Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) Read online

  But no, that couldn’t be.

  Molly was supposed to be hosting a dinner party right at the moment she died. So why hadn’t the first lady been at the White House performing her political duties, smiling, greeting foreign dignitaries, playing hostess to her big dinner affair, and kissing ass?

  Jayla shifted into third gear and spun the sporty red Mustang with the souped-up Roush engine off the exit ramp of the Georgetown Pike near McLean. The powerful, streamlined ragtop convertible shot like a bullet up Dolley Madison Boulevard—in the wrong freakin’ direction.

  “Damn it!” Frustrated that she’d not only overshot her exit, but taken the wrong one, Jayla banged the steering wheel with a clenched fist and glanced in the rearview mirror. “Please don’t let me get caught. Please let whatever cop’s on duty be somewhere choking down donuts and slurping coffee.”

  With that plea, she spun the wheel and shot across the median. She ignored the fact the car fishtailed and flung mud and dead grass in all directions. She’d already avoided death once this night, what was a little fishtailing compared to facing a friggin’ bullet?

  Thankful for the seatbelt that held her securely, she whipped the wheel to her right. The honey of a car turned on a dime, and she was back on pavement. The tires squealed, but clung to the wet asphalt like a leech on a fresh wound.

  Jayla punched the gas and shot down the street in the right direction.

  Giving a sigh of relief, she hooked a left onto the final stretch. Immediately the CIA buildings, surrounded by the two-hundred-fifty acres they resided upon, popped into view. Eyeing the green light ahead of her, she prayed it didn’t change before she reached it.

  “One more block, I’ll be safe.” One more block, no one will dare attack me, shoot me, kidnap me, or attempt to murder me.

  “God!” She tapped the brake, slowing for the light ahead. Hell, it was Murphy’s Law. If she continued speeding, the light would change at the last possible second. Yep. Sure enough, it jumped from green to red in a single heartbeat.

  Green. Yellow. Red. Freakin’ red! It glowed like a neon sign in the dark, reminding her of the crimson stains that had spattered the elevator walls, pooled on the floor, stained the front of her suit and splattered her face and hair.

  Jayla swore and hit the brake hard. The car rocked to a sudden halt in the nick of time. She could have run the red light, but again, Murphy’s Law applied. Sure as shit, if she sped through it, the cop she hoped was somewhere downing donuts and coffee would be right here, parked alongside some damn building—a ticket-happy patrol officer itching to pull out his pad and write the big one.

  He’d take one look at her bloodstained clothes, put his ticket book away, and haul her ass to the police station for questioning. No, she couldn’t afford to get pulled over for any reason.

  It wasn’t until her vision blurred she realized she was crying. Jayla scrubbed the tears off her face and squared her shoulders. No doubt if Molly’s body had been discovered, every able-bodied cop in the D.C., Arlington, and Langley areas was looking for her by now, plus the Secret Service and God only knew what other kind of government agency.

  There were security cameras in the elevators at the Ambassador. She knew that. Those tapes were the first thing the Fed boys would retrieve—unless—oh, shit—unless Kane took the tape.

  But would he have thought to do it? Yes, of course. Kane was a professional and far from stupid. He’d know there were cameras. Maybe that was why he’d never stepped inside the elevator, why he’d waited just outside after popping Molly, waited on her to panic and try to escape the confines of the restrictive car.

  Or maybe he’d disabled the cameras before he chased Molly down and shot her, but if he hadn’t, and if he hadn’t taken the time to snatch the tape, then it’d prove she hadn’t killed Molly, but it would also plainly reveal she’d witnessed it from start to finish.

  Surely it proved she hadn’t had anything to do with Molly’s murder.

  What if the film was grainy or out of focus? Or didn’t even exist? Suppose the cameras had no film in them? God, she had to stop this, had to stop envisioning all kinds of scenarios.

  In her mind, she heard the all-points bulletin spreading across the Washington area.

  Be on the lookout—White female—Early-to-mid-twenties, wanted for questioning for the murder of the nation’s first lady, considered armed and dangerous.

  Jayla eyed the little black kit on the seat opposite hers. Her lifeline. It held the supplies that were a necessary part of her life from morning to night and all the hours in between. Oh, yeah. Considering everything through a blur of tears, she laughed at the idea that the things inside the case might be considered a lethal weapon. Uh-huh. She supposed she was armed, all right.

  Determined to beat the weepy feelings assaulting her, she guessed the needles in the kit might be used as lethal weapons or even the insulin. Sure, she could stab someone in the eye with one or overdose them with the medicine. Huh! She’d have to be fast though to beat the bullet headed her way.

  Impatient with what she considered her body’s weakness, she eyed the rearview mirror. This time of night traffic was non-existent, especially with the ice and snow storm already rearing its ugly head.

  Nothing behind her. Nothing in front. No suspicious looking cars with an even more devious looking man dressed in a drab green T-shirt, camouflage pants, and carrying a wicked looking gun.

  Glaring at the red light, she wondered why it was when one was in a hurry the light took forever to change. The Mustang’s powerful engine purred like a big cat, impatient to be off.

  “Fuck it.” She punched the gas. The car surged into action, leaping forward like the powerful animal it was named after. Sometimes it scared her just how much muscle the little car possessed. Tonight, Jayla was thankful for every bit of speed the engine claimed, but she knew damn well the distinct car grabbed attention.

  The sporty, souped-up red Mustang with white racing stripes down the hood, and an engine that hummed in perfect harmony, was distinguishable. For sure, it usually made her an easy target to locate, which was probably why her stepfather, Senator Hamilton Ross had bought it for her, along with the fact it was his way of soothing his conscience.

  Well, it didn’t even things up between them, not by a long shot, and if the senator believed for one second it did, then he had some surprises headed his way. She wouldn’t rest until she managed to smear his name and topple him off the throne he coveted and thought he deserved. It was the only way she’d ever be free of his control.

  Between Kane and the senator, she felt as if she was suffocating. Until three months ago, they’d known where she was every minute of the day and night. She’d accepted the car because it was a means of escape. It handled like a dream, and was fast. She’d made damn certain of it.

  As long as she was in it, Jayla felt moderately safe.

  But she couldn’t live in it, not when she’d left Kane, and certainly not now.

  Jayla imagined the senator’s bevy of ex-black ops already knew where she was headed. Kane was her stepfather’s number one man, and Hamilton had spies everywhere. If her stepfather was somehow involved in Molly’s assassination, then by now, Kane would have reported that Jayla had seen his kill. Her stepfather’s men were likely in motion, racing to locate her.

  However, Kane Masters was the one who’d come after her with every bit of muscle he possessed. He had his own small army, men even more dangerous than the ones who worked for the senator. Kane. She shuddered at the thought of the sadistic bastard getting his hands on her…again.

  The swish-swish of the wipers snared her attention and drew her back to the here and now. It helped push away the guilt and the painful memories of her time with Kane.

  How long had the wipers been on?

  She didn’t remember turning them on. It slowly dawned on her she hadn’t switched them on. They came on automatically when they were needed. Jayla blinked, surprised the predicted snow the weatherman had forec
ast earlier that morning had finally arrived and turned the sides of the highway into glistening ribbons of white crystal. Huh. It must have been falling for a while because she felt frozen through and through. Right. She doubted the chill icing her bones could be blamed on the steady drop in temperature.

  If she was lucky, her car would be harder to spot in the dark with snow falling thick as feathers from a torn pillow. She adjusted the heat, but nothing melted the layer of ice glazing her blood. Oh, God. She had to get her mind on what was happening around her or she’d end up dead.

  Dead like—

  No! No. She refused to dwell on it. It was done. Over. No bringing back Molly Westcott. No bringing back her own mother or Barbara—

  No bringing back—

  Jayla wiped the tears off her face with a trembling hand. “Stop it! Stop the pity-party, right now.”

  Except for Samantha Rivers and Lacey McCord, there was no one who cared if she lived or died. Lacey was a distant cousin, and it was only recently they’d forged a bond. But her cousin had just gone through a terrible ordeal. Nope. She couldn’t dump her problems on Lacey.

  Right here, right now, there was only her best friend. No way was she involving Sam in this political nightmare. Jayla set her jaw. She was catching that damn plane to Hawaii, and she was going on vacation with Samantha. Kane could rot in hell.

  Jayla whipped the car onto the empty parking lot on the far side of the statuesque CIA buildings. The building provided office space for some of the country’s finest operatives. She released a pent-up breath. Samantha. CIA. Maybe she’d be better off confiding in her friend. Sam would know what to do, and she’d see to it the Feds didn’t lock her away. Jayla sighed. She had to stop this. Stop bouncing back and forth and make a decision. Tell Sam or not tell her.

  Oh, God! What should she do? There were no answers to the critical questions plowing around in her head. She was very much afraid she’d never discover what the correct answers might be.

  Inhaling deeply, then releasing the restricted breath, Jayla fought against the terrible pictures flashing through her mind. She probably should have gone to the Secret Service, but she figured it was the first place Kane would look for her. He had friends there, too, many powerful friends.

  Her hand shook as she switched off the key and dropped it in her bag. Checking her surroundings in the dark as best she could, she at least made certain her vehicle was the only one in the parking lot before unlocking the door and sliding out.

  Jayla grabbed the tan trench coat off the passenger seat and pulled it on. It wasn’t the best for this type of weather, but at least it covered the blood stains on her clothes until she could get somewhere and change. She flipped up the collar, snuggled deeper inside the thin, silky lining and headed across the icy tarmac.

  Hurrying toward the building as fast as the slippery pavement allowed, Jayla hooked the shoulder strap of her black leather bag and fished out her cell phone. Quickly, she punched in a number set on speed dial.

  “Operation’s Office, Flayme Jansen speaking. How may I help you?” The feminine voice on the other end sounded reserved and business-like.

  “Miss Jansen?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Jayla Ross. Is Samantha there yet?”

  “Not yet. She should be here soon though. She’s expecting you.”

  “Yes. I need to see her right away. It’s urgent.”

  “Please hold. I’ll contact Miss Rivers.”

  Jayla whimpered. She hated being put on hold. Worse, she loathed standing outside while the sleet and snow peppered her face. The street lights made her a perfect target for a would-be assassin. In this case, there was no choice. She looked around. Odd, there were no guards on duty. Maybe they were inside out of the cold, or taking a break.

  After what seemed like forever, the secretary came back on the line. “Miss Ross?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Outside. Here.”

  “I’ll buzz you in.”

  “What about Miss Rivers?” Jayla tore open the door as soon as she heard the buzzer. Making certain it locked behind her, she turned left, made a beeline to the rows of gleaming elevators and punched the up arrow.

  “She’ll meet you here as soon as she can get away.”

  Shit! “How long will that be?” The elevator door swished shut behind her. Irritated, Jayla stabbed the sixth floor button with more force than necessary. Usually, it was Sam waiting on her. Why couldn’t this one time be like all the others and Sam already here, tapping her toes and anxious to be on her way?

  “I don’t know, Miss Ross, at least an hour. Maybe two. As you know, Miss Rivers is attending the first lady’s dinner party at the White House at Mrs. Westcott’s specific request. She can’t simply leave. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, I know,” Jayla replied as patiently as she could manage. It wasn’t the secretary’s fault she’d witnessed firsthand exactly where the first lady was and what had happened to her. “I just thought…hoped…she might have left there early.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She clenched her fists to keep from punching the wall. She didn’t have an hour or two. She didn’t have any other option, either. Sam would be here when she got here. Jayla prayed it was quicker than within an hour. Did Sam know Molly had left the White House?

  “All right. All right. I’m in the elevator,” Jayla stated. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

  “You know the suite number?”

  “Six-zero-one.”

  “Come on in.”

  Jayla flipped the top down on the phone and dropped it in her bag.

  CIA. Her new best friend―or her worst enemy? She didn’t know. Did she have an alternative? Not today. Much as she hated to drag Sam into this mess, she needed help. She had to trust in her friend’s ability to keep them all safe. There was simply no one else to turn to, at least no one else she trusted. After giving it some thought, she figured Sam and her department would end up in the thick of it anyway.

  Jayla accepted she was in hot water, and no matter the risk to Sam, this was bigger than the two of them or the one of her. She despised the fact she had to pull her friend into this, but she couldn’t do this alone. It was way over her head. Certainly she had no evasive skills. The only survival skill she possessed was she knew how to shoot a gun—thanks to Kane. However, that didn’t mean she’d get the chance to shoot first.

  The other thing she was good at wasn’t going to save her.

  She needed Sam’s help. At least she knew she could trust her friend. It was all the others, the powers above Sam she didn’t trust.

  How in the world had she managed to get enmeshed in such intrigue? Murder. Lies. Videos. Sex? Oh yeah, in D.C.—everything revolved around lies and sex. She was in it up to her neck, all of it. Her universe was about to erupt around her head in a shower of the worst kind of hell.

  The elevator stopped and the doors slapped open with a soft whoosh.

  “Hello, baby.”

  Jayla’s breath caught in her throat. “Kane,” she choked. “How—”

  “Does it matter?” he asked in that sexy, gravelly tone she’d once loved, but had learned to hate. “You’re here. I’m here. And I have the gun. That’s what matters to me.”

  Numb, she couldn’t believe her sorry ass luck. “It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered to you,” she said faintly.

  “You didn’t really think you’d escape me…did you?” He leveled the deadly gun with the silencer at her and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Five

  To die is nothing, but it is terrible not to live.

  ~Victor Hugo

  Rimrock, Montana

  Blackstone Ranch

  February 16, Monday

  Nine hours before the assassination…

  Standing beside Lacey at her son’s graveside, Rafe McCord eyed his sweet wife of two days, and wondered how he’d been lucky enough to win her love. Lucky that she was a strong wom
an and survived the terrible ordeal the serial killer, Smitt Davis, put her through.

  Even though she hadn’t shared all the details with him, Rafe knew enough to know Lacey had suffered unspeakable horrors at the butcher’s hands. He might not have felt the physical pain his wife had endured, but she’d lost not only her little boy, Joseph, but lost their baby as well. His child. A baby he’d desperately wanted with her.

  His heart grabbed. It’d be a long time before either of them got over the loss of Lacey’s two-year-old son or the tiny being they’d created during the Christmas holidays. He wondered how Danger bore the death of little Joseph.

  Rafe tamped his mental wanderings down. God, he didn’t want to think about Danger or the boy. He didn’t want to think about the man who’d loved Lacey first and still did, or the awful things Danger had said and done to her. In a way, her ex had been almost as cruel as Smitt Davis, but without the violence.

  Sometimes it didn’t take carnage to wound a soul. He had a feeling whatever cruel things Danger had said to Lacey, she’d carry them in her heart ‘til the end of her days. Disgust and rage rose in the back of his throat like bile. He understood Danger hadn’t been a well man, but unkind words, once spoken, might be forgiven, but were rarely forgotten.

  Rafe acknowledged the fact he was more than blessed Lacey was even alive. Every time he looked at her, his heart ached. She looked pale, way too slender and so fragile looking, he felt like weeping every time he looked at her.

  Although he’d tried and continued to try his best to comfort her, she bore the brunt of her grief alone. She needed space, time to grieve in her own way for the children she’d lost, but he was terrified to let her out of his sight—afraid Smitt Davis would return and finish what he’d started.

  He didn’t know if he’d ever be comfortable with Lacey out of his sight again. Rafe figured a psychologist would have a field day with any one of the three of them. But deep inside, he believed if Davis got his hands on Lacey again, she’d never survive the serial killer’s brutality. So he remained near her—always on guard.