Debra Webb - Her Secret Alibi

With her leaden body fighting her every inch of the way, she sat up, cleared her throat and pushed the hair from her eyes. Pain roared inside her skull. She moaned and held her head in her hands until the throbbing eased a bit. Another deeply entrenched instinct niggled at her, urging a response to some threat she couldn’t yet comprehend. She licked her dry lips and grimaced. The taste in her mouth was oddly bitter. She needed a drink of water desperately.

With monumental effort she threw off the sheet covering her and dropped her feet to the lushly carpeted floor. Jolie immediately regretted the move. The room spun wildly for a couple of seconds. God, she had a hangover! She stilled. But she didn’t remember getting drunk.

What day was it? She scowled and surveyed the enormous room and its lavish furnishings. From the elegant fringed and corded draperies drawn back to reveal the expansive windows, to the exquisite, dark wood furniture artfully placed about the room, the place reeked of wealth, but gave her no clue as to where in the world she was or how she had gotten there. Alarm trickled through her, but her fuzzy brain couldn’t yet work up an appropriate reaction.

She stood on wobbly legs and groaned as she rubbed at the steady pounding behind her eyes. She shivered uncontrollably, then froze. Slowly, denial screaming in time with the throb inside her head, Jolie stared down at herself.

Naked.

Outright panic shot through her veins. She was naked. She surveyed the room again. Where was she?

Her chest constricted with fear as she spun around, desperately seeking anything—just one thing—that would provide some shred of evidence as to where she was.

Nothing.

The rich burgundy of the walls and carpet set off the dark mahogany of the heavy furnishings. The generous windows were all that saved the room from being unpleasantly dark. A pair of upholstered chairs occupied one corner like sentries at designated posts. Exquisite paintings graced the walls. But none of it looked familiar. This had to be a friend’s place, Jolie reasoned with mushrooming dread. The alternative was unthinkable. She trembled at the conclusion forming in her lethargic mind.

Oh God. She swallowed convulsively. She wasn’t at a friend’s house. She didn’t have time for many friends. She worked too many hours at the bank. Jolie had only one real friend, Erica, and this was definitely not her apartment.

Jolie’s heart beat harder and faster, the blood thudding in her ears. The urge to flee was so strong now that her breath caught. Where was she? How did she get here? She felt confused and lost…

And frightened.

The sound of spraying water captured her attention, and bewildered, she turned toward the sound. An open door led to what appeared to be an en suite bathroom. Her feet had already taken her halfway across the room before the decision to move penetrated the dense cotton surrounding her brain. She stood stock-still in the doorway to the luxurious bathroom. An enticing, undeniably male fragrance scented the steamy air in the room. Stained glass window, huge sunken tub, gold fixtures and Italian tile all registered briefly, but it was the glass shower cubicle beyond all that to which Jolie’s attention was drawn. Her eyes widened in confused disbelief. A man stood beneath the spray, steam rising above him like a billowing cloud. Dark hair, broad, broad shoulders, muscular back. She jerked back a step when her gaze traced the tight, well-formed buttocks and long muscular legs. She pivoted and took a couple of shaky steps, reality crashing down around her.

Jolie shook her head in denial. Her stomach roiled and the breath evaporated in her throat. She had never gone home with a stranger.

Never. Never. Never.

Clothes. She needed her clothes. Adrenaline burned a path through her veins. She had to find her clothes and get out of here. The man wouldn’t stay in the shower forever. She needed to hurry!

Searching frantically, Jolie found her clothes scattered across a chaise longue, her shoes and purse on the floor nearby. She jerked on her panties and then the dress she had worn out to dinner last night. Dinner. Her hands stilled on the zipper at the small of her back. Flashes of memory slammed into her, making her dizzy again. Dinner with Erica at Carlisle’s. Music. Laughing. People coming and going.

Jolie searched her memory, struggled to remember. What had happened after that? Why couldn’t she remember leaving the restaurant? A new thought caused anxiety to twist in her stomach. Dinner with Erica had happened on Sunday night. That would make this Monday morning. She looked down at her left wrist and the gold watch she always wore. Eight-twenty. Her heart sank. She had forty minutes to get to work. And she didn’t even know where she was or how she had gotten here…

Or with whom.

Silence snapped Jolie back to the present. The soft hiss of water had stopped. Fear such as she had never known before welled in her throat. She stepped into her shoes, grabbed her purse and, without looking back, ran from the bedroom.

SIMON WATCHED FROM behind the tinted windows of his SUV as Jolie Randolph hurried up the front steps leading to Atlanta’s First International Bank. The short green skirt of her business suit showed off her exquisitely shaped legs a little too well for comfort. The fit of the matching jacket emphasized her slender figure. All that blond hair flowed around her shoulders like gleaming silk, making him want to thread his fingers through it. His groin reacted immediately at the thought. A muscle flexed in his tense jaw. Once Jolie disappeared through the towering ornate doors, Simon dragged his attention back to his cell phone.

“She just went inside.” He listened to the annoyed voice of his client on the other end of the line. “No, it won’t jeopardize anything,” Simon argued impatiently, his foul mood steadily worsening. “Jolie is the weak link. I’m certain of that now.” He tugged at the black tie around his neck. “I have an appointment with the bank’s president at noon. I’ll start applying the pressure right away.”

He glanced up at the second floor of the four-story building, pinpointing Jolie Randolph’s office. “Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.” Simon ended the call, then started the car’s engine. He cast another assessing glance at the bank and his lips formed a grim line. If Jolie Randolph thought she had problems now, she should think again. Simon was relatively sure she was in deep. Though he still had a few doubts—doubts that bothered him—she was at the top of his suspect list. But she wasn’t alone on that list.

A completely illogical anxiety needled him once more. He had to find a way to keep his objectivity on track here. He’d waited four long years for this opportunity. Whether Miss Randolph knew it or not, her nightmare had just begun.

“MISS RANDOLPH.”

Jolie cringed inwardly as she paused in her hasty retreat from the conference room and this morning’s status meeting. Despite her best efforts, she had been fifteen minutes late, and she hadn’t missed the concerned looks Mr. Knox, the bank’s president and her boss, had cast in her direction. She suppressed a weary sigh. There was nothing to do but pay the consequences. Producing her brightest smile, she turned and faced the older man.

“Yes, Mr. Knox?” She met his analyzing gaze head-on. “Was there something else you needed to speak with me about?”

Her boss drew in a decidedly long breath, crossed one arm over his chest and propped the elbow of the other on it so that he could stroke his chin. Jolie had the sudden, almost irresistible urge to tug at the collar of her blouse. She was still shaking inside from this morning’s episode. Three cups of strong black coffee hadn’t helped.

“Are you certain you’re feeling all right, Miss Randolph?” His bushy gray brows furrowed in concern. “Your new position isn’t proving more stressful than you anticipated?”

Jolie gritted her teeth behind her smile for about two seconds. She had received the long-anticipated promotion to vice president of investments just six months ago, and she loved it. Why did everyone, her own father included, have to be so worried about her ability to handle a little extra stress?

“Everything is fine, sir,” she said calmly. “Just running a little behind this morning.”

Mr. Knox tapped his cheek and studied her a moment longer. “You are the youngest vice president we’ve ever had here at First International,” he reminded her. “And a woman,” he added proudly. “Your well-being is of special interest to me, Miss Randolph.”

Jolie’s smile was genuine this time. She knew he meant well, however unnecessary his concern. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Knox smiled knowingly. “You earned this promotion, young lady, and I have complete confidence in you. Like father, like daughter.” With that, he turned and strode toward his own office at the far end of the hall.

Jolie released her pent-up breath when Mr. Knox was well out of hearing range. Only ten o’clock and the day had hit rock bottom already. With her own office just across the hall from the conference room, Jolie didn’t have far to go to find refuge. She closed the door and crossed to her desk. In spite of all that had happened, she stole a moment to admire her spectacular view. The entire back wall of her office was one big window.

Just like the bedroom she had slept in last night.

Dread pooled in Jolie’s stomach when she recalled the tense ride in the elevator to the first floor of the unfamiliar apartment building. Her heart had been pounding so hard by the time she’d reached the street and called a cab that she had been almost afraid she was going into cardiac arrest.

The entire episode was one big blur, and she barely remembered now what the building looked like. That was good, because she definitely wanted to forget the entire event. Oddly, she had found her car parked outside her own apartment building, though she specifically remembered driving it to dinner the night before to meet Erica. Had she gone home afterward? Then gone out again? Why couldn’t she remember? With no time to consider the puzzle further, Jolie had rushed into her apartment, showered and changed, then hurried to work. And still she was late for the weekly status meeting. She’d bet her father had never been late, not once. He’d retired as president of the bank almost six years ago, and he’d left large shoes for all others to fill—including Jolie.

Put all of it out of your mind, she ordered. Forcing away the frightening memories as well as the self-deprecating thoughts, Jolie tossed her datafax onto her desk, put away her purse and buzzed Renae, her assistant, to pass along her requirements for the morning. Jolie dropped into her high-back leather chair and closed her eyes for just a minute. To her dismay, in that brief moment of total relaxation, this morning’s few vivid mental pictures played through her weary mind. All images of the man. She shuddered at the thought that a stranger had touched her. She swallowed hard. How could she have allowed that to happen? She had been at dinner and…

Erica. She could call her friend. Erica would know what happened. But when her recorded voice came across the line, Jolie remembered that her friend had left early that morning for a business trip. She wouldn’t be back in Atlanta until late tomorrow afternoon.

Heaving another disgusted sigh, Julie settled the receiver back into its cradle. The vision of the man—naked, with water streaming over his sculpted body—ricocheted through her still somewhat groggy mind. She shivered. How could she have gone home with that man—been with him—and not remember it?