Your friend always,
Buck
Hands shaking, Cheyenne reread the message. Her first impulse was to fling the phone against the wall. Her second impulse was to cry like a brokenhearted child.
Their lovemaking had been so tender and so real. What had possessed Buck to think his troubled past would make any difference? He’d made a youthful mistake, and things had gone bad for him. She could understand that.
But why hadn’t he trusted her enough to share his secret? Why would he use it to justify ending their relationship?
She could call him—maybe send him an impassioned text. Or she could rent a car, drive to Ten Sleep, Wyoming, and fling herself into his arms.
But what if she was making too much of this? What if she was just another pretty toy who’d shared his bed, and now he was making excuses to step away?
“Cheyenne?” Her mother was stirring on the bed. “Is our food here yet? Is it time to get up?”
“Hang on. I’ll be right with you, Mother.” Cheyenne closed the message, wiped her eyes, and put her phone in her purse. She needed to pull herself together, think about where she stood, and come up with a decision. But there’d be no time for that now.
Back in the room, Sam plugged his phone into the charger and opened his laptop to update his report. He’d expected this day to be a busy one, reviewing evidence, conducting interviews, following last-minute leads, and possibly making an arrest. Instead, it had been a day of watching and waiting.
Everything could hinge on the contents of the DNA report. But the day was winding down, and he was still waiting to hear from Nick. The sheriff in Wichita Falls hadn’t returned his calls either. Hayden’s possible link to Frank Culhane’s murder raised questions he couldn’t afford to leave unanswered. He remembered the hours back in Chicago that he’d spent on stakeout, waiting for something that could happen any minute—or not. This was the same feeling.
Too restless to work, he put the laptop away and prowled to the window. Beyond the glass, spreading to the horizon, Las Vegas baked and shimmered in the summer heat. At least the Race to the Slide would be starting soon. He planned to watch it and stay for the Run for a Million. Maybe he’d see Hayden there. Or maybe he’d get the phone call that would move his case to conclusion. Whatever happened, he would have to be alert and ready to act.
Even if it meant hurting somebody he respected.
His nerves tightened as he turned away from the window, holstered his Glock, and clipped a set of handcuffs to his belt. Ignoring a shadow of apprehension, he slipped on a light denim jacket and left the room.
Jasmine opened her eyes. The light was bright enough to make her squint. The only sound she could hear was the blare of a television from somewhere out of sight. She was lying on her side, something soft and scratchy against her face. A blanket, maybe. So she must be on a bed. But how did she get here?
She shifted, trying to sit up. Only then did she discover that her wrists were tied behind her back and her ankles were bound with something hard and thin—zip ties, she surmised. Her pulse slammed as she realized she was a prisoner.
Her head was throbbing, and her mouth was as dry as parchment. What had happened? She struggled to clear her head. Why couldn’t she remember?
Rohypnol… The word rose from a dark place in her mind.Roofies, the white tablets were called. The date-rape drug. Any woman who’d worked in Hollywood would know enough to be aware of them. Maybe she’d been given some in a drink. But she couldn’t remember drinking anything. Her shorts and tank top were intact, and her body didn’t feel as if she’d been raped. Surely she would know.
Twisting, she tried to see around the room. Her gaze found the open suitcase on the luggage rack, overflowing with clothes. Her clothes. She was in her own hotel room at the Excalibur. But was she alone?
That question was answered by the sound of a flushing toilet from the other side of the bathroom door. After apause, the door swung open. A lanky figure emerged and walked toward her.
“Hello, Big Sister,” said Hayden Barr.
As he grinned down at her, the partial memory returned—the poolside meeting, the mojito she’d been foolish enough to accept. She couldn’t remember getting up to her room or being tied, but the picture was clear enough.
A darker picture was also clear. He wouldn’t have drugged her, brought her back to the room, and tied her hands and feet if he’d meant to let her go.
She had no doubt that Hayden planned to kill her.
What she didn’t understand was why.
“Let me go,” she said, masking the cold fear that had congealed like tallow in her stomach. “Whatever you want, you don’t have to punish me to get it.”
“Don’t I?” He pulled up a chair and settled next to the bed. “You don’t even know what I want.”
“Then suppose you tell me. Cut me loose, and I’ll listen.”
“No need for that. I’ve got you right where I want you.”
Jasmine fought to contain an explosion of rage. That, she sensed, would be giving him what he wanted.