Rocky Mountain Valor. Jennifer D. Bokal
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I do will be considered illegal. It won’t be admissible in court and could send me to jail. And I certainly wouldn’t be of much use to you, under the circumstances.”
“Sure, I get it,” she said. And then added, “I should go.” Her gaze traveled from his face to the door. “The media was at my condo, so I’ll need to find someplace to stay for the night.”
Ian’s chest tightened. He knew Petra, knew she’d already be thinking about the next steps in her case. Should she plea-bargain for minimal jail time?
No, Ian couldn’t turn her out, not if he could help—even if it was only to hear what she had to say. Maybe he could add some perspective.
“Stay,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”
“One of my clients was attacked in his home,” she said. “The police think I did it.”
“And did you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Shock?” he asked.
“No. It was a migraine.”
Ian had been in business long enough to know that most crimes had as much to do with the victim as the perpetrator. “Which client?” he asked.
“Joe Owens,” she said.
“The Mustangs’ quarterback?”
“You know him? I thought you didn’t really follow American sports,” she said, surprised.
“I live in Denver,” Ian said pointedly. “The name Joe Owens is hard to avoid.”
He paused. Was this all she wanted from him—help? Then again, hadn’t he imagined this exact moment time and again where he got a chance to face her, to find out what had led her to walk out on him? She was asking for his help—but looking at her, he was forced to admit all the time she’d called to him from his dreams since she’d left. Although in his fantasies, she had rushed into his arms for solace...and passion.
In the reality of the moment, she remained rooted by the stairs, and the past two years stretched out around him like a desert. It seemed as though little of their once-blazing desire for each other had survived.
Ian studied her face, trying to catalog what had changed since he’d seen her last. There was a scrape on her chin and a bruise to her cheek. But those differences were superficial.
She wore her hair longer than when they’d been together, and even in the baggy clothes, she was still toned with well-defined muscles, he could tell. There were fine lines around her eyes and slight furrows between her brows. Far from the changes making her less attractive, she had gained gravitas and wisdom. In fact, she was more beautiful than before.
Then that begged the question—what changes did she see in him?
“What happened?” he asked, bringing the conversation around to the reason she was in his home.
Petra’s fingers trailed along the railing. His gaze followed her touch. Ian’s mouth went dry.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Like I said, I don’t remember.”
Ian wasn’t in the mood for a mystery—not tonight. “What do you know?”
Petra spent the next several minutes telling him about the events of the morning. The interview. The call. The migraine. The blackout. Finding the body, the arrest and getting bail. “I couldn’t think of anyplace else to go,” she concluded. “I hope you aren’t upset.”
For Ian, there were several questions—some more important than the others. He began with one of the most benign. “How about we talk about this over a cup of tea?” He’d never gotten into the coffee habit, despite his colleagues’ ribbing him about his British tastes.
“Actually,” she said with a sigh, “that’d be nice.”
The kitchen was beyond the foyer, and for the first time, Ian saw it as a sterile place—one without use or meaning. The granite countertops and cherry cabinets were wiped clean and sparkled as if in a commercial for lemon-scented cleanser.
It was completely opposite from when he’d lived with Petra. When she was here, the aroma of coffee always filled the house. The island in the center of the kitchen was covered with dishes, a smudge or two on the appliances. At the time, he’d found it too chaotic. And now? He missed the disorder, the sense of home she’d brought to his life.
Who was he kidding? She’d been his home—and he’d been too focused, too obsessed with his target to appreciate everything he had with her.
He set the pot to boil. “You’re in a mess,” he said. “But why come to me? This isn’t exactly the type of case that RMJ handles.”
“Like you said. I am in a mess and isn’t that your specialty? People with problems?”
It wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Ian needed to hear Petra say that she needed him. Yet she hadn’t.
She sighed, “I’m not trying to escape the consequences, even if it means some time in jail.”
Ian tried to admire her bravery, her character. Still, this was Petra, the woman he loved. Had once loved, he corrected, if only to himself.
“Some time in jail?” he echoed her sentiment, each word dripping in incredulity. “You can end up spending your life behind bars. Or worse. Colorado is a death penalty state, you know.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. It was the first sign of vulnerability and it cut Ian to the core.
“I’m scared,” she said. “Scared I did something horrible. Scared that I’ll be prosecuted for something I didn’t do—or worse, that I did but can’t remember doing. Scared that I’ll never know the truth.”
Her words trailed off. Ian wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms, to keep her fears at bay. Yet he couldn’t—shouldn’t—touch her.
He asked instead, “Why did you come to me, Petra?”
“I want to know what happened,” she said. “No matter what, you can find the truth.”
The kettle began to boil. At least he could offer her the comfort of a cup of tea. He filled a cup with water and a tea bag before handing it to Petra. “Sugar,” he said. “No cream.”
She looked down and smiled, as if to herself. “You remembered.”
How could he not? Everything about Petra was unforgettable.
Petra scooped in sugar and stirred her tea. The silver spoon hit the side of the china cup, filling the room with a tinny chime. “I guess what really bothers me is that I feel like a ticking time bomb. I’m worried that I’m actually dangerous to everyone—my clients, my friends, my family.”
Ian reached for her wrist, stilling her hand. “I’ll be honest, I have a hard time picturing you being violent—even if your job was at stake and you were frustrated.”
Petra kept her eyes on the counter. “I’m not so sure I agree with you.”
“Here’s the way I see it. Joe Owens is a big bloke—you’re easily half his size. He’s strong and not likely to let you stab him without a fight. Where are your wounds? Why aren’t you bruised from head to toe?”
“But what if I surprised him?”
“What? While stumbling through his house, blind with a migraine? It’s not in your nature to attack someone for no reason.”
“I had a reason,” she insisted. “My boss threatened to fire me because of Joe.”
“Granted, you’re driven—but a life for a job? It hardly seems like an equal trade.”
She pressed her lips together. “I wasn’t exactly in control. There’s no telling what I might have done and no way to