by Karen Foley
“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you,” interrupted a woman’s voice.
Both Sara and Rafe turned to see Mrs. Parker peering into the apartment.
“Please, come in,” Sara said, crossing the living room toward her. “What is it?”
“Well, I forgot to let you know that the landlord sent a repairman over to the building today to fix your balcony.” She smiled sweetly. “He was the nicest young man, and he hardly made any noise at all. Why, I probably wouldn’t have seen him if I hadn’t stepped out onto my own balcony to water my flowers.” She laughed and clapped a hand to her chest. “Oh, he gave me a start! I didn’t even realize he was there on a ladder until I nearly dripped water on his head.”
Sara frowned. “He came to fix my balcony? Are you sure?”
Mrs. Parker nodded. “Oh, yes. Well, I just thought you should know. Have fun on your getaway,” she called, as she stepped back into the hallway and pulled the apartment door closed behind her.
Sara frowned, and walked over to the sliding doors at the far end of the living room, which opened onto a small, wrought-iron balcony. “That’s odd. I had no idea there was anything wrong with the balcony.”
She unlocked the doors and slid them open, and was about to step onto the balcony, when Rafe caught her arm. “Wait. Do you use this balcony frequently?”
Sara looked down at his hand on her arm and then up to his face. “I usually have my coffee out here on the weekends, but other than that, not really.” She gestured to the tiny café table and matching chairs. “As you can see, there’s barely enough room to stretch out your legs, and the view’s not exactly spectacular.”
Sara’s apartment was at the rear of the building, and overlooked a narrow road with a loading dock and several Dumpsters. On the other side of the road was the back side of another apartment building, with iron fire escapes decorating the brick façade.
“Do you mind if I take a look at the repairs before you go out?” Rafe asked.
Bewildered, Sara shook her head. “Not at all. Be my guest.”
Rafe poked his head out the door, and examined the balconies to either side of hers. One of them was overflowing with boxes of pink geraniums. “Is this Mrs. Parker’s balcony, on the left? Do you think she would mind if I stepped out onto it?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Sara began uncertainly, but it was too late.
In one smooth movement, Rafe swung himself out the sliding door, holding onto the narrow frame above the sliders. His feet never touched the balcony as he easily levered himself across the space and onto Mrs. Parker’s balcony.
“Oh, my God,” Sara exclaimed, clutching the door frame and peering out at him. “What are you doing? You could have been killed!”
“Stay where you are,” he warned, flicking one glance at her. He crouched down and peered through the railings at the underside of Sara’s balcony. He was silent for a long moment, before he stood up and crossed the distance back to her balcony, again using the door frame to support his weight. Only when his feet were safely planted on her living-room floor did Sara breathe again.
“You’re absolutely crazy, you do realize that?” she demanded, fear adding sharpness to her voice. “What if you had fallen? You could have been killed! What normal person risks their life to verify a repair job?”
To her astonishment, Rafe just shrugged. “I guess it’s just ingrained in me. ‘Trust but Verify.’”
“So?” She waited expectantly. “What did you see? The repairs are fine, right?”
For just an instant, she thought she saw something in his eyes—something dangerous—and she shivered. But in the next instant it was gone. “I wouldn’t use the balcony until you have your landlord check the work. I think one of the bolts needs tightening, and you wouldn’t want to do anything to loosen it more than it already is.”
“Is it unsafe?”
“Possibly. More likely the loose bolt will just cause the mortar to break apart, but the balcony could be unstable. Better just to avoid using it until your landlord checks it out.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“No problem.”
But as Sara retreated to her bedroom, she couldn’t dispel the feeling that he was hiding something.
RAFE WATCHED SARA close her bedroom door, and raked a hand through his hair, disturbed by what he had seen beneath her balcony. Someone had done some work on the supports, there was no question about it, but their intent had not been to stabilize the balcony, but to undermine it. Two of the supporting bolts had been sheared off, leaving just two bolts to support the balcony. If anyone stepped onto the tiny veranda, the remaining bolts would likely snap, plunging the unfortunate person forty feet to the street below. Just thinking about what could have happened caused Rafe to go cold inside. The fall would have seriously injured Sara—or killed her outright.
Closing the sliding doors, Rafe turned the handle into the locked position, and then dragged her small kitchen table across them, blocking any access to the outside. Hopefully, that would prevent anyone from inadvertently stepping onto the balcony before repairs could be made.
There was no doubt in his mind now that someone was trying to harm Sara. Keeping an eye on her closed door, and his ear cocked for any noise, he moved silently through her apartment, looking for anything that might hint at why her life was in danger. Silently, he opened the drawers of her little antique desk, but found only bills, how-to manuals for her personal electronics and stacks of old Christmas cards. He took care to replace items exactly as he found them. Despite his thorough search, he found nothing to indicate she was involved in anything shady.
In fact, everything in her apartment pointed toward a life that was excruciatingly quiet. A basket of knitting sat next to her sofa, and there was a stack of books and newspapers on the coffee table. She had framed photos everywhere—on the walls and on every shelf and available surface. There were pictures of Sara with babies, children, college friends, and elderly people. However, there were no photos to indicate she had a boyfriend, and Rafe took a quiet satisfaction in the knowledge.
A yoga mat and a Pilates ball were tucked into a corner of the room and she had several exercise DVDs next to the small television. Everything was scrupulously neat and organized. Even her refrigerator was tidy, containing mostly fruit, yogurt and fresh vegetables. The delicate wrought iron wine rack on her counter was empty, and if she had any hard liquor in the apartment, he found no evidence of it. He was beginning to suspect Sara Sinclair had absolutely no vices until he discovered one drawer that contained a substantial stash of expensive gourmet chocolate bars, and he couldn’t help smiling.
When her bedroom door finally opened, he was pretending to study a framed photo of her and an older man, sitting under a grass Tiki hut with the blue waters of the Caribbean in the background, holding fruity drinks in their hands.
“That’s my dad,” she offered, taking the picture from his hands and replacing it on the desk.
“Here, let me take that for you,” he said.
She carried an overnight bag over one shoulder, and her pocketbook and a laptop case in her other hand.
“It’s okay,” she demurred, “I’ve got it.”
Ignoring her protests, he took both the overnight bag and the laptop from her and then pretended to stagger beneath the weight. “Christ,” he muttered, “what do you have in here?”
Her overnight bag wasn’t large, but it weighed a ton.
“Just a few essentials,” she said breezily. “This will only get me through the next few days. I didn’t want to pack an entire suitcase, so I figured I’d come back in a couple of days to pick up some new clothes.”
“Sure,” he grunted, wondering what she could possibly have in the bag that would only get her through a few days. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn she’d packed a flak vest, combat boots and a loaded ammunition belt in that little bag.
She preceded him to the door of the apartment, stopping when she saw the kitchen table push
ed up against the sliding doors. She didn’t say anything, but when she turned to look at him, he saw she’d gone a little pale.
“It’s just a precaution,” he assured her. “I didn’t want you to forget that it’s unsafe and mistakenly step onto the balcony.”
“Thank you.”
When they stepped outside, it was almost dark. Sara began walking toward her car, and Rafe stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Leave your car here. You can ride with me.”
She whirled back toward him, twin spots of color riding high on her cheekbones. “Okay, you know what? This is beginning to feel less like a journalistic opportunity and more like enforced captivity.” She gestured impatiently toward her car. “Why can’t I just bring my car and park it at your place? I need my car, Sergeant. I don’t mind shadowing you for the next week, but I absolutely refuse to be dependent upon you. What if our arrangement doesn’t work out? What if I want to leave?”
Her entire stance was defensive, as if she fully expected him to argue with her. Rafe noted the small telltale signs that signaled her willingness to fight him on this issue, or turn and walk away from him altogether. Even in the indistinct light he could see how her pupils had dilated, turning her blue eyes almost black. Her respiration had increased and her hands curled into fists at her sides. Every muscle in her body was tightly coiled. If he gave her the slightest argument, she’d run.
“Okay,” he said easily. “If it makes you feel more comfortable, I want you to take your own car.”
She looked at him doubtfully, and he could almost see the resistance ebb from her body. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Do you have a GPS, just in case you lose me in traffic?”
“Yes.”
He gave her the address and then stowed her gear in the back seat of her sedan. He would have preferred to have her in his car with him. If someone did decide to follow them, it would be harder to lose them if Sara was in a separate vehicle.
“You have my cell phone number,” he reminded her. “My place is about forty minutes from here, near the Quantico base, so if you lose me in traffic, don’t hesitate to give me a call. I’ll pull over until you catch up.”
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Believe it or not, I can look out for myself. I don’t need a man, even one as big and capable as you, to take care of me.”
As Rafe watched her climb into her car, he very much doubted it. Sara Sinclair had no clue how much she needed him.
6
AS IT TURNED OUT, Sara managed to keep up with him as he drove along the darkened streets of the capitol and merged onto the highway that would take them south to Quantico. Most of Rafe’s military buddies lived on the base, but Rafe had chosen to rent a place in the nearby town of Triangle. He preferred the quiet neighborhood that bordered a vast swath of protected forest to the noisy energy of the Marine Corps base. His entire life was the Corps, and while he wouldn’t have it any other way, he appreciated the solitude of the townhouse when he returned home from overseas deployments and missions.
Although he worked as part of a five-man Special-Ops unit, he had a reputation for being something of a loner, which didn’t bother him. While the other guys on the team had formed some pretty tight friendships, he tended to remain a little detached. He’d give his life for any one of them, even the newest and youngest member, Corporal Josh Legatowicz, or Lego, as the team called him, who was far more cocky than he had a right to be, but Rafe preferred to keep to himself when he was on leave.
He turned on to the road that led to the small townhouse complex, watching Sara’s car in his rearview mirror. The neighborhood was quiet, and he didn’t see any signs that car had been followed, although he wouldn’t take the chance of her car being spotted in his driveway. Pulling up to the curb in front of the three-story townhouse, he motioned to Sara. She came alongside and rolled down her window, peering up at him in the gloom.
“Pull into the garage,” he directed her, indicating the one-car space on the ground floor of the townhouse.
“But what about your car?” she protested.
“It’ll be fine,” he assured her.
He carried her two bags into the townhouse, acutely conscious of her standing beside him. While her apartment had been neat, his was positively Spartan, with gleaming hardwood floors and walls that were almost entirely bare of pictures or artwork. There was a rug on the living-room floor, but the only furniture was an ancient distressed-leather sofa and club chair that he’d inherited from an uncle, a side table and matching coffee table and a lamp. There was a gas fireplace on one wall and a built-in flat-screen television over the mantel. He had a decent sound system and some pictures of himself and his Marine Corps buddies on a shelf, but looking at his home through Sara’s eyes, he realized how empty the place must look. His mother had sent him some decorative pillows and throws, but they were still packed away somewhere. He needed to dig them out, he thought absently.
“There’s a guest bedroom at the top of the stairs,” he said, and led the way up the staircase to the second floor. He opened the door of the spare room that doubled as his office and flipped on the light switch. There was a queen-sized bed with a Red Sox bedspread under the windows, and a desk where he kept his computer and electronics. “It’s pretty utilitarian, but the bed is comfortable and you have your own bathroom.”
Walking into the room, he showed her the small bath. “I keep extra towels, shampoo and soap in the closet, so help yourself to whatever you need.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, and watched as he deposited her bags on the bed.
He needed to get out of the bedroom because he was starting to have images of her lying across the Red Sox logo. Naked.
He’d never felt this way before, as though he was on the brink of losing control. Sara stood watching him from the center of the room. Did she have any idea of his thoughts? Could she sense how close he was to ignoring the warning sirens going off in his head and doing something they would both regret? Raking a hand across his hair, he turned and walked out of the room. Away from temptation, but not away from his imagination, which continued to roll Technicolor images of Sara in his house. In his shower. In his bed.
She followed him down the staircase and through the living room. “Geez, what time is it?” she asked, walking into the kitchen to pull out a stool from the center island and climb up. “I’m starving.”
“Why don’t I run out and grab us a pizza?” he offered, anxious for an excuse to get away from her and get his head together. “There’s a great little place just outside the base. If I go pick it up, I could be back in a half hour.”
“Mmm. That sounds good.” She slanted him a teasing look. “But is it okay for me to stay here without you? I mean, technically, our 24/7 agreement means I should go with you, right?”
Rafe felt his lips pull into a reluctant smile. “You’ll be fine here without me. Just lock the door behind me, okay?”
RAFE REALIZED HE HAD NO IDEA what kind of pizza Sara liked, so he ordered a plain cheese, a meat-lovers, and a veggie, and then stopped at a convenience store and grabbed a six-pack of beer and a bottle of Chianti, and then on impulse, a box of hot chocolate mix. By the time he returned to the apartment, he realized he’d been gone for over an hour.
Unlocking the door to the townhouse, he didn’t see Sara in the living room or in the kitchen. He deposited the pizza and groceries on the kitchen island and walked to the foot of the staircase, intending to knock on her door to let her know he had returned, when he heard the shower going. He backed away, the former images of her rushing back through his head.
“Oh, man,” he muttered. “I am losing it big-time.”
Granted, it had been a while since he’d had sex, but he didn’t think he’d reached the point where he would jump a woman he barely knew. A woman who’d trusted him when he’d promised that he had no ulterior motives in asking her to spend a week in his company.
Walking back into the kitchen, he cracked a be
er and was in the process of putting the remaining bottles into the fridge when his gaze fell on Sara’s purse sitting in the living room. He could still hear the water running in the guest bathroom. Moving quickly, he brought the handbag over to the kitchen island and began methodically to go through the items inside. He needed to know why someone was following her, why someone would deliberately tamper with her balcony in a manner that could have easily resulted in her death.
Pulling out her cell phone, he skimmed through her recent calls and text messages, but didn’t see anything suspicious. He set aside a small pouch of cosmetics and a disk of birth-control pills and flipped through the small notepad she had used during their brief, failed interview. Aside from the few notes she had scribbled during their conversation, the notepad was blank.
Finally, he pulled out a small black date planner. Setting it aside, he ran his hand along the inside of the empty handbag to ensure he hadn’t missed anything. Feeling a small lump, he opened a zippered side pocket and found a computer memory stick. Normally, he would access the stick and look at the information it contained, but his computer was in Sara’s room. There was no way he would go in there while she was in the shower. Maybe later, if the opportunity arose. Replacing the memory stick, he picked up the planner and thumbed through it, scanning the hand-written entries.
“What the…?” he muttered aloud.
Rafe read several of the entries at the beginning of the book, and then flipped rapidly through the pages. He’d seen and done things in his life that would horrify most decent people. In fact, he’d thought he was long past the point where anything could shock or even surprise him, but he realized he’d been wrong.
He closed the book, a deep disquiet settling into his soul. He knew damned well what the entries meant and what the book implied, yet he couldn’t reconcile the reality of it with what he knew about Sara Sinclair. She’d disappointed him when she’d pressed him for information about the rescue of the aid workers, but he at least understood her reasons for doing so.