by J. Kenner
Afterwards, Taylor curled up with a classic Julie Garwood novel, and Landon kicked back for a marathon re-watch of the first season of Game of Thrones. When she got up to refill her coffee, she came back with two Mimosas and winked at him. It was Friday, but it felt like a luxurious lazy weekend morning. More than that, it felt normal.
No, with Landon beside her, it felt special.
I could get used to this, he'd said. And yeah, so could she.
Despite their laziness, the day seemed to fly by, and when Landon's phone rang, she realized it was already almost five.
He took it, and he mouthed the word Beau, so she knew it was from one of his contacts, but she couldn't figure out the gist of the conversation from his monosyllabic side of the conversation.
"Well?" she asked he hung up.
"Pay dirt. Your Mr. Harkness is swimming in warrants. We get our hands on him, not only can we ship him back to Arkansas, but we can pretty much ensure that he spends a very long time behind bars."
Relief flooded her body. "That's so fabulous."
He nodded slowly, as if considering that assessment. "It is," he said, then moved off the couch to sit on the coffee table in front of her. "But it would be a hell of a lot better if you filed a complaint. If this were an official investigation. I could get a team assigned. I could make things happen."
Ice replaced the relief, and she shook her head, then put down the Mimosa she'd been about to sip so he wouldn't notice the way her hand had started shaking. "No," she whispered. "I'm sorry, but no."
She watched the emotions play over his face. Confusion. Frustration. Determination. "I need you to talk to me, Taylor. I need you to tell me what else is going on."
But she just shook her head, then stood. "Please," she said. "No cops. Just you. If you care at all about me, then please just trust me."
He looked like he was going to argue, but instead he nodded. "This conversation isn't over."
"I know." But it was over for now, and she'd take what she could get. "Want to go to The Fix? I'd like to get my car out of that lot. Plus, we can grab a bite."
"Sure."
And just like that the day turned normal again. They were a couple going out for a meal. She half-expected him to tell her not to say anything about the two of them if they bumped into friends in the bar, which, of course, would happen. But he didn't say a word. On the contrary, he took her hand as they walked from the street spot he'd snagged to the glass and wood door of The Fix. And he pressed his palm to her lower back as they entered together.
Once inside, they found a two-top by the window, and they ordered Lobster Rolls. As they waited for their food, Landon went to the back to talk to Brent. As soon as he disappeared, Mina plopped into his chair, and Megan dragged a chair over.
"Well?" Mina asked.
"Why aren't you at work?" Taylor countered.
She waved off the question. "I left right at five. I'm meeting a local director here for dinner. That's not the point. What happened with you and Landon?"
"Wait," Megan said. "What happened that you're staying at The Winston?"
Taylor blinked at her. "How'd you hear about that?"
Megan rolled her eyes. "Small world, or hadn't you noticed? I was at The Winston for a meeting with the conference manager. The Fix is sponsoring a food fair in October and Derek arranged for the hotel to donate space," she added in response to Taylor's questioning look. "Amanda was there, and we started talking and..."
"Gossip central," Taylor said. "Yeah, I get it. Long story, but the bottom line is that this guy who used to be into me before I moved to Texas is stalking me."
"Shit," Megan said.
"That about sums it up for me," Taylor admitted.
"And Landon's her knight in sexy armor," Mina chirped. "And...?"
Taylor smiled and hummed, then lifted her brow, and both girls squealed.
"So have you ... you know?" Mina asked.
"A girl never you knows and tells," Taylor quipped, making them both laugh and lean in for more gossip.
Fortunately, Taylor was saved by the arrival of both food and Landon.
"What did I miss?" he asked, which caused Mina and Megan to exchange glances and start giggling all over again.
He shifted his attention to Taylor and lifted a single brow. She just batted her eyes and blew him a kiss.
They hung out for a while after they ate, just chatting with everyone they knew. Then they headed to the lot to get her car. She wanted to ask Landon what the sleeping arrangements would be now that she had security at her apartment and her car back. Although they hadn't armed the security system yet since she still hadn't picked all her codes and safe words. But she knew Landon wouldn't leave her until she did.
As for the arrangements, she wanted to know, but the question seemed so forward, especially since she already knew the answer she was hoping for: Landon in her house, and a weekend as lovely and lazy as the morning they'd just had.
She'd almost worked up the nerve to broach the subject when they reached the lot. "That one," she said, pointing to her Corolla, tucked away in a corner under a burned-out street lamp.
But as they drew closer, she got a bad feeling. And since Landon put his arm out to keep her one step behind him, she realized she wasn't the only one. When they were a few feet away, she realized she was walking on glass.
"Streetlight," he whispered. "Someone broke it."
She looked up and realized he was right. The bulb and covering were gone, replaced by remnants, the fallen glass and plastic now crunching under foot.
"Give me your keys."
She did, and he opened the driver's door. The smell got her immediately. A rotting, disgusting smell. Rotten meat spread all over the front of her car and piled into the back seat. And in the summer heat, it was already crawling with maggots.
Her stomach lurched, and she turned away, barely keeping herself from vomiting.
Behind her, Landon slammed the door. A moment later, his arms went around her, and she curled into his arms, her face buried against his chest.
"There was a note, too. Under the wiper blade. It said Dead Meat."
"Oh, God."
"We're reporting this," he said. "No arguments. And you're staying at my place tonight. No arguments there, either."
She nodded, numb.
Gently, he pushed her away from him, then studied her face. "Taylor, baby. Are you okay?"
She shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I'm really not."
Chapter Ten
Landon gave Taylor credit for giving the report to Detective Sanchez without any gaps or obfuscations. Of course, everything she told Sanchez was something that was essentially obvious--the car had been vandalized, she was pretty sure she knew the identity of the perp--but considering how close-mouthed she'd been so far, he'd been afraid she would shut down.
She hadn't, and that was good.
But she still hadn't completely opened up to him, and he was terrified that by keeping her secrets she was hindering his ability to keep her safe.
He slowed to a stop at the intersection of Chicon and Seventh Street, and used that time to glance over at her. Her head was back, her eyes closed, and she kept her hands twisted together in her lap. She was spooked, and he understood that. Who wouldn't be with a restaurant-size supply of meat rotting inside their car? But it hurt more than he liked to admit to know that she didn't yet trust him enough to tell him the whole story.
For most of the drive, he'd been trying to tell himself that he was frustrated because she was making his job harder. And while that was true, it wasn't the problem. No, Landon's frustration wasn't professional, it was personal. He wanted her to trust him.
Hell, he just wanted her.
Most of all, he wanted her safe. And now that Beau was escalating his torments, Landon was becoming more and more afraid.
And determined. He'd nail the son-of-a-bitch to the wall, but he needed Taylor's help to do that. Her trust. But damned if she wasn't just
like Vanessa had been.
Fuck.
He turned left on Chicon, irritated that his ex-wife had popped into his head for even a second. She was history, and that was a good thing. After five years without her, he rarely even thought of her anymore. She'd been fascinated by his job, but it had also been an albatross. She'd worked in the courthouse and knew the kind of dangers a cop faced. Hell, she'd married him with full awareness of what he did and that he loved his job.
But as the first year of their marriage progressed, she became more and more clingy. They'd fight almost every day when he left the house for his shift. And by six months into their marriage, she'd transferred her fear from him to herself, convinced that the evil he fought on the streets would come after her.
Maybe it would--probably it wouldn't--but either way, he'd begged her to trust him. To believe that he could keep her safe.
But she'd spiraled down, certain that the weight of the criminal world would bear down on her.
Counseling hadn't helped. Talking hadn't helped.
In the end, they'd both realized that her fears about his inability to protect her from the fallout of his job reflected a more systemic lack of trust that permeated their entire marriage.
He'd needed his wife to believe in him. She'd needed--what? He still didn't know. But they never had the connection. They never had that trust.
It had destroyed them, and after eighteen months, they'd gotten divorced.
Now Taylor didn't trust him either. It was goddamn deja vu all over again.
Except it wasn't.
He slowed the car to turn right onto East 16th Street, the frustrated part of his mind calming in response to the voice of reason that had seeped in through the cracks.
No, it wasn't the same. Not really. Hell, not at all.
Vanessa hadn't been willing to trust him to keep her safe from a general fear of the boogeyman. Taylor had a legitimate reason for her fear, and she'd told him enough to identify her stalker and to take steps to keep him away from her.
He didn't know what she was holding back--what she wasn't trusting him with--but he knew enough to know there was real fear backing her silence.
And he knew that she'd already trusted him more in just a few days than Vanessa had in the entire time they'd been together.
Feeling calmer, he turned right into the driveway for his bungalow. It was small--only twelve hundred square feet--but he'd fallen in love with the clean lines and nineteen-thirties design. The neighborhood was only a few miles from where he'd been born. From where he'd escaped. And it felt good to come back with the money to buy. To refurbish. To live in a neighborhood that was coming to life again, this time without gangs filling the neighboring houses and drug deals happening on the corners.
And one of these days, maybe he'd actually finish renovating the place.
He grinned to himself as he turned off the car. When that happened, he might have to move. Because he had to admit, the work was one of his greatest pleasures. Manual labor to relieve stress.
Glancing sideways at Taylor, now asleep in the passenger seat, he felt a pleasant tightness curl inside him. There were other ways to relieve stress. And though she looked incredibly relaxed right now, he had a feeling that after the day she'd had, a glass of wine and some between the sheets stress relief might be exactly the way she'd want to spend the evening.
Gently, he brushed her cheek. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. We're here."
She stirred, then opened her eyes. For a split second, confusion colored her face, but it was quickly replaced with pleasure. And, he thought, relief.
"You're here." Her smile lit up his heart.
"Where else would I be?"
She shook her head, as if shaking off a thought. "Dream," she said. "I'm still groggy. Is this your place?" She'd turned to look out the window at the facade of his little blue house with the white porch railing and colorful hanging pots of flowers, none of which he could remember the names of, but he'd snagged them at Home Depot simply because they seemed cheerful.
The St. Augustine grass in the front yard was mowed, and a huge pecan tree shaded the driveway. Directly in front of his car was a detached garage, but it was a ramshackle building that he used only as a workshop.
"It's small," he said. "But it's mine."
"It's absolutely charming." She turned to face him. "Can I see inside?"
He laughed. "That's why we're here. Come on."
He circled the car and opened the door for her, then led her up the porch steps. He unlocked and opened the door, then immediately stepped in front of her even as he pulled his weapon.
Son-of-a-bitch!
The side window was smashed, and red liquid was spread all over the newly buffed and restored hardwood floors. Paint, he realized from the smell, and felt a quick shock of relief that it wasn't blood.
And right there in the middle of the paint, he saw the message, drawn with the end of his broom that had been tossed aside at the edge of the spill: She's Mine.
* * *
She's Mine.
The words rang through Taylor, filling her head, making her dizzy. She wanted to sink to the floor, but Landon ordered her to stay behind him as he checked every room, every closet, every nook and cranny of his house.
It was a darling house, too. Charming and comfortable.
And now it was violated. All because of her.
When they finished checking the place, he sat her at the kitchen table and made her a cup of cocoa. She held the mug in two hands and sipped. It didn't make her feel better. Right then, she didn't feel anything.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"You didn't do this," he countered, taking a seat across from her. "And in a way this is good."
She laughed at that, the sound almost hysterical. "Yeah, it's super terrific."
He took her hand, and she held on tight, needing that connection. "It means he's watching. And if he's watching, we can find him. We just have to be looking in the right direction."
"Are we?"
He met her eyes, his hard and determined. "We will be."
"I hate that this--"
"No." His word was firm, and the hand holding hers even more so. "No more thinking like that." He drew a breath. "Come on. We're going to go stay somewhere else."
"Where?"
"Where else does a thirty-six year old man go when he has to vacate his house?" He grinned. "That's right, baby. I'm taking you home to meet the parents."
Chapter Eleven
"Your parents are amazing," Taylor said, after she'd been thoroughly welcomed by Gayle and Harvey Bartlett.
She'd grilled Landon on the way over, making sure there was no way that the trouble that seemed to be following her like Pigpen's dust wouldn't soil their life. He'd assured her that their home was isolated and gated, with excellent security. Moreover, because they'd never formally adopted him, Beau would have to dig deep to find the connection between Landon and the Bartletts.
With that reassurance, she'd let herself relax. And the fact that they'd decided to introduce her as Landon's girlfriend and not as a woman in jeopardy meant that there was no talk about Beau or all the shit he'd pulled. Which had gone a long way to making the evening with the Bartletts relaxed and drama free.
Now, Harvey was mixing drinks at a gorgeous oak bar that filled their first floor game room while Gayle slipped off to the kitchen to put together "just a few things to snack on."
"That means another dinner," Landon said, exchanging a knowing look with his father.
"My Gayle isn't happy unless everyone around her is well-fed."
"That's okay by me," Taylor admitted. She went through phases where she tried to avoid carbs, but mostly she just liked to eat. "Especially after sampling her talent at dinner. That was the best lasagna I've ever had."
"It's her go-to meal for when we have unexpected guests." He winked. "And unexpected doesn't mean unwelcome."
"Thanks again for letting us crash here," Landon said, then launc
hed into their planned story. "I wasn't thinking when I told Taylor she could stay at my place tonight while hers is being fumigated. But since I'd just varnished the floors, that wasn't going to work."
"Are you kidding? You're always welcome. Besides, it might have been weeks before you dropped by to introduce your young lady to us." He flashed a wide smile at Taylor. "And that would have been a shame."
He crossed to her then with a highball glass. "It's an Old Fashioned. My favorite. Too sweet for some, but you tell me if you want something else."
"Thanks. I'm sure I'll love it." She'd had the whiskey-based drink before, and it was one of her favorites. Now, she took a sip with pleasure as she watched Harvey pass Landon his drink.
The two men couldn't be more dissimilar. They were both tall, but Harvey was as pale as Landon was dark. And whereas Landon's body was a solid block of muscle, Harvey seemed to be genetically related to the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. His skinny limbs weren't the only similarity either. He had unruly hay-colored hair that stuck out in all directions. Not to mention the kind of personality that meant you couldn't help but like the man.
God knew Taylor had liked him instantly.
And if Harvey and Landon were different, Harvey and his wife were definitely proof that opposites attract.
A beautiful black woman in her early sixties, Gayle Bartlett had the kind of curves that rivaled Marilyn Monroe. She moved with such grace she almost seemed to float. And she had the same kind eyes as Landon, though there wasn't the slightest genetic connection between them.
What she and her husband shared, however, was an obvious love for their son along with warm and welcoming personalities.
Between snacks and conversation, the evening passed easily, and by the time the Bartletts said goodnight and headed off to the master suite, Taylor felt completely at home.
"Do you think they'd adopt me?" she asked.
"Then you'd sort of be my sister," Landon said, pulling her into his lap. "I don't think I like that idea." He kissed her then, in what was definitely not a sisterly fashion.
"Mmm. Good point." She leaned against him and sighed. "Thank you for bringing me here. Today wasn't the best. You made it better."