Licensed for Trouble

by Susan May Warren

  The mushroom house slumbered as she drove up. Max had left after they’d returned from the tattoo parlor. Now she flicked on the entry light, and then the hall light, letting the glow seep into the main room as she padded through the house and out onto the terrace. She’d have to get the heat working soon; the bite of winter was on the edge of the breeze.

  She stood for a moment, arms wrapped around her body, then continued down to the lake. It rolled onto the shore, reaching for her toes, as if hoping to entice her in. She found a stick, wished Dog were here to fetch it. Then she threw it underhand into the water, watching it arch against the inky night. It splashed into the water, the waves already gulping it.

  Barking from across the yard jolted her. Dog loped toward her.

  “Hey, Skip.”

  Dog licked her hands, then bounded out to the water.

  Max nearly materialized, silent, almost lethal, from the shadows. PJ would have stepped away if it weren’t for the expression on his face. As if he’d been hollowed out, left on the street to perish. He stared at her a long time.

  “You okay?”

  As he moved toward the beach, he patted Dog, who came up, hoping for a stick.

  Across the bay, in the lighted picture windows of the magnificent houses facing the lake, she spotted families moving around, getting ready for bed, reading.

  Max held out his hands, staring at the scars in the moonlight. PJ tried not to look, but the chipped, leathery skin drew her eyes.

  “How’d I get these?” He didn’t seem to be talking to her, really. “Was I tortured?”

  PJ winced. “I don’t know.”

  Max shoved his hands into his pockets. “Where have I been? What have I done? Who am I, PJ?”

  “You have a name, Max.”

  “Really?”

  PJ stiffened at the edge in his voice.

  “What if it’s a name I can’t live with? a past I can’t bear?”

  PJ dug her foot into the sand. “We all have a past we can’t bear. I think the important part is how we move on.”

  Across the lake, in the darkness against the bridge, she made out the flicker of a campfire. A man stood before it as if in effigy. Legs planted, arms outstretched to the streak of the Milky Way and the pinprink of stars, he held his hands wide as if trying to catch the universe and hold on.

  Chapter Ten

  “PJ!” The voice sliced through the shadows, cutting away Davy’s face as he splashed through the waves.

  PJ kicked through the folds of sleep and opened her eyes.

  “PJ, are you here?”

  As she sat up, she blinked against the filmy darkness of her room, grasping for her bearings. Oh, the blue room, not Jeremy’s couch or even Connie’s beautiful eyelet-lace bedroom. Moonlight slanted through her side window, striping the carpet, and a nip in the air prickled the skin on her arms.

  The bedroom door slammed open.

  PJ screamed. She launched from her bed to the floor, crouched behind it, groping for anything—a ball, a bat . . . a shoe! Her hand closed on her discarded Converse tennis shoe and she let it fly.

  “Ow!”

  Then the light slapped on, blinding her. She held up a hand, blinking. Through the blotches, she made out Jeremy filling the frame, holding his face.

  But he hadn’t finished his invasion. “Where are you?”

  His eyes found her, and in them boiled a sort of wild-eyed panic that made her lurch to her feet.

  “What—?”

  He gaped at her as if she’d just clipped the edge of death. She half expected—okay, hoped—that he’d chase that look with sweeping her into his arms.

  Instead, he held up his hands and spoke to someone other than her. “Okay. This is not working.”

  PJ peered past him into the hall. “Who are you talking—?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  She closed her mouth. And for some reason looked herself over, just in case. “No . . . no, I seem to be in one piece. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  In fact, he did appear wounded; she spotted a red mark on his cheek—oh, that could be from her shoe. But the other eye bore a fresh bruise. What, had he taken up fight club? “You are hurt.”

  “I’m fine. I’m . . . fine.” He took a breath, then scrubbed a hand down his face. When he looked back at her, it seemed he’d composed himself, at least enough to talk in coherent sentences, though still without his inside voice. “Where were you tonight?”

  She blinked at him. Her mouth opened just a little. “Seriously?”

  He said nothing, grinding his jaw so hard he could probably make diamonds.

  “Last time I checked, you weren’t the boss of—”

  His eyebrows arched.

  “Okay, you are the boss of me. At least some of the time. But I was on official private eye business, tracking down leads for Max.”

  His lips remained pinched as if holding in words.

  “Fine, I was with Boone. Doing PI work. Did I mention that?”

  Visible relief washed over him. Transformed him from Attila the bodyguard to a human being she recognized.

  “Jeremy, what is the matter?”

  He rebounded fast out of relief and apparently landed straight into anger, his voice clipped. “The matter is your new handyman could be a car thief—or worse, a murderer!”

  “Have you been hit on the head?” PJ grabbed a shirt and pulled it over her tank top. She’d have to make do in her Superman pants—it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen those before. “C’mon, maybe you need some fresh air.”

  She walked over to him and touched his arm. She could have been trying to pull the statue of David off its marble post for all the good it did.

  Especially when he curled his hands around her upper arms. And sighed.

  It was the sigh that stopped her, a heavy, burdened release that also uncoiled the knot inside her that had formed from being nearly thrown from her bed in the middle of the night.

  She looked at him, and the sudden gentleness, almost worry in his eyes caught her breath. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Don’t do that to me again,” he said in a near whisper.

  His hands on her arms shot tingles through her, everything inside her suddenly very alive. His breath on her skin, the smell of him seeping into her, the strength that poured off him drawing her in . . . When she touched his chest, she felt his heart hammering beneath the spread of her fingers. “Do what?” she managed, just above a breath.

  He closed his eyes. “I am in way over my head here.” Then he sighed again and slowly let her go.

  She stood there, her heart banging to be set free, her legs ropy. “Jer—”

  He slipped his hand into hers, pulled her into the kitchen, turned on a light. He looked rougher than she’d realized—a raw scrape along his jaw added to his blackened eye, as if he’d banged the front door in with his chin.

  Hey . . . “How did you get in?”

  He turned to her, an accusing expression on his face. “I would like to say I picked the lock, but you left the back porch unlocked. Anyone could get in here, attack you—”

  “In the middle of the night, in my own bed? Yeah, that could happen.” She folded her arms, still feeling his grip around them.

  He didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish. “Where’s your phone?”

  “In my bag.”

  “Where’s your bag?”

  She thought for a moment. “I think it could be on the terrace outside?” She made a face. “Why?”

  He turned, stalking out through the porch, along the side of the house. She followed, the stone glacial on her bare feet. Jeremy retrieved her giant canvas bag, turned, and hooked her by the arm. She stubbed her foot on the stone and cried out.

  “Sorry.” He swung her up into his arms.

  Okay.

  She looped her arm around his neck and studied him for a moment. He seemed truly upset, a steely set to his whiskered jaw, an almost-desperate tinge to his expression. He carried her to the kitchen, se
t her on the counter, and plopped the bag in her lap. “Find your phone.”

  “Bossy.” But she dug through her purse. Located the phone.

  Oops. Twelve calls from Jeremy over the past two hours.

  She looked at the screen, then at him. “Sorry. But please tell me, what is so urgent?”

  “You promise me you’ll never scare me again?” His voice still contained a raw, tremulous edge.

  “Jeremy, what is going on here? You are completely overreacting. I was fine. So I didn’t answer my phone at two o’clock in the morning! I was asleep.”

  “You could have been laying here, bleeding to death, or with your house on fire, you burning alive.”

  “Oh, that’s a lovely picture. Between that and the ghosts of Kellogg Manor, are you trying to drive me back to your sofa?

  “Maybe.”

  What? Maybe?

  She slid off the counter. “How can I possibly understand if you don’t tell me anything?”

  Jeremy pulled her against him, so close she had no choice but to put her arms around him. He pressed a kiss to her head. “I wish . . . PJ, the fact is, I don’t know what to do here. You . . . unhinge me.”

  She touched his face. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know.” He looked down, tracing her cheekbone with his fingers. “You’re so beautiful.”

  PJ stilled.

  “You don’t know it. But you are. And sometimes when I see you, all I see is what could happen to you. It wasn’t like that at first. I’m not sure when it started . . . maybe after the Dally assignment, when you nearly got killed. Or maybe it just snuck up on me one day at a time. But all of a sudden, I realized that every assignment I give you could hurt or even kill you.”

  Oh no. She knew exactly when it had started. Or at least when he’d realized it. “Please tell me that you’re not buying into what Boone said. I’m not going to get—”

  Jeremy put his hand over her lips. “He was just confirming something I already knew. But don’t panic. I’m not going to tell you that you can’t be a PI. I know you’re going to be a great PI. You have amazing instincts. And even though you’re not weapons trained, you do have stellar aim.”

  PJ touched his cheek, where a welt was beginning to form. Right along with a hint of a smile.

  “The fact is, I don’t trust Max.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a couple pages of paper. “I found two articles in the newspaper archives about the night Max showed up here in Kellogg, crimes I think might be related to him.”

  He laid the copies on the counter. “This one’s a story about a guy busted for car theft and reckless driving. He was picked up just down the road at the Maximilian Bay Bridge right about the time Max was found floating in the water.”

  PJ read the article—a quick police report. “Is he still around?”

  “I have a last known address. We can check it out tomorrow. In daylight.” He flashed her a grin, one she recognized. One that made warmth curl through her. It seemed her Jeremy might be returning. His shoulder rubbed against hers, and his words replayed in her head. “You’re so beautiful. . . .”

  “What’s this one?” Woman Killed, House Burned in Apparent Robbery. It included a grainy black-and-white photo of the victim, Bekka Layton. She looked about twenty-five.

  “That’s the story about a woman whose house was broken into while she was home. She was shot, the house torched, and the culprit got away. She died of her burns.”

  “And you thought of Max’s hands.”

  Jeremy nodded. “I’ve got a loose theory. I think Max was in on the robbery, and something went south. It’s not uncommon for an arsonist to get caught in his crime—at the very least they hang around, watching. Maybe Max got cold feet or had a bout of conscience and tried to pull her out of the fire. And maybe his accomplice didn’t want to risk him going to the cops, so he knocked him out, threw him over the bridge. I think Max might be good for the murder of this woman.”

  With every word, the coil around her chest tightened until her breath caught, trapped inside. “No.”

  “Why not? Just because he can fix electricity and connect a few pipes doesn’t make him a hero.” He met her eyes. “Does it?”

  “He’s not a murderer.”

  “And you know this because . . .”

  PJ compressed her lips. “My instincts tell me there’s more to Max. His tattoo, for one.”

  “Tattoo? You saw his tattoo?”

  “Yeah, after he showered—”

  “He showered here?”

  “You’re shouting again. For pete’s sake, he was crawling around in the mud. What was I going to do?”

  “Send him home to his own shower!”

  “What if he doesn’t have a shower? What if he’s homeless?”

  “Are you taking in strays now?”

  “I have a soft spot for strays.” She tried to manufacture a dark look to equal his. “Being one myself.”

  “You’re not a stray.” He let his anger slide out in a long breath, then said quietly, “You just haven’t quite figured that out yet.”

  That took the gust out of her anger. “The tattoo is on his left shoulder. And it’s of a phoenix clutching arrows. Jinx—a tattoo artist in Dinkytown—”

  “I know Jinx. He did my ink.”

  Oh yeah, Jeremy’s Celtic symbol on his arm. Another mystery from her cryptic boss.

  “Jinx said it’s usually worn by soldiers who are former POWs.”

  “Which makes sense. Maybe he was a POW who snapped when he got stateside. The stress was too much.”

  PJ rubbed her hands on her arms, the chill from outside spilling into the room.

  “I really don’t want him here unless I’m here.” He folded up the articles, then stuck them in his jacket pocket. “The fact is, it’s . . .” His jaw tightened and he swallowed, looking away. “I already lost someone once. Someone I loved very much.”

  He’d already lost someone? PJ cupped her hand to his cheek and turned his face to her, ignoring the quiver inside. “Who?”

  “My fiancée.”

  PJ blinked at him. “Your . . . fiancée.” She said the word just to confirm, and it razored through her. His fiancée. No wonder the guy had giant black holes he lost himself inside.

  “Her name was Lori. She worked as a drug counselor downtown at a rehab place. One of her clients went berserk and took her hostage . . . and . . .” Jeremy looked beyond her. “I wasn’t there. I was in Iraq at the time.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He flinched at her words. She held in the rest. And she didn’t reach out to him because she knew this look—the kind that said, Please don’t, because if you touch me, it’ll only get worse. Indeed, he seemed to be collecting himself. “I really haven’t ever . . . Well, I figure it’s not an easy thing to find that one person who gets you and understands you and puts up with your issues and . . .” He cleared his throat. “Someone you might want to spend the rest of your life with.”

  The rest of his life?

  But he wasn’t talking about her. She knew that. Knew that the dream had died with Lori. Still, his pain spiraled inside, coiling around her heart. Her eyes burned watching him press his hand hard to his mouth and turn away from her.

  After a moment, she touched his back, right between his shoulder blades. Walked around to face him.

  He found her eyes then, met them, held them with more than she’d expected. “The thing is, when I’m with you, I forget. I forget about Lori and that dark place that took me. I feel . . . hope. Maybe that’s the word. I hope again.” He reached up to push her hair back. “Most of all, I want to deserve you. I want to be the kind of guy that buys you a dog and fixes your electricity and keeps you from getting hurt.”

  Jeremy caught her red hair between two fingers, ran his fingers down the length of it. “But you send out confusing signals, Princess. Boone, me . . . I am not sure if I’m stealing you—or if you’re being stolen from me.”

  His ha
nd moved behind her neck, and he seemed to be searching her face as if asking for something.

  Yes.

  His gaze finally settled on her lips, and she longed to move toward him, to let herself sink into his embrace. But there it went again, the sharp, bullet pain pinging inside as Boone drove away.

  No! She wasn’t checking over her shoulder, not really. She just needed a moment to gather her heart, point it again in the right direction. But apparently Jeremy could see the imprint of Boone’s memory on her face because before she could answer, he set her away from him.

  “I’m not sure whether to fight for you or let you go.”

  Fight. The word pulsed inside her, nearly made it out.

  But he shook his head and sighed. “I wish I knew. But the fact is, Princess, there are simply some mysteries that only you can solve.”

  * * *

  Didn’t anyone sleep anymore?

  The banging resumed, and then a voice needled into the last veils of sleep. “PJ! Are you in there?”

  Nope. She pulled the sleeping bag over her head, pressed the pillow to her ear.

  “PJ!” More banging, and then the bark of a dog.

  Dog. Max. PJ sat up, her heart pounding. She had stared at the ceiling too long after Jeremy left last night, rolling his accusations about Max around in her head, trying to see danger and malice in Max’s lopsided, nearly shy grin or in the look of horror he’d worn when Jinx guessed that he’d been a POW. As though the idea of war might actually be repulsive to him.

  He was no more a killer than she was a . . . princess? Oh, she didn’t know what to believe about anyone anymore.

  Especially herself. Because even as she had longed to run after Jeremy, to give him an answer, a part of her knew his words resonated with truth. What had seemed so clear two days ago now made her heart clench.

  It just wasn’t so easy to forget someone who had been like a piece of yourself. Sometimes the memories simply swallowed her whole.

  But maybe Jeremy understood that, too.

  A rap on the window shook her nearly out of her skin and she leaped from the bed. Max!

  Max peered in her window, his hand cupped over his eyes as he pressed against the glass. “It’s nearly 9 a.m.!”

  PJ got up, wrapping the sleeping bag around her. She’d have to start sleeping in her jeans and T-shirts instead of her tank tops and Superman pants if men and dogs intended to start invading her house at all hours of the night. Or, er, morning. She opened the window, shivering at the rush of fall air. “What are you doing?”