Why Me? Read online

  Chapter One

  *Must warn Art about Lida.*

  Cassie woke up with a start in the murky half-light of early morning, already groping for the telephone to make her call.

  She almost knocked over the telephone before she finally found the thing. Her fingers were ready to punch in numbers when she stopped and gave a quick, embarrassed laugh.

  "That must've been some dream." Cassie shook her head once, sharply. "Who are Art and Lida?"

  The tiny furred body next to her hissed at Cassie's sudden movement, furious that the human dared to disturb her sleep. Cassie automatically petted the cat, who accepted Cassie's apology with a lazy feline stretch.

  That was when Cassie realized her hands were shaking.

  Cassie lay back down, but the sense of urgency wouldn't leave her. She couldn't go back to sleep when her dream refused to fade like normal ones did. She was sure that Art would be in trouble, terrible trouble, if she didn't let him know.

  Maybe she should just get up.

  Cassie looked at the alarm clock and almost snarled. Yeah, she ran her own business and could keep her own schedule. But that had never meant starting work by four-thirty in the morning. She was more the type to putter around the house and edge out to work around ten.

  Still, there were a few folks on vacation who wouldn't mind if she cleaned their places ahead of schedule. Then maybe she could head for the beach early and enjoy herself. The pristine isolation of a not-quite-spring beach always made for a perfect weekend.

  After long, painful years of forgetting to make time for play, Cassie had finally learned to reward herself for doing good work.

  "Even if I don't go to work right away, I'm good and awake now," she mumbled to the cat as she got up. "Might as well get ready."

  But things still didn't feel right to her. Damn that dream! Her stomach was in knots. She hadn't felt this bad since—no, she refused to feel that bad over any dream. She'd promised herself she'd never feel that bad again.

  She turned on the television, mostly for its soothing background noise. She carefully spooned out her yogurt and blueberries even though she wasn't very hungry. That was what she normally ate for breakfast. Today wasn't going to be any different.

  She started the coffee. Healthy food was fine, but she believed caffeine was the most important part of any meal.

  Cassie got out her list of things to do for the day. Another thing she'd finally learned was to consult her list rather than her memory before starting work.

  She leaned over and stared at the paper, tracing the names with her finger. The first house should be easy. Mr. W. Harmon lived alone and, as far as Cassie could tell, never stayed long at his own home. At least nothing was ever out of place. She cleaned for grandmothers who had more interesting things going on in their houses. That was too bad, since he was really good-looking. He was good-looking with a beautiful, pristine house and—

  "Boring," Cassie said out loud.

  Unless maybe he really lived with a girlfriend? Cassie felt a little interest stir at the thought. Yeah. A girlfriend who never came over to his place. That might be pleasant. God knows Cassie's ex-boyfriend still came over far too often.

  No. Bad thought. She decided she didn't like the idea of that guy being attached. She needed to come up with a new reason.

  "At a press conference held yesterday Senator Hornsby garnered still more support for his presidential bid..."

  Cassie took a spoonful of the blueberry-yogurt mix and almost forgot to chew as she stared at the TV screen. The fear she'd been fighting swept over her again and she didn't know why. There was nothing in the scene to frighten anyone.

  A serious-looking man and a smiling younger woman strode together down the sidewalk. Several other suited men, all talking among themselves, closely followed the first two. It was the sort of news story she usually tuned out and she decided she'd tune it out this morning, too. This was just an ordinary morning, after all.

  Pandora wasn't interested in the news, either. However, the black cat eyed Cassie's breakfast with a definite gleam in her eyes. Making her move, Pandora leaped onto the table. Cassie glared. The cat glared back, then deliberately lost interest and jumped down. Cassie went back to the news and breakfast.

  "...as Senator Hornsby arrived at his hometown yesterday. Hornsby appeared at his local party's fundraiser with several well-known politicians, including Representative Lida Chatham. Chatham, who recently dropped out of the presidential primaries herself, expressed support for Hornsby's presidential. . "

  Cassie swallowed hard.

  "Oh no."

  The two politicians had no reason to look familiar. Other people might care about who was running for president, but Cassie didn't care about politics, not even national politics. Besides, he just couldn't be—but her inconvenient memory supplied Senator Hornsby's first name. Arthur. Art. Art-and-Lida.

  Cassie went back to glaring at Pandora, as if this new information was somehow the cat's fault.

  "What am I supposed to do about that?"

  Cassie forced herself to relax. Nothing, of course. She must've remembered the names from a news report. That explained her silly dream.

  She wished the feeling of worried urgency would go away completely with her rational answer, but it seemed that the nervousness lodged in her stomach was stronger than reason today.

  * * * * *

  He woke up aching. For a moment he just lay there, feeling aroused and confused. He moved his wrists, cautiously. They weren't tied after all.

  She'd done things to him with her mouth that made him beg. Begging did no good, though. At the first plea, she'd drawn back, almost touching but not quite. When he felt her breath on his damp skin, deliberately blowing a puff of air over his too bloody hard, too damn sensitive cock, Wynn knew he was in trouble. He couldn't move because of his bonds, but he'd been ready to try and rip the restraints off the bed. The woman had been—she'd been—

  She'd been a dream. No real woman could get a man that crazed. Not this man, anyhow. Could any woman be that enticing? That hot?

  He snorted and sat up, ignoring his arousal. This wasn't the time to rediscover his teenaged wet dreams. He had adult problems. He bent down and picked up the envelope again.

  Wynn Harmon would've looked out the window, but he knew whoever was spying on him would wonder why he was awake at four-thirty in the morning. As he sat on his bed, he absently stroked an old envelope. Now he was certain the paper was something more than just trash to him.

  Wynn blinked once, his brooding suddenly interrupted. Something had connected in his brain, just like it had earlier. But now that something was gone. Even so, he tried again, reaching out for—for something. For a moment he thought he felt a click. Then nothing. The feeling was a little like a car battery that had been slowly fading and finally died.

  Wynn stopped trying. He couldn't force this. Still, he was sure somehow he had been near someone recently and made contact with them. He'd known something was going to happen once he'd picked up the discarded envelope on the floor and felt a sudden alertness. He'd never gotten hard when he made the connection before, though. Wynn didn't know what that meant and didn't have the time to wonder right now. He needed to ignore his cock and think logically.

  He'd connected previously through objects he and the other person had both touched—but he'd always known who the person was.

  Who the bloody hell could it be? Damn, he needed to know now.

  Wynn forced that urgency away, too. No. Things weren't quite that bad yet. No one would kill Art immediately. At least not unless they absolutely had to.

  And Wynn was safe as long as his watchers thought they could control him. He'd let them control his actions. For now. That's what he'd done when he was a teenager, to lull his gua
rds.

  But they couldn't control this. Wynn stared thoughtfully at the envelope. Both the message and the envelope that held it should've been trash. Meaningless trash. He would've destroyed any mail that someone else might have found important.

  Who would have handled his trash and why?

  He shut his eyes to concentrate, moving impatiently past the strange sexual tension he felt when he touched the envelope. He'd been at home far too much in the last week and there hadn't been anyone else in the house. There rarely was.

  One of the watchers could have slipped in, though his security system hadn't recorded anything suspicious. Of course they could work around even his system. There was the mail carrier. But neither of those explanations felt right. There was...there was his cleaning woman.

  He felt just the way he did when the right pieces of a jigsaw finally fit together. For a minute he savored his triumph. That had been difficult but—

  His cleaning woman? He was going to have to depend on rescue from his cleaning woman?

  Cassie shifted gears in her BMW. She'd used most of her savings long ago—what she had of them, along with the tiny inheritance from her mother—on her car. She knew what her family, particularly her stepmother, would and did say about her "squandering" her money.

  She wasn't her family, though, and she didn't care what any of them thought. When she'd bought the BMW she'd loved it because it was a sign she was on the fast track. Now she loved it because the car reminded her she wasn't on that track any more.

  She came to a quick stop in front of the overgrown driveway. She liked this house. In fact, among all the houses she cleaned, this place was one of her favorites. She wasn't sure why. Other people she cleaned for were nicer—she had met this owner exactly once and that was when he hired her—and other houses were certainly easier to clean. This one had a million quaint little nooks and crannies to navigate and tidy.

  "I ought to charge more than I asked for this one," Cassie told herself, even though she knew she charged plenty for every house. She cleaned plenty, too, in exchange. It was a matter of pride with her that people tended to be willing to pay and to keep her on once they got her.

  She intended to give W. Harmon his money's worth, but her goal for the day was to be done with all three of her houses near noon.

  "Starting work at six does have its advantages," Cassie said aloud as she mentally calculated how much time each house would take. "Not that I intend to find out what they are too often."

  She hopped out of the car and grabbed her cleaning supplies and then took the key labeled W. Harmon on the ring.

  For just a moment the lock hesitated, and then gave way without further trouble. Cassie stepped in, ready to put in the security code.

  The system was already off. Cassie wondered what was up. This guy was a security nut. He'd never forgotten to leave the alarm off before. Still, it made her job easier. She was always afraid of doing the wrong thing and having clients' alarms go off while she was cleaning.

  Cassie felt herself relax. Arlington was a crowded northern Virginia suburb, with tiny yards and plenty of traffic. But this house contained its own special world inside, one where jarring noise or light refused to intrude.

  Maybe that was why she enjoyed cleaning here so much. The place should impress rather than comfort her since it was certainly furnished to seem imposing. But she liked it despite that.

  At least she didn't have a lot of furniture and clutter to deal with along with all those nooks and crannies. There was very little in this house, but what was there was expensive and old. The effect was maybe a little pretentious, but still impressive.

  Cassie had always wondered how a relatively young man, especially one who didn't show off any old family portraits, had collected these antiques.

  She had also wondered whether he had a lot of family money, earned a lot of money on his own or just plain stole what money he had. But she was sure he had some. The house contained too many expensive items. Just the Chippendale sideboard, which sat in solitary splendor in the dining room, was worth more than all of her furniture combined.

  How did a person live with expensive antiques and no clutter? But then this client didn't seem to have a life. For example, she knew the bedroom closet contained a neat row of expensive suits, a rack of silk ties and neatly lined, polished shoes. No sweat pants, no T-shirts. The man dressed for success but not normal life.

  She walked purposefully through the half-empty house until she got to the kitchen counter. She picked up the check there and then she began her routine. With headphones on, rock music blaring, she started to empty trashcans. Once she was following her usual pattern, she let her mind drift.

  Art and Lida. Lida and Art. Assuming something was wrong with Lida, what would it be and how could anyone ever get through to Art? No. This whole problem was too stupid. She forced herself back into her usual day's routine again.

  Cassie automatically checked the envelopes in the trash. She always did that in this particular house.

  She liked to know about the people she cleaned for. Maybe people would call that snooping but usually it was really easy to find out things. No snooping required. Most people left plenty out in the open and never thought about what their things told an outsider. She'd found drugs, love letters, pornography and more in homes where anyone could see them.

  But W. Harmon was different.

  She was actually a little ashamed of how hard she worked to find out things about him. He didn't make it easy. She never could find out much about him even when she looked more carefully than she usually did—

  Someone tapped her shoulder.

  "Oh my God!" Trash spewed out of the can.

  Cassie whipped the headphones off and, still breathing hard, whirled to face...W. Harmon himself.

  Though she'd only met him once, she couldn't mistake him for anyone else. He had dark hair, direct, intense dark eyes and he dressed then as now in a tailored black suit.

  That answered one of Cassie's questions about him. Even first thing in the morning he was dressed perfectly for the day.

  On anyone else the suit would've just been another dark suit. On him it was memorable. He had one powerful aura. That's the only word Cassie could think of to describe it, even though she tried not to use such a California term too often.

  Cassie blinked, trying not to act mesmerized by his gaze. She'd felt that way when she first met him but had hoped she had exaggerated the effect he had. Now she realized she had, if anything, minimized the hypnotized feeling he gave her.

  "I didn't expect you to be here." Cassie winced as she heard herself stating the obvious. Maybe she'd been talking to no one but herself for too long.

  But he was never home. Ever. She'd cleaned his place early—though not this early—and late. No one was ever around.

  She wondered if he realized she had been picking through his trash. She decided the best thing to do was to not offer any apologies or explanations. Perhaps he'd just let the whole thing slide without question.

  And maybe she should be grateful he wasn't still in bed at six in the morning. Hmmm. Maybe not. She liked the images she was conjuring up. She'd always thought he was sexy. She just hadn't been close enough before to discover he was as sexy in person as she'd imagined. And as formidable. She'd had no idea she could be turned on by intimidating men.

  "I didn't expect to be here today either."

  He should've looked harmless and ordinary as he bent to help pick up some of the spilled trash. He didn't. He looked like he was waiting. Cassie didn't know what he was waiting for, but she felt sure it was something important.

  The man of mystery didn't offer any other explanations. Well, obviously he, too, knew better than to apologize or explain. If he didn't say any more—well, his silence was consistent with his enigmatic lifestyle.

  Cassie really had nothing but speculation to offer about this client's line of work. After her half-hour interview with him, he'd given her his business card. Al
ong with his phone number it said only "W. Harmon, Consultant."

  In the D.C. area anyone who wasn't an attorney or a computer expert was a consultant. Whatever that meant. Oh well. Cassie had spent many fruitless hours thinking about W. Harmon ever since she had met him. She saw no point in continuing to gape at him.

  Cassie scooped the rest of the trash into the can and accidentally brushed the man's hand.

  "Sorry—" she began and then stopped.

  An alien, impatient emotion swept over her. She clutched the trashcan hard.

  *Art is in trouble for God's sake! We have to hurry.*

  She stared up at the only other person in the room. His face didn't change expression. He clearly hadn't heard anything.

  She hoped she didn't look as terrified as she felt just then. He didn't seem concerned, but that could mean anything given who he was.

  "I'm sorry. I need to sit down for a minute." Cassie thought she said that before she sat down, hard, on the wooden floor.

  "Are you all right?" He sounded no more than mildly interested.

  "Yes. I just—uh—got winded for a minute."

  He didn't ask anything more. He didn't offer to help. He just stood there, his hands in his pockets, looking at her with that intent stare.

  The man looked spooky. Handsome as the devil, but spooky.

  The whole situation was spooky. She had never felt or heard anything that clearly in her mind before. She knew the voice hadn't come from her thoughts.

  What was wrong with her? The answers that came to her were either laughable or frightening. So she came up with an easier question.

  Why did this have to happen in front of this guy?

  Cassie wondered what she looked like, sprawled on the ground in front of this suited stranger. Cassie didn't like the contrast of his looks and hers. She suddenly wished she was dressed in anything but her usual cutoffs and faded T-shirt. She wished, instead of being just over five feet, that she could loom over people the way the man in front of her did. She wished that she'd highlighted her hair with blonde streaks a little more recently. She wished—she wished he would stop staring at her as if she was some kind of strange zoo exhibit.