by Rebecca York
“You think it has to do with the murders?” she asked.
“I thought of some other possibilities while I was outside. But that was before I ran into the booby trap.”
Before she could ask more questions, he strode into the office and sat down at the desk, where he called up the surveillance program and scrolled back through the video to the point where the alarm had gone off. Leaning forward, he watched intently, but his gut feeling had been right. The guy hadn’t gotten close enough to the house to show up on camera.
Olivia was standing in back of him, watching the computer screen.
“He’s not there,” she murmured.
“Like I said.”
“Then come up and let me take care of those cuts.”
He would rather have taken care of the problem himself, yet he wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it, either.
Chapter 7
Olivia saw Max hesitate. “You’re too macho to let me take a look at those cuts?” she inquired in a voice that she tried to make both quiet and challenging. “I mean, they’re on your face. You need to close your eyes to disinfect them.”
Turning, she walked down the hall, her breath shallow as she waited to see if he was following her. At first she heard nothing but the snick of the lock and realized he was securing the door. Still, she didn’t start breathing normally until she detected the sound of footsteps behind her.
She climbed the steps, reached the bathroom, and turned on the light.
Max followed her inside, and when she got a better look at him, she made a low sound.
“What?” he growled.
Wordlessly, she gestured toward the mirror over the sink, watching him take in his own appearance. There was a cut across his left eyebrow, perilously close to the eye, another one on the right side of his forehead a half inch farther up, and bloodstains on several places across the front of his T-shirt and on his arms, corresponding to tears in the fabric.
“I guess the shirt is going in the trash,” he muttered as he began to pull up the hem.
She watched him ease it over his head, being careful of the injuries, then turned away, opening the medicine cabinet and seeing only items that must have been there for years, like her father’s old shaving cream and deodorant.
“There’s nothing we can use,” she murmured.
“I have a first-aid kit in my bedroom.”
She nodded, watching him turn and stride down the hall. When he came back he was carrying his T-shirt and a metal box, which he set on the edge of the sink.
“Do you always travel with first-aid equipment?” she asked.
“It’s standard operating procedure for Rockfort Security.”
“You get hurt a lot?”
He avoided a direct answer by saying, “It’s best to be prepared.”
Balling up the shirt, he tossed it toward the trash can.
He was half undressed and standing very close to her, and she had to remind herself why they had come into the bathroom. He’d been injured because someone had been sneaking around outside her house.
Reaching past her, he lowered the shade, brushing his arm against hers. She could smell the male scent of his body and see his well-muscled chest and arms in close detail—a lot closer than she’d like. She hadn’t counted on any kind of intimacy with Max, and she felt a little shiver travel over her skin at the sudden contact. Trying to stay on task, she opened the box and examined the contents, finding what she needed—antiseptic and sterile pads.
But being so close to half-naked Max was making her breathing unsteady and her heart flutter inside her chest like a bird trying to get out of a cage. Fighting the unwanted sensations, she desperately searched for a way to cool herself down. When her gaze landed on a puckered indentation to the left of his navel, she focused on it.
“What happened to you?” she asked. “I mean…before,” she clarified, pointing toward the old injury.
“I was shot.”
Maybe it was none of her business, but she wanted to know. “When?”
“In a drug raid eighteen months ago. That’s why I left the Baltimore Police force, if you want to know. They were going to keep me on desk duty for months, which was a stupid move on their part. A waste of manpower.”
“Because you thought you were fit for the street.”
“I know I was. I worked hard getting myself back in shape.”
“So you quit?” she guessed.
“And got partial disability, which meant I had some time to figure out my next move. Then I met the other two Rockfort guys, and we decided we made a good team.”
Her curiosity piqued, she asked, “How did you meet the other two Rockfort men?”
He laughed. “In jail.”
Her head jerked up. “Did I hear that right?”
“We all happened to be in a Miami nightclub when the place was raided. We ended up keeping order in a holding cell with a lot of tough hombres. And in the morning, we went out for breakfast—and decided to stick together.”
She tipped her head to the side, studying his open expression, which could be as fake as a three-dollar bill. “You’re not making that up?”
“Why do you think so?”
“I got a taste of your storytelling ability at the reunion meeting.”
He laughed. “Yeah, well, this story’s true. Besides, who would make up a story about getting busted?”
“I guess that’s right.”
The conversation had helped to take her focus off the sexual awareness, but she’d better remember why Max was standing half naked in front of her. “We should wash the cuts first.”
He answered with a little nod, and she wondered if he was reacting to her the way she was reacting to him.
She knew he was attracted to her. That was something a woman could tell. But she also knew he wasn’t going to do anything about it unless she invited the attention. And she wasn’t going to do that. Fooling around with him would interfere with their investigation, and that was as good a reason as any to douse her overheated imaginings with a bucket full of cold reality.
Struggling to change the direction of her thoughts, she turned temporarily away from Max’s masculine temptation. At the sink, she turned on the water, letting it warm up while she stepped around him and into the hall, where she opened the linen closet and retrieved one of the clean washcloths she’d brought to the house.
When she came back, she saw him leaning toward the mirror, inspecting his face, his dark eyes narrowing as they took in the damage.
He straightened as she reached to turn the water lower and wet the washcloth.
“I guess I was lucky.”
“You mean because it missed your eye.”
“Yes. Whoever was out there wanted to stick it to me.” He laughed. “Literally.”
“Or me,” she countered.
“I hope you wouldn’t be sneaking around after dark if you heard someone outside. That would put you in the ‘too stupid to live’ category.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“But you didn’t do it.”
“What category does it put you in?”
“Doing my job,” he snapped.
“So you’re saying the attack really was aimed at you?” she said as she squeezed most of the water out of the cloth.
“That seems likely.”
“Because?”
“Like I said, it was my job to investigate. And if I went out there and ended up with my ass in a sling, they could go after you.”
She winced as she followed his logic. “Let me clean your face. Close your eyes.”
When he’d complied, she lifted her hand, pressing the wet cloth against the wound before gently wiping away the blood.
“It’s not deep, right?” he asked.
“No.” She cleaned both wounds on his face. “Keep your eyes closed so I can disinfect the cuts.”
As he stood before her with his eyes shut and his face badly scratched, he looked more vulnerable than she had eve
r seen him.
Fighting the urge to gently touch his lips, she grabbed a premedicated packet and tore it open, extracting the pad inside and carefully wiping the wound over his eye and then the one on his forehead.
“Thanks,” he said in a husky voice when she had finished.
“There are the ones on your chest and your arms.”
“I can do those.”
Knowing that was the smart course of action, she took a step back and to the side, giving him access to the sink. Maybe she should leave and give him some privacy, but she couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened to him because of her. He might say the attack was directed at him, but that was only because he was guarding her.
“You say it was aimed at you. But we’ve only been here for a couple of days.”
“Did you ever come down here alone?” he asked.
“A few times.”
“Okay.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just responding. Did anything ever happen when you were here?”
“I came back once because the guy who rents the fields from my father complained that someone had vandalized his tractor.”
His head swung toward her, his mind obviously focused on business now. “You never mentioned that.”
“I didn’t think it was important. I mean come on, what does a vandalized tractor have to do with Angela’s murder?”
He made a huffing sound. “Maybe nothing. But in light of the barbed-wire trap, we have to consider that everything’s important.”
She didn’t like the way he said that.
“It was a few months ago. And it didn’t seem relevant,” she repeated, hating the way he’d so easily put her on the defensive.
“Uh-huh.”
He kept working on the cuts on his chest and arm, first washing them as she had done with his face and then using the disinfectant.
“Do you think you need an antibiotic?” she asked.
“No.”
“And you’re up to date on your tetanus shots?”
“We all stay up to date on those. I mean me and my partners,” he clarified.
He had brought a dark T-shirt with him, and he picked it up.
“Wait a minute.”
“Why?”
“One of the cuts on your chest is still bleeding.”
Despite her previous decision not to touch him again, she pulled a square compress from the box, pulled away the adhesive backing, and pressed it to the cut, her hand resting against his warm skin for a moment, feeling his heart beating steadily but perhaps a little fast.
“I guess I didn’t think about pulling it off again,” she said as she noted the way it was stuck to his skin.
“My punishment for walking into the barbed wire in the first place.”
“You couldn’t see it in the dark.”
“Yeah. I guess that was the idea.”
“It was a mean trick.”
“Right again. Which suggests we’re dealing with someone who doesn’t mind hurting people.”
She dragged in a breath and let it out. “Do you think it has something to do with the murders?”
“I wish I knew for sure. It could be that the people who were murdered were harassed first, but we can’t exactly interview them to find out. And I didn’t consider that we’d need to interview the man who rents the farm property. What’s his name?”
“Bill Yeager.”
“And where does he live?”
“On the next property over.”
“Okay.”
“Why would vandalizing his tractor have anything to do with me?”
“Well, I was thinking that this farm is valuable land. What if someone wanted to encourage you to sell?”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
“We can’t discount it.” He changed back to another line of speculation. “Did Angela mention anything to you about being harassed?”
She thought before she answered. “Not specifically, but I got the feeling she was nervous about something.”
“What?”
“She never said. And I didn’t press her.”
“Why not?”
“I figured she’d tell me if she wanted me to know. Both of us were busy, and we were going to sit down for a long chat when I got here.” As she said the last part, her chest tightened.
“Sorry,” he said.
“We’re never going to have that chat.”
“I know. Death makes you think about what you regret not doing.”
“You have regrets?”
“Some.”
“What?” she asked.
“People I should have made time for. There was a guy who mentored me. He’d called me and suggested that we go to dinner, but I was studying for exams and asked if we could wait until the next week. Then he died of a heart attack, and I wish we’d gotten together one last time before it happened. I mean, maybe he had a premonition that he wasn’t going to be here much longer.”
Maybe she shouldn’t be pushing for information, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know about him—to feel closer to him. “You said people.”
“Yeah.”
“Who else?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. “My mom.”
“She passed away too?”
“Yeah. She had a tough life. I tried to make it easier for her when I had the money to do it. I got her a nice apartment and some furniture.” She saw his Adam’s apple bob. “But I didn’t visit real often.”
“I didn’t visit my dad either.”
He raised one shoulder. “You didn’t get along?”
“He always had his own ideas about how I should live my life. Since I didn’t agree, I didn’t give him a lot of chances to carp at me about it.” She raised one hand, turning it palm up. “It was easy to block him out. But there was plenty I couldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Over the past few years, I’ve spent too much time doing stuff I didn’t want to and not enough time doing things I wanted to do.”
“Why?” he asked
“To get ahead. You didn’t do the same kind of stuff?” she challenged.
“If you mean police work, I guess that’s right.”
Again, she couldn’t stop herself from pushing beyond what would be normal boundaries. “You were in an organization where discipline was important. Did that ever get to you?”
“Yeah.”
“And you could have waited out the desk assignment, but you quit.”
“Right. I guess I’m with Rockfort Security because I reached the decision that I wanted to do things my way.”
“You’re lucky.”
He laughed. “It took a long time for me to find the right balance.”
She wanted more insights into what made Max tick, but he switched the subject to her again.
“Is this going to change the way you live?”
“What do you mean by—this?” she asked in a voice she couldn’t quite hold steady.
“The murders.”
She took a moment before answering. “I think it will.”
“What if your being down here makes you lose that job you were talking on the phone about?”
“I guess I’ll have to let it go.”
“Did you ever let a job go before?”
“Like I said, I’m reevaluating my priorities.” She stepped into the hall, hoping that the tone of her voice made it clear that she didn’t want to discuss her business decisions with him. Or anyone else—because there wasn’t anyone who could give her the counsel she needed. Certainly not Jerry Ellison.
Apparently he picked up on her determination to close the subject because he said, “What about Angela’s mother? Would Angela have said anything to her about her problems?”
Olivia thought about that as they stood in the darkened hallway. “Her mother’s in a nursing home. I’m betting Angela wouldn’t have bothered her with anything negative.”
&nbs
p; “But we could talk to her tomorrow.”
“You want to do that?”
“I want to follow up whatever leads we have. And I didn’t feel like I got much tonight. Most people at the reunion meeting were on their best behavior. They were trying to project how successful and well adjusted they were.”
“Well, except for Tommy Larson trying to kick you out.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Was he always so aggressive?”
“He was a football player.”
“Right.”
“And you think that person on the property changed things?” she asked.
“Don’t you? I mean, don’t you think someone coming here brings the investigation closer to you?”
She wished she could deny it, but she could only nod in agreement.
“I have the name of the nursing home in my notes. We can go over and see her tomorrow.”
“What about tonight?” she asked.
“What about it?”
“Do you think whoever strung that barbed wire is going to come back?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he turned tail like a scared ferret when he could have confronted me. I think he’s playing it safe. And if I’m wrong about that, I’ll hear the alarm.”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Then I guess I’ll go to bed.”
“I’ll stay up for a while.” He stopped in the doorway and turned back to her. “Think about what might link the killings together.”
“I have.”
“And what might link you with the victims,” he added.
She winced. “Thanks.”
“We have to be realistic.” He paused. “Do you ever use bedtime to give yourself a problem to solve?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a useful technique. For example, I might focus on something I’m wondering about and tell myself I’m going to process it while I sleep.”
“That works?”
“Sometimes. Maybe you could try it.”
“Give me an example.”
He looked like she’d put him on the spot, but he finally said, “A few months ago we were trying to help Shane’s wife figure out who had kidnapped her brother. Well, she wasn’t his wife then.”
“I didn’t know he was married.”
“He and Jack both are,” Max said then switched back to the subject at hand. “Anyway, we were working on the situation with the brother, and I’d think about it when I got in bed—running down lists of bad guys in the area.”