Could they not have had this discussion at the time? Yes, of course they could have. Well, they weren’t going to have it at this late date. “Have you packed up the town and moved it?”
He chuckled. “No, can’t say we have.”
“Then Jasper Ridge is still two hours away. So what is it that’s changed?”
His eyes clashed fiercely with hers. He didn’t like this, being rejected. Honor was surprised, and irritated, to realize she felt a little bit sorry for the guy—and for herself as well.
Not enough to let him off the hook, so she stared back and waited for him to remove his hand.
He finally did. “Nothing, I guess. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
She walked away—and saw that Lizbet and Callie had been hawkeyeing that whole exchange. They were practically drooling in anticipation of their chance to grill her about the handsome, tuxedoed cowboy at the bar.
Honor sighed. She should have asked the bartender for the whole bottle.
“Who was that?” Lizbet asked, taking a glass from Honor’s hand.
“Logan Cahill.” Honor handed Callie a glass and finally took a long, restorative swallow from her own. “I know him from the murder trial I worked last year. His brother was my client.”
“Oh yeah!” Lizbet nodded. “The sexy cowboy who didn’t kill the man who killed his little girl. Damn! The gene pool in that family is wide and deep.”
“He’s still looking, Honor,” Callie observed. “Did you reject him?”
Honor looked over to the bar. Logan stood there, watching. It didn’t appear that he’d even ordered a drink yet. Seeing her see him again, he didn’t look away, or try to interact again. He just met her eyes and locked on.
She turned back to her friends, away from him. “It’s complicated, but yes. Logan Cahill and I are not, and will not be, a Thing.”
“Well, that’s a crying shame. Nothing that pretty should be left behind. I might have to introduce myself.”
Honor felt a flare of jealous irritation at Lizbet’s suggestion, but she smiled. “Be my guest, but I warn you, he only likes women he can’t have.”
“Ohhhh,” Callie and Lizbet said, in unison. “That’s it, then,” Lizbet added.
“What?”
“It’s your ice queen mystique,” Callie said. “You are a woman he can’t have—hence his fascination. I mean, not that you aren’t fascinating as a rule.”
Usually it was Lizbet who came up with the snarky barbs. From there, Honor was prepared to take them. Snark wasn’t Callie’s style, and it hurt more coming from her.
“I’m not an ice queen!”
Lizbet snorted, and Honor lifted her middle finger off her glass.
“Of course you’re not, honey,” Callie soothed, patting Honor’s knee. “We know the real you, and you’re warm and sweet and wonderful. But you’re always so buried in work, and you see everything like a case to be won.
Ouch. “You work as much as I do, Cal. We’re all obsessed with our work.”
“Not like you. We all work long hours, but the rest of us can set it aside. I don’t have my fingers in a patient’s brain when I’m away from the hospital. Liz doesn’t sit at the table grading papers. Emily is more like you, but even she can turn it off. You, though—until we get enough booze in you, you never stop thinking about work.”
It sure felt like her friend had her fingers in her brain right now. Honor finished her wine. “You know what? This conversation really sucks, and I am too stressed out to keep having it. I need more wine. Liz, why don’t you go up and get another round. You can find out if you’re unavailable enough for Logan while you’re there.”
She didn’t miss the glance that fired between her friends, and that just pissed her off more. Feeling sullen and entirely overwhelmed by every facet of life, Honor sagged back in her seat and crossed her arms. The very second she could get out of here without hurting Emily’s feelings, she was gone.
*****
She left right after Emily did her opening remarks and before the boring awards presentations and acceptance speeches began. Callie and Lizbet tried to cajole her into staying, but she was angry with them, too. Everybody sucked, and she had not had enough wine to deal with it.
When she got to her floor, she was out of the elevator and digging for her keys before she looked up—and sitting at her door, on the floor, dressed in jeans and Doc Martens, his dark blond hair loose, was Tyler. The limo driver she’d flirted with the night she’d left Bellamy White. When she’d been too drunk to remember where she lived.
Obviously, he had not been too drunk to remember. Because he’d been on duty.
As she stopped and gaped, he stood up, smoothing his hands over his corduroy jacket. He wore a t-shirt with the logo for Neurolux, Boise’s hottest nightclub. God, what a hipster.
Not that that was the most important thing right now. Finding him here, uninvited, late on a Friday night, freaked Honor entirely out. How the hell had he gotten up here, to her private floor? That was supposed to be security checkpoint one: private floor, keycard access.
All her other security measures were behind him, inside her apartment. With the elevator closed, she was effectively trapped in this tiny entryway with him.
“Hey, Honor Babinot.”
“What are you doing here? How did you get up here?”
He blushed. “Got a friend who works for the company that does the keycards.”
That was an absolutely alarming piece of information. Honor clenched her teeth together and found the little pocket in her heart where she kept her courtroom cool. She didn’t speak until she was sure she’d sound calm and strong. “You can’t be here, Tyler. This is not okay.”
“You never called. I thought we had real good chemistry, but you never called, and your number’s not listed. You’re not on Facebook, either.”
She was, but not under her first and last name. She hated Facebook but kept an account to stay in touch with her family. Again, not the most important thing to be thinking about right now. Or maybe it was—he was telling her that he’d been stalking her.
She took a breath, slow and quiet. Rejecting him outright just now could get her hurt. He was bigger than she, and clearly he felt entitled to something. But she wasn’t about to go out with him, either.
Trying for a friendly, apologetic tone, she said, “I’m sorry. I’ve got a big work project that’s got me bogged down, and I’ve been going nonstop with it.” She stopped short of lying outright and saying she meant to call; that kind of lie could encourage him too much.
Christ on a rollercoaster, it sucked to be a woman in a world of men.
He took two steps toward her, and it took every ounce of willpower Honor had in her not to shrink back. “You don’t look like you were at work tonight. Were you on a date?” Potential anger burned in his tone.
Pretty soon, her heartrate would be too fast not to show in a quivering of her limbs and voice. “Nope. The Mayor’s Civic Awards banquet. Boring work stuff. I left early, I was so bored.”
That made him grin—and take another step closer. He brushed a hand over her arm, and she managed not to shudder. She’d thought she was so careful about security and safety. Her private floor. Three locks on her door. Her alarms—motion-sensor and glass break, though she lived on the fifteenth floor—with keypads in every room. Not that the alarms could do anything for her out here.
And those three locks? She’d never get in unless he let her.
“Seems a waste not to go out in such a pretty dress. Let’s get a coffee or something. I’ll make sure you’re not bored.”
“I can’t tonight, Tyler.”
“Sure you can. I’ve been sitting here for hours, waiting. You can give me an hour for a cup of coffee.”
She knew this story. She’d never taken a rape case defense, because not even her stalwart belief in the right of anyone to a vigorous defense, and not even the thrill of the challenge, could make that feel worthwhile to h
er, but she knew this story well nonetheless. There was no good outcome here unless she figured out a way to get away from him. If she went so far trying to mollify him that she actually went out with him, she would get raped, or beaten for rejecting him. Or both. Or she could get raped and/or beaten right here.
Getting away was the only hope, and how the hell would she do that?
One tiny sliver of a chance occurred to her. “Okay, a coffee sounds good. But my feet are killing me in these pumps. I’m going to run in and get a pair with a lower heel, okay?”
Her seeming acquiescence pleased him, and he grinned brightly. “Okay. I’d love to see your place, too.”
Oh, not-so-dreamy Tyler, that absolutely cannot happen, Honor thought. But she smiled and walked past him, making her hands steady as she unlocked her door.
One shot. If it didn’t work, things were about to get very, very bad for her. As she slid the key into the third lock, she tried to see his reflection in the glass of the framed print beside her door. How much room between them? How much time did that give her?
Time to find out. She gripped the knob, turned it, pushed the door open … and vaulted through with all the speed and force she had, spinning and slamming it closed. It latched just as he hit it full force with his body, and the knob was already turning in her hand as he tried to shove it open. Honor put her shoulder to it and turned the deadbolt, straining as it fought to engage against his force on the door.
“HONOR!” he shouted, pounding on her door. “YOU LYING BITCH!”
She engaged the other locks and reeled backward, stumbling on her stilettos, grabbing her phone from her evening bag.
“I’M CALLING 911 RIGHT NOW!” she yelled as he pounded and roared. She dialed the number, told dispatch the problem—no, I’m not hurt, yes, he’s still here, his first name is Tyler, he works for a limo service, it’s a private floor, you’ll need to use emergency access. The dispatcher assured her a car was on its way, but didn’t stay on the line with her.
She collapsed to the floor. Sitting there, staring at her front door while it shook against her stalker’s onslaught, Honor had never felt more alone in her life. She didn’t want to be alone.
Her phone was in her hand. She could call any of her friends, all of them, and they’d drop everything and be there as fast as they could. Even Emily, hosting her big event, would drop everything for her. And she was supposed to call them—to tell them she’d gotten home safely.
But she hadn’t gotten home safely, she wasn’t safe, and she didn’t want them here, didn’t want them to get caught up in it, didn’t want them to see it. Besides, the thought of all their energy devoted wholly to her was positively exhausting. They’d be just too much.
But she didn’t want to be alone. That was too much, too.
Outside the door, the clamor ceased. Honor waited a few seconds, and when Tyler made no further noise—and she didn’t hear the elevator—she stood up and crept quietly to the door. Peering through the peephole, she thought at first that he’d left, but then she saw the edge of a well-worn black Doc. He was sitting against the door again. Hadn’t he heard that she’d called the police?
Telling him again would only stir him up, and if he was still out there when the cops arrived, so much the better. Honor reeled back and sat at her kitchen island.
Her phone was still in her hand. Scrolling through her contacts, wondering who she could call to save her from this horrible, horrible night, there was no one. Legal contacts, former clients, vague acquaintances, services. All these years in Boise, and there was no one to call on a night like this.
She came to one number. It had been in her phone since the summer before. She hadn’t called it since the fall, hadn’t thought about calling it, before tonight, in months.
Logan Cahill was certainly not someone to call on a night like this. Or ever. And yet, she watched her thumb press his number, and she put the phone to her ear.
It rang three times, long enough that she nearly did tap the red button and end this folly. But then he answered.
“Honor?” his voice was hushed.
“Hi.”
“Hi. You okay?”
She’d come this far, so she didn’t let herself stop now. “No. There’s a guy outside my door. I called the cops, but he’s still out there, and I’m in here, and I don’t know.” Suddenly, all the hard work she’d done for the past few weeks, holding back her terror about the choices she’d made, making herself focus on her strength and courage, inventing ways to see everything that was happening as an opportunity for greatness, it all fell completely apart, and sobs surged up. Logan Cahill was not a man whose shoulder was available for crying, but she cried anyway. “I’m just so fucking alone! He’s out there, and I’m in here, and I’m just alone!”
Now his voice was clear and firm. “Stay away from that door. You called the cops?”
“Uh huh,” she sniffed. The cops were coming. She didn’t need Logan. He didn’t have to come save her. But that didn’t make her feel better, or any less alone. “They’re coming. I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“What’s your address, darlin’?”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I called. It was stupid.”
“Honor, I’m coming. What’s your address?”
She didn’t want to be alone. So she told him her address.
PART TWO
Chapter Five
Logan stared for a second at his phone, at Honor’s name, and sorted his thoughts. Not far off to his side, someone was giving an award acceptance speech. He hadn’t been paying all that much attention to the program in the first place, but now, he had absolutely no idea what award the woman had won, or where they were in the program. He was up second to last, he knew that—just before the ending remarks.
He needed to find whatshername—Emily Something-or-Other, the mayor’s PR director—and let her know he wasn’t going to be announcing the Cahill Fellowship. She’d have to do it herself, because he had an emergency. Honor needed him.
No, she didn’t. She was having an emergency, but, like everything else in her life, she had it handled. The cops would be there well before he would, and they were equipped to deal with her stalker bastard. He could call her back and make sure she was okay, tell her he wasn’t coming after all, wish her well, and stay here and do what his father had sent him to do.
Or he could not call her and just sit back down and pretend that the night hadn’t been interrupted, and that he hadn’t run into Honor Babinot twice today. She’d be pissed, maybe hurt, but that was probably for the better, too. The way she’d looked at him today, at the courthouse and here at the bar, too—that was dangerous. There was hurt and anger, defensiveness—but under all that, there was interest. Desire. He didn’t like the way that look, all those competing feelings stirred up into a big bowl of guilt stew, made him feel.
He liked even less the way the simple sight of her made him feel.
Yeah, he should just take his seat and forget she’d called.
But that was too much dickishness even for him. She’d been crying—he hated it when women cried; he never knew what to do to make it stop—and the idea of Honor Babinot, Attorney at Law, crying was fairly stunning in itself. She’d called him, of all people, because she was scared and alone.
Probably he should stay away and let her hate him while she waited for the cops to fix her problem, but he couldn’t do it.
Because he didn’t want her to hate him. And that was dangerous, too. More to the point, it was complicated, and he’d devoted his life to avoiding complicated romantic situations.
Shit. He had to go.
He scanned the Grand Ballroom of the Grove Hotel—set up like these kinds of events always were, with big round tables that seated eight or ten people, with a dais and podium up front. They generally served the same kinds of foods, and the same kinds of people showed up in the same kinds of clothes. He really, really preferred the world of Jasper Ridge, his dinky little hometown. Even the touristy Wi
ld-West blocks of Ridge Road had less artifice than this. And his folk didn’t schmooze. Most of them probably had no clue what the word meant.
He moved his eyes over the crowd, trying to locate Emily G-something in the mass of tuxedos and sequined dresses. She’d probably be hunting down the next speaker and setting them up to do their thing.
“Mr. Cahill!” A light hand brushed his sleeve and he turned and found Emily Gomez smiling up at him. She was an attractive woman, in a local-politics way. Around his age—forty-one—or close to it. A bit thick around the middle, her highlighted blonde hair and demure makeup styled for television. She wore a sedately elegant dark blue gown—chosen, no doubt, for its bland appropriateness.
“You’re up next, Mr. Cahill. If you’ll follow me …”
Logan caught her arm as she turned to walk away. “Emily, wait. Something’s come up, and I have to go.”
He’d stunned her entirely, and her mouth actually dropped open, making a neat red O. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I have to go. Right now. Here”—he pulled the piece of hotel stationery with his prepared remarks from an interior pocket of his tux—“You can give my speech. The important thing is the announcement, not who says it.”
“A Cahill should announce the Cahill Fellowship,” she protested, not taking the paper he held out to her. She darted a glance toward the dais; it sounded like the last awardee was winding up. “You can’t go now.”
“I have to. Family emergency.” He grabbed her hand and forced the paper into it. “I’m real sorry, darlin’, but I got to go.”
He headed for the door before she could delay him further. But over the sudden din of applause as the last speaker finished, Logan heard her call his name.
*****
Someday (Sawtooth Mountains Stories Book 2) Page 6