Stranded With The Suspect. Cindi Myers
artwork shared space with photographs of the many celebrated personages who had stayed at the hotel, from the Beatles to US presidents. But none of it impressed Andi. For one thing, she had seen it all too many times before, when she stayed here with her father, Senator Pete Matheson.
That seemed a lifetime ago. Now all of this—the opulence and grand sense of history—wasn’t her world anymore. She craved simplicity over elegance, reality more than comfort. This felt so phony.
“If you need anything at all, please let me know, Ms. Daniels,” the clerk said.
Andi nodded and turned from the desk. Her name wasn’t even Daniels—it was Matheson. But Daniel Metwater had thought it amusing to register her under a variant of his Christian name when he had brought her here three days ago. He was supposed to have contacted her before now, to let her know he was coming to get her and take her home.
She reached up and put her hand over the pendant at her neck, the rose-cut diamond in the old-fashioned gold setting a comforting weight at the base of her throat. Daniel didn’t know that she had taken it before she left to come to Denver, but after all, he had promised it to her baby, so why shouldn’t she have it now? If he asked about it when he arrived, she would tell him she had been keeping it safe for him. He might not be pleased with that explanation at first, but he would come around. Daniel wanted her to be happy.
She waited for the elevator, her ankles swollen, feet hurting. Absently, she rubbed at the bulge of her abdomen, the baby kicking inside her. She tried to imagine what the little one looked like right now, recalling pictures in the tattered copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting that one of the women in camp had loaned her. She had no idea if she was carrying a boy or a girl. It didn’t matter—she would be happy with either. Part of her was anxious for the child’s arrival. Another part of her wanted to put it off as long as possible. She hadn’t seen a doctor since the public clinic had confirmed her pregnancy months ago, so she had no idea of her due date. But the other women in camp had assured her that the baby would come out when it was ready, and that she would be ready then, also.
Since she wasn’t ready for the birth, the baby must not be either, which was reassuring in a way. She didn’t want to have her child alone in this city that no longer felt familiar to her. She wanted to be back in the camp in the wilderness in southwest Colorado, with the women attending her and the men waiting outside, chanting for her and the baby’s health.
“Ms. Matheson? Andi Matheson?”
She turned toward the speaker before she could stop herself. A lean, athletic man with a blond goatee smiled at her. “So good to see you again,” he said, with just a hint of a foreign accent. Austrian? Russian?
“I... I’m sorry. You must have me confused with someone else.” She turned to face the elevator once more, but she could feel his eyes on her.
He stepped closer, brushing against her arm. “Oh, but I am sure I am right. I would never forget such a beautiful woman.”
She said nothing, teeth clenched, willing the elevator doors to open so she could make her escape.
“You are living with the evangelist, Daniel Metwater, now, are you not?” the man asked.
Daniel wasn’t an evangelist. Not in the sense most people used the word. He was a prophet and a teacher.
The man touched her arm. “I would very much like to meet your boyfriend. Perhaps you could arrange it, no?”
She jerked away. The gilded doors of the elevator opened and she hurried inside. The man started to follow, but a dark-haired man shoved him out of the way and slipped in after her, immediately hitting the button to close the doors. “What floor?” he asked, his back to her.
“Fourteenth,” she said, still shaken from the encounter with the blond.
He pressed the button for fourteen, then turned to face her. She gasped as she recognized his face, and pressed her back against the railing on the inside of the elevator car. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
The vertical line between his dark brows deepened as he frowned at her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
She wasn’t afraid of him. Not exactly. Officer Simon Woolridge wore his disdain of her and the other members of the family she belonged to on his face for all to see, especially his contempt for the man who led them, their Prophet, Daniel Metwater, but he had never given Andi reason to be afraid of him. He had never tried to befriend her the way some of the members of his organization, the Ranger Brigade, had. After a lifetime of dealing with frauds and posers, she could appreciate that kind of honesty.
“Why are you here?” she asked again. “Is something wrong? Has something happened to the Prophet?”
The elevator door opened and Simon touched her elbow. “Let’s go to your room, where we can talk.”
He walked beside her to her room at the end of the hall, a tall, commanding presence at her right elbow. She was used to seeing him in uniform, but today he wore jeans and a black Western shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The clothes made him seem less familiar and more...intriguing. She hadn’t bothered to look much past the uniform before, but now she was aware of him as a man most women would give a second—or a third—look to. He waited while she slipped her card key from her purse, slid it in the lock and opened the door. Then he followed her inside.
She braced herself for him to make a disparaging remark about her luxurious suite, a sharp contrast to the tent she had been living in since she had joined Daniel Metwater and his followers five months previously. But he only gave the room a cursory glance before turning to her. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard. “I’m fine,” she said automatically.
His gaze swept over her, his dark eyes intense, making her want to cover herself, even though she was fully dressed. He reminded her of a sleek cat, preparing to pounce on its prey. “You look pale,” he said. “Your ankles are swollen and you keep arching your back, as if it hurts.”
She put a hand to her lower back, which did ache, as did her swollen feet. She didn’t know whether to be flattered he had noticed so much in such a short time, or to be unnerved by his scrutiny. “I’m fine,” she said again.
“You’re a lousy liar. Who was the man you were talking to by the elevator downstairs?”
“I don’t know.”
“He acted as if he knew you.”
Yes. And that had been unsettling. “He knew who I was,” she said. “He called me by my name—my real name.”
“I heard him ask about Metwater.”
“Yes. He wanted to meet him. Maybe he was simply a fan.” Yes, that was probably it. The Prophet attracted many followers wherever he went.
Simon turned away from her to prowl the room like a restless predator. “Metwater must be doing pretty well siphoning money off his followers,” he said. “If he can afford to hide you away here.”
There was the cynicism she had been expecting. “I’m not hiding,” she said. “And the Prophet has money of his own. He inherited it from his father.”
Simon paused in his circuit of the room and looked back at her. “Then why does he need your money?”
Andi didn’t answer.
“You signed the agreement, didn’t you?” Simon asked. “The one that gives Daniel Metwater all your assets—now and in the future, as long as you remain with him.”
“The money goes to the Family,” she said. “We pool our resources so that no one has more than anyone else.”
“The money goes into Daniel Metwater’s personal bank account. I have the records, if you don’t believe me.”
The Rangers had no business looking into the private affairs of the Prophet, though of