by Karen Rose
Stevie frowned. ‘What do you mean? You saw her a few hours ago. Wasn’t she well then?’ There was a pause during which Stevie’s heart began to race. ‘Wasn’t she okay today?’
‘I didn’t see her today, Mrs Mazzetti. I haven’t seen Cordelia in over two months.’
‘I . . . I don’t understand. She goes to class, every Saturday afternoon. My sister Izabela has been bringing her.’
‘Izabela withdrew her from my class at the beginning of January, right after the new year. Cordelia seemed to be having some trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ Stevie asked flatly.
‘She seemed to get upset easily. The least little mistake and she’d burst into tears.’
Stevie’s maternal defensiveness came to full alert. ‘Perhaps it was the manner in which the correction was given.’
‘I never corrected her,’ Mrs Stanislaski said sadly. ‘Cordelia was more than aware of her own mistakes. I tried to get her to relax. Have fun. But she grew more . . .’
‘Brittle,’ Stevie murmured.
‘Yes, that is the word I was looking for. So your sister withdrew her from my class. She said that Cordelia was going to take a break for a while. I assumed you knew.’
‘No. I didn’t. Thank you, Mrs Stanislaski. I’ll . . . Well, thank you.’ Stevie hung up and slowly turned from Cordelia’s closet to where JD and Emma waited, expressions troubled. ‘Izzy hasn’t been taking Cordy to ballet for months. But they’ve been gone every Saturday afternoon.’
‘I’m sure Izzy has a good explanation,’ JD said quietly.
Stevie bit the inside of her cheek, anger rising. ‘If something was wrong with Cordelia, Izzy should have told me.’ She heard the car engine outside at the same time JD did. Together they rushed to the window, each taking one side. ‘Emma, wait in the hall.’
‘Already there,’ Emma said. ‘I’m not stupid, Stevie.’
Emma had suspected Cordelia was having trouble and she hadn’t seen her in a year. No, her friend was far from stupid. Me, on the other hand . . .
Stevie stiffened at the sight of a black truck pulling up to her house. There was something about the driver. Something familiar. He brought the truck to a stop and looked up, his eyes scanning the windows. Her heart skittered. No way. No fucking way. It cannot be him.
‘Who is that?’ JD asked, then exhaled a quiet ‘Oh’ when the driver emerged.
Oh. As in Oh My God.
Stevie’s skittering heart simply stopped at the sight of the man standing in her driveway. It was him. Dark. Huge. Massive shoulders. Layers of muscle. He was . . . He was too much.
‘Who is it?’ Emma called impatiently from the hall. ‘Do I need to call 911?’
JD gave Stevie a few seconds to answer. When it was clear she wasn’t going to, he called back, ‘It’s Clay Maynard. The PI.’
‘Really? What’s he doing here?’ Emma inched into the room, stopping behind Stevie to cautiously peek around her shoulder. ‘Oh my,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘Oh my, oh my.’
Oh my was right. Clay appeared rough-hewn, like his face had been carved from solid rock. But Stevie knew that wasn’t true. She knew that his lips were soft, his skin was warm and vital, and his eyes saw more than she wanted anyone to see. Ever again. And when he looked at her . . . She felt more than she ever wanted to feel again.
Not today. Please. I can’t do this today. Clay walked around the truck to open the back passenger door and Cordelia hopped out, an adoring smile on her face.
Stevie stared, open-mouthed. Suddenly Izzy’s ballet deception made perfect sense. Her sister had never approved of her sending Clay on his way. Izzy had begged her to ‘see reason’.
Cordelia had been with Clay. All this time. After I explicitly forbade it.
Cordelia thought the man hung the moon. And why wouldn’t she? She’d known Clay had saved her mother’s life. It was natural for a seven-year-old girl to put him on a pedestal. Which he deserves. Because he, like, saved your life.
And I’m grateful. I just don’t want him in my life.
Which Izzy hadn’t respected, damn her to hell. If she thinks that getting Cordelia attached to him will make me let him worm his way under my skin, she’s got another think coming.
This wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair. To Cordelia or to Clay. Or to me.
Stevie wasn’t the cold stone everyone thought she was. She was lonely. She craved companionship. Male companionship. She craved Clay. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t? But she knew that she’d never love him, not like she’d loved Paul. And Clay deserved better than that, even if he wouldn’t accept it. If she let this go on, he’d be hurt. Cordelia would be hurt. And so would I. I already am.
Because now I have to send him away, again. And it was going to hurt even worse the second time around. So do it. Just get it over with.
Stevie’s resolve kicked into gear, fury sending her pulse pounding. Izzy, I am going to fucking murder you. She took off for the stairs at a run, ignoring the searing pain in her leg along with Emma’s startled shrieks and JD’s panicked shouts.
Saturday, March 15, 6.15 P.M.
‘I had a really nice time, Mr Maynard. Thank you.’
Clay looked down at Stevie’s daughter, taking one last moment to hoard the smile on her face. It would be the last time he’d see it. Stevie wanted to protect her child from getting attached to a man who’d have no place in their lives. He understood her wish and he’d honor it. But it hurt. He was surprised at just how much it hurt.
He liked Cordelia Mazzetti. She was cute and funny and made him wish again and again that Stevie felt about him the way he felt about her. That Cordelia looked up at him with a combination of gratitude, affection, and awe . . . It made it even harder to walk away. He could be a father to this child. He could.
But he wasn’t going to be. Swallowing hard, he returned her smile. ‘You’re welcome. Let me get that,’ he added when Cordelia reached for the pink Tinkerbell bag that held her ballet gear. She’d wanted to change into her leotard and slippers as she did every Saturday afternoon before coming home, but he wouldn’t allow it. Cordelia needed to come clean with her mother about the horse therapy, so she still wore the scuffed boots Izzy had bought used off eBay with money she didn’t have to spare. Because she loved her niece.
Izzy’s heart was in the right place. But Stevie didn’t deserve to be lied to.
Stevie. She’s there. In the house. Clay’s need to see her again bordered on desperation. But he dreaded it at the same time. Dreaded the pain of looking at her face. Of seeing what he’d wanted for so long standing right in front of him. And not being able to touch. To have.
He dreaded how much it would hurt when he drove away. Again.
This isn’t about you, he reminded himself. This was about what was best for Cordelia. But when does it get to be about me? Right about now, it was looking like never. He cleared his throat harshly. ‘Don’t forget your flowers,’ he said to Cordelia.
‘I’ve got ’em.’ She held up the bouquet of rosebuds she’d chosen. ‘She likes flowers. I hope it helps her be not so mad with me.’
Clay shouldered the pink bag covered with fairies and steeled his spine. ‘I think she’ll be angrier with me. I’ll try to smooth things over.’
They’d taken two steps when the front door flew open. Stevie stumbled down the front steps, clutching the railing with one hand and a glitter-covered cane in the other. She righted herself when her feet hit the ground, stalking toward them, undeterred by her uneven stride.
She was furious. Beautiful and furious. Just like the first time he’d seen her. Clay’s mouth watered and he had to grit his teeth and clench his fists to keep from reaching out and grabbing her. Because she’d hate that. Because once he held her, he’d . . . God. He’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. Until neither of them could breathe.
She’d like it. She’d liked his kiss before. That one time he’d touched his lips to hers. But she’d hated that she’d liked it. H
ated that she’d wanted it. That she’d wanted him.
Part of him didn’t care that she hadn’t wanted to want him. That part wanted to make her see, make her know. Make her beg.
But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Whatever her reasons, Stevie had told him no. So he’d back away. No matter how much it hurt. This . . . this was going to hurt like a goddamn bitch.
Stevie came to a stop midway between his truck and her house. Her chest was rising and falling with the breaths she took, a combination of exertion and anger.
Cordelia slowly approached, coming around the front of his truck, the bouquet of rosebuds clutched behind her back. Her little hand trembled and Clay’s heart cracked.
‘Stevie, it’s not her fault—’ he began, but she cut him off, her hand slicing the air.
‘Go to your room, Cordelia. Apparently I have to explain things to Mr Maynard. Again.’
Clay flinched. This was going to hurt even worse than he’d anticipated.
Cordelia paled. Nodded. Then brought the flowers from behind her back. ‘They’re for you,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry, Mama. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I just wanted to see the horses.’
Stevie looked at the flowers as if she’d never seen any before. Like she was having trouble figuring out what they were. She started to reach for the bouquet, but wrapped her arms around Cordelia in a hard hug instead, the flowers crushed between them.
Clay looked away, the sight making his chest ache. As he let out a long breath, he saw the car approach. A normal car. A red Chevy Impala, about five years old. Going about twenty-five on a residential street. Nothing special. But the car slowed and the hairs on the back of Clay’s neck lifted. The seconds began to tick in his mind, each louder than the one before.
Tick. The driver was wearing a ski cap.
Tick. And was sliding an arm out of the window to lie flat against the car door.
Tick. The arm raised, a gloved hand holding a pistol.
Clay lunged, going airborne before tackling Stevie and her daughter, knocking them to the ground. With his left arm he pulled them to his body, hoping to take the brunt of the fall on his shoulder while his right hand whipped his gun from its holster.
He heard the cracking of wood. A shrill scream from the front porch. A terrified cry beneath him. Cordelia.
Don’t be afraid, baby. I’ve got you.
But before he could push the words from his throat, the air was slammed from his lungs, his body propelled forward. Two strikes in rapid succession. Two shots.
Clay hunched his back as the Kevlar he never left home without absorbed the force of the bullets. Raising his arm, he centered the driver of the red Chevy in his sights and fired a single shot. He thought he saw the driver’s arm flinch, but he ducked his head again at the sound of bullets pinging off metal and glass shattering.
The guy was shooting at his truck. Alec’s in there. Praying that Alec had the time to hide, Clay curled into a ball, protecting the two beneath him first.
Curses came from the front porch, then large feet ran past his head, toward the street. The car engine revved. Tires squealed. The shooter was escaping. Goddammit.
Clay stayed where he was, counting the heartbeats pounding in his head. He could hear Cordelia breathing in uneven, hitching gulps. Stevie had gone very still against him. Her arms still banded around her daughter’s body, but he couldn’t hear her breathing. He could feel it though, shallow little pants against his throat.
A warm body knelt beside him. ‘They’re gone,’ a man said. ‘Anybody hit?’
Clay pushed himself to his hands and knees, hanging over Stevie and the child she clutched to her chest. Her dark eyes were wide as they met his. Wide, but sharp. And curiously unsurprised. ‘Are you all right?’ he rasped. His lungs had yet to refill.
‘I think so.’ Stevie glanced up to the man beside them. ‘Clay was hit. Twice.’
Clay looked up to see JD Fitzpatrick evaluating them all through narrowed eyes. ‘Can you stand?’ JD asked, already reaching to pull him to his feet.
‘Yes.’ Rising, Clay saw the mess the fucker had made of his truck. Every window was shattered and holes riddled the doors. Alec was nowhere to be seen. ‘Alec!’
‘I’m okay.’ Alec’s voice came back shaky. But alive. He crawled around the front of the truck and Clay had to lock his knees to keep them from buckling. God. ‘I was right behind you,’ Alec said. ‘I dropped when you jumped.’
If he’d been in the truck he’d have been killed. Clay shook the thought out of his head. Alec hadn’t been in the truck. He was okay. Everyone was okay. ‘Get in the house. Don’t stop to check on me.’ Clay crouched down, took Cordelia into his arms, keeping his gun in his hand. Just in case the shooter comes back. ‘Get Stevie in the house,’ he said to JD, then beelined for the front door, looking over his shoulder to make sure JD and Stevie were following. Just turning to glance behind him hurt like a bitch.
Kevlar might have saved his life a time or two or three, but the shots still hurt. He’d be bruised and sore for days. He looked down at the little girl in his arms. She stared up at him, her eyes unseeing, her teeth chattering.
The flowers were crushed into her jacket.
Undiluted rage boiled up inside him, but he kept it far enough away from his eyes that he didn’t frighten her further. JD was supporting Stevie’s weight as she hobbled, but as Clay carried Cordelia through the door, JD picked Stevie up and slung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and ran the rest of the way in, slamming the door behind them.
Alec sat with his back to the wall, knees to his chest. Alert. Unhurt.
A small, blonde woman Clay had never seen before sat next to Alec, clutching a phone to her ear. She was talking to the 911 operator. Her voice was calm but her face was paper white and she pressed the heel of her other hand to her breastbone. Her shirt was bloody.
‘Are you hit?’ Clay demanded and she shook her head.
‘It’s from earlier,’ JD said wearily. ‘This is Stevie’s second shooting today. Her third since yesterday.’
‘Her third—’ Clay nearly stumbled, but he kept himself upright. Kept Cordelia safe in his arms. ‘What the hell, JD?’
‘You’ll have to ask Stevie. She knows better than everyone else.’ JD said the words bitterly as he laid Stevie on the sofa.
She immediately sat up and reached for her daughter. Pain flashed in her dark eyes and she hunched her left shoulder, but her arm stayed outstretched, waiting.
It was then that Clay saw the blood seeping through the sleeve of her Baltimore PD T-shirt. A white bandage peeked out from below the sleeve. Three shots in two days. She’d been hit.
‘Give her to me. Please,’ she added hoarsely.
Clay settled Cordelia in her arms and stepped back. ‘Blankets?’
‘Upstairs,’ Stevie whispered. ‘Hall closet.’
JD grabbed Clay’s arm. ‘I’ll get them. You sit down. You look like shit.’
‘Cops’ll be here in less than three minutes,’ the blonde said.
Holstering his gun, Clay sat down on the other end of the sofa. His lungs were beginning to function again. He drew a deep breath, testing his limits, then winced. Lungs worked, ribs didn’t. He drew a few shallower breaths, then turned his eyes on Stevie.
Her eyes clenched shut, she rocked her daughter in small movements he wasn’t sure she was aware of. Her lips moved soundlessly, all the color leached from her face. He’d seen her paler – the day she’d nearly bled out in his arms on the courthouse steps. But not much paler.
He focused on her mouth, on the words her lips formed. I’m sorry, she was saying. Over and over as she rocked.
One shooting yesterday. Two more today. Today, the anniversary of her husband’s murder.
It seemed like too much coincidence. Clay had never believed in coincidence.
‘Stevie,’ he said softly, not wanting to distress Cordelia who now mewled pitifully, her face pressed against her mother’s shoulder.
; Stevie met his eyes over Cordelia’s head. She no longer looked terrified. She looked haunted. Guilty.
‘What the hell is going on here?’
Chapter Five
Baltimore, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 6.19 P.M.
Stevie opened her mouth, but no words came out. Clay was staring at her angrily, his eyes hard, his jaw clenched. He breathed shallowly. But at least he breathed.
He’d taken two bullets. For me. She pulled Cordelia closer to her body. For us.
‘I . . . I c-ca—’ She choked on the words, shaking her head. Rocking her daughter.
Clay’s expression softened, anger becoming worry. Keeping his head away from the window, he slid off the sofa to kneel in front of her. ‘Are you all right?’ he murmured.
She managed a nod.
He hesitated, then ran his finger under the sleeve of her shirt, lifting it to expose the bandage the ER doctor had applied, what seemed like a lifetime ago. ‘You’re bleeding. How bad was it?’
‘She had five stitches,’ Emma said from against the wall. ‘The ER doctor wanted to keep her overnight for observation, but she refused.’
Clay nodded, keeping eye contact with Stevie. ‘A five-stitch wound isn’t bad at all.’ He brushed gentle fingers across Cordelia’s hair. ‘Did you hear that, Cordelia? Five stitches is practically nothing. Your mom is okay. Give me a little nod if you hear me.’
Cordelia kept her face pressed into Stevie’s shoulder, but she nodded once.
‘Good, honey,’ Clay said, his voice soothing. ‘That’s good. Are you hurt anywhere, Cordelia? I know I’m heavy. I need to know if I squashed you.’
Cordelia shook her head and the constriction in Stevie’s throat loosened.
‘Good. I’m glad.’ He stroked Cordelia’s hair again. ‘Squashing you would have been bad.’
Cordelia turned her face a fraction. ‘My flowers,’ she whispered. ‘They got squashed.’
‘We’ll get more,’ Clay murmured. ‘Your mom knows you got them for her and that’s the important thing.’ He lifted his eyes to Stevie’s once again. ‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’