A second later, the bodyguard was on the line.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Aside from the backpack being AWOL, and my cell phone trying to give up the ghost, yeah, things are fine,” she said, glancing in the mirror again. Carter’s rig was still following her. “Can you hear me?”
“Barely.”
“Well, the cavalry came to the rescue. Thanks.”
“Just doing my job,” he said, his voice breaking up.
“And I appreciate it. Really. I’ll be home in twenty minutes.”
The connection failed before he could respond. “And a fine piece of crap you are,” she said to the phone as she flung it into the seat next to her and drove, with Carter on her tail, out of town.
He watched her go.
Closeted in the darkened spire, hiding in the shadows, he trained his night-vision glasses on her and silently observed Jenna Hughes as she drove off in her Jeep.
With the damned sheriff on her bumper.
He hadn’t counted on the police showing up.
Nor had he expected Jenna, his Jenna, to press her face into the cop’s, and kiss the bastard on his goddamned cheek. Rage surged through his blood and a tic developed under his eye. She shouldn’t be kissing anyone, or talking to anyone, or laughing with anyone.
No one but him!
The police should never have come. Never!
Next time, think things through more carefully.
Still, despite the lawman, he could have taken Jenna tonight. If he’d wanted to. If it had been her time.
It would have been so easy.
But rushed.
Not part of the plan.
Precision. That was the key. Precision.
Tonight he’d nearly been discovered.
Because he’d been too eager.
Again he berated himself and he closed his eyes for a second let the cold breeze blow across his face, chill the anger in his blood. Tiny crystals of ice caressed his face and he imagined Jenna’s chilled lips kissing him. Oh, such sweet, sweet surrender.
But she’d not kissed him. Not tonight. No, she’d stood on her tiptoes and swept her chilled lips over the bastard’s face.
His muscles tensed in fury.
The sheriff’s arrival had caught him off guard. He’d barely finished his mission and had lingered to look through the bags of clothes Jenna had donated, searching for a perfect scarf for Zoey Trammel…a green scarf, with threads of gold woven through the coarse fabric—just like the one she always wore and fingered in A Silent Snow, a fitting title, one with ironic overtones.
He’d hoped, when he’d heard that she was giving the theater troupe more things, that he would find a few little gems for his collection. Including the scarf. He’d been sadly mistaken. Most of what he’d pawed through was trash. Old clothes her children had outgrown, or things she’d given that weren’t associated with her films. He’d pressed those articles of clothing to his face, hoping to smell her scent, a lingering aroma of her perfume, but had been disappointed. He’d also thought she might have included some panties or bras, but there had been no underclothes, not even a slip or teddy.
Frustration boiled through his blood.
The search had nearly proved fruitless. Until he’d seen the backpack and recognized it for what it was. Bait. An ugly little piece of bait. That thought brought a smile to his face and he opened his eyes. From his high perch, he gazed down at the lights of the little town spread upon the shores of the murky Columbia River, its waters thick and burgeoning with ice floes that were stalling river traffic, panicking the populace. Even the streams that fed the mighty river had frozen solid, the falls tumbling over the surrounding cliffs, becoming plumes of ice.