Then this guy’s tone had changed. He’d warned Don to tell Abbie his exact words, to give her details he bullet-pointed verbally about the Kore center and make her believe Don was speaking from personal knowledge.

Don hadn’t seen any real danger in telling Abbie and even thought with Gwen’s help they might figure out what was wrong with Abbie’s mother.

But why had this wacko Jackson come to him and not Abbie?

Don bumped the coffee table with the back of his leg. He froze, nowhere to go. “I did what you said. I told Abbie exactly what you told me to say. She went to the party. She called on her way and asked a couple more questions so I know she went.”

“Yes, she did. I saw her at the Wentworth house.”

Relief charged through Don. He put a hand to his heart. “Thank God. So you’ll leave me alone now?”

“I promise to never come back here again.”

“Good. Good. I promise not to say a word, I swear it.” Don wiped a line of sweat off his forehead.

“I have no doubt you won’t say a word.” Jackson sliced across the room, stopping in front of Don. “Open your hand.”

Don complied, lifting his hand palm-up. “Why?”

“Take these.” The intruder dropped two pills in his hand.

When he realized what they were, Don looked up, shaking his head. “No, these will put me in cardiac arrest.”

“Precisely.”

“I did what you asked. You can’t do this. My kids just lost their mother. They need me.” His hand shook. The pills rolled back and forth.

“You have a choice. Take the pills or I’ll bring you the hearts of both your girls in a jar so you can remember them.”

Don started crying. “No, I did what you wanted. I did it. You can’t do this.”

“So is that a yes? You do want souvenirs of your children?” Jackson continued musing. “As long as I’m at your sister’s house, shall I bring her heart as well? I haven’t worked with my surgical blades in a while. Didn’t need them for your wife. You’ll be happy to know she died immediately in the collision. Boring, but efficient.”

Chapter Seventeen

Hunter watched the second hand on his antique brass desk clock, each tick drawing him closer to decision time.

The videoconference in twelve minutes with BAD would go one of two ways. Couldn’t be put off. Not after what he’d found on the memory stick from Linette.

Joe might threaten to put him in leg irons or release a termination contract on him.

Or a third way. Something worse.

No matter what, worse always waited just around the corner.

But first they’d have to find him.

Toeing his leather chair back from the onyx desk, Hunter sat back and stared at the view beyond the ten-foot-tall windows lining one wall of his office. Eliot had worshipped that view. An endless wash of Montana blue sky interrupted only by snow-dusted tips of ponderosa trees and white bark pines covering this remote mountain ridge.

Eliot would hike for days across the one hundred and twenty-eight acres of undisturbed wilderness surrounding the cabin, climbing every vertical surface cut from the volcanic rock and hiking the granite slopes.

Forever in search of a physical challenge.

Then he’d do his damnedest to drink up all the expensive liquor he could find in the bar downstairs, until he finally realized this house could operate two years without a serious supply drop.

Eliot would scoff at the pricey labels.

“Two-hundred-year-old scotch pisses out the same color as cheap whisky,” he’d say the next day, then grin and add, “But I find I like it better on the front end.”

A tap at the door shook Hunter from thoughts he normally kept locked away with an iron determination.

He glanced across the wide room to find his five-foot-eight permanent resident parked in the doorway leading to the foyer.

Borys could have been a ferret if he grew a black pelt and dropped down on all fours. “Compact” and “wiry” described everything about the fifty-two-year-old man who kept the household running in Hunter’s absence. Short black hair stuck out in all directions, none with any plan. Whiskers tried to match his hair. He had a wadded-up face that had been left out in the sun too long until the creases were permanent, but thick lashes and hawk-like hazel eyes saved him from being butt-ugly.

Best-dressed ferret on this mountain.

He wore black suits with starched and pressed white cotton shirts, determined to match some stereotypical role he’d seen in too many movies.

Nothing had ever been said about Borys being a butler or valet or any other position of servitude.

He’d decided that all on his own.

In Poland, he’d played many roles to gain the information he bartered to stay alive. He had a knack for languages and mimickry, which he practiced by drawing from the extensive movie library Hunter had supplied.

When in residence, Hunter wore jeans and T-shirts. He suggested Borys do the same since Eliot had been their only guest and favored jeans over any other clothing.

Borys refused to move from the basement, where he’d hidden for the first three months he’d lived here, to an upstairs bedroom unless Hunter agreed to a trade of labor for somewhere to live.

Once that deal was struck, Borys decided to dress the part.

Hunter gave up.

Seven identical eight-year-old suits hung in the walk-in closet off Borys’s bedroom suite, none of which he’d allow Hunter to replace with more current styles. “Who cares about style if we have no company?” Borys would point out, turning Hunter’s logic back on him.

Borys cleared his throat.

“What?” Hunter sighed at the silver platter his self-appointed butler carried.

“Thought you and the missus might like some coffee.” Today Borys sounded like a cowpoke from a John Wayne movie.

“She’s not the missus and this isn’t a social event.” By the time Hunter had put Abbie in a room last night she wouldn’t speak to him. He probably shouldn’t have been quite so honest when she pressed him about when she’d see her mother again, but he figured an honest answer would save days of arguing.

Telling her not to expect to get back for another week had ended all conversation. She’d withdrawn into herself. He’d have kidded her about losing the bet if she hadn’t looked so forlorn. He checked the wall security monitor for the orange light that indicated the front door remained secure.

“Treat a lady nice, you might see her again.” Borys’s wide lips twisted with a frown.

“She’s not staying long and I don’t expect to see her again once she leaves.” Hunter hadn’t figured out exactly what he was going to do with Abbie, but she couldn’t go back to reporting for a television station and she couldn’t stay here.

Especially not after that kiss had backfired last night.

He’d remembered Abigail Blanton all over again when her lips touched his.

He hadn’t met the real Abbie six years ago.

That one had strutted her stuff, looking and acting like every other woman he’d known to date.

The Abbie he’d met at Wentworth’s party hadn’t teased or flirted, and she’d filled out nicely. Unavoidable as it had been, he couldn’t wipe away the vision of all that creamy skin in nothing but underwear when he’d removed his coat from her on the airplane.

He got hard just thinking about holding her again.

And that’s why he had to figure out what to do with her.

Walking past the butter-yellow leather chair and sofa arrangement near the window, Borys muttered under his breath, then set the tray on the low table, a four-foot-wide slice of red oak polished to a shine. He poured coffee, grumbling, “No decent woman’s gonna put up with an asshole.”

Hunter ground his back teeth. Did everyone have the same mediocre vocabulary of insults?