Although she couldn’t recall Burdett’s name or face, she must have previously spoken to him about Anne’s murder. “It’s after eleven.”
“Once we begin a murder investigation, we work twenty-four hours a day. I won’t keep you long.”
“Okay, but—”
“Thanks. See you in about ten minutes.”
While she’d spoken, Jeff opened the carton. He hadn’t looked inside but waited for her to finish her phone conversation.
“That was Detective Burdett. He wants to ask me some more questions. He hung up before I could explain about my amnesia.”
“But maybe he can help you.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’ll have investigated Anne and your relationship with her. Maybe he can fill in some of your memory gaps.”
“You’re right.” Jeff always seemed to know what to say to make her feel better.
“Let’s see what’s in the box. I’m assuming the police already went through her belongings and kept the interesting effects for evidence.”
“Interesting effects?”
“Tax returns, bank statements, personal phone directories.”
The contents of the box proved disappointing. A few pieces of costume jewelry, cosmetics, assorted articles of clothing and several romance novels with intriguing titles.
Chelsea looked up from the meager stack and wondered what she’d hoped to find. A letter explaining why Anne had left Alex to her best friend? A note naming her murderer?
At the bottom of the box was a photograph of a woman holding Alex, marked Mommy And Alex on the back. Chelsea immediately recognized Anne as the woman in her dream. Her face was happy but tired, and she held Alex with such a mixture of tenderness and pride, there could be no doubting her love.
She remembered Anne calling in her dream. Promise me, Anne had pleaded in a voice racked with agony.
Promise her what? Chelsea shook her head. Although only a dream, her first memory with a connection to her past puzzled her.
The doorbell rang, and while she packed Anne’s belongings away, determined to save everything for Alex, Jeff answered the door. He returned with a tall, sharp-eyed man. “This is Detective Burdett.”
“We’ve met.” The detective greeted her without a smile. “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, Ms. Connors.”
“Chelsea,” she insisted, having no memory of their previous meeting. “Please have a seat, Detective. Can I get you coffee or tea?”
“Coffee with cream would be great.”
She fixed coffee in the kitchen while the men introduced themselves. When she returned with a tray, the officer sat straight in the lounge chair, his squared shoulders resisting the cushy leather. Jeff leaned back on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Setting the tray on the table, she let the men help themselves while she took a seat beside Jeff.
As if sensing the interview would be difficult for her, Jeff took her hand and knit their fingers together, his warmth heating her icy fingers. Glad Jeff was beside her, she gazed back at the detective with a measure of calm she didn’t feel.
The detective scowled, annoyance in his tone. “If you’d been straight with me the first time we spoke, you could have saved me three weeks of work. Why didn’t you tell me Anne Spears changed her name and her job about a year ago?”
“I don’t know,” Chelsea said. “You see—”
“Why didn’t you tell me that Albert Marcel Llewellyn is dead?”
“What?” Chelsea’s bones felt as if they’d turned to water. Alex’s father was dead. Although she felt guilty, relief stabbed her. The missing father couldn’t show up and take Alex away.
The detective leaned forward, his hands on his thighs. “Nor could this Albert have been the baby’s father.”
He was going too fast. Just when she felt safe, he’d yanked the rug out from beneath her feet. She put down her coffee before she spilled it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“There aren’t many Albert Marcel Llewellyns in Maryland. I checked them all. You know how many L found?” He answered his own question. “One.”
“So what’s the problem?” Jeff asked.
Burdett thrust his chin forward. “Six months ago, Albert died. He was ninety-seven years old, and he spent the last five years in bed in a nursing home. Somehow I don’t think he fathered Alex. And I want to know who did.”
Stunned, Chelsea fought to keep her voice steady. “I don’t know.”
Burdett’s anger lashed at her like a whip. “Anne was your best friend, and she never told you she picked a dead man’s name to put on the birth certificate? She never told you why she was on the run, why she changed her name, moved and switched jobs?”
“If she did, I don’t remember. I—”
“Young lady, you do realize your friend was murdered?”
“If you’d just let me—“
“You realize withholding evidence in a criminal investigation is a crime?”
Jeff slapped the coffee table with his palm. His voice hardened to steel. “That’s enough. Chelsea has suffered from amnesia ever since her accident when she went to retrieve the baby’s belongings. If you don’t believe me, her doctor, an Officer Russo filled out a report at the hospital which will confirm my statement. Chelsea can’t help you because she cannot remember. So stop badgering her.”
Burdett’s lower jaw fell open. “I apologize, ma’am. Why didn’t you explain in the first place?”
At the detective’s complete attitude adjustment from snarling pit bull to meek pussycat, she had to restrain her grin. “You didn’t give me a chance. But I want to find Anne’s murderer as much as you do. If or when my memory returns, I’ll be sure to call you.”
After Burdett left, Jeff sat with Chelsea on the couch. She wanted to rest her head against his shoulder, to snuggle against his firm strength, but couldn’t find the courage to close the distance between them. Her pulse skittered alarmingly. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
His eyes smoldered, but whether from his annoyance with Burdett or in response to her proximity she wasn’t sure. “I only let him go on as long as I did because he was giving us so much information.”
He moved, his thigh barely touching hers. Heat ran down her leg, up her stomach, curled in her heart. Her body felt as if half ice, half flame. Surely her feelings couldn’t be one-sided? With a soft sigh, she leaned closer to him, keenly aware of the wistfulness stealing over her expression.
He smoothed her bangs off her forehead, tracing her stitches with a gentle finger that almost snapped her patience. “You look like a cat that just lapped the last of the cream. What are you thinking?”
“About how compatible we are.” The prolonged anticipation was almost unbearable. Didn’t the man want to kiss her? Surely he knew what effect his proximity was having on her. Her impatience grew. Surely no one could be so completely unaware of his own sexual appeal.
As if holding a raw emotion in check, he merely raised a brow. “Oh?”
Momentarily rebuffed, she concealed her inner turmoil. But damn him! He’d discuss this to death before getting around to kissing her. She babbled an explanation as she fought swirling desire. “You see, I also wanted to hear the rest of the information about Anne. I may have amnesia, but I’m fully capable of stopping a cop from harassing me.” She tilted her head to meet the maddening but dizzying magnetism in his gaze that she was powerless to resist. “But it was most chivalrous of you to jump in and protect me.”
With her lips just inches from his, her invitation couldn’t have been any clearer. And he didn’t disappoint her. As if knowing she couldn’t wait another moment, slowly, ever so slowly, he tilted his head and nibbled her lips. She slipped her arms around his neck and twined her fingers into his hair. Tasting of coffee, he deepened the kiss.
His carnal pull was ardent, arousing, turbulent. She felt as if she’d taken a ride on a roller coaster without a safety harness and was about to spin upside down.
Her lungs starved for air, and her heart pumped erratically.
Breathless, she drew back, her eyes staring into his, wondering what she meant to him. And what did he mean to her? His knuckles grazed her cheek. This was not just lust. She enjoyed his conversations, his company, his support.
And yet deepening their relationship before her memory returned would be wrong. With the rollercoaster ride he’d taken her on at a complete halt, she felt suspended in midair and about to swoop out of control.
Filled with a warm, heady flush of desire from his kiss, she reluctantly stood and placed the coffee cups and saucers on the tray. Glancing out the front window, she noted a car driving slowly by, but her thoughts focused on that heart-stopping kiss and her wildly responsive reaction.
From the back bedroom, Alex let out a cry. She stopped abruptly to listen to determine if he was really awake, the cups on the tray clattering as she froze.
The shot blasted through the window like a bomb at ground zero. Glass shattered and sprayed from the window. The tray flew from her hands. And Chelsea dropped to the floor.
Chapter Seven
In that split second, Jeff lunged from the couch and pinned Chelsea to the floor, covering her with his body. “Stay down.”
Several additional shots slammed into the room, and terror paralyzed her, rising in her throat to choke her. Stopping to listen for Alex’s cry had probably saved her life. Outside, tires squealed as if to make a quick getaway.
Alex screamed.
No. Not the baby. Ignoring her galloping fear for her own safety, she struggled beneath Jeff’s crushing weight, her breath hissing. A damned fine time for his protective instincts to kick in. “Let me up!”
“Wait.”
She couldn’t let anything happen to Alex. An edge of panic made her tone shrill. “I have to go to the baby.”
“The shots came from the street.” Jeff spoke calmly, soothingly, as if he ducked bullets for a living. “Alex is in the rear bedroom. He’ll be fine. If it weren’t for the broken glass, we could crawl. Before we present a vertical target, let’s be sure that no one’s coming back.”
At his sensible precaution, she stopping struggling. As they lay together, waiting for another attack, their bodies pressed intimately enough for him to feel the pounding of her heart, she held back the howl of fear rising in her throat, held back the urge to dash to the baby in panic.
“Are you hurt?” he asked in a voice so calm she wanted to scream at him until he acknowledged the danger of their situation. While he might be accustomed to life-and-death circumstances, she definitely was not.
“I’m okay, except for maybe the bruised ribs you pounded into the floor.” She had difficulty saying the words through a dust-dry mouth. And neither his weight nor his hard warmth stilled her trembling at having to face mortality. She could have been living and breathing one second, her blood and flesh plastered across the wall the next.
The baby’s crying jolted her already shaken nerves. “If Alex hadn’t cried out, I might have walked straight into a bullet.” She had to stop thinking of death. “Are you hurt?”
“Never better. Sorry I didn’t believe someone attacked you in the hospital.”
“And I’m sorry I got you into this. Although what ‘this’ is about, I haven’t a clue. Do you think we can stand now?”
“With the lights on, we make a natural target. Let’s wait another minute. Alex’s cry doesn’t sound like he’s in pain—just scared.”
“How do you know?”
“After you’ve been around as many crying babies as I have, you develop an instinct.”
She hoped his instincts were correct, because Alex’s heartrending cries seemed to suck every atom of self-control from her body. If Jeff hadn’t pinned her, she would have darted to the baby, heedless of danger.
The seconds ticked by slowly. When she drew in a breath, inhaled dust from the plaster stuck in her windpipe, she coughed. Alex kept screaming. Police sirens wailed, steadily growing in intensity, and Chelsea silently thanked some concerned neighbor for calling the police.
She should have used the time to regain control of herself, but Alex’s screeching was like alcohol on a raw wound. She had to clench her fists to stop twitching in response to every cry.
When a cruiser pulled into the driveway, its blue lights flashing on the walls of her den, Jeff clambered to his feet. “Let me help you up. There’s glass everywhere.”
She scooted onto her side, and he extended his hand and tugged. Glass crunched and hastened her footsteps.
She left Jeff to talk to the cops. Urged on by Alex’s cries, she pelted down the hall. With a damp palm, she opened his door and flicked on the light in the nursery, her gaze speeding to the crib.
The baby’s face was red from crying, his eyes swollen. His chubby arms waved fiercely, but otherwise, he appeared unharmed, and the knots in her stomach loosened.
When Alex spotted her, his sharp cries softened to a whimper. Scooping him into her arms, she cradled him against her and rocked away his fears. “Mama’s here, tiger. It’s going to be okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
The sound of her voice calmed Alex, and his tears disappeared. Quickly she changed his diaper, marveling at how proficient she’d become at the task in just a day. Even with her hands shaking and her knees weak, she had Alex ready in seconds.
After carrying him into the kitchen, she took a bottle from the fridge, unscrewed the nipple and placed it in the microwave. She didn’t know if a feeding would calm him, but the need to hold him would soothe her. “Mama will heat you a midnight snack.”
Two police officers, an Asian-American female and a white male, stood opposite the window by the living-room wall, prying bullets out of drywall. The woman, her short black hair glinting in the light, picked her way through the debris toward Chelsea in the kitchen. “Is anyone injured?”
“We’re fine.” Except for being frightened to death.
The woman had kind brown eyes and a worried frown on her thin lips. “Any idea who could have done this?”
“I don’t know.” Chelsea shoved her bangs off her face. “This is the second attempt on my life this week.”
The female cop shot her a skeptical look. “So this isn’t a random act of violence?”
“This may look like a drive-by shooting, but the target, me, was not arbitrary.”
The policewoman scowled. “Someone’s shot at you from the street before?”
The microwave beeped, and Chelsea removed the bottle, twisted off the cap, replaced the nipple and placed it between Alex’s lips. At the kitchen table, Chelsea scooted out a chair with her foot and sat. Jeff and the other police officer, a man with bulldog jowls and baby-faced skin, headed out the front door into the yard.
After the female officer made herself comfortable, Chelsea told her about the accident that caused her amnesia, the subsequent attack in the hospital, the threatening phone call and her suspicion of being followed.
“You sound positive someone is after you. Any idea who? Or perhaps you have some evidence, like a license tag?”
“Sorry.” Chelsea shook her head, glad she had Alex to look after. Caring for him helped her keep herself together, helped keep her from snapping at the suspicious officer, who was just doing her job.
The officer pressed her. “Most murder attempts are committed by someone the victim knows—an exhusband, a jealous lover.”
Stay calm, rational. “As far as I know, I’m single. There’s no evidence I’ve ever been married, but then again, I’m not certain. My past is pretty much a mystery. But—”
“Yes?”
“My phone number is unlisted, yet I’ve had that threatening phone call. That would mean whoever is after me either knows me or got the number from someone who knows me.”
Jeff and the other officer entered the kitchen through the back door. While she’d been talking, they must have searched the yard.
Jeff folded his arms across his chest and leaned back aga
inst the counter. “You might want to inform Detective Burdett about this incident. He just left here and he’s investigating the murder of the baby’s mother.”
Chelsea cocked her head. Could there be a connection? The vivid dream about Anne she’d had in the hospital popped into her mind. She’d promised Alex’s mother something and sighed with dissatisfaction that she was still unable to dredge up the conversation. Unfortunately, idle speculation would serve no useful purpose without hard facts to back it up.
While she fed Alex, Jeff answered most of the police questions with “We don’t know.”
Alex eventually shut his eyes and fell asleep. She put him to bed and returned to the front hall as the police were leaving, the dark-haired officer speaking to Jeff. “We’ll have a patrol car drive by more frequently. You’re probably safe tonight. It’s doubtful anyone will return to bother you so soon, especially with our extra patrols in force.”
“Thanks. Good night, officers. I’ll stay with her.” Jeff’s offer was more statement than question. He closed the door and locked it, then grinned wryly, apparently realizing how futile locking the door was when anyone could climb in the gaping window. “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to board up the hole. At least the nights are still warm.”
Ignoring her still-shaking hands, Chelsea grabbed a broom out of the pantry and began to sweep the glass into a pile.
Jeff picked up the bigger pieces and threw them in the trash. “Do you think someone from Classy Creations fired that shot?”
Chelsea whipped her head around to look at him and swallowed down her fear. “I think whoever killed Anne may be after me.”
At least Jeff didn’t laugh at her supposition. Although from the skeptical gleam in his eyes, he appeared far from convinced of her leap in logic. “What makes you think there’s a connection?”
She leaned on the broom handle, her thoughts swirling. “It’s too much of a coincidence that my best friend is killed and now someone is after me for there not to be a connection.”
A Baby to Love Page 11