the media would catch wind of her multi-million-dollar purchase. Buying a fancy estate while mired in one of the largest financial scandals in history wasn't exactly prudent. But from the start, Rosser Ranch had called to her, representing everything she'd ever wanted in life. Security, roots, and the opportunity to fulfill a longtime dream.

“Of course there is,” she told him, knowing that she wasn't really answering the question. Over the summer, the town had discovered who she really was. But she'd never made it clear that the T Corporation was a bona fide business or that she was its sole shareholder.

“What is the corporation going to do with the place . . . or is it just you?”

Flynn came into the room carrying his leather satchel, saving her from having to answer.

“I'm sorry I scared you,” he said, appearing somewhat contrite, though she suspected he was full of it. With his perfect white teeth and chocolaty brown eyes and cleft chin, the man obviously thought he was George Clooney. “See you around.”

God, she certainly hoped not.