by Julie Miller
Brooke set down her mug and tried to stand. “But my aunts—”
“I am staying the night.”
FORTY-FOUR. Forty-five. Antonio turned off his headphones and concentrated on the weights hooked at his ankles.
So the virgin and the cop were gettin’ it on. Antonio idly wondered if she’d still be a virgin by morning light.
Nah. Kincaid was too much of a straight-shooter and she was too much of lily-white wimp to go after what she wanted so badly. If she’d begged him like that, he would have taken her.
He might still take her.
The boss could erase the trophies of his past from public record, but they couldn’t be erased from his memory. Twelve women, all bowing to his will.
But none of them had been a virgin. And Brooke Hansford screamed of waiting-for-that-one-man-to-come-along thing.
Yeah. He should take her.
But business came first.
Savoring the burn in his thighs, he lifted the weight for the last rep. An almost transcendental calm spread through him. He’d finished another workout, and he’d gotten lucky far quicker than even he had anticipated.
Time to report in. He picked up the phone beside the bench and dialed a number that couldn’t be traced.
This was all too easy. He held a power over Brooke Hansford now that she couldn’t begin to comprehend. And while that kind of advantage over another person stirred powerful urges inside him, he was more pleased about how his employer would reward his success. The boss wouldn’t be able to argue his talents or question his loyalty now.
“Yes?”
Antonio didn’t bother with a greeting, either. “The bugs I put in place are working.”
“I told you they were state-of-the-art.”
The implication that setting up the two receivers inside Brooke Hansford’s house had more to do with technology than with his covert skills rankled. But he’d gain the boss’s respect yet. “She was searching for something tonight. Found it. Sounds like a lock-box key.”
“I want it. Take it from her.”
Antonio wiped the perspiration from his upper lip. “My pleasure.”
Chapter Nine
“When I challenged you to start talking to more men, I didn’t realize you’d bring one home to practice with.” Louise was practically rubbing her hands together as she watched Brooke work. “It’s an interesting enough development that I’m willing to forgive you tearing apart my archway.”
Brooke tied off the sleeping bag where Atticus had probably spent a miserable night on the floor of the foyer between the two finished bedrooms and rolled to her feet. Louise trailed right behind her as she carried the bag back to the storage space underneath her antique bed. “Atticus is looking out for me as a favor to his dad, I’m sure. He’s here as a police officer, Louise, not to entertain your matchmaking fantasies.”
Though as she stooped down to slide the bag beneath the iron bed, she couldn’t help but notice how his uniquely male scent clung to the padded cotton. Nothing else in this house smelled that good, and if she paused to inhale an extra sniff, who could blame her?
“I saw that.”
“You saw nothing.” Brooke popped up and glared at her single-minded aunt. “I was just noting that I probably should have aired it out before loaning it to him last night. It still smells a bit like mothballs.”
Louise grinned. “Oh, honey, you are an atrocious liar. He smells like pure man, and nothing is better than that.”
Brooke thought she might collapse from heatstroke as Louise’s words hit a self-conscious nerve wired to every cell in her body. She propped her hands at her hips, thankful that Atticus was in the shower across the hall and couldn’t hear this embarrassing conversation. “Atticus is a friend,” she articulated. “A good one who’s willing to sleep on a hard floor without air conditioning because I got that crank call and was a little…out of sorts last night.”
Finding that key and getting a crash course in kissing hadn’t done much to settle her nerves, either. Had she made a complete fool of herself? Been an amusing aberration for such an obviously experienced man? Did he regret the momentary distraction either because it had diverted his attention from pursuing his father’s killer or because he now felt obligated to provide off-the-clock protection for her? Were they supposed to talk about what had happened? How could she figure out what the next step should be when she wasn’t even certain she was supposed to take one?
But Louise wanted what Louise wanted. “So he smells good and he’s chivalrous, to boot. You ought to reel that one in.”
“I don’t know how—” She put up her hand, warding off both her aunt’s well-intentioned scheming and her own debilitating fluster. “No. No. I won’t let you do this to me. Atticus and I are working together on an investigation. He believes his father left me some information about whatever trouble he was in that may have gotten him killed. He hid it in my things probably because I’m so easy to overlook that no one would suspect—”
“You are not easy to overlook.” Louise stamped her foot, defending the niece she loved to the same degree that she drove her nuts. “Not to anyone with any sense. If Mr. Kincaid did leave you a hidden message, it was because he knew he could count on you to figure it out. And he knew that big heart of yours would help him—and his sons—come hell or high water.”
Eccentricities aside, Brooke loved her aunt, and would be forever grateful that even though she’d been denied her birth parents, she’d been given to two wonderful women to become a part of their family. “You know, Aunt Lou, you make it impossible to stay mad at you.”
“I know.” Louise turned to the open door of Brooke’s closet. “Now. What are you going to wear today?”
“I’m dressed.”
In that? Louise didn’t have to say the words. She started sorting through each hanger. “I think something with a shorter hemline.”
Brooke groaned. Maybe not completely impossible.
BROOKE WONDERED if it was a fortunate or scary thing that she could fit into Louise’s clingy navy wraparound silk skirt. The celadon-green blouse was her own, but Louise had insisted on leaving two buttons unhooked at the top. Brooke wasn’t budging on the bun and wearing her hair down, not with nearly hundred-degree temperatures expected by the end of this afternoon. And she wasn’t wearing the bright-red lipstick, either.
Baby steps, Aunt Peggy had warned, when she came in to see why it was taking so long to come to breakfast. Atticus had already finished his pancakes and bacon, and advised her on simple security precautions they should take, from letting any call their caller ID didn’t recognize go straight to the answering machine, to establishing a neighborhood watch, to the bit about the windows again. “If I offer him anything more to eat, he’s going to think I’m trying to fatten him up. Now quit your fiddling, and let the girl get going. He said he wants to leave by seven-thirty so he’ll have time to get into the city and change his clothes before he has to report for duty.”
“Let’s try dangly earrings.” Louise opened another drawer of her jewelry cabinet. “They’re sexy.”
Peggy took Brooke by the hand and pulled her away from the mirror where Louise was concocting her transformation. “Detective Kincaid has been on the phone to KCPD twice already this morning, and he’s gone over every lock on this house with a fine-tooth comb. He appreciates hard work and punctuality. He won’t be swayed by a pair of your dangly earrings.”
“Thanks for the rescue,” Brooke whispered to Peggy on their way out the door.
“Are you kidding?” Peggy wasn’t above a little fairy godmothering herself as she straightened Brooke’s collar. “He’s not here to spend time with me and my home cooking. Now get out there.”
Traitor.
Brooke’s mouth was still gaping open when she entered the kitchen area and found Atticus sitting at the island counter, poring over her journal. A quick scan last night had assured her that the personal contents were limited to career aspirations and future g
oals—nothing as potentially humiliating as the rambling thoughts she’d recorded last night in another volume. They’d included a few brief paragraphs along the lines of how a woman could know the difference between making a colossal mistake and pushing for what she wanted with a man. That one, she thought thankfully, would never see eyes other than her own. Still, it was a bit disconcerting to see something so private being dissected and notated in the small notebook Atticus normally carried in his pocket.
Some sixth sense, or her own lack of stealth, must have alerted him to her presence. He glanced up from his notes. “Good morning.”
He looked surprisingly well-rested, not at all perturbed by events from the night before, the rat. And though his clothes were still creased and dusty from the adventures she’d put him through yesterday, he was clean-shaven and his short hair glistened like spikes of polished obsidian from the dampness of his shower.
She had to snap her jaw shut before she could answer. “I see you found the disposable razor I set out.”
Ah, yes. That was clever repartee.
“I don’t know that pink is my color, but it got the job done. Thanks.”
“No problem.” With her aunts conspicuously absent, Brooke had a hard time coming up with what to say next. How did you sleep? Trite. A hard floor was a hard floor. Will there be any more kissing lessons today? Too desperate. Perfect setup for laughter of some kind.
Work should be a safe enough topic. She nodded toward the journal. “Did you find anything useful?”
“I’m copying down everything Dad wrote. Some of it is really out of context, like this bit about tracing genealogy in Germany. The Kincaids are as Irish as they come. Or maybe this has to do with you.” He eyed her over the top of his reading glasses. “Your ancestry isn’t German, is it?”
“Not that I know of.” A spark of an idea tried to show itself. “This is a German church. The settlers who built it were from Bingen. I don’t know why your dad would comment on that, though.”
“Me, either. And there are so many abbreviations, it’s hard to see any kind of pattern.” He removed his reading glasses and closed the journal. “Maybe you can make sense of it for me later.”
“I’ll try.”
He slipped his notebook inside his jacket pocket. “Will it still work to drive you into the city? Or would you prefer that I follow you in your car?”
“Since we’re running to the bank at lunch, we can just go together this morning. If you’re sure you don’t mind driving me home again. That seems like a big imposition.”
“It’s not,” he answered matter-of-factly, folding his glasses and putting them away.
“Are you sure? Because I could call a cab, too. Or have Peggy pick me up when she’s out to the grocery store. Or maybe we should drive separately, after all.”
“It’s no imposition. Especially since I’ll be spending the night here again, anyway.”
“You…? Again…?”
“You can’t talk me out of it,” he stated, as if she’d just offered up a logical argument instead of babbling her surprise. “Even if I have to sleep outside in my car for propriety’s sake with your aunts—” heck, no, they’d have him sleeping in her room if they could manage it “—I am not leaving you unprotected. You’re the key to understanding whatever Dad was trying to tell us. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Right. Her journal. Atticus wanted to protect the journal his father had written in—and, by extension, her, since she seemed to be the only one who could decipher John Kincaid’s shorthand. Her stalker was an inconvenience that was getting in the way of them finding the answers they needed.
She should be feeling crushing disappointment that in Atticus’s mind, she came in second place to a book. Instead, she was relieved to have a clearer understanding of their relationship. They were friends—partners, even, on this investigation. She didn’t have to worry about her plain looks or shy ways or inexperience handling an intimate relationship with a man. As long as she remembered she was a friend and—despite last night’s passionate tutoring session—nothing more, then she couldn’t set herself up for embarrassment or heartache.
Brave thoughts. Understanding that in the bright light of day she didn’t even register onAtticus’s babe radar did hurt. Combine that whole unrequited attraction to the man with the antsy feeling of knowing she’d snagged the attention of some sicko she didn’t want, and it made for an isolated, frightened feeling inside her. She reached up to straighten the gold chain that hung at the front of her blouse, and wound up clutching the charm from her father, along with the lock box key she’d strung there beside it. They were symbols of the people she’d cared about whom she’d already lost.
Don’t let Brooke go with her mother. Her own father wanted her to live, to fight, to thrive.
Why was she worrying about bruised egos or misguided feelings when she stood to lose so much more?
Brooke circled around the center island to pour herself a mug of coffee while she put things into perspective. “The laughing man knows where I live, doesn’t he?” She turned and faced Atticus across the island. “Do you think he’ll come here? Are Peggy and Louise, or any of Mr. McCarthy’s crew in any danger?”
His steely gaze reached out to her, and for a moment she thought he was going to give her a standard, It’ll be okay.
But that wasn’t Atticus’s way. “His contact with you has been escalating. He may still be anonymous, but he’s grown bolder, more personal. In his perverted way, he may think he’s courting you—that you’re enjoying the attention.”
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
“So are Peggy and Lou safe? I didn’t tell them about the rest of it. Just the call last night. Do I need to warn them to watch their backs? Or ship them off on one of their trips until this blows over?” She looked down into the bottomless darkness of her coffee. “Am I safe? Or is it just a matter of time before he decides to introduce himself in person?”
“Here. Pour me another cup of that.” He rose and joined her at the sink. Though he leaned one hip casually against the counter, there was nothing casual about the deep focus of his eyes on her upturned face, nor in the unvarnished clarity of his words. “Every stalker is unique. But Laughing Man seems to be following a pretty textbook pattern.”
“Which is?”
“He likes the thrill of this relationship he’s creating with you. It probably seems real—and mutual—to him. I imagine he’s getting off on the control he has over your emotions. He’s transferring your fear into attraction, maybe even caring.”
Sickened by the notion that that creep was feeding off her fright and paranoia, Brooke tipped her face up to Atticus, trying to find some good news. “So if I stop reacting, he goes away?”
But there wasn’t any to find. “If you blow him off, he’s probably going to see that as a rejection of his attention. And that might piss him off, make him less predictable. That’s when I’d worry about your aunts being used in some kind of retaliation. Or him becoming physically aggressive toward you.”
“You really don’t know how to give a pep talk, do you? So, in order to protect the people I love, I have to let him terrorize me for the rest of my life?” She set her mug on the counter, freeing her arms to try to hug away the chill that possibility generated.
Atticus’s mug went down beside hers before he turned her to face him. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, instilling a warmth and strength she couldn’t find. “I’m not going anywhere until I figure this out and I have a man in handcuffs. I put in a call to Patrol Division to swing by the house every hour. They’ll also be looking for anyone loitering in the neighborhood who shouldn’t be. I’ve got Sawyer tracking your phone records for last night’s call, and Holden has a couple of days off and promised to help keep an eye on the place. Plus, I’ve started a database search for previous offenders who fit the profile.”
“You did all that this morning?”
“I get things done. I�
��m not messing around with this guy and your safety.” Meaning, he wouldn’t let anything happen to the journal, or her ability to crack the code inside for him. “I also think you should tell Major Taylor about the flowers and messages.”
Brooke shook her head and tried to pull away. “He’ll think I’m some kind of flake. And I’m trying to show him how competent—”
“He’ll think you’re smart to be taking proactive steps to protect yourself. He’ll watch over you like a hawk at the office. The more people we have working on this, the sooner we’ll get results.” His grip tightened around her shoulders, nearly lifting her onto her toes. His steely gaze commanded hers. “We’ll find who this bastard is and get a restraining order. Then, if he so much as breathes in your direction, I will lock him up.”
Brooke stroked her fingers down the placket of his shirt. It was almost like petting a rangy jungle cat—all coiled energy with the threat of violence thrumming right beneath the surface. She wanted to understand the edgy tension in his voice—wanted to ease it. “I can’t ask you to do all that for me. You have your own job. Your own life. You should concentrate on finding John’s killer, not worry about my little problem.”
“There is nothing little about a man terrorizing an innocent woman.” Atticus brushed the backs of his fingers beneath her jaw, taking the sharpness from his words. “We’ll find him and expose him. Take away his power.”
Spreading her hands against the hard warmth of his chest, Brooke fought the urge to lay her cheek there instead. “What do I do in the meantime? Just pray I don’t say or do the wrong thing?”
He traced the curve of her hairline, catching a curly tendril of hair and tucking it gently behind her ear. “I promised my mother I’d look out for you. That’s not a word I can go back on. I won’t let him hurt you.”
Ah, yes. Funny how a man could add insult to injury, yet make her admire him all the more at the same time.
Brooke curled her fingers into her palms and turned away to pull out a bowl and some cereal she didn’t feel like eating. “That’s awfully nice for Susan to be concerned.”