by Mia Kay
What if the sniper was still out there?
Max pulled the cruiser all the way into the garage, and she waited until the door closed and the men searched the house. Graham ushered her inside and to the living room sofa, going through the kitchen to avoid the windows.
Felix leaped into her lap, and she rubbed his velvety ears between her fingers and let his purr vibrate her knees. She stared at the patterns in the rug until Gray’s feet appeared in her line of sight.
“Maggie?”
He was sitting on the ottoman. His face was still tense.
“You should go home,” she whispered. “What if you’d been with me? You shouldn’t be hurt again.”
“Don’t treat me like I’m broken.” He took her hand. “I hate it.”
His stitches slashed across his skin and disappeared under his wedding ring. “But I’m the one who broke you.”
“I can handle it.” He knelt beside her.
She squeezed her free hand until her nails bit into her palm. My eyes aren’t burning. My nose isn’t running. My throat isn’t closing off against the salty taste. Think of ice cream. Chocolate malts. Popsicles. Snowmen.
“Which of those morons taught you not to cry?” he whispered.
“Kevin and Michael.” That is not water garbling my voice. I am not crying. “Every time I was tormented in school, they defended me. Their parents threatened to send them to military school. So I learned to take care of myself. And then there were the funerals, and David, and everyone watched for it. But I had a job to do, and I couldn’t dissolve in a mess. I had to be brave.”
“So you hid in the pantry.”
She didn’t think he’d remembered. Nodding, she sucked in gulps of air. “Mathises don’t cry.”
“Harpers do,” he murmured as he wound his fingers in her hair and kept eye contact. Everything about him softened, from the fingers against her scalp to his hair falling over his forehead. His breath brushed her skin. His blue gaze was the color of her favorite blanket, and his warmth melted every cold thought. Her dam cracked. Gray tightened his grip, preventing her escape and anchoring her in the flood. “Trust me to take care of you.”
Tears spilled over her lashes as she sagged in his arms and dropped her head to his shoulder. Recent relief faded into long-suppressed grief and anger, and he held her through it all. Wrapping his strong arms around her, he whispered nonsense until she quieted into hiccups. It was so nice to have him.
Her tears began again, hot this time. She didn’t have him. He was leaving. His hold gentled as he stroked her hair. After she was safe, he’d go home. Eventually he’d find someone he loved. Whoever she was, she’d be a very lucky girl.
She finally managed to control her self-pity. He leaned away and wiped her eyes. “How about a movie? I think I saw Monty Python on Netflix.”
She sniffed and nodded. “We have popcorn.”
“Do you still eat it with hot sauce and Parmesan cheese instead of butter?”
“Butter’s boring,” she warbled as she stood and walked to the kitchen. When he shadowed her, she didn’t protest. While she cooked, he handed her condiments and stood between her and the windows. He kept her close during the movie and walked her to her room in the dark.
Once she was ready for bed, she opened the door. It wasn’t as frightening if she could hear him moving through the house, and she’d be able to hear if he had a nightmare. The cool pillow and slick sheets soothed her scratches and bruises as she closed her eyes.
She woke in the middle of the night and held her breath when she saw a shadow on the threshold. Her eyes adjusted. Tall, dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, with a shoulder holster. Graham.
Maggie reached for him. His fingers closed over hers just before he put one knee on the mattress, clearly intending to put himself between her and the hallway.
She shook her head and patted the other side of the bed. “I have to see the door.”
He walked around the foot of the bed and climbed in. The mattress shifted, curling her toward him. “I can’t sleep on my left side. It’ll mean—”
“Spooning?”
“Tease.” He pulled the comforter from the floor and covered them both before he removed his shoulder holster and put the gun on her nightstand. “Can you reach it there?”
She nodded against her pillow, suddenly too shy to look at him as he stripped his shirt over his head. “You are the weirdest tax attorney I’ve ever slept with.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you. I needed to know you were breathing.” He smelled of soap and spearmint mouthwash as he curved around her, warm and reassuring. But not safe. Her stomach fluttered as he anchored her to him.
“I like knowing you’re warm,” she whispered as she snuggled closer.
His breath tickled her skin, and his knees nudged hers. After long moments, his arm grew heavier and his inhales deepened. She closed her eyes.
“If anything happens to you because I missed something...”
“Shh, sweetheart.” She put her hand over his, focusing on the long fingers instead of the stitches scratching her palm. “You’re the smartest man I know.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Maggie woke when muted daylight filtered through the curtains and Graham’s chest hair tickled her nose. His large hand cradled her ass, holding her close, and the heaviness along her thigh wasn’t Felix. Raising her head, she watched him wake in slow motion.
His fingers and toes tested surroundings before he dragged in a deep breath and blinked away the stiffness instilled by sleep. Shock jolted his eyes wide as his arm tightened around her.
“What’s that god-awful racket?” His rough, drowsy voice scratched her skin and brought her nerves to life.
“There’s a sparrow outside the window.” Another cheerful trill filtered through the glass. “You’re the one who wanted bird feeders.”
He idly stroked her negligee, tormenting her as he toyed with the hem. “I thought you didn’t wear pink.”
His touch spawned all sorts of indecent thoughts. “It was a gift from Charlene. She said it was fuchsia, not pink, and that I wouldn’t have it on long enough for anyone to tell what color it was. Obviously she was wrong.”
“Not wrong,” he said as he reached for her.
She did her own exploring. His hair refused to lay flat, and sandpaper stubble ranged from his jaw to halfway down his neck. His chest hair curled around her fingers.
Circling his flat nipple with the edge of her fingernail, she watched it pebble before she continued down his body, following the trail of coarse hair as it traversed his torso and disappeared under his waistband. His feet writhed beneath the sheets as his fingers covered hers, curving her around him. He jerked and pulsed in her hand, hot, hard and growing heavier with every stroke.
“Oh God.”
She wasn’t sure who said it, but she was on her back while the groan was still echoing in the room. When she moved her hand, his body chased it.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered against her lips.
She reclaimed him and his mouth left hers to journey down her neck to her shoulder and then her breast. As he sucked her nipple into the wet heat of his mouth, everything in her coiled tighter. He switched to the other, tormenting her until her breasts ached and her entire body shook. It was her turn to whimper in hunger and writhe closer. She clung to him, begging him to continue, but he evaded her.
The doorbell rang just as his hands slid around her ribs and his tongue traveled toward her navel. His hair tickled her skin, dragging the heat and the tension toward her center. “They’ll leave,” she panted. “More, please.”
“God yes.”
The visitor pounded on the front door. “Get your ass out of bed.”
Nate.
“Does he have a key?” Gray’s hot b
reath brushed her stomach and made her tremble in places she’d forgotten existed.
“Yes,” she groused. “And he’ll look in every window.”
“Worst timing,” he grumbled.
“Married life making you lazy, Harper?” It was a new, unfamiliar voice.
“Dammit, I forgot,” Gray said as he leaned away. “He will look in every window.”
“Who is it?” She sat up, ignoring the protest of her body and his whine of regret.
“Jeff Crandall—a friend. A profiler. I asked him to come help.”
They rolled from bed and scrambled for clothing.
Keys jangled at the door. She pushed him from the room and shoved his shirt into his hands. “I’ll be right out.”
* * *
Gray ran for the alarm as Nate pushed the door open.
“Make yourself at home,” he groused as he yanked the shirt over his head.
“When he couldn’t reach you, Marco called to tell me when your truck would be ready. Someone shot out all the windows? You didn’t think to tell me?”
Shit. Gray focused on his friend’s hard stare. He understood the concern, but this was between him and Maggie. “We had a few things to deal with.”
“I can tell,” Nate sneered. “So you’re fucking my—”
That was definitely between him and Maggie. “Watch your mouth.” Gray held out his hand. “Give me your key. You don’t get to come and go as you please.”
“What are you doing? It’s not like you’re staying.”
“Enough, Nathan. It’s none of your business.” Maggie’s clipped tone drew the men’s attention.
She was in the dress she’d worn before their wedding, some knit thing that went to the floor but still suggested every curve and set off the color of her skin and the muscles of her arms—and every scratch and bruise she had. Between those and his stitches, they looked like they’d brawled all week. But her lips were swollen from his kisses, and his body still throbbed from her touch.
“The hell it isn’t. You’re my responsibility.”
“No, she’s not.” Gray’s voice snapped, his nerves raw from worry and sexual frustration. He exhaled and forced himself to relax. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about yesterday. You shouldn’t have found out that way.”
Nate put the key in his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. His grip was tight, and the challenge in his gaze couldn’t be ignored. Gray returned the level stare until his friend dissolved into laughter.
“Three cars in two weeks. That’s a record, even for you, Mags.”
As brother moved to tease sister, Gray walked to the door and grabbed Jeff in a back-slapping hug. “Sorry. Forgot. Lots going on.”
“I can tell.” Jeff laughed. “You’re lucky I’m a trained investigator, or I’d still be sitting in Boise living on airline peanuts.”
“And if I wasn’t a nosy SOB,” Nate said, “he’d still be trying to decipher Chet’s directions out here.”
Gray led his friend into the living room. “Maggie, this is Jeff Crandall. Jeff, this is Maggie, my wife.” The heat kindled under his skin until his ears burned.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Jeff drawled.
“Ma’am?” she asked. “Did they teach that when they taught you to drink sugar in your tea?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jeff’s drawl slowed and his grin widened.
“Quit flirting, Crandall,” Gray muttered.
“Would you like breakfast?” Maggie offered.
“And a haircut?” Gray asked.
Jeff stroked his beard and tossed his hair, which hung past his jawline. “I like it.”
On his way into the kitchen, Gray passed his friends. Both men were watching him like he was a tiger in the zoo. Their smirks were harbingers of smart-ass remarks.
Flipping them off with one hand, Gray reached the other over Maggie’s head for coffee cups. He stayed in the kitchen, pretending to help, manufacturing reasons to invade her space just so he could touch her.
He was running out of chances.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gray stood with his arm around Maggie’s waist while they met with the local PD on the sidewalk across from the bar and tested her theory.
“He’d have to be up high,” Maggie reasoned. “You can’t see my apartment from the street.”
“You can if you get far enough back in the alley and use binoculars or a zoom lens.”
She shuddered. “Ick.”
“Sorry, Badger.” He turned to Glen. “Can anyone get to the second floor of this building?”
Chet’s voice crackled over the radio, marking his progress until he waved from an upstairs window. They tested every spot in Maggie’s apartment until they were sure they’d found her stalker’s perch.
Leaving Max standing guard at the bar, Gray helped investigate. He’d find this son of a bitch. He’d make Maggie safe. Give her her life. Her freedom.
She was standing in her apartment window, staring at nothing. Her hair reflected the sunlight. He’d awakened this morning feeling her soft skin under his fingers. She’d been warm and soft, sweet and willing.
Through the windows, across the distance, her smile widened as she waved. Despite hating that specific smile, he waved back.
She walked away, and he stared at the empty window, at the spot where she should have been. He missed her already. Would it always be like this? Him working, going about his business, yet always looking for her, missing her.
He rushed through work, eager to get back to her side. And he stayed there for the rest of the day, watching over her and listening to her laugh as Jeff told stories Gray had already heard, or lived through. Now, on the back patio, shadows lengthened and darkness fell, and he held her hand as he scanned the yard. The pistol in his ribs alternately felt right and out of place, much like him.
Maggie yawned and stretched. “I think that’s it for me. I hope you don’t mind the couch, Jeff.”
He sure as hell minded Jeff on the sofa. He didn’t want a third person in the house tonight. He didn’t want anyone between him and Maggie.
Gray stood. “I’ll walk you in.”
He kept her hand and dragged his feet all the way to her threshold. Her lips were sweet, and her sigh floated across his cheek. “Goodnight, Graham.”
They were running out of time.
When Gray returned to the patio, Jeff shucked out of his holster and asked the questions that had dogged them since they’d seen the ballistics report from the sniper attack. “An M14? How did she piss off a sniper with an automatic rifle?”
“I have no idea. If she so much as frowns, these guys are ready to throw me in a quarry pond.”
Gray sat in the dark, spinning his thoughts until he was dizzy and exhausted from suspicion, and sick from considering people he’d worked beside and grown to respect.
“You’re sure you want to leave this?” Jeff asked.
I’m not sure of anything anymore. “We made a deal, Jeff. I go home when she’s safe. We’ll get divorced after her birthday.”
Gray stared at the mountains, taking every chance now to etch them into his memory. “She wants her freedom.” He stood, his body weighted with regrets he couldn’t afford to have. “We’ll pack all the evidence to Glen’s office and lay it out in the morning.”
Jeff followed him in. “I’ll be ready.”
Gray padded down the hall to his room. When he’d arrived in the spring, it had been just another room with a great view and a large bed. Now it was filled with him. Books were stacked on the bedside table, and his pajamas were over the chair. The bathroom vanity was crowded with his razor, his toothbrush—all the trappings of home. He’d changed this place, and it had changed him. He wasn’t the squeaky tin man anymore. Maybe he should go
back to Chicago. Maybe it would be different.
Stepping into the shower, he stood under the spray and closed his eyes. They were close. He could feel it the way he always had with previous cases. Jeff’s arrival was the tipping point.
Tomorrow they’d go to the police station, and he and Jeff would collaborate the way they did best. He’d need to get up early and box everything, roll up the time line and carry it with them. What else? He rounded the corner into his bedroom, his brain spinning.
His door was closed.
As his knees gave way, he stumbled sideways into the wall. His heart thudded until it shook his eardrums, and a vise gripped his lungs as the tinny memory of blood filled his mouth. The sticky texture of Ted’s tissue splotched across his skin as phantom pain drooped his left side. Memory blinded him. Everything was a wash of dark slacks, black dress shoes, raid jackets and blood. The wails of ghostly sirens deafened him as his stomach churned.
He shook his head clear. No. That’s over. It’s in the past. I’ve got to focus on now. And right now, Maggie is on the other side of that door. I’m not going stand here afraid to open it. I won’t fail her again. His fingers trembled and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, but he reached for the door.
“Graham?”
He spun to face Maggie, who was perched in his bedside chair. His heart banged into his ribs hard enough to loosen the screws keeping him together. “Jesus! That’s a good way to get yourself shot.”
“Then it’s a good thing you don’t shower armed,” she teased. Her laughter faded as he slid down the wall and onto the floor. She came to his side, regret shadowing her eyes. “Sweetheart?”
He wrapped his fingers through hers as his rasping breaths echoed through the room. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are.” She scrambled into the bathroom and spoke over the running water. He closed his eyes, content to listen.
“What is it?” she murmured from shoulder level as she wiped his brow with a cold cloth. She kept going down his neck, his shoulders and arms. She rinsed it and returned to wipe his chest in long, calming strokes. “The door?”