Same Place, Same Time

by C. J. Carmichael

  The door opened effortlessly. A radio was playing. She could hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. Her hand reached into her pocket and curled into the gun. Squeezing the handle tightly, she slipped into the room, closing the door firmly behind her. She felt a fleeting moment of relief when she saw that the room was empty. Then she spotted the clothing. A pair of trousers. A flannel shirt. Both folded neatly on the dresser by the bed. Her eyes moved to the bathroom door. It was closed.

  Slowly, cautiously, she moved across the room. The gun was out of her pocket now. How had that happened? Her hand was on the bathroom-door handle. Channel your energy. Remember your mission. In one quick motion she swung open the door and raised the gun.

  She couldn’t see him clearly. He was in a Jacuzzi tub that was filled with fluffy white bubbles. The room was steamy, very steamy, and she had difficulty focusing. She only barely remembered the five words. She spoke them quickly and saw the terror in his eyes as she fired the gun. He was scrambling now, trying to get out of the slippery tub, and she realized that she hadn’t hit him, or else she’d only wounded him. She fired again. And again. But her shots couldn’t stop him. He kept coming toward her. Why wouldn’t he die?

  CHAPTER SIX

  A LOUD THUD WOKE Trista out of a fitful slumber. She sat up in her bed, heart pounding. Normally she wasn’t one to worry about strange nighttime noises, but given all that had happened lately, she couldn’t help but feel anxious.

  She sat still for several minutes, trying to convince herself that either she’d imagined the sound, or it had been something innocent, like a neighbor’s cat pouncing on the balcony that ran out front of her one-bedroom apartment.

  But the thud had been loud. Cats didn’t come that heavy. Another thing—pets weren’t permitted in this building.

  After seconds of silence she heard footsteps. Someone was out there. Someone with two feet, not four paws.

  Trembling, she reached for the bedside phone and Morgan’s card, which lay beside it. In the dim glow from the alarm clock she could make out the seven-digit number in the bottom right-hand corner. She punched in the numbers and almost sobbed with relief when Morgan answered on the first ring.

  “It’s me, Trista,” she whispered into the receiver. “I think I hear someone on my balcony. What should I do?”

  “Get out right now.” He spoke in short, clipped words. “Go to a neighbor’s.”

  “But I don’t know any—”

  “Get out, Trista,” he repeated. “I’ll be there in about ten minutes. I’m on my way now.”

  The phone was still to her ear when he hung up. She looked at the digital display of the clock and saw that it was past midnight. The sounds had stopped, but she couldn’t quell the fear that churned in her stomach.

  Easy for Morgan to tell her to get out of the apartment, but where should she go? She shared this floor with three other neighbors but they were all elderly. Should she wake them? Maybe if she just went down to the lobby, she could wait for him there.

  Her mind made up, she slipped out of bed. She didn’t dare turn on the light, so she stumbled awkwardly to the dresser. Yanking open a drawer, she searched by feel and located a thick cotton sweatshirt. She pulled, ignoring the tumble of clothing cascading out with it. Slipping it over the delicate silk teddy she’d worn to bed, she cast about for her jeans, then remembered belatedly that they were sitting folded in a pile of laundry on the dining-room table.

  She went into the dark hall, stretching her hands to either side, feeling her way along the walls until she came to the living area of her apartment. It was lighter here, thanks to the sheer curtains that only partially obscured the glow of the streetlights outside. Heart pounding, she made her way to the table, slinking along the wall, not wanting to be seen by anyone lurking outside.

  As she stretched a hand toward the laundry, she shot an anxious look outside, just in time to see a dark shape run past the glass door, grip the wooden railing and vault out into space.

  “Oh my God!” The reality of the situation hit her then. Her body began to tremble and she had to grip the edge of the table so as not to fall down. Logic told her the intruder was gone now, but her emotions were still focused on the fact that only a pane of glass and about fifteen feet had stood between her and the potential danger. Her shaking increased as she thought about it, and she sank onto the carpet, hugging her arms around her knees. The break-in at her office had at least been free of human form. She could handle an open drawer much better than a human shape out on her balcony.

  “Trista?” It was minutes later, and she was still squatting at the same spot on the floor, when she heard a voice and the sound of loud knocking against the steel front door.

  “Trista?”

  Recognizing Morgan’s voice, she worked her way to a standing position, her legs numb from lack of circulation. She went to the door and, with shaky fingers, unbolted the lock, then felt the door pull open without any effort from herself.

  “Are you all right? Why didn’t you leave?” Morgan breezed past her into the room, poised for action with his right hand holding a very serious-looking black pistol. After a quick glance around the room, he turned back to her, the questions in his eyes fading as he registered her obvious distress.

  “You’re pale as a ghost. And shivering.” Some of his tension, the readiness for action, dissipated.

  “What happened?” He tucked the gun out of sight, then placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “He left.” The words seemed to wobble as they left her mouth. “I saw him jump over the balcony shortly after I called you.”

  Gently, Morgan led her to the sofa and eased her into it, before moving toward the window. Finding the outdoor electrical switch behind the full-length drapes, he turned it on, flooding the exterior with light. “These locks are pathetic,” was his only comment as he opened the door that led out to the balcony. Trista watched him pace the length of it, leaning over the railing to look below. When he came back, he was shaking his head.

  “Who ever it was has managed to make a pretty clean getaway. Did you get much of a look?”

  Trista shook her head. “Not really. All I saw was a dark human shape.”

  “Could you tell if it was male or female?”

  “Not really. I guess I assumed it was male. He looked pretty large to me, maybe that was why.” Trista pulled her legs up and rested her chin on them, tensing her muscles, trying to stop the trembling. She felt Morgan rest his hand on her shoulder again and instinctively she closed her eyes, trying to will away an unaccountable desire to weep.

  “It’s okay, Trista. You’re safe now.”

  His words were so gentle, his touch so comforting, it made her want to cry all the more. She bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. And took a deep breath.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

  “No problem. I was in my car when you called, on my way home.”

  She took another breath. It was a little less shaky this time. What she needed was a drink.

  As if privy to her inner thoughts, he asked, “Could I get you something?”

  She nodded and started to get up. “A brandy. I’ll—”

  “No. Stay put.” He applied firm pressure to her shoulder. “Tell me where to look.”

  “Same place. In the cupboard over the fridge.” Her words hung in the quiet night air, along with the implications of familiarity, of common history. She saw the light come on in the kitchen, heard the cupboard door open, then bang closed. A few more doors were opened, and less than a minute passed before he returned with two snifters of their favorite orange brandy.

  He handed her one of them, then stood in front of her, eyes narrowed, watching as she took her first sip. She felt her hand tremble as she removed the crystal goblet from her lips and cursed herself for shaking like a schoolgirl at her first piano recital. Maybe Morgan would put it down to delayed shock. But her fear was already dissipating and she knew it was having him so close, in such an intimat
e setting, that made her nervous. It was still dark in the room—they hadn’t turned on any of the lights, except for the one in the kitchen. But her eyes were beginning to adjust and she could see him quite clearly now.

  The pale light from the windows threw stark shadows across his face, emphasizing the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the straight line of his nose, the determined set of his jaw. He looked tired, but that was often when she found him at his most attractive—had found him, she meant. Coming home from a late shift, dark stubble on his chin, the stamp of danger from the street still clinging to him. So often he’d woken her, needing the sanctuary she offered, and she loved those dark passionate nights most of all.

  Had. Trista repeated the word to herself, emphasizing the past tense, drawing a halt to the senseless reminiscing. This is what she had been afraid would happen if she saw too much of him. She would remember…she was remembering. Suddenly she became aware of her own disheveled appearance. Hair tangled and tousled. Not a trace of makeup. This old rag of a sweatshirt. And no jeans. Lord, she’d forgotten.

  Morgan was standing by the entertainment unit now. He probably hadn’t noticed.

  Fat chance. Morgan noticed everything.

  “Could you toss me my jeans? They’re on the table.”

  He glanced at her then, his gaze sliding slowly down the length of her legs.

  Awkwardly she shifted in her seat, tugging the sweatshirt around her bottom. A moment later, he tossed the folded denim jeans onto her lap. The cushion beside her caved in as Morgan sat down beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. She took another sip of brandy, closing her eyes to savor the warmth as it flowed into her still-weak limbs.

  “You were out late,” she said. She had this crazy urge to snuggle in close and lean her head on his shoulder. Dangerous thoughts. Morgan was the last place she had any right to look for comfort.

  “Hazard of the trade.” He leaned forward, supporting his forearms on his thighs, so that she couldn’t see his expression. Instead, she concentrated on the muscles in his arm, the way each individual one was clearly outlined beneath his darkly tanned skin. He’d obviously kept up his sessions at the gym. She looked at the thigh muscles straining at the cotton of his trousers. Maybe even increased them.

  “Do you think he was after the Walker file again?”

  “No doubt.” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “When he couldn’t find it at the office, he must have thought you were keeping it close to you.”

  “But why does he want it so badly? I tell you, there’s nothing there—”

  “But there must be, Trista. You’ll have to look again.”

  Oh God. When would this ever be over?

  “I called the office on my way over. The I-dent guys should be here shortly. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll pick up a print on the railing.” From his glum expression, Trista thought he didn’t think it was likely.

  “Frustrating, isn’t it?”

  He turned to look at her then. “Yeah,” he agreed, his eyes lowering to her legs. “Frustrating.”

  Trista swallowed. She’d have to stand to pull on her jeans, and already she felt utterly exposed beneath his gaze. Intimacy hung in the air, cloaked in darkness and smelling like brandy. She knew Morgan still felt anger and resentment toward her, but that wasn’t what she saw in his eyes right now.

  She became mesmerized by his finger as it stroked the lip of his brandy goblet. He’d turned his head away from her again, and was back to examining the contents of his glass, but she still felt a trace of fire burning the trail of his glance down her legs. The warmth burned through her body, and had nothing to do with the brandy she’d been drinking. It had been a long, long time since she’d felt this way. She took another sip of her drink. And another.

  “Drinking doesn’t make it go away.” Morgan’s voice was deep and low beside her. He was practically whispering in her ear. “I’ve tried that already.” He touched her half-empty glass with his empty one before setting it down on the coffee table.

  Trista’s heart thumped at his words. How had he guessed what she was feeling? Once he’d been able to tune in to her emotions easily. But after what had happened, after all these years, she couldn’t believe the link between them was still there.

  He was looking at her again, his eyes like a caress over her face, her hair, the length of her body, and back to her legs. She could feel the sensual power of his gaze sending out the message of his desire, a message her body interpreted and responded to with ease.

  She felt an inner power that she could still arouse desire in him. An amazement that the attraction that had always worked between them was so resilient. Her skin tingled, as if he touched her, but he only looked, and she trembled with a passion she’d thought she’d never feel again.

  “What’s under your sweatshirt, Trista?”

  His words were more erotic than any touch could ever be. And his eyes burned as brightly as if he could already see the silk teddy she was wearing underneath. It was impossible not to imagine how he would burn if she pulled up the cotton covering. Her body throbbed at the thought of his eyes on her breasts, barely covered by the lace bodice, or the upper portion of her thighs, revealed by the French cut of the legs.

  She knew what would happen then. She would be giving him permission for something that every inch of her body was eagerly and desperately wanting.

  “Take it off, Trista.” His voice was a groan, and her insides stirred in response. But she didn’t answer. She was too busy fighting the urge to lift the hem and pull the shirt over her head. Her fingers wrapped around the cotton band, twisting into the fabric, as she tried desperately to find reason in this night of insanity. Beside her she felt Morgan’s heat rising. Beneath the cotton of his shirt his shoulder and arm muscles tensed and released.

  He was close enough she could smell the brandy richness of his breath. If she moved forward, her lips would press against the rough skin of his cheek…

  She felt his hand wrap around her own, gasped at the sensual feel of his fingers on hers.

  “You’re spilling,” he said, gently easing the goblet out of her hand and setting it down beside his.

  “Oh.” He was even closer now. His lips just millimeters from her own. She pressed hers together, dampened them with her tongue, parted them slightly. Waiting. Waiting.

  “Show me what you’re wearing,” he said again, reaching for the hand she had woven into her sweatshirt hem. He squeezed it gently, pulled her other hand down to join it.

  He was still asking her permission, and the knowledge both warmed her heart and ignited her passion. Her fingers tightened their hold in the fabric, she felt them go numb from the pressure. Closing her eyes, she heard a low moan escape her lips, before she clamped them shut, astounded at the depth of her own desire.

  “I can’t.” The admission escaped from her, and she felt the letdown deep within her as every nerve cell protested the decision.

  Morgan closed his eyes briefly and took a deep, ragged breath. “God, Trista.” The words came from somewhere deep in his throat. Slowly he pulled away from her and she saw that his passion was being churned into fury. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  She swallowed, looking away from his anger. She couldn’t blame him. She’d created this situation as much as he had. Maybe more. “I didn’t do this intentionally, Morgan.”

  “Didn’t do what intentionally?” He stood up, putting distance between them. “Turn me on? Or get turned on by me? Or are you going to pretend you don’t want me?”

  She shook her head soundlessly, knowing that nothing she said would do any good now. Of all the ways to deal with their past disappointments, having a sexual encounter now would definitely be the worst. It didn’t matter how much they wanted each other. With daylight would come regret and the same anger and guilt that kept them apart.

  Her therapist had suggested she set a meeting with her ex-husband, to discuss their past issues. She knew she might have suggested the s
ame thing to a client herself.

  How easy to prescribe the right treatment for someone else!

  But she’d known there was no remedying the hurts between them. Morgan’s chances for happiness would be better with someone new.

  Of course, she hadn’t counted on a murder investigation bringing them together again.

  A knock on the door signaled the arrival of the men who would examine her apartment for any evidence of the intruder. Trista scurried into the bedroom to put on her jeans while Morgan answered the door and explained the situation. When she came out, he was ready to leave.

  “They won’t be long,” he told her. “Then you can go back to bed.”

  Trista despised herself for feeling afraid, but she was. “What if he comes back?” she asked quietly.

  Morgan paused on the threshold, his head bowed. After a few moments he swung around, reluctantly, to face her.

  “Is there someplace you could stay tonight? Maybe one of your neighbors would let you use their couch?”

  “That isn’t an option.”

  “Okay.” He was quiet for a few moments, considering the alternatives. “I guess you’d better come with me, then.”

  “But where will we go?”

  “I’ll book you into a hotel for the night.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Just give me a minute.”

  Morgan turned abruptly away. “I’ll wait in the hall.”

  Trista grabbed her purse and keys. Morgan waited while she locked the door, then kept several strides ahead of her as they left the building and headed for his car. Neither of them spoke as he unlocked the passenger door, then walked round to the other side. Trista sank into her seat, fastening the seat belt and scrunching herself as close to the door as possible.

  They’d decided to try the Westin downtown when Morgan’s pager beeped. Quickly he pulled out his cell phone and called in.