by Dana Marton
Murph nodded toward the kid’s knife. “You need to put that away. Now.”
Instead, Eduardo charged at him, screaming obscenities.
And just as Murph managed to grab his arm without letting the little turd nick him, the rest of the dimwits joined in, pulling their own weapons, a couple of nasty looking blades designed to give them the street cred they craved.
Murph knocked Eduardo back into his buddies. He didn’t want to kill them. Okay, he did, when he’d first spotted them attacking Kate, but he didn’t want to put that kind of trauma on her. He was a cop and a soldier, he’d better be able to subdue three snot-nosed kids without lethal violence.
He put on his scary face. “Scram!”
But the idiots were still thinking about it.
Then suddenly, Kate screamed like a ninja and rushed forward, around him, with her gun aimed.
Smarter than Murph had given them credit for, the kids ran into the black alley and disappeared. For a moment, he was tempted to run after them, if only to get away from the ungodly sound she was making.
Instead, he reached for her gun. He didn’t want her to accidentally squeeze the trigger and hit one of those boys who might still be loitering in the shadows of the alley. Killing another person wasn’t the easiest thing to live with, regardless of the circumstances.
He took the weapon from her stiff fingers and flicked on the safety. “You scared them off.”
Her hands began shaking.
“That’s good,” he told her. “You usually don’t start shaking until the fight is over. That’s something.”
While she stared at him pale-faced, he pulled his phone, called the station, caught Harper on the other end and told him what happened, which way the kids were heading, what they wore and what information he had on Eduardo. Then, after he hung up, he refocused on Kate.
“I could have shot you.” Her face paled another shade. “I had my finger on the trigger and you jumped in front of me.”
“That was stupid,” he acknowledged. And, okay, he wasn’t stupid, so why had he done it?
Because he wanted to protect her not only from the kids, but from doing something she’d regret later.
He bent to grab her bags then began walking toward his car that waited with the motor still going and the driver’s side door hanging open. “Come on. Get in.”
She did, sliding into the passenger seat next to him a few seconds later. She stared straight ahead, toward the alley as if worried that her attackers might come back.
“Where’s your car?”
“At the shop.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Heater.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
She glanced at him. “You're not my keeper. We barely know each other.” She wrapped her arms around herself as he pulled away from the curb and headed home. “I don’t have your number.”
He rattled it off. “Save that.” He waited until she pulled her phone out, then repeated his number again. Paused. “I’m sorry you were scared. They’ll be taken care of. I promise.”
She didn't start crying or freaking out as he half expected.
She simply nodded. “I think they just wanted my purse.”
Then they were at his driveway and he pulled into the garage since the snow was picking up. He carried her bags into the house and set everything on the counter.
She passed by him. “I’m taking a shower.” And then she disappeared down the hallway.
He wanted to go after her. To do what? Offer her a shoulder to cry on? Stupid.
As she'd said, he wasn't her keeper. They barely knew each other. They certainly weren't friends. The urge to comfort her was ridiculous.
Since he needed to walk off the adrenaline of the fight, he strode through the house, through rooms he hadn’t yet finished. He scanned the ripped-up floors, the doors that lay against the walls and the water-stained ceilings. Not the prettiest sight he’d ever seen, but it had potential. The place could look pretty nice, after some hard work.
The extra rooms were just as he’d left them. Kate hadn’t spread out. She didn’t seem to have much. She had no personal effects anywhere but the master bedroom and bath, Murph noted on his way back to his living room, then stilled when his gaze fell on his duffle bag next to the couch in the corner.
The bag no longer leaned against the wall exactly the same way as he’d left it. He strode over, looked inside, his muscles tensing. A couple of things were off, the book he’d carried to war—The Odyssey by Homer—on top instead of on the bottom.
Someone had been through his things.
The first person to flash into his mind was Kate. Had she come back home this morning after he’d left the house? Had she gone through his belongings? Why? Because she still didn’t trust him? Or was she looking for money?
She was a woman in trouble—people didn’t take on false identities for the fun of it—so he wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. But she wouldn’t be the first beautiful crook to scam a trusting man.
Maybe she was on the run from the law. He hesitated only for a second before he strolled back to her bedroom. He could hear water running. She was still in the shower, the bathroom door locked behind her.
He couldn't see the purse that held her gun. She must have taken it with her into the bathroom. That, too, meant something.
He glanced around. No pictures of any kind on the dresser or the nightstand. No correspondence. Not even a single bill. Maybe Doug had included utilities in the rent. She had a handful of books—mostly romance novels—on top of the fireplace that currently wasn’t operational. No jewelry or valuables.
He had a right to know who was living under his roof. He hesitated only a second before he opened the suitcase in the closet. Empty. He reached into the front pocket and pulled out an old parking pass. Kat Johansen. Her real name?
He was going to find out before the night was over.
He shoved the suitcase back in its place then strode out to the kitchen, sat at the table and waited for her. If she was an innocent woman in trouble, he wasn’t going to kick her out. But if she was a crook, he was going to make sure she was busted and put away for whatever crimes she’d committed.
Chapter Five
Kate felt a little better by the time she walked out to the kitchen, setting her purse on the counter. She was warm at last, wearing yoga pants and a simple cotton shirt. She was going to feed Murph into culinary bliss, talk him into leaving, then treat herself to double mocha chocolate from Antonio's fancy machine. After the day she’d had, she definitely deserved dessert.
She tugged her shirt down. Stopped herself. No nervous gestures. Smiled at him. “Thank you for saving me out there. I really appreciate it.”
“I don’t want you to walk around alone at night.”
“Okay.”
He watched her with a dark look on his face as he sat at the round, oak kitchen table. “Why aren’t you more shaken?”
“I've been threatened by bodily violence before,” she blurted out the truth, then snapped her mouth shut.
“Care to elaborate on that?”
“Not really.” Although, for a moment she wondered what he would say if she revealed that she’d not only been threatened before, but had been beaten, brutally, repeatedly. She didn't like talking about that part of her life. She didn't want people to treat her as if she was a victim. She didn't want to be pitied.
She pulled the hot chocolate machine out of the bag. Just looking at all those levers and settings on the picture felt comforting.
“What’s that?”
She set the box on the gleaming white counter, pushing a yellow-checkered dishcloth out of the way, then turned it so he could see the image. “A gift from a friend.”
“Who is Kat Johansen?”
The question caught her completely off guard. The air stuck in her throat. “What are you talking about?”
He held up a parking pass that she thought she’d gotten rid of w
hen she’d left her previous identity behind. Where had he found that? “Must have been someone who rented the place before me.”
“You might remember that I’m a cop. I’m pretty good at picking up when people are lying to my face. Why do you carry a gun wherever you go?”
She stiffened, her fingers tightening on the box. “It’s a free country.”
“You have a concealed weapon permit?”
Dammit. How could she have ended up renting from a cop? She should have asked Doug more questions. She needed to be more careful than this. “I better start cooking. I’m so hungry I can’t see straight. Aren’t you starving?”
She reached for the Pizza Palace bags. “How do you like your pizza? It’s going to be all-fresh, home-made.”
“How about we go down to the station, run your prints and see what the system kicks out? I wouldn’t mind knowing that the person making my dinner is not, say, a serial killer.”
She met his gaze. “I’m not. I promise.”
“You’re not Katherine Concord either.”
Murph had an I-mean-business look on his face. He was too observant by far, too smart, too everything.
“You’re hiding something, and neither of us is leaving this kitchen until I find out what. It’s that simple. Let’s do it the easy way.”
She clenched her jaw. Nothing had been easy since she’d walked into Marcos’s penthouse apartment and watched him bleed to death.
Murph folded his fingers together on the table in front of him. “I’ll make it even easier. Why don’t you just answer a couple of questions?” He paused. “Are you in trouble with the law?”
“This is ridiculous.” She moved to unpack the first Pizza Palace bag, turning away from him. She didn’t want him to see her face and maybe catch that she was lying. “Of course not.” Except maybe a few counts of identity theft.
“You hesitated.”
Sherlock freaking Holmes. “I don’t want the law involved.” She turned the oven to 450 degrees. All the appliances were brand new, stainless steel. Most of the house needed work, but the kitchen had been updated, a pretty nice space, or it would have been, if he wasn't sitting in the middle of it, scowling at her.
“Are you hiding from someone? I want the truth. I can protect you.”
Maybe he could. If she could trust him. But she couldn’t. She stepped to the fridge to escape his searching gaze, but she couldn’t escape his questions.
“Why did you go through my bag?” he asked from right behind her, making her jump. He’d come around, his socked feet silent on the dark slate tiles. He stood between her and the counter with her purse and gun.
She swallowed. He was taller, stronger, twice as wide in the shoulders, crowding her in the small space. “I didn’t touch your stuff.”
He took a step closer yet. “Somebody did.”
A chill ran down her spine, desperation bubbling in her stomach as her gaze darted around the room. Had Asael found her?
She’d been so careful. She always checked whether she was being followed. She’d chosen Broslin randomly. She kept no ties with any of the places she’d hidden before, no ties at all with her true identity. Not a single person among her friends and family knew that she was alive.
She shook her head. Murph had to be imagining things. She tried to step to the right, but he put a hand on her shoulder.
He looked at her for a second, searching her face. “I’ll refund whatever money you already paid Doug. I want you to leave as soon as you get your car back tomorrow.”
Her stomach clenched as panic sliced through her. “I can’t. This isn’t fair.”
“I’m not going to have someone I don’t trust in my house. I’m sorry for whatever troubles you’re facing. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what's wrong.” He dropped his hand, but he didn’t step back. “I think you’re running from someone. I need to know who it is. I have a right to know who might be showing up at my door, looking for you.”
“Nobody.”
“Fine. When you go, make sure you’re not being followed. Do you know how to do that?”
“Keep track of the car behind me.” She’d been doing that forever.
But he shook his head. “Keep track of the car two cars behind. Someone following you would drive far enough back so you wouldn’t easily see him, but not so far that he’d have to worry about missing you at every traffic light. Watch out for cars that run red lights behind you.”
He paused for a second before continuing. “Keep an eye out for a vehicle that’s fast, but ordinary, color blue or champagne. Tinted windows, but not too tinted. No signs on the side, no distinguishing marks. It's supposed to blend in. Same for the clothes on the guy. He’ll wear earth tones or grays if he knows what he’s doing. Something your grandfather would wear. No color.”
She blinked at him. He was giving her advice on how to spot a tail. Pretty surreal, considering he was kicking her out.
She glanced toward the window, snow coming down hard now. Any harder and they’d be looking at a blizzard. It was the middle of freaking winter. She needed the safety of this house and she needed her job at the diner until she saved enough to be able to start over somewhere else.
Her moving expenses would be negligible, but she had to be able to support herself until she found another job that didn’t require papers. Not that many small business owners were willing to risk hiring under the table these days, not since the government had started cracking down on illegal immigrants.
Panic fluttered inside her chest. She couldn't move on yet. Nothing was set up.
He watched her as he stepped back, giving her room to breathe at last. “I could give Bing a call right now. He probably has something open.”
Bing was the police captain, he’d start with a background check. Think. What were her options? Winter was a terrible time to be homeless. And, in any case, sleeping in her car was a quick way to have someone call the cops on her. Or have some idiots like the boys in the alley jump her. She seemed to be flat out of choices.
“Okay, fine,” she rushed to say, grabbing the yellow-checkered dishcloth from the counter and twisting it in her hands. “I am hiding from someone. He’s a really bad guy and he wants me dead. I need you to let me stay. I have nowhere else to go.”
“Obsessive ex?”
She shook her head. She didn't want to say more. But Murph had jumped to her defense in the alley. Maybe he could help her. God knew, she needed help. If there’d really been someone in the house like he thought…. She swallowed hard. “I am the only witness to a murder. The killer is after me.”
He stared at her, his jaw working. “How long have you been running?”
“A year and a half. You can’t tell anyone. I can’t take any chances. Please.”
He stood still, considering her carefully. “Before I promise anything, I want to hear the whole story.”
* * *
Murph leaned against the kitchen island while Kate busied herself with a baking stone and the fresh ball of dough she’d brought home in a bag. Probably nervous and needing to do something with her hands.
A killer hunted her.
Okay, yeah, he hadn't seen that coming. That was a little more serious than a ticked-off ex. She'd survived on her own for eighteen months on the run. He wanted details, a million questions circling in his head as he watched her with new-found respect. And attraction. Whether he wanted it or not, his body kept responding to hers.
The tight, black pants she wore outlined her perfect backside that he would have dearly loved to explore under different circumstances. The soft material of her simple shirt stretched over her chest in a way that made his mouth water.
A British police booth cookie jar he'd received for Christmas from Leila last year, and had stuck into the back of a cabinet once the cookies were gone, now sat on the kitchen counter. To give Kate time and distract himself, he peeked into it, pulled out a cookie, bit in. Brown sugar melted on his tongue. “You made these?”
She shot a darting glance his way. “The new neighbor brought them over. Wendy White. Have you met her?”
He nodded. “Seems cheerful.”
“And then some.” She turned back to her work. “I guess she can bake, but she can’t cook. She’s over at the diner three times a day. For every single meal.” She glanced at the time on the microwave. “She’s probably there right now. She comes like clockwork, at nine, then one, then five.”
He watched as she slapped the dough around a little then began stretching it. He wanted her relaxed enough so she’d tell him what he wanted to know, so he didn’t push. He stepped away from the kitchen island and went to wash the tomatoes, but his phone rang. He glanced at the display, picked up.
“Wanted to let you know we picked up Eduardo and his crew. They’ll be cooling their heels in jail tonight. Are you coming in to press charges in the morning?” Harper asked.
Murph glanced at Kate. “It’s the police. Want to press charges?”
Fear widened her eyes. She shook her head rapidly.
“We’ll let it go this time,” Murph told Harper. “You make sure you put the fear of God into those little bastards.”
A moment of silence passed on the other end, then, “You know what we say about people who don’t press charges, right?”
He did. In general, cops preferred to see criminals face the music. “There are extenuating circumstances.”
“All right. I’ll see if I can scare them straight. And I'm keeping the knives.”
Murph thanked Harper and hung up, went back to helping with the tomatoes.
Kate worked on the dough. “I grew up in Northern California,” she said after a minute.
That explained the slight accent he hadn’t been able to place.
“I was in and out of foster care for most of my childhood,” she said in a matter of fact tone, looking at her hands instead of him, as if distancing herself both from him and the story. “I was a pretty prickly kid. Defensive. Didn’t trust anyone. I sure as hell didn't like anyone. And I didn't think I needed anyone either. Then I was adopted by the best people on earth when I was twelve and my sister was a baby. I love my family with all my heart. I miss them like crazy.”