Deadly Valentine Read online

  Taylor walked toward her car, the compact crossover SUV that she’d bought last year when J.W. had given her yet another raise.

  She pressed the button on her key twice and the little SUV obediently chirped twice in response as it opened all the doors. Whoever had been having that animated conversation was now nowhere in sight, although it was odd that she hadn’t heard a car leave, or even a car door close.

  She opened a back door and tossed in her jacket and the bag with a leftover sandwich she’d purloined from the snack tray, figuring it would save her having to fix something at home. She closed that door, then opened the driver’s door and got in. She slid the key into the ignition and—

  A shadow loomed up on the passenger side. For the second time that night her pulse leaped. And again she felt silly, when she realized it was the misfit, awkward Angus Kincaid. On the heels of that came doubt; it was Kincaid, wasn’t it? But what would he be doing here now, and he looked so different—

  Three things happened in rapid succession. Kincaid yanked open the passenger door and slid into the passenger seat. He slammed the door shut behind him. Then he turned to face her.

  She nearly gasped aloud at the change in him; the glasses—those heavy, black-rimmed spectacles—were gone, and the difference from that alone was astounding. Even in the relatively dim and very yellow light of the underground garage she could see how blue his eyes really were. She wondered inanely if he’d worn the glasses for that very reason, to mask that vivid color, wondering if she should try that herself.

  And then came the fourth thing that made everything else irrelevant. He moved so that she could see what he held in his right hand. Even in the low light of the garage it glinted, silver and deadly.

  A gun.

  Her first thought, stupidly, was that now she had a real reason to hate Valentine’s Day.

  Chapter 5

  I n a deep, unruffled voice she’d never heard from him, Kincaid said, “Start it.”

  Taylor couldn’t move. She just stared at the weapon he held, noticing inanely that his hand seemed rock-solid steady, and familiar with the task.

  She finally, reluctantly shifted her gaze to his face. And was stunned all over again. The change was so obvious, so dramatic, that she felt the ridiculous urge to ask, “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Angus Kincaid?”

  Or maybe this was the real Angus Kincaid.

  The awkwardness, the geek-type demeanor, was completely gone. This was the same man, yet so different it didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t simply the clothes, and the fact that he now wore a pair of jeans that actually seemed to fit and a crew-neck sweater that made her wonder why she’d never noticed how broad his shoulders were. Nor was it that his thick hair looked normal now, if not neat then at least not rumpled in several different directions. It wasn’t even the eyes, shocking though they were out from behind the glasses that had apparently been a mask of sorts.

  It was as if he’d actually changed physically. There had been that certain slackness about him, now vanished. This was a man with a tight, alert look and a strong, masculine jaw. There was an intelligence that fairly snapped in his eyes, in contrast to the flat, almost dull expression that had been there before. The change was beyond startling.

  The shambling movements had been replaced by a controlled, decisive manner that made her think of athletes or military types. Beneath the baggy clothes had been hidden a lean, rangy body that was too muscular to be skinny.

  And she was insane to be sitting here like a fool, immobilized by the total change in him.

  “Come on, Taylor, start the car.”

  His words confirmed her first observation; even his voice had changed. Significantly. Gone was the whiny undertone that had so annoyed her, and in its place was a cool, rough-timbred sound that made her shiver.

  That unexpected response finally startled her out of her stunned state.

  “You want the car, take it.”

  She moved as if to get out and leave it to him. He moved in turn, at first she thought to reach out and grab her, stop her, and her pulse leaped violently for the third time tonight.

  But instead, he simply turned the key and started the car.

  “If you’re after money,” she said, surprised her voice wasn’t shakier, “you’re wasting your time. I don’t have any that would make this worth it.”

  “Nobody else willing to pay for your safe return?” he asked, in a tone that was gently mocking.

  “My family’s not rich. If you somehow got the idea we have lots of money, you’re wrong. We don’t.”

  He seemed to study her for a moment. “But your boss does.”

  She blinked, startled into a normal reaction. “Mr. Whitney? What are you talking about?”

  “I know how close you two are. It’s kind of sweet, really, him hiring his dead daughter’s best friend, years later.”

  No, there was no trace of the bumbling, awkward Angus Kincaid in this man. And he’d obviously learned a lot in his short tenure. Unless…this had been his plan all along.

  “Are you talking about some kind of ransom? Holding me and demanding money from him?”

  She should have been terrified, but she was suddenly furious. Maybe two scares in rapid succession was her limit. Or maybe just the idea of someone using the genuine love between her and John Whitney to steal money from him infuriated her beyond fear.

  “He’s your uncle!” she exclaimed in genuine outrage. “He gave you a job you can’t even do, out of the goodness of his heart, and you pull something like this? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Time was, I have been,” he said, his voice taking on an oddly distant note. “But no more.”

  “If you need money that badly, ask him for an advance on your salary. He’s done it before, for others.”

  “For you?”

  “No,” she said instantly, stung by the idea.

  “A bit smug, are we? Because the brilliant, perfect Ms. Taylor Burke would never, ever get herself into any kind of trouble, money or otherwise?”

  His assessment stung, and she resented it even more than she would have because it came from him, and she wasn’t even sure why. She was careful, and she rarely did get into any kind of trouble. She didn’t think—and wouldn’t let him make her feel—that that was anything she need apologize for.

  “Apparently I’ve gotten myself in trouble now, by not telling Mr. Whitney to fire your useless ass when I should have.”

  He blinked. Drew back. Stared at her as if a puppy he’d been poking at had suddenly morphed into a full-grown Rottweiler. A lopsided smile that seemed quite genuine slowly curved his mouth.

  “She bites,” he said, sounding impossibly pleased.

  Belatedly, because like an idiot she was staring at his mouth, Taylor noticed that his entire expression, indeed his demeanor had changed yet again.

  And she had the sudden thought that perhaps it wasn’t money he was after at all.

  Perhaps it was her.

  The fear her anger had driven out flooded back in a rush that left her shaken. She fought not to show it.

  “Well, now.”

  His voice was an almost gravelly whisper now, and again a shiver went through her. He looked at her differently, as if he’d somehow managed to read her thoughts, or knew exactly what possibility had just popped into her mind.

  Or maybe he’d just noticed that she’d figured out his actual intent.

  “Interesting,” he said, almost musingly, “that rape wasn’t your first thought.”

  “Your disguise was too good,” she said, trying hard not to let him see how rattled she was now. “All that bumbling awkwardness, the glasses, the hair, the whole geek thing. Nice facade.”

  Because she had no doubts any longer that it indeed had been just that, a carefully crafted facade. She’d been right about him all along, that there was much more to him than met the eye.

  She just hadn’t expected his hidden traits to be dangerous. As diffic
ult as it was to make the jump from the awkward geek to this man, she had to see him as he was. She couldn’t deny what literally stared her in the face. For, above all else, her instincts clamored that this man was a threat, even without the weapon in his hand.

  Which, she reminded herself, was still pointed at her. She should just shut up before she provoked him. Or maybe she should keep talking, try to reason with him. Or at least distract him, so she could try to get away. She should—

  The car door behind her opened. For the third time in less than an hour her pulse jumped and adrenaline flooded her system. She barely had time to notice Kincaid didn’t react—this was no surprise to him—before she instinctively jerked around to look.

  And frowned.

  “Arlen?”

  “Whitney’s favorite bitch. At last you’re mine.”

  That hadn’t changed. Arlen Sanders always taunted her for her refusal to go out with him, and for her disgust at his heavy-handed, crude passes. As if failing to see his charms meant automatically she was either cold or gay. It couldn’t be simply that he, while admittedly good-looking, and capable of a certain surface charm, was one of the most undeservedly arrogant, smugly superior men she’d ever meant.

  He was also the third name on that list of ex-employees. And one of two she had noted in that green ink as most likely to be disgruntled.

  Apparently she’d been right.

  “It’s so good to see you again,” Arlen said, in the same oozing sort of phony sincerity that had always made her skin crawl around him. But then he smiled, and unlike Kincaid’s, which had seemed genuine, this was a malevolent sort of smile that made her shiver.

  That shiver deepened when he said, almost gleefully, “And finally I’m going to get something I want from you.”

  Chapter 6

  T aylor kept her hands tightly clamped on the steering wheel as she drove. They’d be shaking if she didn’t, and she’d be damned if she’d let either one of them see that.

  Now that Arlen was here, he did all the talking, Kincaid had lapsed into silence. Did it mean Arlen was the one in charge? Was this his idea, and was Kincaid just…the muscle, as it were? He certainly seemed to have it; those baggy clothes had hidden a lot. Not that it mattered, when he had plenty of muscle in the form of that lethal-looking silver pistol.

  “Think they could get away with taking all my hard work?” Arlen was demanding. “That I’d just go quietly while they stole it from me, got rich on it?”

  Taylor tried to tune him out, but it was difficult with him sitting right behind her, spewing his outrage at perceived offenses with an unpleasant vehemence.

  “Turn right on Alder,” Kincaid said quietly, the first thing he’d said since Arlen had started his tirade. It shut the ranter up for a moment, and Taylor had the feeling Arlen had been completely unaware of where they actually were, so intent had be been on airing his grievances. But Kincaid had been paying attention. She wasn’t sure what that told her, or if it would be of any use, but she filed it away to remember just in case.

  He’s probably just heard it all before, Taylor thought as she made the ordered turn. Or he’s just in it for the money, and couldn’t care less what justification Arlen thinks he has.

  The question was, what was it that Arlen wanted? He’d spent this entire drive—five miles so far, she’d been watching the odometer—on this rant, and as yet hadn’t said a word about what he was after from her, what he expected her to do.

  She only then realized she no longer thought what he—or they—were after was her, specifically. Perhaps she was foolish to make that assumption or perhaps her mind couldn’t deal with the idea. She knew that sometimes serial killers worked with weaker, easily dominated partners, but rapists? She didn’t know. And didn’t want to think about the possibility of them being both.

  Besides, at the moment, despite the fact that Arlen was doing all the talking, she wasn’t one hundred percent certain which of them would be the dominant partner. The Kincaid she’d known in the office, yeah, he would be the meek one, the manipulable one. The guy sitting next to her now? Not so much. Even without the gun.

  “Can you cut to the chase?” Taylor said. “What exactly is it you want, Arlen?”

  “I want what’s coming to me.”

  Oh, so do I, she thought. I want you to get exactly what’s coming to you.

  A quiet sound came from Kincaid. She flicked a sideways glance at him, caught the barest hint of an upward quirk of his mouth before it vanished. Again, as if he’d read her thoughts and they had made him have to fight a smile.

  “Left on Clover, then right at the dead end,” he said, his now quiet, steady voice a stark contrast to the nasal tones of his partner.

  “I want what’s rightfully mine.” The old whine that had once irritated her, as it had when Kincaid had affected it, crept into Arlen’s voice. “I had the idea for it, conceptualized it and designed it.”

  She doubted he’d ever done that much or that thorough kind of work on anything while he’d been at WhitSys, but she kept her tone merely inquisitive, not wanting to set him off again.

  “What ‘it’?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know about it. You know everything around that damned place.”

  She couldn’t resist, she flicked a sideways glance at Kincaid. “Not everything, apparently.”

  Something very much like regret flashed in his eyes for an instant. At what they were doing? Or worse, at what they were going to do?

  That thought rattled her, that what was coming could be worse than what was happening now.

  “What is it you want, Arlen?” she asked for the third time.

  “Watchdog, of course.”

  If she hadn’t been driving she would have turned to gape at him. He thought Watchdog was his idea? And that he’d had something to do with the design and implementation of it? A blistering retort to the absurdity of that rose to her lips, but she bit it back; it hardly seemed wise to launch on him while his cohort was sitting there with a gun trained on her.

  She made the left turn, slowing down for the narrowness of the side street.

  “You want Watchdog,” she said, surprised she was able to keep her voice fairly level.

  “It’s mine.”

  “I see. And what will you do with it?”

  She said it calmly, as if he were going to succeed, even as she vowed silently to do whatever it took to make sure he didn’t. The idea of someone taking advantage of her boss’s brilliance infuriated her. He’d kept Arlen on long after most bosses would have tossed him out on his ear, wanting to give him every chance to come around. And he’d given Kincaid a job just to help him out, and because he loved Claire. And now both ungrateful wretches were turning on him.

  “I’ve already got a buyer.”

  “But it’s not ready yet.”

  Arlen snorted inelegantly. “Whitney always did go overboard on the testing.”

  Which was why their systems were free of many of the bugs that plagued others, she thought. “So you’ve found someone not so insistent about quality control?”

  “They’ll get it to market right away, and make a killing. It’ll end up a bargain for them.”

  “And what are they paying you for it?”

  “That’s none of your business. Let’s just say it’s going to make me rich. Like Whitney should have. And it will serve them right for firing me. Me!”

  “It’s always about you, isn’t it?” she murmured, almost under her breath.

  “And,” Arlen added, his tone telling her he’d heard every word, “using you to get it is the bonus, Ms. High and Mighty Taylor Burke.”

  She saw the dead end Kincaid had mentioned coming up, and glanced at him. As before, he was watching her steadily, unwaveringly, the hand holding the weapon now resting on the inner armrest of his seat, but still aimed at her. He nodded his head slightly to the right, indicating the driveway to a small building that appeared to be vacant, judging by the completely empty parking lot
and the large for-lease sign in a window. It wasn’t until she’d negotiated the turn that she responded to Arlen’s taunt.

  “So it’s payback, is that it? That’s what all this is about?”

  “It’s about fairness.”

  “Spare me,” Taylor said sourly. “If life were fair, leeches like you would—”

  Arlen slapped her. She yelped. In surprise, not because it hurt particularly. Stung, yes, but the angle of attack from his position in the backseat made it impossible for him to get any strength behind the blow. Not that he had that much to begin with; he’d always been a soft sort.

  Unlike Kincaid, now…

  She shook her head. She had to be focusing on the amazing transformation because anything else was too frightening. It was easier to be amazed than terrified. Odd how the mind handles a crisis.

  Odd how your mind has shut off, she told herself sharply. Think about something helpful.

  How she’d ended up in the middle of Arlen Sanders’s revenge plot didn’t really matter. It was obvious he’d gone well over the edge. The question was what to do.

  As she parked the car where Kincaid pointed—he was suddenly a man of very few words—her mind finally began to function again.

  Option one was to simply go along and pray they would let her go when—if—they got what they wanted. J.W. cared a great deal for her, she knew that, but would he give up the project WhitSys had devoted most of its resources to for the past three years?

  The answer came to her clearly and indisputably—of course he would. She could end up costing this man who was like a father to her his crowning achievement, the product of his own brilliance and hard work.

  That was not going to happen, she thought as they hustled her out of the car and over to what appeared to be a side door of the vacant building.