by Tes Hilaire
“Not that garage.” He gave a wry twist of his mouth. “Just that part of town.”
She narrowed her gaze on him.
He held up his hand. “Scout’s honor. I had some business in that part of town and saw you walking. I didn’t say hi because I figured you probably didn’t want to see me again but then, when you ducked into the parking garage and I saw those two thugs break from the crowd and follow you in …”
“Uh-huh. And you just knew they were up to no good.”
“No. I didn’t. But I had one of those feelings, you know?”
“Hmm.” She did know, because she’d had one herself. The problem was she didn’t really buy his answer. It seemed too convenient. Too pat.
He tilted his head to the side. “Hey, let’s not overanalyze things. Coincidence, fate, whatever. I’m just glad I was there to help and that you’re basically all right.” He ducked his head to look at her more closely. “You are all right, aren’t you? And don’t tell me you’re fine. That’s not a real answer, that’s an avoidance technique.”
She scoffed, though it was half chuckle. “You must know Mike.”
“Who?”
“Nobody important.” She twisted, flinging her legs off the bed to stand, and then groaned as she lowered herself the couple inches back onto the mattress.
“Jessica?” His concern was palpable in both his voice and the firm grip on her arm.
She breathed through her teeth, actually glad for his steadying touch. “You’re right. Fine is not an answer. It certainly can’t encompass this hit-by-a-semi feeling I’m having right now.”
She lifted her left hand, bringing it to her temple where she encountered the gauze bandage. “Damn, no wonder it feels like my brain is trying to explode out of my head.”
“Let me get you some aspirin.”
Carefully, he let her arm go, making sure she was steady in her perched position on the edge of the bed before releasing her fully. As he padded into the adjoining bathroom and began rustling through a cabinet, she used her fingers to explore the extent of the damage, simultaneously checking her muscles and joints to make sure they all worked properly. Bumps, abrasions, sore, sore, sore—though nothing broken, she thought. By the time he came back, she decided she’d live, though until she got that aspirin she was going to reserve judgment on whether she actually wanted to.
“Two, three, or four?”
“Six,” she replied, rubbing the bandage over her aching forearm. Have to check that out later. After she checked her cabinet to see if it was stocked to replace the dressing if needed.
“Four then.”
She growled at that but he just smiled, dumping out the pills and handing them to her along with a glass of water. She took the pills, then closed her eyes, rubbing the empty but still cool glass against her forehead.
“Better?”
She cracked an eye open. “Not yet. But hopefully soon.”
“How about some food?”
She grunted. “Probably a good idea.”
He offered her a hand, which she grudgingly took. Not because she didn’t appreciate the chivalry, but because even feeling like she’d been dragged by that Mack truck through Hell and back, his touch set her imagination to removing that shirt he’d just put back on.
She was definitely one warped puppy.
He led her down a short hall to the stairs. She gripped the dark, ornately carved wood as she wobbled down them. The base opened up into a wide entryway, two closed French doors probably leading into some sort of living room or parlor. He turned back down the long hall, leading her into the back of the house. They entered a kitchen, dark granite countertops catching her eye. Not because they were sparkling but because they were crammed full of appliances. Keeping with the theme of crammed and functional, the island was canopied by racks of pots and pans, and a huge fridge lorded over them all.
The man was either a gourmet cook or liked to pretend so.
“Sit. I’ll whip something up.”
She carefully levered herself onto the bar-height chair, resting her bandaged forearm on the artfully weathered pub-height table. She watched, fascinated, as he pulled together an impromptu meal. Eggs were scrambled, fresh dill chopped, leftover ham was diced up along with mushrooms, onions, and green peppers. Some butter in a pan—real butter, her mother would have a fit—and they all went in together, sizzling and popping in time to his occasional flicks of the wrist that sent the ingredients in the pan flipping up in the air, then back down to sizzle some more. His movements were quick, efficient, but graceful, and she didn’t dare blink for fear she’d miss something. The meal looked yummy. He looked yummy.
Whoa there, Jess. Let’s analyze this.
She was getting in way over her head, way too quickly. This was not the morning after or a date. She was here because she’d fucked up. She went out again, without backup, searching in places she wasn’t authorized to trespass in. Even this. Sitting here in Logan’s kitchen watching him make her a meal that sent her glands to salivating. It wasn’t right. She shouldn’t be here. Seriously, the chances of him just happening to be in that part of town and just happening to see her go into the garage, and just happening to have a bad feeling about the two men following her in seemed like way more than a coincidence. The only way she could buy into that series of events was if he’d been following her too…which was downright disturbing.
This whole thing had stalker written all over it. And now she was in his house. Alone. Without a weapon.
“Hey, you okay?” Logan asked.
She blinked, noticing for the first time that a steaming omelet had been set down before her. The scents lifting off it did indeed cause her to salivate, but the possibility that she could be sitting in the kitchen of a stalker had her gut churning. She didn’t want him to be a freak. She wanted to believe him, take him at face value. She wanted to dig into that pile of fluffy eggs and then after, with her belly fully sated, she wanted to take care of her other appetite and dig into him.
“Where is my gun?” she asked abruptly.
“In your harness, under your jacket which is in the closet.” He jerked his head toward a smaller, six-panel door under the stairs.
Tossing her unused napkin beside her uneaten meal, she pushed back her chair and walked over, heart thumping as she’d opened the closet. And there it was.
Taking a deep breath, she retrieved the gun, checking her ammo before slipping into the harness and turning back around. She thought having the gun strapped on would lower her heart rate, but it didn’t. It still beat like she was chasing a perp fleeing the scene. Damn it. She fidgeted with the safety strap that held her police issue in as she stared at the homey scene before her. This whole encounter was almost as warped as her nightmares, and the fact she was drawn to it? That she wanted to go back and settle into that chair?
“I have to go,” she said, pulling on her jacket.
Logan momentarily stilled, then set down the plate he’d been holding, ready to scoop his own meal out.
“Okay…Where do you want to go?” he asked, moving the pan to a cool burner and covering it with a lid. Next he washed his hands, drying them off with a handy dishtowel. Meticulous. Controlled. Everything she wasn’t right now and needed to be.
Crap. Get it together, Jess. What’s he going to do? Attack you with his spatula? She shook her head.
“Well, first back to my apartment to change, but then I have to get down to the station.” She glanced at the clock over the stove. “Which, crap, I’m already late.”
“Okay. I’ll drive you home first and wait outside while you change.” He brushed past her, grabbing his wallet and keys from a bowl that sat on a small side table by the front door. Something about the action made her frown, her mind churning to come up with a reason why it would bother her so.
“Jessica?” he asked, his face skewed into a puzzled expression.
“There’s no need to do that. Just drop me off at the garage where my car is.”
“That doesn’t make much sense when that’s all the way across town. Your apartment is closer. I can wait for you. Then we can pick up your car together later.”
A vital organ plummeted from behind her ribs down into her gut, the slim hope that it had been all a quirky coincidence extinguished. His words proved just what she feared: He knew way more about her than he should.
She turned to face him, folding her arms across her breasts. A defensive position, sure, but one she needed at that moment, and not because she was scared, but for some damn odd reason, she was hurt. “How long have you been following me?”
He stilled with his hand on the door, tension riding across his shoulders. “I told you I had business in that part of town.”
“And I’m telling you I’m not buying it. If you haven’t noticed, New York is a damn big city. The chances of you and me running into each other twice in one day?” Or that he knows where I live?
Research. Yeah, she was unlisted, but still. A good hacker could dive into enough records to find out, though why Logan would’ve felt the need to…
His other hand tightened around his keys. She waited him out, trying not to be impressed with the way he visibly forced himself to relax his grip. So strong, but so much control.
Like any other psychopath before he went over the edge.
She looked over his shoulder to the front door. Would it be unlocked? Could she make it by him without him trying to stop her? Without her having to draw her gun?
An image of him, legs twisted awkwardly, eyes staring as blood bloomed from his chest onto the polished hardwood floors sprang into her mind, causing her to shudder. She told herself she could do it if she had to, but the trembling in her limbs told her a different story.
“There’s nothing I can say that would convince you I’m not that man, is there?” His voice seemed sad as he said this, but she refused to let that sway her.
“Probably not,” she said, forcing the image out of her mind. Deal with the now. This instant. She’d cross that bridge only if she were forced to.
He sighed, jiggling his keys as he pushed open the door. “Come on. I’ll drive you to your car. Unless you’d rather I call you a cab. Or maybe a friend?”
Okay, except maybe that. What stalker would tell her to call a friend? He could still be playing her, she supposed, but she didn’t think so. Or at least she didn’t want to think so.
She tapped her jacket pocket, comforted by the weight of her cell phone, but when she opened her mouth she said, “I’ll take the ride.”
He nodded, gesturing for her to go first. She walked down the steps, her brows rising as she took in the car and neighborhood. They screamed money. Both the understated yet classic lines of the Audi and the well-kept brownstones.
“What do you do?”
“I’m an antiquities consultant,” he said as he opened the passenger door and held it open for her.
She nodded, sliding into the passenger seat. Though she didn’t buy it at all. Not after seeing him fight, and not after being the recipient of that wow-fuck-me-now-please kiss.
And that was something she should not be thinking about. She looked straight ahead, ignoring everything other than the street signs as he drove them out of the neighborhood. Greenpoint. Brooklyn. One of those nice, quaint, Victorian streets with a pretty church at the end. And quite the jog back to the garage where her car had had its sleepover.
They did finally arrive, and she waited tensely as he got his ticket, then sucked in a breath as they drove forward, passing from the light of day into the artificial light of the garage, and then shivered as they took the ramp to the level where her car was parked. She made a point to stare directly at the spot where she was taken down, and then turned her gaze to the elevator where she imagined the third man. It made her tense, and a glaze of sweat slicked over her skin, but she had to do it.
Like getting back onto a bike.
Logan double-parked his car behind hers, the locks clicking to their unlocked position. She reached for the door handle but his hand on her arm stilled her.
She turned her head, then wished she hadn’t when their gazes lined up. Her breath caught at the intensity in his eyes. He held out a business card, his voice earnest as he spoke. “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything.”
She stared at the card like it was a snake, and shook her head. To take it would be akin to inviting temptation. Her reasoning was so far from acceptable where he was concerned.
“Please. Just in case.”
“Anything like what?”
He shrugged. “Help with anything. Or just to talk.”
And that was exactly what she was afraid of. It would be so easy to give in to her desire to know this man.
She stared at the card. Block letter script on white. Simple. Harmless unless she allowed herself to make it otherwise. “Just because I take it doesn’t mean I’ll ever call.”
“I know.” His eyes saddened as he said this, his mouth turned down in a grim line as if the thought of never seeing or hearing from her again was truly painful for him.
Oh yeah. Definitely a stalker. Yet…
She reached out, snapping the card from between his fingers and stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans.
His eyes flared, stormy gray before warming to a bluish-green slate color, but all he said was a simple, “Thank you.”
“I’ve got to go,” she said and pushed out of the car, then jogged across the garage to her own.
Chapter 10
Jessica felt acid eating the lining of her stomach as she approached the block of the crime scene. She’d barely stripped out of her ruined jacket when the call came from dispatch. She’d slapped on some new bandages on her arm and a healthy dose of concealer while dialing Mike’s cell. He was already on his way.
It had taken almost thirty-five minutes to get through the midday traffic, and the body wasn’t getting any fresher. Not that freshness would matter. If she were right, it had already been there for a while.
Pausing at a stoplight, Jessica checked her phone again. Its display confirmed what she already knew: no calls, no texts. Though what did she expect?
Heart thudding, she made the turn onto the street dispatch had indicated and cursed. Definitely the last one here. And didn’t that piss her off all over again. It was Logan’s fault. If he hadn’t brought her to his place. If he hadn’t seduced her with forest-fire kisses and mouth-watering omelets. If he hadn’t…saved you, Jessica? What then? Would you even be here to be late?
“Crap.” Striking Logan from her mind, she double-parked across the street from the crime scene and grabbed her phone. A couple buttons and she was redialing the same number she’d tried over a dozen times since she’d heard from dispatch. It rang. And rang.
“Come on. Come on!” Nothing. She cursed, ending the call. “This better not be you in there, Grim.”
Shoving the phone in her belt clip she stepped out of her car, a shudder running over her.
“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath and crossed the street to the dim alley she’d visited two nights before. Her boots rang on the hard pavement, drawing attention from the nearest officer. She was relieved to see it wasn’t some green-faced newbie, but one of the older cops nearing retirement.
Good. He’d keep it together and hold the line against any gawkers. Not that there were any. Even in the middle of the day, this place seemed to be all but abandoned.
“Yo, Jessica! I think this is a first. Mike even beat you,” Tony said.
Jessica tried to flash a rueful smile at him, but ended up grimacing instead as the movement pulled on the newly scabbed skin across her che
ekbone. Tony’s eyes widened and he whistled. “Wow. What the heck happened to you?”
“Just a little mishap on the way to my car.”
“With what? Another car?”
“No, uh, just a couple of evening commuters.”
He shook his head. “Bastards. Did they at least say sorry when they knocked you down?”
“Not exactly.”
“Damn. What is the world coming to?” He sighed, holding up the yellow and black tape to let her through. “Go on back. Mike’s talking to the ME while they wait for the photographer and crime scene unit to finish.”
“Right.”
She made her way down the side street, the sounds of the investigative team playing like a homicide-cops urban symphony. The clicking of a camera was the erratic drummer, the scuff of boots on gritty pavement the counter beat, and the gruff voices lowered in funeral hall tones claimed the melody. It was punctuated by other sounds as well, the occasional static of the police scanner and the distant hum of midmorning traffic, but all in all the scene, right smack in the middle of the Bronx, was eerily subdued. The street clung to the isolation she’d felt the other night when she stood in its entrance at nearly three a.m.
Mike and the ME stood just on the outskirts of the CSU team, their arms folded in similar poses as they waited.
“So what do we have?” Jessica asked quietly, sidling up beside them.
“A dead body,” the ME, Melissa, deadpanned, breaking the unusual silence with a large snap of her gum. Melissa always had a piece of gum in her mouth, said it helped distract her from the odors. And though the snap caused a few heads to turn, no one was going to ask her to spit it out or give them a piece. Smart, considering Melissa, with her tree-trunk arms and spiky gray hair, looked more like a tough-edged biker than the grandmother she actually was, and the gum was her replacement for the cigarettes she used to suck down.
Jessica sighed. “Homicide I presume?”