Secure Location

by Beverly Long

  His room was an exact duplicate of hers. He took just a minute to crank up the air-conditioning and grab a clean T-shirt from his bag. He stepped into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, shucked off one shirt and pulled on another. All the while, he listened for the door. He wasn’t concerned about someone trying to get in but he thought she might make a break for it.

  But when he walked through the connecting door, she was still standing in the middle of the room. “Really, Cruz,” she said. “This isn’t necessary. It’s just down the street. You should unpack, get some rest.”

  He didn’t bother to answer—just motioned for her to follow him. They walked down the short hallway to the elevators in silence. Ten floors down, they exited the hotel at street level, on the other side of the River Walk. It was a different world. There were no lush walkways or meandering tourists. The sidewalk was a mile of white cement and the trees along it offered little shade from the late-afternoon sun that was still mercilessly hot. Buses rumbled by, belching exhaust, picking up locals, delivering them either to or from work.

  Cruz fell into step next to Meg. He looked around but nobody seemed to be paying any attention to them.

  The dry cleaner was a small Asian woman who greeted Meg warmly and looked at him with unguarded speculation. Meg didn’t introduce him. She simply paid the bill and Cruz swung the heavy plastic bags over one arm, keeping one hand free. He had his gun tucked into the small of his back and he wanted to be able to get to it quickly.

  He thought they would head back to the hotel but Meg turned the opposite direction. “I need a few more things,” she said.

  Half a block later, she pushed open the door of a lingerie store. High counters with partitions every couple of feet captured a sea of silk and lace. Bras. Panties. Holy crap, garter belts.

  The dry cleaning bag brushed against a rack of nightgowns that rippled in response. He overcorrected and his other elbow knocked against a mannequin, wearing a little bit of nothing that would make a grown man beg. He grabbed a breast and managed to get it righted before it fell over.

  He felt like a bull in a china shop but it was all worth it when Meg, for the first time since he’d knocked on her office door, smiled at him. “Asking for her number?” she mocked.

  “Funny,” he said. Meg had always loved pretty underwear. And he’d loved seeing her in it. Buying it for her. The private modeling sessions that followed.

  He could hear the air-conditioning going full blast but his neck felt hot. The store was full of women. There were only two men and they were dutifully following their wives or girlfriends around the room. Directly across the wide room was a door that probably led to a backroom and then to the alley. If he stood by the cash register, he’d have a good view of the room and both possible exits. “I’ll wait up front,” he said.

  Meg took a shopping basket off the stack. “I won’t be long.”

  He hoped not. His eyes were starting to water. Somebody was wearing enough perfume to knock an elephant on its butt.

  Meg smelled the same. He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d noticed that but it had been nagging at him. Her skin had always been so soft, so incredibly sexy, and her scent, some perfect combination of vanilla and her, had turned him on. Always.

  Six months ago, he’d awakened after surgery, thinking, Damn my leg hurts but at least I’m not dead, and he’d known she was there. He’d lain in the bed, keeping his eyes closed, content just to let her scent surround him.

  She was back. It had made getting shot worth it. A hundred times over.

  She’d held his hand. He hadn’t been in any shape to converse but that hadn’t kept the thoughts from tumbling around in his drugged-up head. I promise I’ll be a better husband. I promise I’ll be more in touch with what you need. I promise I’ll be enough.

  But he hadn’t had the opportunity to even try to deliver on those unspoken oaths. She’d held his hand, kissed his cheek, whispered goodbye and that was the last time he’d seen her until today.

  Who’d have thought that he’d be standing around watching her buy underwear? No matter that every item Meg dropped into her basket caused the heat on his neck to branch out until his whole body felt warm. No matter that he felt like a damn teenager because he was getting hard. No matter what. His job was to watch her. He’d somehow failed her before. And that couldn’t be changed. But he would not fail her with this.

  He shifted the dry cleaning, folding it over one arm, letting it hang in front of him. When Meg came up to the counter to pay for her items, he kept his eyes moving around the room, away from where the cashier was diligently wrapping every item in tissue paper. There was only so much temptation he could take.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  Oh, yeah. Ready, aimed poorly and about to fire. He opened the door, scanned the street and stepped out first. Meg followed and they walked back toward the hotel in silence. When they got to their rooms, he unlocked Meg’s door and checked it before letting her enter. “Do you want to rest before we eat?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ll take a fast shower. Will that work for you?”

  What would really work for him was if she put on some of her new purchases and straddled his body and he—

  “Cruz?”

  “Yeah. Works for me.”

  * * *

  MEG STOOD UNDER the shower and let the hot water attempt to work the tension out of her shoulders, her back. Her mind. It had only been seven hours since Cruz had stood in her doorway and already she was a bundle of conflicting emotions. She wanted him gone. She wanted him in her bed. She wanted him to understand that she wasn’t his responsibility any longer. She wanted him to tease her and make her laugh like he used to.

  Ping, pong. Up, down. Right, left. She was waffling more than a presidential candidate.

  It had been so much easier to pretend that she didn’t love him still when he’d been a thousand miles away. She could pretend that she’d moved on. She could pretend that she hadn’t left everything that ever mattered back in Illinois.

  The pretending she’d been doing—well that was merely drama class. Now that he was here, staying next door, committed to being her shadow, her performance needed to be worthy of a damn academy award.

  She got out of the shower and towel-dried her short hair. When she’d been married, she’d worn it past her shoulders, taking the time to straighten the thick, naturally curly locks. That’s how Cruz had liked it. She’d cut it the day after she’d come back from her vigil at his hospital bed that had begun with a call from Sam.

  Cruz was shot. He’s at the hospital. Not sure of his condition.

  She’d taken the first plane from San Antonio to Chicago. They’d already been apart for six months but she’d known that she needed to be there.

  Hadn’t been able to do anything but stand over him, surrounded by humming machines and blinking lights, and will him to live. When she’d been sure he would, she’d left again, knowing for sure what she’d believed six months earlier when she’d left the first time. He was better off without her.

  Perhaps cutting her hair had been symbolic of cutting the last thread that connected her to this man. Damn him for saying he liked it. He should have hated it.

  Hated her.

  Maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to walk away but he couldn’t. He had always been guided by a sense of duty. That was what made him such a good cop. He’d been promoted through the ranks and had made detective faster than most but hardly anyone seemed to begrudge him the success. They knew he worked hard, pushed hard, made it tough for the bad guys.

  She opened her dry cleaning and pulled out a simple black dress. She left the matching jacket on the hanger. Even at night, the temperature would hover near eighty. If they ate outside, she would roast in the jacket. She left her legs bare and slipped on the heels that she’d already worn for twelve hours.

  Two sharps raps on the connecting door signified Cruz’s arrival. She opened it and saw that he’d showered, too—the ends o
f his hair were still a little damp. He’d changed into a pair of gray cargo shorts and a white T-shirt.

  “You look tired,” he said.

  Great. What every woman wanted to hear. “I’m fine.” She crossed his room and opened the door. “You should definitely spend some time on the River Walk. It’s really fabulous.”

  “I’m not here as a tourist, Meg.”

  “I know that,” she said. He was here because she was an obligation. She was a tired-looking obligation. Be still my heart. “Look, let’s just go.”

  While the evening air was still warm, the sun was low in the sky and had lost its intensity. The skyline was a wild combination of pinks and reds with a little purple creeping in. As they strolled past the open-air restaurants, sweet flower smells combined with the scent of rich food. The gentle murmur of conversation and laughter was punctuated by the rumble of the small guided riverboats filled with gawking tourists. The guide would fill their ears with facts and trivia about the city and the river and how the town had practically died out in the fifties before a few visionaries had figured out how to channel, literally, the area’s greatest natural resource.

  Texas wasn’t for sissies. When she’d arrived a year earlier, they’d been in the middle of a horrific drought with wildfires burning across the state. Tourism dollars were tight and there was talk at the hotel that layoffs were imminent. Accepting that Mother Nature could be wicked, she and Scott had vowed to worry about the things they could control.

  No guest left less than delighted. When there was the occasional complaint, either Meg or Scott or one of their highly trained managers immediately investigated and employed every service recovery trick in the book. As a result, there were almost all glowing reviews on the external websites and business had been better every month. With both of them working twelve hours a day, six days a week, they had managed to swim upstream and last quarter, their sales had been up thirty percent, year over year.

  As a result, she hadn’t spent much time strolling along the stone-lined riverbank and she wasn’t much of a guide.

  “What are you hungry for?” she asked. “There’s Italian, Mexican, steaks and seafood. You name it, we’ve got it.”

  “Steak,” he said.

  Some things never changed.

  And some things could not be changed. That’s what had led them to this crazy place where they were almost as polite as strangers to one another but had a familiarity that no amount of time or distance could seem to diminish.

  The restaurant she picked had indoor and outdoor seating. The hostess said both were available. Cruz raised an eyebrow, letting her make the choice. She always preferred to eat outside, no matter how hot. The young woman led them to an open spot and Cruz pulled out her chair. She glanced around and hoped that he didn’t get the wrong idea. There were candles on all the tables and soft lights were strung through the branches of the trees that lined the sidewalk. It was romantic. The breeze blowing through the trees, skimming across her warm skin was almost sensual.

  When the waiter came for drink orders, she chose red wine and Cruz got a beer. He ordered twelve ounces of Texas rib eye with a loaded baked potato and a Caesar salad. She ordered salmon and a side of broccoli.

  “Some things never change,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.

  “I have a full day tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll start around seven and won’t be done until late tomorrow night. I have an event.”

  He sipped his beer. “At work?”

  “No. There’s a not-for-profit in town called A Hand Up. Their mission is to help the recently incarcerated acclimate back into society by finding employers to offer six-month internships. The employers get a break financially because half the salary is paid by donations. The clients get a chance to demonstrate that they are walking the straight and narrow and can be good employees.”

  “And your connection with this group?”

  “The hotel has offered several internships. I’ve been their contact.”

  He pushed his beer aside. “You’re employing convicts?” he asked, his voice hard. “You don’t think you might have mentioned that before now?”

  She frowned at him. “Formerly incarcerated. They are vetted very thoroughly. We’ve had four clients, two have finished their rotation and two are more than halfway through. They’ve all been wonderful.”

  “I want their names.”

  “No. There’s absolutely no reason to think that they have any grudge against me. It’s known in advance that the assignments are six months long so they aren’t surprised when the work ends. And they will be scared to death if some badass Chicago cop comes knocking on their door.”

  He picked up his beer and took a drink. “You think I’m a badass?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Yes. As bad as they come.”

  “Where is the event?”

  “Six blocks from here. At another hotel.”

  “You have to go?”

  “I’m the main speaker.”

  The server delivered his salad. He worked his way through it. When he spoke again, he surprised her. “You’ll do great.”

  “I’m nervous,” she admitted. “I told the director no initially but she was very insistent. Also, Scott thought it would be good publicity for our hotel.”

  He put down his fork without finishing his salad. “Good old Scott.”

  She ignored him and was grateful when the server delivered the main course. Cruz dug into his steak. She did little more than push her salmon around her plate. When the waiter came to clear their dishes and offer dessert, Cruz looked at her expectantly. Was he remembering that she’d always been a sucker for crème brûlée?

  That was before. When it was fun to linger over dessert, to say deliberately provocative things over coffee, to see Cruz’s eyes heat up, knowing that each whisper, each casual touch, would be collected upon in full.

  Now she simply asked for the check. When the waiter slid it on the table, Cruz grabbed it. “I’ll take that,” he said.

  Meg waited until the waiter had wandered off. “We should split it at least.”

  “No.” Cruz pulled enough bills out of his pocket to cover the check and leave a generous tip. “Let’s go.”

  It was close to ten and both sides of the River Walk were jammed with people. Young, old, fat, skinny, black, white—it was a crowd as diverse as the food choices. The restaurants and bars were still going strong, with their doors wide open. Music came from every direction. Rock. Blues. Jazz. Dueling pianos. Something for everybody.

  Late spring was a beautiful time to be on the River Walk. While it was already hot, there had been more rain than last year. Annuals, in borders and beds, blossomed, gathering butterflies. Perennials, with their strong root system, crawled up the sides of brick walls, making the space intimate.

  It was lovely. The huge trees, some growing right out of buildings, arched over the river, their branches swaying and dipping in the gentle nighttime breeze. Lights and candles and even the occasional flare from a cigarette gave the space warmth. The gentle murmur of conversation and the burst of a child’s laughter or cry made it hum with energy.

  It was probably too crowded for Cruz. She remembered the year that she’d managed to drag him Christmas shopping on the day after Thanksgiving. They’d been shopping on Michigan Avenue with a million other people determined to support the economy. He’d been as edgy as a wild animal. She’d teased him about having an aversion to spending money but in truth, she’d known that he was always on guard, always ready. And crowds limited his options—for escape, for attack. There was too much opportunity for collateral damage, he’d told her once.

  They were almost back to the hotel when less than ten feet ahead of them, a group of six young men stumbled out of one of the Irish bars. Cruz caught her arm and pulled her behind him.

  They were college-age and laughing and talking, using words that their mothers would not have approved of. Two started pretend boxing, circling each
other, throwing weak punches. The others thought it was hilarious and performed some male ritual of back-slapping and hip-bumping.

  Intent upon watching them, she missed the dark figure running up behind her and didn’t have a chance to brace before she was shoved so hard from behind that she went airborne, right toward the river.

  Chapter Four

  Cruz whirled, lunged and managed to wrap a hand around one of Meg’s flailing arms. He yanked her back, hauling her against his chest. Her face was white and her eyes big with fear.

  She’d been inches from going into the dark green water. What the hell?

  She pointed and he saw a black-clad figure running up the stairs that led to the street level. “Stay here,” he said to her. He took the stairs two at a time, losing precious time as he dodged two women who were hauling a baby stroller down the steps.

  He got up to the street level, scanned it in both directions and didn’t see anything. Damn it. There were a hundred ways for someone to get away. Stores to step into. Cars to hide behind. Buses to board. The list was endless.

  He pulled out his cell phone, dialed Myers and felt his blood pressure increase when the phone rang three times. On the fourth ring, the man answered, sounding a little out of breath.

  “Myers.”

  “It’s Cruz Montoya.”

  “Now what?” the man asked.

  “Meg got pushed while we were walking along the River Walk. Subject ran up the stairs, disappeared into the 400 block of St. Mary’s Street. Caucasian. About five-ten and one-sixty. Dressed all in black. Had a hat on so I couldn’t see his hair. Moved fast so he’s either young or in good shape.”

  “Got it. I’ll call it in. Is Meg okay?”

  “Yeah. This time. You need to find this bastard.”

  “We will.” Myers hung up. Cruz took one more look up and down the street. Nothing jumped out at him. Then he looked over the cement railing to make sure Meg was all right. The young men were surrounding her, way too close for Cruz’s liking. He charged back down the stairs.

  He shouldered his way through the group and wrapped an arm around Meg’s shoulders. “Okay?” he asked.