by Naima Simone
“Good girl,” he drawled, patting her on the head. When she muttered a threat directed at his family jewels, his mouth lifted in a faint smile. “Thank you for dinner.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I would offer you leftovers, but you fired me as your caretaker.” She smiled, erasing the sting from the words. “Thanks for coming over, Gabe.”
He nodded but didn’t turn around to leave. Instead, he stood just outside the door. She met his gaze silently, but inside, her heart and pulse hammered out a deafening racket.
“Good night, Leah,” he finally murmured before moving across her porch toward the steps.
She closed the front door behind his retreating figure and exhaled her pent-up breath on a long, hard whoosh. For several moments she stood still, her palm pressed to the door frame, head bowed.
She was an addict. A desperate, jonesing addict. And her drug of choice was Gabriel Devlin.
With a sigh, she returned to the kitchen. Her actions were automatic as she wrapped up the leftovers, washed the few remaining dishes, and wiped down the counters. The routine left her mind open to reminisce about the evening. An evening with Gabriel.
Being with him had been euphoric…and painful. Exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Joyous and agonizing. Sitting across the table from him, staring into his beautiful eyes and lovely face, hearing his dark rumble of a voice—had thrilled her. But knowing an evening like this would be all she shared with him killed something inside of her.
Like a drug addict, she understood this obsession with him wasn’t emotionally healthy. It interfered with finding a partner who not only returned her feelings but could offer her his devotion, his heart. And before the accident when he’d been happy with his family, she’d accepted he was beyond her reach and had resolved to move on. Find a man whom she respected, appreciated, and maybe one day loved with the passion only Gabriel had inspired. But after Maura and Ian had died, she’d placed those plans on hold. Gabriel had been in such pain, and even though being around him so much only embedded him further in her heart, she’d been determined to be there for him until he was over the worst of his grief. Until the day came when she wouldn’t worry about walking into his apartment anxious over what she’d find.
And, it seemed from his “firing” of her earlier that evening, that day had arrived. Yet she still had a difficult time letting go.
“Dr. Phil, here I come,” she grumbled, hanging the dish towel over the edge of the sink. Shaking her head, she exited the kitchen and climbed the staircase to her second-floor bedroom. She doubted even the talk-show doctor with his decades of experience could cure her of this love. Over the years she’d witnessed Gabriel date, marry another woman, and start a family. She’d seen him bury his wife and his heart.
And still, she loved him.
She unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged free of the material. God. There were nights like tonight when she would gladly admit herself to a hospital, lay out on a gurney, and demand her heart be cut from her chest. Maybe then this yearning, this need, would cease.
After a shower, she dragged a tank top and sweatpants over her body, turned back the covers, and grabbed an elastic band off the bedside dresser.
“Oh, damn,” she muttered, pausing in the middle of tying her hair into a knot at the top of her head. I didn’t turn the alarm on. For a few seconds, she debated whether or not to trek down the stairs and enter the code on the panel next to the door. But the mental dispute didn’t last long. Common sense ruled out weariness. Somerville was a relatively safe area, but too many years on the force had shown her what one careless oversight could result in. Two minutes and a jog up and down a flight of stairs didn’t compare to the horror of a home invasion.
Groaning, she wheeled around and left the bedroom.
As if an invisible wall had sprung up in front of her, she jerked to an abrupt halt. Her blood froze in her veins, the cold spreading to her chest, her stomach, her limbs.
The hatch leading to the attic yawned open in the ceiling like a hungry mouth.
The ladder-stairway slowly lowered with an eerie creak. A pair of legs slithered through the opening and descended the steps. Legs. Waist. Torso. Head.
Her brain screamed run! Her heart pounded out the same frantic message, but her body refused to obey. She stood, unable to move, as her eyes registered the sight of the black-clothed stranger emerging from her attic.
The intruder paused on the last rung. Slowly, his hands fell from the spindly staircase railings, and the air turned to molasses as he pivoted, his movements slow, deliberate. A black ski mask concealed his features, but she saw the lift of his cheeks beneath the knit, glimpsed the flash of white teeth beneath. He was smiling at her.
Her paralysis snapped.
She whipped around. Darted for the bedroom.
Gun. Have to get to my gun.
Two steps, and she was in the bedroom. Harsh rasps filled her ears as she slapped the door closed behind her, hoping to impede the intruder’s advancement.
Wood smashed against wood. He was in the room. Sweet Jesus, he was in the room. Her heart shot to her throat as her fingers scrabbled over the bedside dresser. Finally, she grasped the handle and yanked the drawer open.
The drawer slammed shut on her fingers. Pain radiated up her hand and rebounded to her fingertips. With a yelp, she snatched her hand free and cradled it against her chest.
A heavily muscled arm hooked her around the neck and wrenched her back against a hard chest, hauling her to her tiptoes. She grabbed at the unyielding band of flesh, trying in vain to pry it away from her neck so she could drag in a lungful of air.
He tightened his hold.
“Please,” she wheezed, clinging to his arm now instead of fighting him. Terror welled inside her, cresting, only to swell again in a never-ending breaker of fear.
What did he want? Would he rape her? Kill her?
The thought of him violating her body renewed her struggles. Every self-defense tactic she’d learned streamed through her head like a ticker tape. She released his arm, and with all the strength she could gather, snapped her elbow backward.
He flinched, his grunt echoing in her ear. Not wasting a moment, she brought her bare heel down on his instep, and pain rippled up her calf as bone connected with the steel-toe boot. Yet, triumph surged in her blood. His hold loosened a fraction. It was all she needed. She grasped two of his gloved fingers and wrenched them backward. His hold weakened even more as he emitted a muffled cry.
She rotated outward, grabbed his wrist. With a feral snarl, she jerked her knee up toward his nuts.
He twisted his hips and blocked the blow.
Agony exploded across her cheekbone. She gasped. Fire seared the side of her face. She stumbled, dropped to her knees, hands cradling her cheek.
He gripped her hair, yanked her head back. A knife. It filled her vision; her world narrowed to a steel, serrated knife with a black handle. The light from her lamp bounced off the blade, and the dull gleam blinded her.
Another abrupt tug and her muscles screamed as the edge of his weapon bit into her neck. Ice licked her throat followed by a sizzle of heat. She whimpered. A slick trickle of blood dribbled down her neck, catching in the dip at the base of her throat.
He didn’t utter a word—didn’t make a sound—but she felt his satisfaction. Felt his enjoyment through the shiver that ran through him and vibrated against her. Felt his intent in the lethal pressure of the knife pressed to her skin.
“Why?” she whispered. If she was going to die, she wanted, needed, to know why. When no reply came, she swallowed. Suppressed a flinch as the razor-sharp edge of the blade scraped her flesh. An idea coalesced in a nebulous swirl, and even before the notion could fully form, she blurted her hunch. “I’m helping you! I’m investigating Richard’s death. Why are you doing this?”
He went rigid.
She held her breath. Would he speak now? Would he tell her why?
No. She gasped as he released her hair, curved a hand under h
er arm, and yanked her to her feet. He wasn’t going to explain. But he’d already answered her.
This man who held a knife to her throat and shoved her toward the bed had sent the letter and missing-person flyer. Yet for some reason, he no longer considered her an ally but a threat. A victim.
Dispensable.
Sorrow, rage, and desperation rolled through her with the force of a fierce gale. It swept aside caution, leveled self-preservation.
Fight. Survive!
She pried her fingers under his arm, dug her nails into hard flesh, and shoved.
He grunted in surprise and shifted the knife away.
With a hoarse cry, she flung her head back, slamming her skull into her attacker’s face.
His howl filled the room, almost obliterating the clatter of his weapon hitting the floor.
Run, damn it! Get out!
Like a rabbit caught in the sights of a predator, she darted across the bedroom and bolted into the hallway. She skirted the attic ladder and didn’t slow as she hit the staircase. Under the roar of her racing heart she heard the heavy pounding of booted footsteps behind her. She didn’t pause, didn’t look back.
The floor flew up to meet her as she leaped over the last few steps. As soon as her soles hit the hardwood, she threw herself the last few feet for the front door. She fumbled with the lock, terror stealing her coordination.
Oh, God. Please.
The lock turned under her bruised fingers. She twisted the knob, yanked the door open. Cold air rushed over her face.
Thank you. Oh, God, thank you…
A hard, suffocating weight smashed into her back. The door crashed shut under the impact, crushing her hope of escape and survival along with it.
Harsh breath rasped in her ear, hot against her skin even through the knit mask. He reached up and, with an abrupt twist, reengaged the lock.
He whipped her around, then slammed her to the floor. The back of her head cracked against the wood. Black swirled around the edges of her sight, but she fought it back. She gathered the last of her strength, bucked, swung a fist at his temple. A vicious snarl rolled out of him. He glared down at her through the mask’s eye slits, then manacled her wrists to the floor with one hand. And the other…the other held the knife. Moonlight from the window glinted off the steel.
“I’m tired of your shit, bitch,” he snarled.
Don’t speak, she screamed silently. God, if his silence had been eerie, his rough voice sent chills over her skin, cutting as sharp as his blade.
Deliberately, he laid the knife down next to her ear. He reached into the pocket of his dark hoodie and slowly withdrew a gold coin and placed it next to the weapon’s handle. Then he picked up the knife and, as if in a nightmare, it descended. She watched it, wanting to shut out her imminent death but was unable to close her eyes.
“Leah!”
Gabriel!
Her assailant’s arm and blade halted. Unblinking brown eyes studied her as if weighing his options.
“Leah!” Chay?
Her attacker bit out a muffled curse.
Relief welled inside her like a geyser. Weakening her. Tears stung her eyes.
He swore again then leaned over her, his grip tightening.
“Tell my special boy I said hello,” he rasped in her ear. Chuckling, he launched to his feet and bounded down the hallway.
Stunned, she stared after him. What had just happened? Was he really gone? Would he come back?
“Leah!” Pounding at the door. “Answer me, damn it!”
Gabriel’s voice snapped her deep freeze. She leaped up, lurched to the door. In seconds, she had it open and was in Gabriel’s arms.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Leah? Baby—”
“He was inside.” She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “And he didn’t come for my Alfredo.”
Chapter Sixteen
“You should’ve stayed the night at the hospital.”
Leah rolled her eyes and shuffled through the front entrance to Gabriel’s condominium.
“I don’t have a concussion and nothing’s broken. There was no reason to stay.”
The slam of the door resounded with his feelings about her medical opinion. She sighed. For a writer who specialized in words, he was extraordinarily fluent in the non-verbal, too.
He stalked past her, the overnight duffel the police had allowed him to pack for her in his hand.
“Gabe, you can just put the bag on the couch.”
He skidded to a halt, slowly turned around, and she almost flinched. Thunder darkened his face, lit his blue eyes. Christ, if he’d been Thor, her ass would’ve been fried by a thunderbolt blast. She smothered a swell of laughter. Thor? The pain meds the doctor had given her must be making her loopy.
“You are taking my bed,” Gabriel bit out. “No argument.”
“Okay.” She held up her hands, palms out. “Fine. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
After another hot glare, he spun on his heel and continued down the hall, pausing once by the small dining room table to deposit her tote bag. Once he disappeared through his bedroom door, she wilted against the wall. She’d assumed a brave, keep-a-stiff-upper-lip façade for his benefit, but she was tired and aching. Her face throbbed, the cut on her throat smarted, and her fingers thudded. Tremors attacked her legs, and inside, terror had scraped her raw. Unfortunately, the doctors didn’t have bandages or pills for her soul.
Snapshots of the hours since her attacker had fled flashed in front of her eyes. Gabriel racing into her house after the intruder. Chay pacing back and forth at the bottom of the porch steps. Cops swarming her lawn and home. The paramedics stretching her out on the white-sheeted gurney. Gabriel, Chay, Mal, and Rafe filling her hospital cubicle.
It seemed surreal. As if the attack had happened to another person, not her. In her home. Her sanctuary. Her haven.
But not anymore. Maybe never again.
The irony that an intruder had invaded the home of a former cop and current private investigator was not lost on her. God, she’d felt like such an idiot when the investigating officer had informed her at the hospital how the guy had simply placed a ladder against the back of her home, busted out the attic window, slid through, and then waited. When she’d had her security system installed, she had motion detectors placed in the basement and the first and second floor hallways, but not the attic.
“Why aren’t you sitting down?” Gabriel bore down on her like an avenging angel.
“I need a shower,” she said. She plucked at the tank top dotted with blood. Hospital stench clung to her skin. Adhesive residue from the Band-Aids she’d removed as soon as she’d cleared the emergency room’s sliding glass doors dotted the crook of her arm and the back of her wrist.
She wanted to be clean more than she desired her next breath.
“Can you stand up in the shower by yourself?”
“I’ll manage,” she snapped, her patience slipping its medicated leash.
Gabriel grunted. Resisting the urge to give him a one-finger salute, she pushed off the wall and carefully ambled down the hallway. Jeez, must be the meds making her so touchy. She was never so short-tempered with him. But no wonder. Between the hit-and-run and the break-in, she felt like Mike Tyson’s punching bag.
When she neared him, he muttered something under his breath but gently clasped her elbow and guided her to the largest bathroom. He led her to the commode and helped her sit on the closed lid. Soon, water streamed from the shower spigots, the steam already curling from the frosted glass enclosure. Gabriel left the room but returned shortly with a bathing cloth, towel, and T-shirt.
“I’ll be right outside the door. Call me if you need help.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Leah,” he said, leaning down and invading her space. The tip of his nose grazed hers, and his breath brushed her lips. “I promise you, I will come in here.”
“Okay, Gabe,” she said, not attempting to conceal her irritation. He
ll. She’d been through enough tonight. Did he really think she’d risk another bruise on top of the ones mottling her neck, arms, and legs like a roadmap?
He waited until she rose and shrugged the jacket Raphael had given her off her shoulders. She gripped the hem of her tank top and glanced up, a blistering remark about getting undressed in front of him dying on her tongue. He was staring at her. His gaze touched on her neck, shoulders, and arms before returning to her face. Stark pain stripped away the anger and worry from his expression, leaving a crushing vulnerability. The anguish tore at her heart, her soul. She lifted her arm, held out her hand, but he’d already spun around and fled the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him.
She exhaled, dropped her arm to her side.
Weariness draped across her shoulders like a heavy winter coat. It threatened to drag her down under its weight. And wouldn’t that be the coup de grâce of the evening? For Gabriel to find her sprawled on the black-and-white tile?
Swiftly, she stripped and stepped under the hot, pulsing spray. She groaned—couldn’t help it, and hoped it didn’t bring Gabriel barging in. The water sluiced over her head and ran down her body, washing away the dirt from her struggle and the dried blood from her skin. She stared at the drain, watched the water circle and empty.
When the tears started tracking down her cheeks, joining the rivulets coursing down her skin, she didn’t know for certain. One moment she was standing under the shower head, palms flattened against the damp tiles. In the next instant, her shoulders shook with hoarse sobs that burned her throat. Everything—the horror, the pain, the violation—crashed down on her, and she shattered.
She couldn’t be strong anymore.
After a long while, she twisted the faucets, shutting off the water. She stepped from the stall, rubbed the white towel over her skin, and drew the large, black T-shirt over her head. The soft cotton billowed around her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. Bending over at the waist, she flipped her hair forward and wrapped the towel around her hair turban-style. As she straightened, a perfunctory knock sounded at the door seconds before Gabriel entered.
“How did you know I was dressed?” she grumbled, kneeling and gathering her clothes.