by Angie Sandro
“Upstairs, f-first door on the left,” I stammer, teeth chattering. “Oh, and no p-peeking at the lingerie hanging from the shower bar.”
His head cocks to the side before he shakes his head. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
“Good enough.” I snuggle deeper into the blanket and soak in the warmth spreading through my body. “Just promise to keep any comments to yourself.”
“That will also be difficult.”
He runs up the stairs, feet barely making a sound. His footsteps cross the bathroom floor above my head. I can even tell when he pauses in front of the shower. I picture him reaching out to lightly touch the bra hanging over the rod and grimace. At least they’re Victoria’s Secret, a gift from Pepper, and clean.
He returns just as quick. A slight smile flits across his lips as his eyes meet mine. I ignore it. He holds up a damp black towel. “Is it okay to use this one?”
One good wash and Pepper will never notice. I nod, reaching for it, but he pushes my hand away. He kneels and lifts my foot in his warm hands. He wipes away the mud with gentle strokes, and I wilt into the sofa, feeling like Cinderella. He comes off as such a hard ass that I never imagined his touch could be so gentle. Hmm, magic hands…
While he has his head bent over my foot, I study his face, tracing the curve of his brow. In the light, his brown hair glistens with lighter red and gold highlights, curling slightly at the tips to brush his ears. He glances up and catches me staring at him like a kid with a shiny toy. With a blush I can’t force back down, I tear my eyes away. His fingers knead the sole of my foot. Warmth fills my toes and travels up my leg, until a burning heat settles between my thighs. My breath quickens. Each stroke builds upon the last. It feels so good. And I’m greedy, selfishly aware of my body wanting…no, needing…more.
I imagine his hands lifting the nightgown as they slide across my bare skin. He traces the curves of my calves and massages my thighs. I didn’t wear panties to bed. No silken barrier stands between his fingers and me.
His thumb hits a pleasure point above my heel, and I gasp. He pauses, fingers flexing, and meets my eyes. Is that desire swirling in the murky depths?
Oh. Oh God, why care if he’s turned on? Everything about this guy rubs me raw. His arrogance makes me want to scream. Only I’m not sure if it’s a scream of pleasure or pain. My thighs clench, and I swallow the moan tickling my throat. I can’t ignore the emotions boiling inside me, or stop myself from wondering how his long fingers would feel sliding deep inside me. Distraction. Need one, fast.
My voice sounds husky as I spout the first thing that comes to mind. “I thought your eyes were brown, but they’re really the color of moss. Or jade, depending on your mood.”
The mossy eyes narrow. “Moss? The stuff that grows on the north side of trees?”
I jerk my foot free and instantly miss the warmth of his hands. I lift my feet onto the sofa and curl into a little ball. “Moss is pretty, especially deep in the bayou where I live. This is my mom’s house…” My cheeks heat even more at my babbling.
Why didn’t I think of a better way to describe his eyes? Well, at least I didn’t include in my less-than-poetic blurt of too much information that the gold flecks look so beautiful that I keep getting lost in them. To admit this would be a compliment to Anders, and I’m not ready to let down my guard that much. No matter how nice he’s “acting” at the moment.
Fingers snapping in front of my face bring my attention back into focus. “So, what do you have to say for yourself this time?” Anders asks. “Alien abduction?”
“Oh…ha, ha,” I drawl, but without my usual spit and vinegar. I’m still screaming inside over the injustice of my sleepwalking situation. Anders’s heroically timed rescue provided me with a convenient excuse for…ah, softening. No way would I find anything about the detective remotely intriguing otherwise.
Anders leans his elbows on his knees. “Seriously, Dena, what were you thinking? You could’ve been killed.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Obviously, I’ve proved your theory that I’m completely out of my gourd. And given the circumstances, I agree with you.”
“So, you’re not crazy?”
Wait. What? “There you go with your selective hearing. I agreed with you. Shouldn’t you be marching me to your car and driving me to the mental hospital right about now?”
The corner of his lip curls. “Crazy people usually don’t realize they’re crazy. If you think you are, then you must be sane.”
“Again with the twisted Anders logic. I find it difficult to believe you’re a detective, unless it’s a defective detective.” I giggle at my joke. See, Anders? Crazy.
He doesn’t laugh, just stares at me in silence. Guess he’s finally revising his earlier assessment.
“So, ‘Dena is not crazy’ is your official theory,” I say. “And you’ve conveniently discounted my story about a black shadow burning people to death…to justify this diagnosis.”
“You’re a little emotional.”
“What do you expect? I’m losing my mind.” Damn his magic fingers and mossy eyes. I huddle deeper in the blanket, wishing I hadn’t distracted him from the massage. Stupid, stupid, Dena. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
Anders rises to pace around the living room. I try to see it from his viewpoint. It’s a simple room with oak hardwood floors, built-in floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves, and a coordinating computer desk lined against the north wall, separating the living room from the kitchen. Pepper painted the walls the creamy color of real butter, not margarine. A sage loveseat sits beside the door in front of two large windows covered with cream and sage drapes. The matching sofa I’m on is situated directly across from the doorway.
Anders stands behind the sofa. I refuse to look, but I hear him pick up the black plaster replica of an Olmec statue from the narrow table. Pepper said she bought it last year while in San Felipe, Mexico. She and her boyfriend Judd were going hot and heavy back then. She said they partied like rock stars: swimming in the gulf, quad riding along the dunes, and dancing all night. She believed they’d be together forever, but he died last year. He was also a serial killer. Pepper has atrocious taste in men.
The presence at my back sends a chill rippling up my spine. I fidget, grinding my teeth together to keep from saying anything. He bugs the hell out of me. Either ignorant or pretending ignorance of my irritability, Anders restlessly strides to the bookshelves lining the north wall. He pulls out a book, flips it open with a grunt, and snaps it closed before meandering across the room until he stands between the fireplace and coffee table.
Finally, I break. “Will you stop pacing? You’re giving me a headache.” I tap my head. “Remember, Concussion Girl.”
He scowls, but walks around the coffee table to hover over the sofa. “I thought your friend was staying with you while you recuperated?”
“It’s been the prerequisite two days since I was released from the hospital, so I sent Gabriella home tonight. I don’t need a babysitter. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Obviously not, since you were auditioning for the part of road kill.”
I shrug, unable to argue his point.
“From your reticence, I assume you have no intention of explaining what’s going on?” He flings himself onto the sofa next to me.
I scoot my legs up, rolling into a ball in the corner, as far from him as I can get without moving from the sofa all together. I refuse to run from him despite my instincts screaming that he’s too close. Breathe, just breathe. My nostrils flare as I inhale his spicy scent. Waves of energy race across my skin, and I rub the goose bumps on my arms. Every piece of me is hyperaware of his every move. Freaking pheromones. It’s the only logical answer.
I hold my breath until my brain’s about to explode, then breathe through my mouth. The fog of lust clears. I adjust the blanket until it forms a barrier between us. He notices. Everything. I’m sure of it. It shows
in the way he lounges on the sofa. His fingers tap on his knees as he surveys the room, me—as if he’s perpetually on guard, never truly at peace.
“Does what happened have something to do with your attack?” he asks.
I shudder. I can’t help it. “Ding, ding, point to the cop. Your detecting skills have improved. Before being assaulted, I never sleepwalked. So, yes, it must have to do with the attack.”
I search his chiseled face for cynicism, but he’s doing his blank, inscrutable cop-look again. Feeling the need to explain, I say, “Before leaving the hospital after my first attack, I went through therapy. The doc said it’s perfectly normal to feel depressed and disconnected from reality after going through a traumatic event. Almost dying a second time—well, oddly enough, I feel more alive now than I have in months. I thought I was okay, but…” I shrug a shoulder and give a lopsided smile. Guess only half of me is on board with spilling my innermost secrets to Anders. “On the bright side, I’m not depressed anymore.”
“Are you experiencing any other symptoms aside from the obvious?”
Like being spiritually connected to the shadow of Death? “Mostly nightmares and a general feeling of doom hovering over my head. I didn’t expect the sleepwalking.”
Anders nods, eyes narrow. “Do you remember anything?”
I thread a straggly piece of yarn through a hole in the blanket. “I remember going to bed around nine o’clock, then waking up with your car speeding toward me. Anything that happened while sleepwalking hasn’t transferred over to this waking nightmare.”
“Talking to me is a nightmare?”
“What do you think? It’s not like the cop that already thinks I’m coo-cu-cachou is the person I’d choose to find me roaming around in my nightgown.”
Anders cants his body toward mine, propping his elbows on his knees. His gaze travels over my body. I can’t read his expression, but I brace for the worst because, with him, there’s always a worst.
“Do you know why I was in your neighborhood when the call came in about you?” he asks.
“Is this a trick question?”
“There was a murder earlier tonight a block from your house. That makes five victims and still no leads other than your black smoke monster.”
He shocks me to the core with the news. How surprising he held on to the information long enough to chitchat. He has improved on his interrogation techniques, and I fell for him like a teenage girl with her first crush.
He’s set me up! He knows I don’t have an alibi. I told him, in the spirit of gratitude at not running me over, that I sent Gabriella home and have no memory of the last—I glance at the clock—three hours.
I cross my arms so he can’t see my hands shake. “I see. So the real reason why you’re being so nice to me comes out.” My bark of laughter almost sounds like a sob. “You must’ve rubbed your hands with glee when you saw me in the road. Poor, confused Dena, so traumatized it only took a little foot rub for her to confess to the murder.” My drawl mocks myself more than him. Not that he cares since he acts like he didn’t even hear my words.
I bury my face in the blanket and scream, “I’m an idiot! I should’ve thanked you at the door and sent you packing, instead of inviting you into my house. You’re like a damn mosquito…or a tick…no, a leech. You suckered me into thinking you’re an actual human being.”
“I assume you’re feeling better now?” He studies my face as if nothing I’ve said bothers him in the least.
It probably doesn’t. Has he lived his entire life without anyone pointing out that he has some huge—too numerous to list right now—character flaws?
“Dena, are you listening to me?”
My eyes meet his, and I flush. “No. I was counting up all the reasons why I hate you. I can share them with you, but you’ve got more important things to do—like sliding your perky ass off my sofa and slinking to your murder scene like a good detective. Time to hit the road, Mike.” I push to my feet, wobbling a little because my legs have fallen asleep, and gesture him toward the door. “Appreciate your earlier assistance. I hope I never see you again.”
Anders exhales. It’s gustily full of unsaid things. Mentally, I rub my hands together in satisfaction. I really want him to squirm after all the irritating moments he’s given me.
“So you think my ass is perky?” His stupid eyebrow lifts, and I want to kick him in his perky backside.
I suck in a breath and hold it until my lungs burn. Don’t scream. When I release it, I’m back in control. “Get out.”
“Dena, if there is something I should know about this case, tell me.” His voice sounds like velvet as he purrs, “Why won’t you trust me?”
“What more is there to say? You tricked me into spilling guts, and now I’m your number one suspect. Case closed.” I march to the door and pull it open. “Good-bye, Anders. Don’t come back without an arrest warrant.”
CHAPTER 6
Finding a Patsy
I spend the rest of the night trolling the Internet for more information about the murders. The Bertrand Bee online newspaper has paid very little attention to these men’s deaths, almost as if someone’s deliberately keeping the news quiet. Maybe Dad’s conspiracy theories about the government weren’t as off-base as I thought. Given the lack of information or witnesses to the murders, I am apparently Anders’s only lead.
Despite what I told Anders, I feel some responsibility for those people’s deaths, since I suspect the licking guy and the black smoke are connected. I doubt it’s a coincidence that both entities were in the alley at the same time. Or that I dreamed of him saving me, like some kind of guardian spirit, and a man burned to death outside of the hospital the same night.
So yeah, there’s definitely something hinky going on here, and I’m in the thick of it. What’s even weirder is that, for some reason, I feel like this spirit is as much a victim of circumstances as I was. I have this…bone-deep compulsion to protect him. If I were to tell Mala about this, she’d say my behavior is “illogical” and arch her eyebrow at me in imitation of Spock. And she’d be right.
But I still don’t call Anders about him. Even if it would get the detective out of my life, how am I supposed to explain some guy licking the blood off my face? And…other parts.
Another odd thing I’ve noticed is how quickly my wounds have healed. The chest wound, which should’ve kept me hospitalized for weeks, is sealed with thick scar tissue—not very attractive—but also not oozing like it should be. The cut on my arm and the head wound didn’t even leave scars. The only residual difficulty from any of my injuries is a constant low-grade headache.
I enjoy reading stories involving the supernatural, but nothing I’ve ever read explains my situation. Dr. Estrada spoke of unusual symptoms before I left the hospital, and super-fast healing certainly qualifies.
When Gabriella drops by to check on me later that afternoon, I must look like death warmed over, ’cause she totally freaks out, planting her face so close to mine that I can count her eyelashes. “Oh my goodness, what happened?”
“Gabby, I’m fine…” I choke on the lie, unable to speak through the sob caught in my throat. Tears well in my eyes, turning her into a blurry brown blob.
Gabriella throws her arms around me. She doesn’t say anything for several minutes, letting me cry. One of the many reasons why I consider her a friend is she never judges or makes me feel like a loser when my emotions get the better of me.
When I finish sobbing into her new teal cashmere cardigan—so super soft that I hold back from rubbing my cheek against her shoulder and purring like a kitten—she pushes me into the kitchen and forces me to sit at the table. While she puts the kettle on the stove to make tea, I focus on something other than my own problems.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask. “I thought you had to work.”
Gabriella pauses in the middle of pouring hot water into a cup and doesn’t notice when it overflows until some splashes on her hand. “Ouch!” She st
icks her finger in her mouth. “Oh, that? Well, you know I’ve never really enjoyed working at the pet store. I like playing with the baby kittens and all, but really, I do have a college degree my parents spent a hell of a lot of money on. I figure it’s time to grow up and find a real job with decent benefits. Especially after seeing you in the hospital. If that happened to me, I’d be up shit creek without insurance to pay the medical bills.”
I nod. I’d be screwed if I hadn’t received a large chunk of money from Mala. When her great aunt Magnolia passed away last year, she inherited her aunt’s estate. Since she hated her aunt with a passion, she donated most of the woman’s “blood money” to local charities, like the Dubois Quake victims and her immediate family. That money saved me from drowning in debt after being hospitalized for months, and why Pepper could take my brothers on a week-long Disney vacation.
I stare at my friend through narrowed eyes. Gabriella’s sudden transformation into a responsible adult seems awfully suspicious. She’s avoided any type of responsibility for years. As the youngest daughter in a traditional Mexican family, she’s expected to live in her mother’s home until marriage. What’s changed?
“So you found a new job?” I ask.
“Hmm, you know, I can’t go back to the pet store knowing that as soon as I find a job I’m gonna quit. That wouldn’t be fair. I put my notice in two weeks ago. Now I’m free to take anything that comes up.”
I cross my arms and lean back in the chair. “Don’t you think quitting might be a bit premature? Jobs aren’t easy to find in this economy.”
Gabriella laughs, sticking out her chest to emphasize the breasts she relies on too often to solve her problems. “Nah, I’ve never had difficulty finding work. The girls and I have good interview skills.”
I muffle a sigh. Gabriella’s got a lot of positive attributes. She’s beautiful and intelligent, but her mother taught her to value looks over brains. She learned how to wrap guys around her little finger in high school. If the woman applied herself, she could’ve been a brain surgeon instead of aspiring to marry one. It would be sad, except she’s happy in her own skin. How often does that happen? And who am I to judge? I’ve got my own issues.