No Safe Place. Sherri Shackelford

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      She turned and ran into a solid male chest.

      Stifling a shriek, she stumbled backward. “Clark, I mean, um, Corbin. What are you doing here this late on a Friday?”

      She smoothed her hair with quaking fingers.

      “I could ask you the same, Beth,” he said, his voice low and intimate, like the romantic strains of a cello.

      The ladies in the building had dubbed the new financial consultant “Clark Kent.” The office nickname suited his darkly handsome good looks. His coffee-colored hair was cut in neat, almost military, precision, and his eyes were ice-blue behind his black-rimmed glasses. Though he wore a suit and tie, someone claimed they’d seen a sleeve tattoo on his left arm. There was even talk that he was ex-military. Special Forces.

      “I was just leaving.” Hiding her unsteady hand, Beth reached for her bag. “Had to finish up some work before the weekend.”

      Corbin had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He rested his elbow on the top of the cubicle wall, and she caught a hint of ink at his wrist. Her mouth went dry. In another time and place, she’d have been curious about the rest of the art. She had no trouble believing he’d once been in the military.

      “You up for a drink?” he asked. “The finance department is meeting at O’Malley’s tonight.”

      “I don’t drink,” she said, casting a surreptitious glance at the blank computer screen.

      She certainly didn’t have time to socialize. Someone was laundering money through Quetech Industries to an offshore account. As a forensic accountant, she’d sent white-collar criminals to federal prison in the past. People who laundered money didn’t frighten her. Greed and cowardice mostly went hand in hand.

      The name of the offshore bank listed on the company’s balance sheet, Cayman Holdings Limited, had struck pure terror into her heart.

      She could have walked away. She probably should have walked away. She couldn’t. The words of Mark 8:36 prevented her: For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

      “I don’t drink, either,” Corbin said. “Janice, Matt Shazier’s assistant, promised to sing karaoke. We can be the sober witnesses.”

      Matt was the company CEO, and she couldn’t imagine his buttoned-up assistant belting out a tune on a Friday night.

      “Sorry.” Trying to appear casual, Beth slid this afternoon’s department store purchase into her bag. Escaping the building for a little shopping this afternoon had been a welcome respite from constantly looking over her shoulder. “I have other plans.”

      Two years before, she’d noticed some odd transactions concerning Cayman Holdings on an account she was auditing for another company. Her mentor, Timothy Swan, had offered to review the files. After studying the case, he’d warned her against pursuing the matter further. He’d contacted the FBI, but Beth sensed he was frightened. They’d found his dead body a month later.

      The coroner had ruled the forensic accountant’s death a murder by poisoning. Not even the FBI had been able to protect Timothy. Which meant the sooner she disappeared, the better. Except Corbin’s tall frame and broad shoulders were currently blocking her exit.

      “Maybe we can meet tomorrow?” Corbin shrugged. “There’s a new coffee house on Fifth Street.”

      His words gradually penetrated the fog of her anxiety. She was a temporary contractor. Coworkers didn’t ask her out for drinks.

      She narrowed her gaze. Corbin was a new hire, and he’d been awfully curious about her work. Had he been sent to spy on her?

      “Like a date?” she asked.

      “Whatever you want to call it.”

      Adrenaline coursed through her veins. This was bad. This was very bad. Men like Corbin did not ask forensic accountants on dates unless they wanted something. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

      Beth neatly sidestepped around him. “I’m b-busy tomorrow.”

      And for the foreseeable future. The message she’d sent was time-stamped for delivery on the Tuesday morning following Columbus Day. She had the three-day weekend to disappear before the FBI received the evidence. Three long days before the men who poisoned Timothy discovered they’d been exposed and started looking for her.

      She had no illusions about keeping her part in the whistle-blowing quiet. There was no way of turning over the evidence without tipping her hand.

      Corbin’s brow furrowed above the bridge of his glasses. “Is something wrong?”

      “Just anxious to start the weekend.”

      She spun on her heel and promptly struck the trash bin blocking the aisle. Stumbling, she scattered the contents of her shopping bag over the floor along with the papers from the trash bin.

      “Are you all right?” Corbin was by her side in an instant. “Let me help.”

      Rubbing her bruised shin, she frantically searched the deserted maze of cubicles. Where was the cleaning crew?

      “I’m fine.” Her cheeks heated. Even in a getaway, she was clumsy. “Just embarrassed.”

      They both crouched before the mess. Corbin sure was laying it on thick. His charm was clearly an affectation. Her first year out of graduate school, she’d fallen head over heels for the chief financial officer of the company she was auditing before she’d discovered his part in the fraud. He’d thought he could romance her away from turning over the evidence.

      Sixteen months in federal prison had corrected his thinking.

      Corbin shook his head. “Makes me crazy when people don’t recycle.”

      “Should be a crime,” Beth said, then cringed. If she didn’t get ahold of herself, she’d wind up zipped in a body bag with a toe tag marked murder by poisoning. “Or not.”

      As she stuffed the papers back into the bin, her heart thumped against her ribs. She grasped her shopping bag and checked the contents. Nothing broken. Considering the price she’d paid for the small makeup compact this afternoon, she was grateful it had survived. The cosmetics were a treat to herself as she embarked on her temporary new life.

      Her fingers brushed Corbin’s arm, and she recoiled. She caught a hint of his spicy aftershave and held her breath. She’d always been a sucker for aftershave.

      “Sorry,” she mumbled.

      “Not a problem.”

      What was wrong with her? She was Officer Greenwood’s daughter, not a frightened extra in a horror movie. Even if Corbin was involved, he wasn’t the person she needed to fear. As a cop’s daughter, she had certain instincts about people. He didn’t strike her as a cold-blooded killer.

      Straightening, she brushed at her pencil skirt and eyed the exit at the far end of the aisle. Why had she worn sling-backs today? Because today is just a normal day, she reminded herself. She wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary that might draw attention to herself. Proper СКАЧАТЬ