Intimate Enemy

He watched her back out from the space in front of her office, then drive off to the south. If he had any luck, she would keep driving south until she wound up somewhere deep in the Gulf of Mexico. But at the end of the block, she turned, jogged over to River Road, then headed north.

“Staring out the window doesn’t get the work done.”

He turned to find J. D. Stinson standing at the top of what had once been elegant stairs. They’d been chopped up along with the rest of the house sometime in the fifties, turning the place into cheap apartment rentals.

J.D. was a relative, too; his mother was Russ’s father’s youngest sister. He was an assistant vice president at Fidelity and oversaw all of Russ’s construction loans. Nothing like keeping it in the family.

“I always finish ahead of schedule and under budget,” Russ said mildly.

“And you usually have bonuses for doing so written into your contract.”

Russ shrugged. He had a reputation for doing good work at a fair price. If people were willing to pay him extra for doing it quickly, as well, why not? “What are you doing out of the office and on the site on a warm day like today?”

It was a family joke that J.D. had gone into banking not because his father was president and it was expected of him, but because it meant an air-conditioned job wearing nice clothes. Casual for him was khakis and a polo shirt. He owned more suits than all the undertakers in the county combined, and the only thing he thought worth sweating over was his girlfriend of the month.

“I had some business to take care of across the street.”

Russ resisted the urge to shift his gaze to the whitewashedbrick building that housed Jamie’s office.

“What business do you have with Satan?”

J.D. scowled. “You know, if I was half as ticked off with Jamie as you are—”

“I’m not ticked off at Jamie. I don’t like her. Under the circumstances, you shouldn’t be dealing with her, either.” Russ wasn’t talking about his divorce, though family loyalty, with the exception of Robbie, should count for something. No, having won a damn fine settlement against one Calloway, Jamie was after another, representing J.D.’s wife, Laurie, in their split.

“I’m not dealing with her. That’s why I waited until I knew she would be gone to come over this way.”

Russ did look down at the building then. There were two good-sized windows, one in reception and one in the office. And through the first, he could see Lys Paxton sitting at her desk, using the computer. Her black hair concealed the buds that were usually plugged into her ears, but her head was bobbing, her entire body moving to music only she could hear.

He looked back at his cousin. “Lys Paxton? Give me a break.”

His cousin bristled. “Lys and I used to date. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“Yeah, right.” She was young, more than a little freaky and didn’t like Calloways. Plus she worked for Jamie and she’d once dated J.D. That was five strikes Russ could come up with in ten seconds.

“Besides, I haven’t even talked to her today. Jamie hadn’t left yet, so I came up here.”

“Yeah, well, she’s gone now.”

“Watching her, were you?” J.D. asked with a smirk.

Russ pushed away from the window, returned to the door where he’d been working when his first interruption had come along and crouched, pry bar in hand. “You know, J.D., going out with your estranged wife’s lawyer’s paralegal might rank as one of the stupidest ideas you’ve ever come up with.”

J.D. went to the window, no doubt watching Lys. “Knock it off, Russ. You’re not my father, my brother, my lawyer, my priest or my boss. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Someone needs to.”

“Yeah, someone needs to set you straight, too, but I don’t see you taking advice from anyone.”

Russ scowled hard, focusing his irritation inward so he didn’t inadvertently damage the piece of trim he was removing. “My life is fine.”

“Yeah, you’ve got your work, your work and, oh, yeah, your work.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have Jamie Munroe after my ass.”

“Anymore. At least I’m smart enough to hire Robbie.”

The pry bar slipped, leaving a mark in the plaster as well as the back of Russ’s hand. He swore silently. “Dracula has gone out, and the bloodsucker-in-training is alone in their lair. You wanna make life harder for yourself, go ahead. Have at it. Just get the hell out of here and let me work.”

J.D.’s smile was tight and hard, bearing an eerie resemblance to the only enduring memory Russ had of his father, who’d died when he was seven. “Yeah, well, like I said, you’ve got your work.”

Russ listened until his footsteps were drowned out by the other workers in the house, then heaved a deep breath. Damn straight, he had his work.

And it was all he wanted.

The office of the psychologist Jamie had come to Augusta to see was located in a small enclave of similar offices near the Medical College of Georgia. She’d spent two hours listening to him assure her beyond a shadow of a doubt that her client had suffered egregiously at the hands of her husband. Now what she needed was an expert witness for her expert witness, because she was pretty convinced that Laurie and the doctor had cooked up a scheme to wring big bucks out of J. D. Stinson.

“He’s a Calloway, you know,” the doctor had mentioned near the end of the conversation.

What the hell did that mean? Jamie wondered as she unlocked her car with the remote, then opened the door to let the heat escape. Were all Calloway men genetically inclined to dole out abuse to their wives? Did all Calloways share some sense of entitlement that made them above the law? Were all Calloways rich enough to pay off disgruntled exwives whether the wives deserved payment?

She set her bag on the passenger seat, then peeled off her sweater. The doctor’s office had been cold; the warm leather felt wonderful against her skin. Once the chill had seeped away, she stuck the key in the ignition and turned and…nothing. Another try, another nonresponse.

Grabbing her cell phone, she climbed out again and walked to the nearest shade under a lace-canopied tree. She knew nothing about mechanical things; popping the trunk told her as much about the engine as popping the hood did. So she did what she usually did when she was stuck: she called Lys. Within thirty sweltering minutes, a tow truck arrived to transport her car to the garage and soon after that, a car rental agency delivered a replacement. Jamie gratefully signed the paperwork, then slid inside, where the air conditioner was blasting on frigid.

Deciding to forego dinner alone, she headed back to Copper Lake. It was a lovely drive, quick on the interstate, peaceful on the two-lane state road. She’d never heard of the town until she’d met Russ and Robbie in law school and had visited only three weekends with Russ before he got married. Still, when she’d been looking for someplace to run away to after life had gone to hell in Macon and Robbie had suggested Copper Lake, it had seemed right. Immediately she’d felt as if she belonged. She’d borrowed office space from Robbie until she’d had enough clients to justify her own place, and she’d bought a house, made a few friends—and a few enemies, but at least they weren’t the type to try to kill her.

She hoped.

Robbie was worried that her mystery man might be just that type. She hoped he was being overly protective. Everything the guy had done so far had been innocent. A vase of gorgeous flowers. A box of to-die-for chocolate liqueur candies. A scrawled note after a verdict that read Congratulations. The best lawyer won.

Innocent. Even if there was something inherently creepy about it. Even if it did rouse old memories, old discomforts.

It was after six-thirty when she drove into Copper Lake. She went downtown and turned at the east corner of the square to pull into a space right in front of her office. She would want to make notes on the interview with Dr. Sleaze, she’d told Lys. It wouldn’t take long, then she could head home for dinner alone in front of the TV.

One thing she couldn’t blame her admirer for: she didn’t like being alone in the building. She’d been alone in the office in Macon when her former client’s father had paid a visit. She’d forced herself to deal with the fear that night had created—not conquer it, but cope with it. She made herself come in here once every week or two, even when the work, like tonight, could be done just as easily at home. She forced herself to be brave, or at least pretend.

Everything was quiet. She locked the entrance behind her, then locked the reception door. Lys always left a few lamps burning, and they were on now, lighting her way into her office. The blinds were drawn, per Lys’s routine. No need to advertise that Jamie was there.

As if the car parked out front wasn’t advertisement enough.

Jamie got comfortable at the computer, aware of the window behind her, opened a document file and began typing. She didn’t like the idea of calling Laurie Stinson’s psychologist to testify. She found the guy a little too smug, too condemning of J.D. and his family when he’d never met any of them. Just like everyone else, there were good Calloways and bad ones. Not wanting to be married to Laurie anymore didn’t automatically make J.D. one of the bad ones.

Outside a car door thudded, stilling Jamie’s fingers on the keyboard. She wasn’t the only one downtown tonight, she reminded herself. The restaurant on the other side of the square was open until eight, the coffee shop until nine. Sophy Marchand, who owned the quilt store next door, lived upstairs; the street was the only place for her and her visitors to park.

Still, Jamie typed faster, leaving the typos to fix later. As soon as she finished, she saved the file, shut off the computer and, with a rush of relief, headed for the door.

The outer hallway was exactly the way she’d left it—lights on, stairs empty, door locked. She paused in the foyer to locate the keys for the rental, and movement outside caught her attention. A man crouched beside her car, next to the driver’s door, and he was fiddling with something.

Her first impulse was to run into the bathroom in her office, locking every door behind her, and call for help. Her second was to take a deep breath. The street was well-lit, and there were people in the square. And this was Copper Lake, her office, her sidewalk. She was safe there.

She stepped outside as the man leaned closer to the car. The door swung shut with a soft whoosh, and she quietly turned the key in the lock before taking a step toward him. “Can I help you with something?”

He stiffened, and the air between them practically shimmered. The tightness in her gut warned her it was Russ before he glanced over his shoulder, but it didn’t lessen the impact of coming face-to-face with him for the first time in months. It didn’t make the derision in his blue eyes any easier to take.

Slowly he stood, and she watched. His jeans, cleaner than what he’d worn earlier, fitted just as snugly, and his T-shirt looked a luscious size too small. With his impressive muscles flexing, his dark hair cut really short and his jaw stubbled with beard, he looked too damn sexy for her own good.

“Sorry,” he said in a tone that clearly said he wasn’t. “I didn’t hear the portals opening.”

The portals of hell. She’d heard some of the names he called her—bloodsucker, Satan, queen of the dark. She would have been amused by them, maybe even proud of them, if they’d come from someone else.

“What are you doing to my car?”

His gaze dropped to the object in his hands. He turned it over a time or two, then held it out. “This was wedged behind the tire. I pulled it out.”

When she didn’t reach for it, he laid it on the hood of the car. It was a thin piece of wood, maybe six inches long, with nails hammered through, their points extending several inches on the other side.

“Is that one of those strips used to hold carpet in place?”

“Not with 20d nails. It must have fallen out of the Dumpster when they emptied it this afternoon.”

“Yeah, and the wind just blew it behind my tire.” And backing out over it would have surely flattened the tire.

Apparently the same thought occurred to him. His scowl deepened and turned about ten degrees colder. “If I wanted your tire flat, there are quicker ways to do it that don’t leave evidence behind. Like this.” He slipped a knife from his pocket and unfolded the blade with ease, then twirled it between his fingers.

Blood rushed, echoing in her ears, and for a moment, just a moment, her chest grew too tight to allow any but the smallest of breaths. She took a step back, then forced herself to hold her ground, to breathe, to swallow the knot of fear in her throat, as she struggled to concentrate on his words.

“I didn’t even know this was your car, and I don’t give a damn whether you get a flat.”

Her gaze locked on his face. He wasn’t someone to fear. He might hate her, but he wouldn’t hurt her. And she had no doubt he was being truthful. He had no interest whatsoever in her, beyond the fact that her existence annoyed him.

But the wood hadn’t just magically appeared underneath her car, wedged, as he’d said, against the tire. It hadn’t been there when she parked, or the tire would have already lost its air.

Maybe the mystery guy had left it. Better yet, maybe someone walking along the street had kicked it. Maybe a passing vehicle had caught the edge of it and sent it spinning, or some juvenile delinquent had put it there deliberately.

“You always look under neighboring cars before you get in your own?” she asked, edging forward enough to pick up the wood without getting close to him.

His mouth flattened, and one side quirked downward. “I opened the passenger door to get a flashlight and some papers fell out.”

She could believe that. In law school, she’d never gone anywhere with him that he hadn’t had to clear papers, books and other detritus to make room for her.

“I should thank you, I suppose, for not leaving it there to ruin the tire.”

His mouth thinned even more. “Like I said, I didn’t know it was your car.” Closing the knife with a snap, he returned it to his pocket, took a heavy-duty flashlight from the bed of the truck and started across the street.

She watched until he disappeared into the shadows of a live oak before she unlocked the car door. She tossed her bag on the passenger seat and the wood strip in the floorboard, and was about to slide inside when a familiar car turned the corner.

Lys slowed to a stop behind her and rolled the passenger window down, looking from Jamie to the pickup truck beside her before frowning. “You see Prince Charmless?” she asked sourly.

“Yeah, I did. What are you doing out?”

“Picking up a pizza.”

“You know, Luigi’s delivers.”

“Yeah, but this way I get to anticipate that first bite all the way home. Want to come over and share?”

Jamie shook her head. “It’s been a long day. I just want to get home.”

“You’ll regret it when you’re looking in your freezer at nothing but boxed dinners. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Be careful.”

“Always,” Lys replied with a grin before driving away.

Jamie got into the car, started the engine on the first try and headed home. Her house was little more than a mile from downtown, in a neighborhood where the yards were big, the houses were old and the trees were older. The house was white siding above dusty red-brick, with the shutters painted black. The steps leading to the front door were brick, as well, and arched out from the foundation in half-round tiers, each anchored by pots of brightly blooming flowers.

She pulled into the driveway, stopping even with the sidewalk. She unlocked the gleaming black door, an elegant contrast to the brass kick plate, then braced herself before opening the door. Mischa, best friend, companion and confidant, rocketed into her with enough force to knock her against the jamb, then abruptly the dog dropped to her haunches, eyes wide, just the tip of her broad pink tongue showing. It was as close to a smile as a dog could get.

“Hey, sweetie, I’ve missed you, too. Do you know I turned down Luigi’s Pizza just so I could come home and be with you?”

Mischa’s ears perked at the magic word. She loved Jamie, pizza, an old red shoe and snuggling when she slept—not necessarily in that order.

“Don’t you drool on my rug,” Jamie admonished as she set her bag down at the foot of the stairs, then kicked off her shoes. “I said I turned down the p-i-z-z-a. We’ll have to make do with what’s in the kitchen.”

Still looking hopeful, Mischa followed her down the hall and into the kitchen. A lone light burned above the sink, showing clean counters, gleaming pots hanging from a rack and a cooktop that looked as if it had come straight from the factory. Jamie wasn’t much of a cook; the only appliance she used with any regularity was the microwave.

And Lys was right: she did regret turning down the pizza when she faced the stacks of frozen dinners in the freezer. Disappointed by her chicken-and-pasta choice, Mischa padded over to her food dish and munched on dry nuggets.

“Another exciting night,” Jamie murmured as she punched the microwave buttons. “You and me alone.”

Mischa looked at her, then went back to crunching.

Dull and alone were okay, Jamie reminded herself. She’d had excitement for a time, and it had almost killed her. She could handle dull and alone. She could even handle seeing Russ twice in one day.

Though, if that became the rule rather than the exception, it just might kill her, too.

Chapter 2

Predawn wasn’t an unusual time for Russ to be out and about. He could get a good deal of work done before the crews or the office staff showed up. Getting up that early for Robbie, slumped in the passenger seat beside him, was apparently cruel and unusual punishment. His head tilted against the window, his eyes were closed and his snore was quiet. The guy could stay up until 5:00 a.m. partying, but ask him to get up then for a purpose, and he barely managed.

“Hey.” Russ poked Robbie’s shoulder as he merged onto the Bobby Jones Expressway in Augusta. “We’re almost there.”

One eye opened. “Almost where?”

“The airport. Remember? The Keys? Fishing? Catching the big one?”

“I’ll do that tomorrow. Need sleep.”

“You can sleep on the plane.”

“I could sleep right here if you’d shut up.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who wanted the first flight out this morning. You should be damn grateful that I offered to drive you.”

Robbie straightened in the seat, looking as if he was coming off the end of a three-day drunk. “I should have scheduled a noon flight.”

“You lazy bum. You give the rest of us a bad name.”

“With the old man gone, someone’s gotta do it.” Robbie rubbed his eyes, then combed his fingers through his hair. Once he got around the other passengers and the flight crew, especially if any of them were female and pretty, he would shake off his fatigue and act like the TV bunny, going and going. It was easy for him.

Not so for Russ. Oh, he had the energy. He just didn’t like expending it on people.

Bush Field was coming to life as employees prepared for another start of business. Russ pulled to the curb near one of the entrances and faced his brother. “Have fun.”

“I always do.” Robbie opened the door and slid halfway out, then turned back. “Listen, if you don’t mind…keep an eye on things, would you?”

He sounded serious—a rare enough occurrence in Russ’s experience. “What things?”

“Just…things. If anything seems strange or wrong, tell Tommy about it.”

Tommy Maricci’s father had been a shift foreman in the Calloway logging operation for years, and Tommy, Russ and Robbie had raised a lot of hell before they’d all gone off to college. Now a detective with the Copper Lake police, Tommy was still raising hell with Robbie.

“What kind of things, Rob?” Russ asked again. “Are you in trouble?”

“No. But someone I know might be.”

Someone he knew would include the whole damn town of Copper Lake. Narrowing down which one of them would take more energy and interest than Russ possessed.

Robbie got out, heaved his bags from the pickup bed, then grinned. “Give my best to Amanda Saturday.”

Russ snorted. “I’ll give my best to her. I don’t want to get punched for mentioning your name. Have fun. Bring back some fish.”

“Will do.” Robbie slammed the door, picked up his bags and headed inside the terminal. Before he even reached the entrance, he’d fallen into step beside a pretty flight attendant and said something to make her flash a million-watt smile.

Grinning, Russ pulled into the lane and headed back toward the expressway and home. It was a long drive back to Copper Lake, the sun slowly rising on the horizon behind him, his schedule for the day playing through his mind. An inspection at the Forsythia Drive address, a problem with the tilers at the new clinic on the highway out of town, an appointment with the interior designer, the kitchen designer and the lighting designer at the condo project on the west side of the river, a stop by the accountant’s office. If he was lucky, he might squeeze in an hour or two to work at River’s Edge.

And if his luck ran the way it usually did, he’d run into Satan while he was there. At least he knew what car to look for this time. Idly he wondered if her car was in the garage and why she’d been working late last night. Whether he knew the person whose life she would be ruining next. How that piece of wood had gotten wedged behind her tire.

And the wind just blew it over, she’d said sarcastically. Not likely. Now that he took the time to consider it, neither was his theory that it had fallen from the Dumpster. The wood had been set securely behind the tire, nails up, a flat waiting to happen.

Was Jamie the friend of Robbie’s who was in trouble? Understandable. Russ surely wasn’t the first or last person she’d pissed off. But, knowing how he felt about her, would Robbie ask him, even in a roundabout way, to keep an eye on her?

Russ’s grin was flat. Yeah. He would.

The road into Copper Lake took him past the turns for his mother’s house, his grandparents’ place, his own place. Granddad had given each of the grandchildren five acres—one thing Melinda hadn’t been able to touch in the divorce. He had built a house there after she was gone, way back in the woods, damn near impossible to find. Old logging roads crisscrossed the hillsides, most of them leading nowhere. With the nearest house belonging to Rick and Amanda—a weekend place—and few visitors, Russ liked the isolation.

Once he reached town, he stopped at the mom-and-pop doughnut shop for a cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee, then considered which project to check first. The house on Walton Way was closest—ninety years old, a complete remodel from inside out, nothing special or challenging about it.

Except that it was directly across the street from Jamie’s house. He’d known that when he accepted the job and hadn’t given a damn…but he also hadn’t been over there before she left for work or after she’d likely be home for the day. Coincidence? Or subconscious decision?

He would like to say coincidence. He would like to believe it, too.

“Hey, Russ.” Smelling of sweat and tobacco, Tommy Maricci slid into the chair opposite him. He wore shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes, and his skin was damp, his black hair sticking to his head. A pack of cigarettes showed in the breast pocket of the shirt, and his plate held two jelly doughnuts.

“You’re the only person I know who jogs across town to get doughnuts and has a smoke on the way,” Russ commented.

“I’m down to five cigarettes a day. Don’t screw with me.”

“How’s crime?”

“Booming. You take Robbie to the airport?”