Unfinished Business (23 page)

She had just stepped out of the shower when someone knocked on the door.

For a second her heart leaped with the hope that it might be Mark. That he might have thought about himself a minute and come back to apologize.

But there was no way that was possible. By now he was on a plane, on his way to stump for reelection in another town—another town where all the women were as desperately in love with him as all the women here.

Including you?

The question rose in her mind as though asked by a stranger.

Fortunately, there was another, more insistent tap on the door and she chose to answer it.

“Ms. Johnson?” Erica recognized the kindly voice of the B and B owner, Mrs. Dickson. “I have some breakfast for you. May I come in?”

“Sure,” Erica hollered, toweling off quickly and reaching for her favorite pair of jeans and the top T-shirt on the pile in her suitcase, a faded old tie-dye
that read War is so last century. “I'll be out in a second.”

“I'll just set it here, out in the sitting room,” the woman called, the nearness of her voice indicating that she was already in that space. “And you have a phone message from Bitsi Barr. She'll be over to take you dress shopping at seven. Your friend Ms. Dawson is already gone. She said she'd meet you back here in time for the party this evening.”

“Thank you,” Erica replied.

“Is everything all right?” Mrs. Dickson asked as Erica entered the room.

She had those bright, interested, in-your-business eyes, hidden behind a pair of rimless spectacles, and the habit of pursing her lips when she wasn't using them to speak. She wasn't an old woman by any stretch of the imagination—Erica pegged her as late forties or early fifties—but her old-lady busy-body quality seemed to add ten years to her face.

“Fine, thanks,” Erica said, forcing her voice to brightness. For a second, the woman's query seemed to encompass far more than it appeared. Erica took a quick but casual glance around the room, checking to make sure there was neither shoe, nor belt, nor boxer shorts left anywhere visible. “Just fine.”

The woman's eyes darted around the room, following her own. “Did you sleep well?”

Erica pushed down the memory of her erotic evening with Mark Newman and replied simply, “Just lovely,” with her widest smile.

“That's great,” the other woman replied with an equal hardiness, which Erica found just a tad suspicious. “I thought you might have been working late.”

Erica frowned. “Working late?”

Mrs. Dickson pursed her lips. “I could have sworn I saw the senator's old red truck out front until very late last night.”

Or very early this morning
, she might as well have said.

A flush of heat crept up Erica's throat. Exactly what was she supposed to say: No? Yes? Was this some kind of secret dalliance or open affair? What the heck were they doing?

Erica opened her mouth, then thought better of it and simply let the woman reach whatever conclusion silence required her to reach.

“Well,” Mrs. Dickson said with one last look around the room. “I guess I better let you eat. I've known Bitsi since high school and she's a lot of things, but she's never late.”

“I'll bet,” Erica muttered, before remembering that for all she knew, Ellen Dickson and Bitsi Barr were best friends. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“No problem. Comes with the room,” the woman answered cheerfully and finally turned to go. “Oh. What's this?” she asked, stooping toward the floor.

Erica felt her heart stop. Mark had left something! What was it? His airplane ticket? A copy of that insidious fax? A used condom?

“It's for you,” Mrs. Dickson murmured, turning a crisp, white envelope over between her fingers before handing it to Erica. “Gee.” She scratched her head and pursed her lips so deliberately her glasses hitched an inch on her nose. “I could have sworn that wasn't there when I came in.” She shook away her confusion with a chuckle. “Maybe my husband is right. He swears since we started running this inn, I've started losing my mind. Just leave the dishes there when you're done. I'll get them when I come in to make the bed later.”

“Thanks,” Erica responded, waiting for the door to close behind the woman before sitting down at the little table. She set the envelope on the tray and poured herself a cup of coffee before reaching for it again.

It was light, and Erica could tell it contained only a single piece of paper. Her name appeared in dark type across the face. It had the look of one of those official communications—so black-and-white, so crisp—that Erica expected a list of the day's itinerary or an outline of the Who's Who of their evening soiree.

Or one of those photographs.

Only Mark was right. There hadn't been a photograph since they'd left Washington.

Erica slid a finger under the flap of the envelope and pulled out its innards, flipping the paper open. A sick feeling rocked her stomach like she'd been sucker punched.

A grainy copy of herself and Mark Newman entangled like longtime lovers on Mrs. Dickson's white four-poster glared at her from inside. With trembling hands, Erica turned the paper over, but this time there was nothing—no words, no threats, no nothing.

“How…?” she murmured in a trembling voice, glancing around the room. “How…?”

Erica frowned in confusion, looking around the room again. The bedroom shades were still tightly drawn, and it was impossible to see in from the outside. She stalked into the sitting room. Mrs. Dickson had raised the shades in this room, letting the already bright light of a new day, but when Erica pulled them again, the room was shuttered and dark. There was no light coming from outside, and no way anyone from the outside could have seen in. In fact, the photos looked like they had to have been taken from inside the bedroom. But that was impossible, wasn't it?
Surely she and Mark would have noticed if someone else was in the room, wouldn't they?

Mark.

His name rose to her lips as automatically as her next breath, and instantly his face, his smell, the feel of him was in her mind.

Did he know? Had he, too, received this—this picture, this warning, this—

Automatically, she reached for the cell phone in its clip on the hip of her jeans, and then thought better of it. If someone were taking pictures, could they also be intercepting calls?

Shaking, nervous where only moments ago she'd felt completely safe, Erica rose and hurried into the bedroom, checking the ceiling and walls, and then the bed itself. Not that she knew for certain she'd recognize the camera that could have caught such an explicit image, but it was the only thing she could think of to do.

But of course, amateur that she was, she found nothing—nothing at all that looked anything like a bug, a camera or anything of the kind.

Calm down
, she told herself.
Calm down and think.

She sank down on the bed and closed her eyes, forcing herself to take some deep breaths as she asked herself over and over again,
Why? Why would she do such a thing? What kind of crazy woman would go so far, and what would she do next?

There were supposed to be plainclothes police around here somewhere. There was supposed to be protection. Erica hurriedly stuffed the photo back in its envelope and rushed toward the door, just as a tart rapping shook it. Before Erica could reply, Bitsi Barr yanked it open.

“Are you ready?” she barked, flicking out her wrist to consult the time. “They're waiting for us.”

“Sure,” Erica said, far more casually than she felt. She crammed the photo into the back pocket of her jeans and reached for her purse, wishing that at least Angelique was around to watch her back.

But Angelique had become mysteriously unavailable for a good deal of this trip.

Bitsi's eyes swept over Erica's T-shirt, reading silently. She crimped her tight little lips into a frown of disapproval. “Is that what you're wearing today? Don't you own anything else?”

Erica ignored her questions in favor of one of her own. “Have you seen any of Sergeant McAfee's people? Mark said they were around.”

“Sure, they're around,” Bitsi said, as though she were completely uninterested in this topic. “Are you ready?”

“Sure,” Erica said hesitantly. “Only I was just hoping I could maybe see one of the cops for a minute.”

Bitsi's sharp eyes fixed on Erica's face. “Why?” she demanded with such sudden force and nastiness that Erica stepped back a pace. “What do you need a cop for?”

Erica froze. There was something almost threatening in the woman's manner, and for a second, Erica was almost too afraid to push the matter.

This woman's seriously crazy.

The thought popped in and out of her mind like one of those annoying advertisements on the Internet. Erica hesitated for only a second while her backbone snapped back into place. She glared at the woman with her hardest, steeliest I'm-in-charge-of-this-playground gaze.

“I think you know, Bitsi,” she said, don't-mess-with-a-sister in her voice.

Now it was Bitsi's turn to step back. Fear glittered in her pale blue eyes, naked and obvious, for an in
stant before she brought her face under control.

“Our driver is a cop,” she said, cool as Christmas. “I'm sure you're perfectly safe, but…” She shrugged her shoulders and looked away. “Do what you want to do. Only, I'd think about it first.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means”—Bitsi's voice had the tone of a cat playing with a mouse—“it's already been observed that the truck was here all night. If there's anything the police need to know about—anything that might have happened as a result of the senator's
all-night visit
”—she put a nasty little emphasis on the words—“it has the potential to be seriously embarrassing for him. And for you, though you'll understand if your embarrassment isn't my chief concern.”

“I think Mark's safety should be your concern.”

Bitsi laughed. “Mark's very well protected. Better than he even knows. We hired a private guard for him two years ago. An ex-CIA spy, in fact. This guy is so good, the senator still hasn't detected him. And that's impressive, considering the senator's military experience with reconnaissance. I wouldn't worry about his safety, and I don't really think anyone is after
you
.”

“Except maybe you.”

The words were out before she could stop them. Bitsi lifted an eyebrow in only the faintest evidence of surprise.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Erica shot back. “Cut it out. I don't know how you did it, but I know you did it. Why you did it—why you'd do something so—so—
sick
—that's another question. Especially since you're supposed to be so…”

In love with him
. She stopped short, the words hovering on her tongue. Mark's assertions buzzed around her and Erica longed to fling them in Bitsi's face. She
longed to call this pale wench out on her little game, longed to smack the woman in the face with the facts: that she loved Mark, and Mark didn't love her back. That driving Erica away wouldn't drive Mark into her arms.

But she'd promised him she wouldn't.

“I'm supposed to be ‘so'
what
? In love with him?” she finished, before letting out a whoop of laughter. “Is that what he told you?”

Erica stared at her, speechless and confused, while the woman chuckled until her eyes nearly ran with tears.

“Mark Newman, you're too much,” Bitsi murmured as though the man were present. “You're just too full of yourself for words.”

“Th—then you aren't—you aren't—” Erica stammered.

“No.” Bitsi shook her head emphatically. “No. Maybe I was, once. Years ago, when I first met him. But I've long since gotten over it.” She laughed again. “I know Mark would be shocked to hear it, but it
is
possible to get over him.” Her pale blue eyes found Erica's. “I guess it's important that you know that, since the better question is, Are
you
in love with him?”

Erica hesitated, watching the changes play over the woman's face. Only moments ago, the woman's expression had been disinterested and dismissive. But now, suddenly, Bitsi Barr was interested in her. A little too interested.

“Because if you are, let me just tell you, you are one of hundreds,” Bitsi continued, when Erica didn't answer. “Maybe thousands.”

“No,” Erica said as straight-faced as she could manage. “No. I'm not in love with Mark Newman.”

In love with Mark Newman.

The moment the words escaped her mouth and
she heard them, hanging in the air like bubbles, that funny little feeling of heat struck her stomach again. Mark Newman's image seemed to float in each bubble, smiling that quirky little smile he always smiled just before he said something wrongheaded and crazy. Mad as she was at Bitsi Barr and the whole damn situation, Erica had to work hard to keep a silly little smile from curving her lips.

“I don't believe you. You're in love with him,” Bitsi asserted, her eyes flashing and her voice rising. “I
know
you are!” She paused, but only long enough to gather steam. “You don't actually think he can love you, do you? You don't actually
expect
anything. Because I'll tell you right now, Mark Newman loves one thing: himself. Himself and his career. That's why I had to…”

Erica waited, but the woman closed her lips tightly and suddenly became very interested in the door.

“You had to do what, Bitsi? What did you have to do?”

“Nothing.” Even though her pale face had turned the most uncomfortable-looking shade of pink, Bitsi found her chilliest voice again. “You wouldn't understand.”