What's in a Name? Page 7

  Chapter Six

  Kelli kept an eye on Windsor as he stumbled toward the door, holding her breath that he wouldn’t collapse before he got inside. She’d driven until she couldn’t keep her eyes open and then a little longer until she found a motel that looked seedy enough so nobody would ask questions.

  The acne-faced desk clerk had given Kelli’s grime-covered body a skeptical look, but she’d seemed willing enough to buy the sob story about repairing a flat tire in the rain. Apparently anxious to get back to her television program, the clerk had accepted cash, hadn’t pressed for ID, and had given Kelli the room she’d asked for—the one at the end of the row.

  Kelli grabbed her gym bag and the case with her computer from the truck and let herself into the room. Windsor lay on his side on top of one of the two double beds, his hair fanned out, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed, with the knit cap on the floor by his fingertips. Motionless. Her heart skipped and she stepped to his bedside to make sure he was breathing.

  Once she saw the rise and fall of his chest, she stood there, trying to understand why she hadn’t cut him loose. Not because she was attracted to him. That was impossible. She had questions and he had to have the answers. Nothing more. She chalked the fluttering in her chest up to exhaustion.

  In the tiny bathroom, she locked the door and took the longest, hottest shower she dared. Still exhausted, but clean, she slipped into the other bed and fell asleep before she had a chance to worry about what had happened, or what would happen next.

  Kelli started awake, disoriented and with a pounding heart. Faint traces of sunlight drifted through gaps in the curtains. One glance at Windsor in the other bed brought back the memories. She looked at her watch. Six. She’d slept four hours. That would have to do. She should be good for at least four more hours on the road and maybe get far enough away so nobody could pick up their trail.

  “Wake up, Windsor. Time to hit the road.” She touched his shoulder and when he didn’t respond, she shook him gently. “You can sleep in the truck.”

  A grunt answered her.

  She headed for the bathroom. “Five minutes,” she called over her shoulder. It was more like fifteen, but it took a while to get a halfway decent haircut using the first-aid kit scissors. She bundled the cuttings into the plastic motel laundry bag—she’d toss it somewhere in case anyone came looking.

  She climbed into her jeans and tugged a bulky sweater over her head, then called out, “Okay, Windsor. Your turn.”

  No response. She came out of the bathroom. He hadn’t moved. She hurried to him and pulled the hair back from his face. Shit, he was burning up.

  “Windsor. Wake up. Just for a minute?” She shook him, less gently than before.

  He moaned and turned onto his back, put his forearm over his eyes. Grimaced. “What?”

  “Let me look.” She pulled his shirt up and peeled away the gauze. The butterfly strips had held, but the cut was an angry, weeping red.

  Windsor’s eyes were glazed. He squinted at his midsection, then at her. “Not good?”

  “Could be worse. I think it needs disinfecting, though.”

  He nodded and let his head fall back onto the pillow.

  She had ibuprofen, a few more muscle relaxants, but nothing in the way of antibiotics. Shit, the cut hadn’t looked that bad yesterday. Was there something internal? And how would she know? “Hold still a minute.” She pressed on assorted places on his abdomen, watching his face for a reaction. “Where does it hurt?”

  “Everywhere. Nothing specific. Think it’s mostly bruising. Back hurts. Kidney punch, I’ll bet. Probably piss blood for a few days.”

  “Can you sit up? Let me look?”

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “Sure.” He grabbed her hands and swung his legs over the side of the bed. She eased his shirt up his back. Huge purple splotches decorated his back.

  “Well?” he said. “Anything to worry about?”

  “Only some nasty bruises. But you’ve got a fever. Wait here and I’ll get you some ibuprofen.”

  “I don’t think I can wait. Bruised or not, the kidneys are operational.”

  She looked at him, then understood. “Oh, yes. Of course. I’m done in there. Don’t lock the door, in case—”

  “Yes, ma’am. You finished?” He stood up, wobbled for a moment, but then seemed steady on his feet.

  She knew she was blushing. Ridiculous. Two adults. She’d shared a bathroom with a man for years. Great. Now she was embarrassed about being embarrassed. “Go.”

  While Windsor was in the bathroom, she eased back the window curtain and peeked around the parking lot. The same cars as last night. She pulled the bedcovers back from Windsor’s bed and assembled gauze, tape and more butterfly strips from her personal first-aid kit. Where the hell was her tube of Neosporin? She must have forgotten to pick more up the last time she did a major shopping trip. Plenty of alcohol swabs, though. And a bottle of iodine.

  Twice, she tiptoed to the closed bathroom door, wondering if she should check on him. She heard water running. Some sharp intakes of breath. A few groans. Finally, the bathroom door opened and Windsor walked out wearing a towel around his hips. His smile was forced and he doubled over, his hands outstretched toward the bed before he was halfway across the tiny room.

  He clutched the edge of the mattress and sat. “Sorry. Shaky. Tried to clean up some. I was pretty ripe.”

  For half a moment, she considered leaving him here. No way could he travel. His brown eyes looked at her, full of pain and insecurity and she knew she wouldn’t.

  “Lie down. You’ve been beat up, cut up, and you’ve got a fever.”

  “And probably a concussion. Unless you’ve got a twin who keeps popping in and out, I’m seeing two of you.” He settled back on the bed.

  “I’m going to clean the cut, okay?”

  “Sure.” He closed his eyes.

  “This might sting a little.” She swabbed his chest with alcohol wipes and patted a gauze pad doused with iodine along the wound.

  “Holy mother of—”

  She clamped a hand over his mouth. “Suck it up, Windsor. We don’t need anyone wondering what’s going on.”

  “If they’re wondering, they sure as hell won’t be thinking this is what you’re doing. Holy crap, woman, that hurts.”

  After cleaning the incision, she put a fresh dressing on it. “All done. I’m going to go find us something to eat. Get some rest.”

  “I think I liked it better when you were avoiding me.” He studied her for a minute. “Your eyes are still gray. But your hair is gone.”

  “Good catch, Windsor. Only took you half an hour to notice.”

  “I’m not my usual observant, charming self today.”

  * * * * *

  Blake heard the door close, the truck start, and the whoosh of tires across the parking lot. Kelli had taken full control, and even in his condition he could tell this wasn’t new to her. Along with her looks, her entire personality had changed. She seemed to know what she needed to do. But for all her gruffness, when she’d bandaged him her touch had been gentle. He resigned himself to letting her take charge until he could stay awake more than twenty minutes at a stretch. And walk more than ten steps without needing to lie down.

  He glanced around the room. She’d taken his cell, even the room phone with her. His cash. Left him with nothing. She said she’d be back. Her gym bag and computer case sat on the second bed.

  Overwhelmed by a sudden fear they were empty decoys, he slid out of bed and knelt beside them. Clothes, her laptop, a collection of flash drives, and some paper files. That she hadn’t abandoned him gave him some small comfort, and he crawled back into his own bed and sank into the mattress.

  He woke, teeth chattering, drenched in sweat. Kelli wiped his forehead with a damp cloth.

  “Sheesh Windsor, we’re way beyond out of towels. I’ve already lifted half a dozen from the maid’s cart and you’re sweating like a pig.”

  Her tone didn’t
match her words and he saw worry etched in her face.

  “Fever’s breaking,” he mumbled. “Good sign.”

  She helped him sit up enough to swallow two ibuprofen with some orange juice she poured from a plastic carton. “I brought you breakfast.”

  He worked his way up to a sitting position, bringing the sheet along. Why hadn’t he put on some underwear before he got into bed? Kelli picked up the towel he’d dropped beside the bed, spread it across his thighs and perched a Styrofoam takeout box on his lap. If she noticed his hands shaking when he tried to pop the lid, she made no effort to intervene.

  She poured him another cup of juice and put a liter bottle of water on the night table. “Scrambled eggs, toast and plenty of orange juice. Fluids, Windsor. Lots of fluids. Flush out the infection.” She tore open a packet of jam and spread it on a slice of toast for him. “See how you feel after you eat something.” She headed for the bathroom.

  The slice of toast weighed as much as an elephant, but he brought it to his mouth. Bit off a piece. Chewed. Swallowed. Took another bite. Tried some eggs. Some of the shakiness left. No wonder. He hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday and he’d thrown up all of that. With each bite he grew stronger. He gulped the juice and scraped up the last bit of food from the container. Sated, he lowered the box to the floor and leaned back against the headboard.

  Kelli peeked around the bathroom doorway. She’d wrapped a towel around her head, turban style, something women seemed born knowing how to do. “Feeling better?”

  “Much. I think I was hungry.”

  “Rest for an hour. Then we hit the road.”

  “I think we need to talk.”

  “And I think you need to rest.” She disappeared into the bathroom like the bird in a cuckoo clock.

  He needed exercise, to get moving again, not rest. He got out of bed, wrapped the sheet around him and took three laps around the small room before the dizziness ruled. He glared at the bathroom door. Now he’d rest. He made it to the bed and collapsed.

  Aware of noises, someone moving in and out, doors opening and closing, yet unwilling to let them register, he slowly rose from sleep at the touch of a hand on his forehead.

  “Fever’s down. We need to go.” Kelli’s voice floated from above the bed.

  He opened his eyes and blinked at the redhead staring down at him. He worked his tongue around his mouth until he could speak. “Where are the green eyes?”

  She flashed a quick grin. “I’m working on that one. Meanwhile, I’m going to finish loading the truck. “If you want to clean up, be quick.”

  “Do I have to cut my hair, too?”

  “No, I thought we’d make you a blond.” She gave him what he’d come to think of as The Shake. He was beginning to like it—the look of exasperation, the way her hair bounced, her eyes rolled heavenward and her eyebrows furrowed as she shook her head.

  She headed for the door. “Try to remember you were never here. Watch the little things, like leaving the seat up.” She was gone before he could retort.

  He sat up and looked around. She’d made her bed. Replaced the phone. On the chair were a pair of his jeans, a clean blue chambray work shirt, underwear and socks and the knit cap. He gathered them up and took them into the bathroom. The spotless bathroom. One damp towel and one dry one. Whatever towels she’d used for him and her hair were nowhere to be seen. Nothing pointed to her transformation.

  She’d left his Dopp Kit by the sink. No sign of blond hair dye. Good. For a second, he’d thought she was serious. He rubbed his fingers over his jaw. If Kelli was into disguises, maybe a beard would be a good idea. Besides, he couldn’t leave whiskers in the sink now, could he?

  With a tremendous sense of accomplishment, he washed, got dressed and made it outside under his own power. Kelli stood by the hood of the truck, ready to help. He gave her a thumbs-up and climbed in, tossing his kit on the seat between them next to two bottles of water and her backpack. His head was clear, his pain was tolerable. “Go for it.”

  Once they’d put the motel and whatever town it was in behind them, he ended the silence. “Time to talk. Who the hell are you and why is Dwight Hollingsworth looking for you?”

  Chapter Seven

  Taken by surprise, Kelli shot a look at Windsor. “Who the hell is Dwight Hollingsworth? I’ve never heard of him.”

  Windsor twisted in his seat, then grimaced and tugged the seat belt away from his midsection. “Okay, then let’s start with the easy one. Who are you?”

  She kept her foot steady on the accelerator. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought Windsor could see it through her shirt. She’d prepared herself for his questions, hoped her face didn’t give her away. She fixed her eyes on the road. “I’m Kelli Carpenter. ID’s in my wallet.” She nodded to the pack between them. “Help yourself.”

  “I’m sure your ID is impeccable. Who are you?”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Mr. Blake Windsor, phony handyman. You’re the one who shows up pretending to be something you’re not. Why don’t you tell me who you are. Or if that’s too much trouble, who’s this Dwight Hollingsworth guy?”

  Pain lines etched Windsor’s face again, but she didn’t give a shit. She hit the accelerator, changing lanes, passing cars, not caring that the constant side-to-side motion had to be hurting Windsor’s injured torso. She glanced over, thought he was turning a little green. Good. They had at least an hour of mountain roads left.

  He shifted in his seat and cracked the window. She saw him swallow, the sweat beading on his upper lip.

  Screw him. She turned up the heater. “I’m waiting. Who is Dwight Hollingsworth?”

  “You’ve never heard of him?” The words came out slow and deliberate, as if he had to concentrate to form each one.

  “Has the fever affected your hearing? How many times do I have to tell you? No. Never heard of him. What part don’t you understand?”

  “I work for him. He’s a very rich man in Chicago. Aspirations to become the next governor of Illinois.”

  “Chicago? I’ve never lived in Chicago. And if you don’t want to ride in the back of the truck, you’d better tell me what he wants with me—or what you think he wants with me.”

  “I don’t know. I hoped you would. He thinks you’re Casey Wallace. He hired me to see if it was true.”

  She ignored the ringing in her ears, the pounding in her chest when Windsor uttered the name. “Who’s Casey Wallace? It’s not me. I told you who I am.”

  “So, if you’re not Casey Wallace, any ideas why Hollingsworth thinks you are?”

  “We’re still talking about you, Windsor. What is it you do when you’re not pretending to be a handyman?”

  There was a prolonged silence. She waited. When she turned to look at Windsor, he was slouched in the seat. “I help Hollingsworth make money.” His voice was flat.

  “I take it you’re not exactly a financial advisor, or a stockbroker, or something like that?”

  He expelled a puff of air. “No. More like a … negotiator. I help him acquire companies. He pays me to convince executives they’d be a lot happier as subsidiaries of Hollingsworth Industries.”

  “Convince how? Threaten them? Their families? You go in with a gun?” She watched his face and the flash of indignation she saw was real.

  “No. Sorry to disappoint you, but I work with numbers. Bottom lines. And I like to think I’m helping them out in the long run. I’m good at it, and I like the lifestyle it provides.”

  A glimmer of something—regret?—replaced the indignation. Maybe he did a little more than crunch numbers. “How in the world did a … negotiator … end up playing handyman on a Good Samaritan project?”

  “Hollingsworth knows my dad was a contractor, that I grew up working with him. But I preferred using my brain. Went to school, got my MBA.”

  “You’re a corporate bully. How does Hollingsworth hook up with EnviroCon and Jack Stockbridge? I’m getting a headache here.”

  “No clue. Hollingsworth hooks u
p with just about everyone. Consummate politician. He sent me to check you out, and he set up the handyman cover. And speaking of headaches—” He unzipped his kit and pulled out the ibuprofen. Swallowed some, took a long pull from the water bottle. “Kelli? Look, this was a last-minute deal and I didn’t take the time to ask a lot of questions.”

  “Shut up, Windsor. I need to think for a while.”

  Okay, for some reason this Hollingsworth had connected her to Casey. Was he connected to Robert? After all these years, had someone found something?

  Crap. She was comfortable being Kelli. She’d changed identities before, she could do it again. But not without a damn good reason. Jack might know more. No way would he sell her out. He couldn’t. He didn’t know her past, but she trusted him with her life.

  Thornton? He’d recommended Windsor. He was rich. It made sense he’d be connected to Hollingsworth. Money stuck with money.

  Did she dare risk a call to Jack? She glanced at Windsor. Eyes closed, he leaned against the door. Not asleep, from the way he grimaced against the motion of the truck. Shit on a stick. He’d kept that creep from raping her. “Windsor?”

  “What?” He didn’t open his eyes.

  “How well do you know Thornton? Phillip, I think. Stockbridge always called him Thornton. His offices are based in Denver.”

  “Don’t, other than he’s behind Camp Getaway. Never heard of him until this job.”

  “There has to be a connection. Stockbridge tells me Thornton gave him the name of your temp agency, specifically mentioned you. But you don’t work for the temp agency. You work for Hollingsworth. Ergo, Thornton and Hollingsworth have to connect.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. And I can’t think straight.”

  She saw the pain he was trying to hide and sighed. “For now, I think the best thing we can do is stay off everyone’s radar until we get a few more answers.”

  “You have a destination in mind, or are we just driving?”