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  “I know what an elk is, Mr. Harrigan. I just didn’t realize they were in this area.”

  “We have a couple of resident herds out this way.”

  They agreed to meet at one o’clock, when Parker would still be on his lunch break. No point in interrupting his workday for an interview that might be a waste of time.

  When Parker hung up the phone, he turned back to his corn dogs, which were now stone-cold. He sighed and stuck them back in the microwave, hoping the extra heating time wouldn’t turn them rubbery. A degree in accounting, huh? He wondered what this Anna Pritchard looked like. Probably a bookworm, he decided, with wire-framed glasses, a no-nonsense hairdo, and an aversion to makeup. No matter. He didn’t honestly care about her appearance as long as she could bring order to his business. Tax time last year had been a bitch. Receipts and purchase orders seemed to procreate in the file drawer where Parker stuffed them, and he’d somehow lost track of his income, unable to reconcile his bank deposit records with the amount of money he thought he’d made. When it came to stuff like that, the IRS wasn’t very understanding.

  He plucked the plate out of the microwave, dipped a corn dog into the mayo mixture, and sighed with contentment. Quincy could have his damned tofu.

  Smoke spiraled upward from the cigarette Peter Danning held poised between elegant fingers. He had only recently started smoking again and knew the private investigator sitting across the desk didn’t appreciate the smell. The man kept pressing a handkerchief to his nose and giving Peter disgruntled looks. Too bad. Peter was the one with the money. Therefore he had the power. The skinny little prick could put up with the secondhand smoke or find another client.

  “I want her found, Mr. Riker. I was told you’re the best, and yet you’ve done nothing thus far to earn your fees.”

  “I’ve done plenty.” Riker rocked forward on the chair. “She’s dead, Mr. Danning, at the bottom of the sea. I can’t locate someone who no longer exists.”

  Peter stubbed out the cigarette with such force that the filter ruptured. “I refuse to accept that. Before the main course was even served, my wife left the dining room to powder her nose. The ladies’ lounge was only a few steps away from our table. Yet I’m supposed to believe that she somehow wandered out onto the deck and fell overboard? No. She staged the whole thing. She’s out there somewhere now, laughing her ass off because I’ve come under suspicion. I want her found. Do the job I hired you to do.”

  The investigator sighed, his expression impatient. “We’ve been over this a dozen times. People are checked in every time they board the ship and checked out every time they disembark. Two thousand forty-three people booked passage for that cruise, and two thousand forty-three people boarded prior to departure. When the ship returned to Seattle, only two thousand forty-two people disembarked. One person, your wife, was missing. The vessel stopped at no port of call prior to her disappearance that evening. No late passengers were flown in, enabling her to somehow stow away on a helicopter before it lifted off again. In order for her to be alive, she would have had to jump overboard and swim to shore. Do you realize how cold those waters are?”

  Peter lit up another cigarette. Acid indigestion seared the back of his throat as he took a deep drag. He knew that Lorraina had been wanting out of the marriage. Nothing could convince him that she hadn’t pulled a fast one. “Think outside the box, Mr. Riker. I don’t know how she did it. I only know she did.”

  “The checkout procedures show that all but one passenger returned to Seattle,” Riker repeated. “Passports were required. Are you listening to yourself? In order for what you’re saying to be true, your wife would have had to board the ship twice, each time under a different identity. While the ship was still in port, was she at any time out of your sight?”

  “No. We were together every second until she excused herself from the table to go to the ladies’ lounge.” Peter thought for a moment. Then he arched a blond eyebrow at the investigator. “What if she had help?”

  “What kind of help?”

  Peter clenched his teeth in frustration. Riker was reputed to be one of the best in his business, yet he had to be led by the hand around every corner. “Suppose, just for a moment, that my wife had a female friend who booked passage under a fictitious name, boarded with fake identification, and then left the ship prior to departure. Lorraina could have gone to the empty cabin, donned a disguise, and stayed aboard ship using another identity for the duration of the cruise.”

  Riker shook his head. “No one can leave the ship after boarding, not without there being a record of it. You went through the security checkpoints. Those guards are vigilant, and no one is allowed to disembark without following procedure. It’s extremely important that they be able to account for the whereabouts of every single passenger at all times. The only way a second party could have been involved is if that person were a cruise line employee, someone who could board under a fake name and then vanish into the woodwork.”

  Peter considered that possibility. “A cruise line employee?” Something tugged at his memory, but he couldn’t think what. He wished now that he’d paid more attention to Lorraina’s jabbering in the early days of their marriage. Did one of her friends work for a cruise line? He couldn’t remember. “Get me a list of names, both passengers and crew. Maybe something will ring a bell.”

  “A list of names?” Riker huffed under his breath. “That may not be easy.”

  “If the job were easy, I wouldn’t be paying you so much,” Peter replied. “Get me that list.”

  The following day, Rainie stood in front of her cloudy closet mirror, turning first right and then left to study her outfit, a Goodwill purchase that looked as dated as her house. The hemline of the gathered cotton skirt was unfashionably long, the white peasant blouse looked limp and tired, and to top it off, her home permanent was so curly, even with styling gel to tame it down, she looked as if she’d stuck her finger in a light socket.

  She discarded that outfit and slipped into a blue suit—a prim jacket and straight skirt, finished off with a pair of matching pumps. Not. Parker Harrigan wanted a horsey person, not a Wall Street wannabe. She tossed that ensemble onto the bed and tugged out a knit top and a pair of faded jeans. Too casual. Definitely something she might wear on a boring Tuesday if she got the job, but not appropriate for an interview. Next in line was a basic black dress, sleeveless with a modest scoop neckline, but again, it looked too formal, even with a scarf at her throat. She went through the remainder of her hundred-dollar wardrobe and eventually returned to her first choice, the airy gathered skirt and peasant blouse. It said, “I’m not trying to impress anyone.” Unfortunately, it didn’t make her look very professional.

  Oh, well. If Parker Harrigan didn’t hire her because of her appearance, then he wasn’t very smart, and she’d be better off working for someone else. She took a final glance at herself in the mirror, thrust her feet into white canvas slip-ons, flicked the skirt with her fingers, and marched from the bedroom.

  When she arrived at Parker Harrigan’s front gate, she saw an intercom mounted on a concrete post. There was a number pad for people who knew the gate code. Along the fence line, she saw what looked like infrared cameras. Was this a ranch or a high-security compound? She punched the button on the intercom. Some man came on the line who used improper verb tenses and had a thick Southern drawl.

  “Who’d you say you was, lady?”

  “My name is Rai”—oops—“Anna Pritchard. I’m here to apply for the bookkeeping position. Mr. Harrigan is expecting me.”

  “Well, Rae-Anna, I reckon you can come on in.”

  The gate swung open. Rainie thumped her hand on the steering wheel of the dilapidated Mazda as she drove through the entrance. “Your name is no longer Rainie, you idiot. You have to remember that.”

  As the car bumped along the rutted dirt road, she took in the scenery that lay ahead. Separated by a packed gravel parking area peppered with dusty pickups, a huge post-and-timber home, a m
onstrous metal structure, and a clutch of outbuildings composed the ranch proper. Beyond that, fenced pastureland undulated like a rumpled green carpet. Rainie saw a potbellied man in jeans and a cowboy hat ambling toward the house. Parker Harrigan, no doubt. Maybe she should have worn the faded jeans and knit top, after all.

  She parked beside a battered red Dodge with huge tires and a jacked-up undercarriage. The vehicle put her in mind of the monster trucks she’d seen on television that competed in mud races. This would be like working in a foreign country—traveling over a tooth-rattling road, parking in the shadow of a monster truck, and trying to communicate with people who spoke a different language. Unfortunately, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she needed this job.

  As Rainie collected her purse, the older man disappeared into the house without a backward glance. That was a bit odd. The polite thing would have been for him to wait on the porch to escort her inside.

  As she exited the car, the front door of the house swung open again and a younger man stepped out. She guessed him to be an inch or so shy of six feet tall, but his bearing compensated for the lack of height. Broad shouldered and narrow at the hip, he had an athletic, muscular build. Faded jeans skimmed his powerfully roped thighs, and a wash-worn blue chambray shirt showcased an upper torso well toned from hard work.

  “Howdy,” he called, flashing white teeth as he grinned. “You must be Anna. Glad to see you made it without any mishaps.”

  Rainie recognized the voice. This was Parker Harrigan? If she hadn’t been desperate for work, she would have climbed right back in the car. He was way too everything. Way too young. Way too handsome. Way too sexy. Glistening black hair fell over his high forehead in lazy waves. His sun-bronzed face was a study in masculinity. His thick eyebrows arched expressively over twinkling brown eyes and a hawkish beak of a nose. His jawline was as sharply angled as a carpenter’s square. Underscored by a strong, cleft chin, his full mouth somehow managed to look both firm and yet silken at once.

  Rattled, Rainie shifted her purse from one hand to the other. All her instincts urged her to be smart for once in her life and drive away. This would never work.

  “I, um . . .”

  Just then the older man emerged from the house. With a tip of his Stetson to Rainie, he descended the steps and struck off across the yard. She followed him with her gaze.

  “Come in,” Harrigan said, gesturing at the doorway behind him. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee, and my stepmother, Dee Dee, brought over a plate of her famous peanut-butter cookies. You’ll love ’em.”

  Rainie’s feet had put down roots. “You, um . . . well, you’re not what I was expecting. I really don’t think—”

  “What were you expectin’?” he asked with another devastating grin.

  “Someone older?”

  He chuckled and narrowed an eye at her. “You ever heard of age discrimination? That goes two ways, you know.”

  Fair enough. Rainie felt her feet move, and the next thing she knew, she was mounting the plank steps.

  Parker’s first thought when he clapped eyes on Anna Pritchard was, Holy shit. She was the most gorgeous little bookworm he’d ever seen, fragile of build but delightfully well-rounded in all the right places, with delicately molded features, large hazel eyes, and a mop of brownish blond hair that fell in a cloud of curls to below her narrow shoulders. At the sight of him, she froze like a startled doe. For a second, he thought she might dive back into her rattletrap car.

  He was relieved when she didn’t. He truly was in dire need of a bookkeeper. He just hoped she was as smart as she was beautiful. He swept his gaze the length of her as she ascended the steps. Her clothing, which looked as if it came from a thrift shop, didn’t suit someone with such an elegant bearing. Strange. She had “rich girl” written all over her, but she dressed like a pauper.

  He directed her through the entry hall into the kitchen and motioned for her to sit at the rectangular oak table, where the plate of cookies and an application form awaited her. She hesitated before taking a seat, her pretty gaze darting around the room as if she expected a bogeyman to leap out at her.

  “How do you take your coffee?” he asked.

  “Um, black will be fine.”

  Parker dumped some sugar from the bowl into his own cup and gave the contents a brisk stir. She placed her purse on the floor and then picked it back up as he advanced toward the table. After setting a mug in front of her, he took a seat across from her, rocked back on the chair, and took a swallow of scalding hot liquid.

  “So, what did you think of the drive? You gonna be able to handle it in the dead of winter?”

  She blinked as if he’d posed the question in Greek.

  “It snows here,” he explained. “By January, we’ll have white stuff hip-deep to a tall Texan. They plow, of course, but the surface conditions can still get nasty. You done much drivin’ on ice?”

  “No. I grew up in southern California.”

  “You’ll need studded tires,” he informed her, “and maybe some drivin’ lessons in an empty parking lot come winter so you can learn how to handle a vehicle when it goes into a slide.”

  “I’m sure I can learn quickly.”

  She truly was beautiful, Parker thought as he studied her face. “Fast study, are you?”

  “Fast enough.”

  He nodded. “Here’s my thought on how we should proceed. I’ll take care of some work in my home office while you fill out the application. When you’re done, give me a holler, and I’ll review the information. If everything looks good to me, we’ll talk wages, benefits, hours, and all that kind of stuff. I’ll also give you the grand tour so you can decide if the work area is suitable.”

  She popped open the clasp of her handbag, then pressed it closed. “Okay. That sounds good.”

  Parker inclined his head at the cookies. “Make free with the goodies. Dee Dee will be offended if you don’t.”

  Chapter Two

  As Rainie began filling out the application, her stomach cramped with anxiety. She’d never been a good liar. If she wasn’t careful, Parker Harrigan might catch her later in a discrepancy. Name. That was simple, only not. Over the intercom earlier, she’d almost blurted out her real one. Date of birth. She had to look at her fake driver’s license to verify that. When it came to everything else, she decided it would be better to stick as close to the truth as possible. That way, she wouldn’t make a stupid mistake six months down the road.

  In the end, she lied about only her name, date of birth, and job references. Otherwise, she stuck with the facts. Pray God he doesn’t check me out. Nothing she wrote down could be verified because he’d be using the wrong name. Lorraina Hall had attended Pepperdine University. Anna Pritchard hadn’t. Lorraina Hall had lived in San Diego. Anna Pritchard hadn’t. She used her dad’s real first name, giving Pritchard as his surname. Marcus Pritchard? It sounded totally wrong to her, but maybe it wouldn’t to Parker Harrigan.

  Her blouse was wet under her arms by the time she finished filling out the application. Harrigan had asked her to holler when she completed the form. She swallowed, feeling as if a gooey clump of cracker had caught in her throat. She took a sip of her coffee, now gone cold. Then her gaze fell on the cookies. She stuffed a handful into her purse so he’d think she’d eaten some.

  “I’m done,” she called out.

  Seconds later, she heard the tap of his boots on the wood floors as he moved toward the kitchen. When he stepped into the doorway, her stomach clenched again. She wasn’t sure why she found his physical strength and attractiveness so unsettling. A simple matter of aftershock, maybe. Peter had battered more than just her body. A person didn’t survive experiences like that without having to deal with some emotional issues over the months that followed.

  Harrigan sat down across from her, flashed a disarming grin as he rocked back on the chair, and then slapped a big hand over her application to pull it toward him. The impact of his palm on the table made her jump so violently tha
t she nearly came to her feet. He gave her a long look. There was a question in his eyes. What’s your problem? After regarding her for a tension-packed moment, he focused his attention on the form. As he read, he nodded occasionally. What did that mean? The frown that pleated his forehead seemed too intent. He kept backing up to reread things. She half expected him to look up and say, “What a pack of lies.” Oh, God, she felt sick. Where was the bathroom? Would he hear her retching through the closed door?

  “Looks good,” he said with a final nod. Settling a twinkling brown gaze on her, he smiled and said, “The job is yours if you want it.”

  “It is?” Wincing at the squeak in her voice, Rainie curled her toes inside the canvas slip-ons.

  He sat forward, bringing the elevated front legs of the chair down to the floor. The sound seemed to crack in the silence like a rifle shot. Rainie jerked, and bile surged up her throat. Were all ranchers so physically imposing? This man’s every movement seemed forceful. Maybe it came from pitting his strength against powerful animals all the time. Did most ranchers become incapable of doing things slowly and gently?

  “Of course the job’s yours,” he confirmed. “There’s no question that you’re qualified. More than qualified, actually. My only concern will be keepin’ you happy so you don’t decide to leave. Unfortunately I can’t make the work more excitin’. I can make the wage and benefit package appealin’, though. How does a startin’ wage of sixty a year strike you?”

  “Sixty?” Unable to collect her thoughts, Rainie could only gape at him.

  “With a full package of benefits, of course,” he added quickly. “I provide great medical insurance with dental and optical. There’s also prescription coverage on a slidin’ scale, dependin’ upon the cost of the drug. In other words, if you’re willin’ to take a generic, the percentage you have to pay is far less. I haven’t looked at the policy recently, but I think the copay for office calls is still only twenty-five dollars. The insurance covers the rest.”