A quick hitch-and-lift and he pulled her higher, high enough so she could wrap her legs around him, pressing against him so snugly, so intimately, that they might not have been clothed at all.
Except for one thing. “Damn seam,” Rio panted, his mouth muffled against her neck.
Kimmer threw her head back to laugh, trusting him to hold her, her arms only loosely around his shoulders. He took the opportunity to lick her cleavage right through the silk turtleneck, a whispery caress that sent shivers down her spine and turned the heat up between them. “Stairs,” she told him, suddenly just as breathless as he.
He headed for them, for the bedroom. But the stairs were as far as they got, a tumble of motion and sensation and need. And when Rio finally cried out in completion on the heels of Kimmer’s gasps, his voice held emotional pain as well as physical joy. Afterward he held her for a long time, cuddling on the stairs as though they were the grandest feather bed while dusk crept in around them and made shadows to hide the things they weren’t sure they wanted the other to see.
Worry. Doubt. Vulnerability.
Desperate hope that two people of such wildly disparate backgrounds could somehow maintain their fledgling bonds in spite of it all.
Kimmer stood in the doorway of her guest room and looked in on the bed still rumpled from use, every detail revealed in the cheery morning sunshine slanted across the end of the bed and across the dirty sock hanging from the post of the open footboard. No, the sheets weren’t pulled from the bed and quietly piled for the laundry. No, the guest towels hadn’t been gathered from the tiny guest bathroom. Not a surprise. The bed had waited three days before she’d felt like dealing with it. She’d seen it already. Now she picked up the sock between two fingers and dropped it in the wastebasket.
Upon tackling the bedding she discovered a pair of dirty briefs. Boxers or briefs…I didn’t really want to know. Those, too, went into the trash, and then she stuffed the linens down the laundry chute and gave in to the impulse to wash her hands.
He was married and had two daughters, he’d said. She hadn’t asked about the woman, hadn’t asked about the kids. Hadn’t wanted to know. But now she wondered who would possibly marry such an unrepentant, unmitigated male chauvinist, a man who didn’t even hide his abuse behind a public mask of nice.
Then again, her mother had married her father, hadn’t she? She’d told Kimmer that he’d been so sweet to her at first, so solicitous, so caring. Until the caring slowly turned to controlling…and then once he’d hit her, he had to tear her down in order to justify himself. By the time Kimmer came along, it was a way of life—and her mother, who had desperately hoped to avoid bringing a daughter into the situation, finally ran out of luck.
Hank had never been sweet. He’d probably got some girl pregnant and had leveraged his way into marriage. That was his style. Nothing clever, just brute force thinking itself sly.
So what had he really been up to during his time here? He hadn’t truly wanted a family reunion—he’d left as soon as he was able. He hadn’t paid any attention to the undeniably charming countryside, hadn’t availed himself of any winery tours….
Kimmer snorted to herself. If Hank drank wine, it was the kind that came in a gallon carton.
Hank had certainly been in enough trouble upon his arrival, but who would care enough to chase his sorry ass all the way up to the Finger Lakes in person? It seemed to her that if someone had a car-theft ring and chop-shop thing going, there ought to be enough goonboys hanging around to send a couple after Hank.
But according to Hank, they’d cut the head off the monster—ended the threat. He certainly hadn’t seemed worried as he’d driven off in his newly gleaming vehicle, the CD player blasting an old Conway Twitty album. Not even with the potential of more police questioning lingering over his head, and the fainter potential of accessory charges in the goonboy toasting.
Hmm.
Kimmer pulled her nightshirt over her head and tossed it down the laundry chute as well, padding naked through the second floor and wishing she’d find Rio to pounce upon, but he’d gone out early, checking out a sailboat being sold at the dock she’d nearly blown up. Serendipity and all that. Didn’t matter. She was headed south for Watkins Glen. She’d spoken to Chief Harrison several times, checked in with her fellow Hunter agents, and now needed to go scope out the small park in which the governor would make his short speech and appearance. A few trees, a gorgeous smattering of lilacs in bloom, some strategically placed park benches, a bandstand for the governor himself, and the center of town closed to vehicle traffic. A morning of lurking, an hour of listening and watching, a few staged photo ops, and then the governor would drive away to be someone else’s concern.
Although concern was a mighty strong word in relation to the actual threat level here, which was, in Kimmer’s estimation, zero.
Still, she’d play secret weapon for Owen and the chief. Chimera.
Today Chimera was no one special, just a young woman on a walk through the center of town. She might even renew her driver’s license while she was down there. No one had to know she was wearing Pooh Bear underwear beneath the wide-legged tan utility-style cords she’d pulled on, or that the wine-colored top, long sleeves tied off with drawstrings and shoulders shirred at the edge of a wide neckline, hid a multitude of whitened scars, thin and old—except for the still-pink furrow low on her side where saving Carolyne the previous fall had cost her a bullet.
They especially didn’t know that her back pocket held a small, stout toothpick knife, that her abstract leaf necklace unfolded into another blade, or that she had a .38 secured in a SmartCarry holster between Pooh Bear and the cords. A conundrum of contradictions, Rio had called her once—but he’d done it with that smile that meant he liked her that way. She dumped her things into a one-shoulder contoured backpack and made sure to include the handmade miniature war club that had been her first reliable weapon.
She didn’t expect to need any of it today. But they were all old friends, and only completely abandoned at airport security.
To all of that she added her small digital camera, the latest spiffy FinePix. Focusing on the world through a camera helped her to isolate the important parts, to burn the moments into her memory. She might never print the images, might not even download them to her computer. She certainly never considered anything so trite as an album. Just taking the pictures often did the trick.
OldCat jumped on the bed, as subtle as stripes and plaids together and no more graceful. He settled into place with his front legs curved in before him, neatly hiding the missing lower leg, and stared at her with eyes narrowed beneath the absurd blotch of black partially covering his eye and the ragged remainder of his ear. He should have looked ridiculous, but of course he didn’t. His gaze seemed distinctly accusing.
Kimmer stared back in the same manner. She’d fed him, Rio had cleaned the litter box, there were catnip toys secured in various places the humans weren’t supposed to know about and the front window sill was cleared for his use. “So what’s your problem?”
OldCat made a half-audible squeak of a meow, an amazingly silly sound to come from his broad-headed tomcat self. And Kimmer rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she told him, but bent to kiss the top of his head anyway. OldCat purred, closed his eyes with cat satisfaction and gave her permission to leave.
“There’s a reason I’ve never had a cat before,” she informed him, and went.
She tucked the Miata away at the edge of town, using street parking and pushing her luck near a fire hydrant. Lafayette Park was a brisk but pleasant ten minutes away on foot, past various charming historical buildings—the First Baptist Church, the brick Schuyler County courthouse with its central white cupola. Someday she’d sneak her way up into that cupola just for the view. Kimmer stopped to frame the park entrance with her camera—black wrought iron gates between massive brick pillars that had no actual fencing to make them functional, the bandstand looming directly beyond—not bothering to snap
the picture. The governor and his party would come through here, on a sidewalk barely wide enough for such an entourage. They’d probably spill over the edges; if there were any sort of crowd, it would cause movement. Confusion.
Prime opportunity for anyone who wanted to move in on the man.
She wandered the area for a while, viewing it from all directions, assessing the dangers that could come from each. Just one of several people in the park—a plain young woman eating a yogurt from a park bench, a jogger swinging through the green zone on the way out of town, a man through the trees on the other side of the park feeding rats-on-wings pigeons.
She sat on one of the benches for a while, just absorbing the park. She knew this place, had been here before. But she hadn’t looked at it through her Chimera eyes, and now she did. Looking, then closing her eyes to recreate what she’d seen in her mind’s eye—trees and greenery and benches and the bandstand and a water fountain, all carefully arranged within the neat rectangular confines of the street block. When she finally stood and stretched, she could visualize the entire park in a sweeping inner panorama. Come tomorrow, she’d know at a glance if something felt out of place.
Like now. There, in the corner of her eye. The fellow with the pigeons was still there. He’d either had a significant amount of stale bread to dispense, or he had other reasons for hanging around.
Come to think of it, the pigeons didn’t look very interested in him. And he no longer looked interested in them. A more focused glance revealed his boredom.
Waiting for anyone in particular?
Kimmer settled her backpack in place, but not before slipping her little club into her back pocket, smooth wood finding the worn spot where it often resided, the smooth, hard business end obscured by her pack. She took a leisurely walk around the park, completing her memorization work, and kept an eye on Pigeon Man.
He didn’t leave the birds, but as she walked the park perimeter he rotated his body on his park bench to keep track of her.
Waiting for me?
Hmm. At first she’d pegged him as another advance scout—someone on the governor’s staff, maybe even a reporter. Or security. Another layer of safety, smart enough to peg her as not-just-another-visitor, not enough in the know to realize she was official. If so that puts us in the same spot. Both blinded by the need-to-know approach.
Well, she’d get a picture. Owen would have the resources to ID the guy if he was working for the side of right, and probably even if not. Facial recognition software was a wonderful thing. Kimmer headed down the side of the big rectangular park and cut across on a diagonal that would bring her close enough to use the camera still in her hand. She watched Pigeon Man’s body language change from surprise to realization to annoyance and then snick she had his picture. Smile, you’re on Chimera Camera.
She’d been prepared for some sort of reaction, but not the instant cover-breaking anger as he shot to his feet, scattering indignant pigeons in all directions.
What the hell? Who the hell—? But by then Kimmer was running. Big lopey strides, not caring if she, too, had broken her cover as a random park visitor. If this man meant trouble for the governor, he might well just take his trouble elsewhere now that she’d taken his picture. She pulled the backpack around on the run, jammed her camera into it, zipped it tight and ducked her head through the strap so she didn’t have to worry about losing it. When she glanced back she saw Pigeon Man had not emulated her big lopey strides, but—although not a natural sprinter, with awkward form and wasted motion—was making an obvious effort to catch up with her.
Kimmer did a mental eye roll. Really not subtle, fella. But if that’s the way he wanted it, then she needed to take things to a more private arena. No one here needed to be hurt…and Owen would be unhappy indeed if she created another big stinky scene. She rounded the corner from 4th Street to North Franklin, banking with her speed and skipping around a neat lineup of preschoolers clinging to a rope; their startled teacher stopped short and then got her charges moving again in a “nothing happened there, move along” tone of voice. By then Kimmer was half a block away, and she listened for the inevitable encounter between children and Pigeon Man except…
It didn’t come.
She glanced back. No one. No sign of him. She slowed, jogging to a stop, wide tan pant legs whapping against each other with the change of stride and then going silent as she downright stopped.
Nope. Gone. No Pigeon Man anywhere.
Well, then. Wasn’t that exciting. Kimmer gave her backpack—and the camera within it—a pat. No need to hunt down Pigeon Man and risk one of those big stinky scenes. She had his picture, and even if he hadn’t been identified before the governor rolled into town, every security officer, cop and Hunter agent would have his image at hand. If he was smart, he was already running away. She’d take a nice roundabout route back to her car and head straight for Full Cry Winery.
Behind her, someone took the turn from 4th to North Franklin too fast, tires squealing against asphalt. Kimmer automatically gave the vehicle a look, and then looked back again as she realized its speed and realized even more abruptly that it was veering toward the curb and then in another heartbeat that the driver had no intention of stopping, curb or no curb. He was, of course, headed straight for her.
Run, Kimmer, run.
And run she did. She angled away for the first alley, a little thing not on the map, and a turn she hoped was too acute and too narrow for Pigeon Man—for heaven forbid it was someone other than Pigeon Man, a second BG on her heels—to make. Hoped, in fact, that he would splat himself all over the sturdy brick corner of the building on the other side of the alley.
Then again, she’d also hoped to find the alley full of good hiding places—trash cans, cellar stairs, a fire escape or two leaning down to offer her a hand up and out of the way.
Cleanest damn alley in the history of mankind. Nothing but struggling grass over old, old cobbles and the occasional collection of back-door recyclables in a bin too small to hide anything but her feet and ankles.
Behind her, the car muscled around, backed up and by-bloody-damn squeezed right into the alley, the driver fast gaining confidence and speed.
Kimmer ran.
But it didn’t matter that she had a good sprint in her or that she could maintain a marathon pace for miles. Not when a car was the other runner in this race, the engine noise coming up fast behind her so she didn’t even bother to look, legs pumping and arms pumping and heart pumping, gaze frantically sweeping the tightly featured back walls—red brick with light stone windowsills in neat rows far over Kimmer’s head, shallow doorways that wouldn’t protect her if Pigeon Man chose to risk a little paint and swoop in close to pick her off.
With the car so close she wasn’t sure why she hadn’t yet felt the brush of the bumper, Kimmer took a wild leap and caught the edge of the windowsill, legs cranked up at the knees and out of the way, hoping to hold on just long enough for the car to pass beneath her but immediately slipping—
Her fingers burned against stone, fingernails breaking and she landed hard on the sedan’s roof just as Pigeon Man stomped the brakes. Damned slippery little hump of a roof. No handy luggage rack, nothing to keep her in place when he started to move. No room to bail over the side and hunt an open window, and if she fell off the back he’d just turn her into road pizza. Alley pizza.
She’d make her own damned window, then. As Pigeon Man found the accelerator again, Kimmer grabbed the war club from her pocket and slammed it into the back window, watching the glass spiderweb and dent. The car lurched forward and Pigeon Man must have turned to look behind himself, because he ran the corner of the bumper into brick. He backed up in a jerk of movement as Kimmer slipped around on the roof, all her concentration on slamming the window again and again.
Here I come, Pigeon Man—
Turf spun out behind the vehicle as the tires chewed through thin turf to cobblestone and the car shot forward, dumping Kimmer on the hard surface. She spran
g to her feet, ready to run—but Pigeon Man had had enough. Or maybe he’d just seen the flashing yellow lights at the street end of the alley—not a cop, but an interested witness sure enough. His car bobbed away down the uneven ground of the alley, already too far away to get even a partial plate. Surely it wasn’t that her head was spinning.
Kimmer stuck the club back in her pocket, straightened her backpack, and gathered her dignity to stride out of the alley in her most matter-of-fact fashion. She’d gathered a little crowd, drawn by the unusual parking choice made by the tow truck; the driver himself met her as she emerged.
“Are you all right? I saw the car turn, but there’s no traffic allowed back there anymore. Holy shit, you people filming a movie or what? ’Cause I called the cops. That looked serious!”
“Yes,” Kimmer said, putting on an absent expression. She had to get out of here before the cops arrived.
He pushed back his billed cap and said, “But where—”
Cameras. Of course, cameras. “Just a run-through,” Kimmer said brightly. “Thanks for your concern. Gotta go!”
“Good makeup,” someone in the crowd muttered from behind him. “Looks just like blood.” And a male voice with an I’m important tone said, “Movie, bullshit. Don’t let her just walk away!”
The tow truck driver had a you-gotta-be-kidding sound in his voice. “After what I just saw? You stop her.”
Kimmer smiled to herself and kept on walking.
Chapter 5
Beyond the Rules Page 7