After Darke

by Heather MacAllister

  She wasn’t accustomed to awakening in police protective custody, either, but first she’d deal with the issue of the male back.

  It was Jaron’s, she knew. How she’d gravitated toward it in the night, she didn’t know. It could be because his skin held the faint scent of sandalwood—he probably used some trendy bath soap. But though she mentally scoffed, she had to admit that she liked it.

  It sure beat the musty smells in this room.

  She was contemplating a move that would take her back to her side of the bed while still feigning sleep, but she was too late. He was already awake. The side of her head felt cool and her sore cheek began to ache a bit as he slowly shifted away from her. He was getting up. Now she really had to pretend to be asleep to preserve what little dignity she could. It wasn’t helped by seeing the pink spot on his back that her face had made.

  Bonnie clamped her eyes shut and was totally surprised when she felt him tuck the sheet over her shoulder.

  It was such a...nice thing to do. She didn’t associate the word nice with Jaron.

  Giving in to curiosity, she opened her eyes the tiniest bit when he stood. He bent down to the floor and rose with his shirt, which he shook out and draped over the lamp.

  He picked up the plastic toiletry bag and stared at the contents, tilting his body toward the window, where a strip of light cut into the room.

  Bonnie opened her eyes more, then involuntarily widened them. Holy cow. Whose body had he stolen? He had muscles. Subtle ones, to be sure—so subtle, she hadn’t noticed them beneath his jacket.

  She forced herself to close her eyes to slits in case he looked over at her.

  She liked construction worker types. Farmer types. Beefier types who worked outside without their shirts. Men who worked with their hands. That was not to say that men of this type came her way very often. She’d already dated or written off the eligible male population of Cooper’s Corner by the time she’d finished high school. As for her blind dates, the hunky types didn’t go for vacations that consisted of looking at the scenery, antiquing and staying in picturesque B and B’s. Hunky types generally didn’t go for blind dates at all.

  Once upon a time, she’d had a thing for Seth Castleman, the local carpenter—talk about muscles—but that was over long ago. Seth’s physique had become her male template.

  But Jaron...Jaron was supposed to be skinny and pale and gangly. Jaron wasn’t supposed to have abs. Or shoulders with defined muscles that moved attractively in the morning light. And arms that looked as though they’d have no trouble throwing a punch or two.

  They were fake muscles, she told herself—muscles gained in a gym, not from honest labor. But Bonnie was beginning to think that muscles were muscles and they looked good no matter how they’d been acquired.

  He had chest hair. Bonnie tried to tell herself that she liked the smooth-skinned look, and failed, because Jaron had enough chest hair to enhance his torso without invoking the ick factor.

  Drat. But she could admit that Jaron looked okay without his shirt. That didn’t mean she was attracted to him. There was a lot more to attraction than a few muscles and a flat stomach.

  Flatter than her stomach, if she wanted to get technical. And if that wasn’t an attraction killer, she didn’t know what was.

  Jaron headed for the bathroom and Bonnie clamped her eyes shut.

  And she’d slept with him. She drew in calm, deep breaths....

  But along with the mustiness from the ancient mattress, she inhaled the faintest scent of sandalwood.

  The sound of the shower was loud enough that Bonnie figured she could pretend to awaken. She made a show of gradually moving and sitting up.

  She needn’t have bothered. Sorenson was asleep, breathing heavily, his head at an angle that told Bonnie he’d have a crick in his neck today. The TV was still going and one of the morning news shows was on. She didn’t know which channel, but she recognized the hosts. The weather report promised the rest of the week would be bright and clear. That should bring out the tourists and make Maureen and Clint happy. They ran the Twin Oaks B and B in Cooper’s Corner, and this was their first leaf-peeper season. They were booked throughout the fall, but bad weather brought cancellations, and Bonnie knew they couldn’t afford many of those. She moaned softly. She was supposed to start work on Monday to convert the attic to another guest room. And all the fixtures she’d found were back at Aunt Cokie’s.

  Cokie hadn’t answered the phone last night, and Bonnie had left her lying message hurriedly in case her aunt picked up. Fortunately, she hadn’t, but Bonnie was going to have to talk with her sometime and she wasn’t looking forward to it.

  She wasn’t looking forward to facing Jaron, either. But he didn’t have to know that she knew how much of the bed she’d hogged last night.

  Speaking of which... Bonnie swung her legs out of the bed and got up, then immediately made it. She wasn’t a neatness freak or anything, but it seemed better to cover the scene of her crime.

  The shower stopped as Bonnie smoothed the spread into place. She hoped Jaron didn’t linger in the bathroom, and she hoped Sorenson planned to take them somewhere for breakfast. Or coffee. She’d settle for coffee. Even black. Bonnie wasn’t a heavy coffee drinker, but she wanted it in the morning as fast as she could get it.

  Now would be a good time.

  With nothing to do, she sat on the bed and watched the TV. She watched short vignettes on cooking, stain removal, a new movie, a new novel and a Hollywood divorce. She watched the weather again, after which came the local news. And she watched that.

  There had been a murder in Little Italy. And we were there last night, she thought. A couple of beats went by before she realized the newscasters were talking about their murder, the one she and Jaron had seen—nearly seen. Close enough.

  She leaped off the bed and pounded on the bathroom door.

  “Jaron! Our murder is on TV!”

  With a snort, Sorenson awoke. “Police! Nobody move!” He patted himself, searching for his weapon.

  Jaron came barreling out of the bathroom, face lathered, thin, short towel wrapped around his waist. “What’s—” He stopped and gathered his towel tighter.

  Bonnie pretended not to notice—a good trick, since it was a very short towel—and pointed to the TV.

  There was a picture of Maurice Fenister and then a clip of the crime scene. People were gathered around and there were the usual man-on-the-street interviews where folks who spoke with double negatives expressed their surprise that such a thing could happen in their neighborhood.

  The camera panned the area as the ambulance pulled away, and then zoomed in on a police car. Bonnie gasped. “That’s us!”

  There was her white face, pressed up against the window of the car. The picture cut to another angle and zoomed in through the back on Jaron, who had turned his face from the side window leaving his recognizable profile available for the telephoto lenses.

  The reporter spoke. “Police will neither confirm nor deny that columnist Jaron Darke and a companion witnessed...”

  “Did you hear that?” Jaron demanded. “Don’t the police have any connections with the media to prevent that sort of speculative reporting?”

  “Well, there is that pesky first amendment dealing with freedom of the press.” Bonnie paused. “And aren’t you a member of that same press?”

  “I’m print. We have standards.”

  Sorenson shook his head. “Captain isn’t gonna like this.”

  “I don’t like it much myself.” Jaron stormed back into the bathroom.

  “It’s time for me to call in, anyway.” Sorenson heaved himself out of the chair and rubbed his neck.

  “After that, I’m going to have to call my aunt,” Bonnie said. “And Jaron will want to call his mother.”

  “I don’t know...
.”

  “Ask. And also—coffee?”

  “My relief will bring it.”

  “Tell him to hurry.”

  The bathroom door opened then and Jaron emerged, fully dressed. Bonnie had to acknowledge a pang of disappointment, though now that she knew what was under the loose-fitting shirt.... It made no difference. None. He could be Hercules for all she cared.

  He was fastening his cuffs, and jerked his head toward the bathroom. “All yours.”

  Bonnie found her toiletry kit. “Keep the pressure on for coffee.”

  “How do you take yours?”

  “With milk, but I’ll settle for anything.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He didn’t meet her eyes. Instead he seemed to be staring at her mouth as though lip-reading. Was he embarrassed?

  Jaron? Hardly.

  * * *

  JARON WAITED UNTIL he heard the shower start, then strode over to Sorenson. “You are going to get us a room with two beds—no, make that a two-bedroom suite.”

  “In this place?” Sorenson chuckled and changed the channel on the TV.

  “No, not in this place. In a decent hotel. I don’t care if it’s in Idaho, but I’m not staying another night in this room.” Or another night in the bed with Bonnie.

  “We’ve put in for a room change.”

  “I want a hotel change. I’ll pay the difference myself.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to be going anywhere, not with your mug all over the TV.”

  “If our accommodations are not to my satisfaction, then I will leave.”

  Sorenson didn’t even look at him. “I don’t think so.”

  “What are you going to do—shoot me? Go ahead. I don’t much care.”

  Sorenson regarded him soberly. “There are a lot worse things than spending the night in a bed with her.” His eyes rolled in the direction of the bathroom, where Bonnie was still in the shower.

  And Jaron was ninety-nine point nine percent certain that she was naked.

  BONNIE GINGERLY PATTED her cheek with the rough towel. It wasn’t too bad and looked worse than it felt. A bruise that resembled the plum eyeshadow she used to wear—

  and why had she?—spread underneath her eye.

  All in all, she’d looked better.

  But that wasn’t what was really bothering her. Seeing her face brought home what Jaron had done. Which I will point out for the record she has yet to thank me for.

  It was true. Bonnie swallowed and gingerly touched her cheek. She was going to have to ask Sorenson for another bandage—and she was going to have to thank Jaron.

  Without any trouble, she recalled the feeling of being pressed against the brick of the restaurant, with Jaron’s body covering hers. He didn’t even like her, yet he hadn’t hesitated to try to protect her. True, they weren’t the targets, but he hadn’t known that.

  And he hadn’t left her when she’d insisted on staying, either. She’d done the right thing, and the police would have questioned him eventually anyway, but she’d been glad of his steadying presence during those first few minutes.

  The phone rang and she started. The thing sounded as though it was in the room with her. Sorenson was talking. Quietly, Bonnie finished drying off and dressed, listening.

  It was apparent that Captain Quigg had seen the morning news, and as Sorenson had predicted, he wasn’t happy. Big surprise. There was mostly uh-huhing and okay-bossing and sure-thinging from Sorenson.

  Bonnie emerged from the bathroom and shot a glance toward Jaron, who was staring out the window, hands shoved into his pockets. He was fully dressed, complete with jacket. Somehow, though, the solid black didn’t look as intimidating this morning. Maybe that was because she had a pretty good idea what was under the black.

  Sorenson hung up the phone.

  “You didn’t ask him about the room,” Jaron said, without turning around.

  “Couldn’t work it into the conversation,” Sorenson mumbled, rubbing his neck.

  Jaron gave him a disgusted look over his shoulder.

  “How about coffee? Is it on the way?” With Jaron in an understandably foul mood, Bonnie wanted caffeine fortification before delivering her thanks-for-saving-my-life speech. Though he hadn’t actually saved her life, the thought had been there.

  “Uh...they’re shorthanded and I’m gonna have to pull a double shift.”

  “So relief isn’t coming with the coffee,” Jaron stated crisply. He strode toward the door. “I’ll get it, then.”

  “No!” Sorenson could really move fast when he was motivated. “I’ll get it.” Huffing, he jerked open the door. “You two, stay here. You don’t open the door for anybody but me.”

  “Aren’t you going to give us a secret code word or something?” Bonnie asked.

  “Huh?” Sorenson stopped rubbing his neck and stared at her. He could probably use some coffee, too.

  “Cabbage roll,” Jaron said. “The password is cabbage roll.”

  Muttering, Sorenson closed the door. “Lock it,” he called.

  “Like a stiff wind wouldn’t blow it down.” Nevertheless, Bonnie locked the door.

  Jaron walked over to the window. Well, caffeine or not, now was the time.

  “Jaron?”

  “What?”

  Bonnie approached him. “About last night...”

  “Ha! What about last night?”

  “Well...thanks. For pushing me into the wall, I mean.”

  He was still watching out the window, but she saw him smile. “That sounds really bad.”

  “Look—you were protecting me and I haven’t thanked you, so, thanks.”

  He turned to her then. Reaching out, he gently touched her cheek. “I may have been too enthusiastic.”

  Bonnie felt a warmth that had nothing to do with her injury. “You just don’t know your own strength.” She was thinking of his muscles. She shouldn’t have been thinking of his muscles.

  “Right.” Still smiling, he went back to staring out the window, then straightened. “Bingo.” He headed for the door.

  “Where are you going? Sorenson said we were to stay here.”

  “Sorenson just went into the coffee shop down the street. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. But you should stay here.”

  “I don’t want to stay here. It stinks. Where are you going?”

  “To bribe the desk clerk for another room.”

  “So why do I have to stay here?”

  Jaron stopped, hand on the doorknob. “Because if I ask for a room with two beds and he sees you, he’ll think I’m out of my mind.” And then he was gone.

  It took Bonnie a few moments to realize that she’d been complimented. Sort of. Was Jaron implying that she was the type that appealed to clerks at seedy hotels? Bonnie took inventory: bruised cheek and rumpled clothes. No makeup. Sleep-crinkled hair. Maybe it wasn’t a compliment.

  While she waited, she looked at the telephone, tempted to call her aunt. Sorenson hadn’t forbidden her to use the phone, but he hadn’t said she could, either.

  With Jaron off doing his thing, perhaps Bonnie shouldn’t push the boundaries. Because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she took up Jaron’s perch by the window and kept a watch for Sorenson.

  It appeared they were in the downtown area of somewhere. They’d crossed a bridge last night—maybe two. She didn’t know where they were—Brooklyn? That had a bridge, didn’t it?

  “Hey, Bonnie.” There was a tap on the door and Jaron opened it. Oops. She should have locked the door behind him.

  Grinning, he crooked a finger at her and disappeared. Bonnie grabbed her purse and followed him. He heard her, turned around and held up a key.

  “You got us a different room?”

 
“Yes, one miraculously became available.”

  Bonnie followed him to the very last room at the end of the hall, where he was unlocking the door.

  “They didn’t give us this one because of the fire escape.” He indicated the hall window, where a fire escape obstructed the view.

  “Well, in case of a fire, wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

  “In case of someone trying to sneak in, it would be a bad thing. This room isn’t ‘secure.”’ He stepped inside and Bonnie followed him.

  “Two beds. Two wonderful, glorious beds.” Jaron looked extremely pleased with himself.

  “Was I that awful to sleep with?”

  He glanced at her. “You stole the sheet.”

  “I did not!”

  “Not once you fell asleep and I could steal it back,” Jaron retorted. “Anyway, I like to spread out more.”

  And she’d crowded him. How embarrassing. Bonnie decided that it was a good time to check the bathroom. Same as the other one, except that the sink was stained with a rusty stripe and the faucet dripped. If there was one thing Bonnie hated, it was a dripping faucet.

  “Well, there’s something to keep you occupied,” Jaron said from behind her.

  “I don’t have tools with me.” Bonnie took one of the washcloths, stuffed it into the faucet and arranged the rest of the cloth so the water would silently run down it and into the drain.

  “Is that a plumber trick?”

  “Oh, ha, ha.”

  “Listen.” Jaron checked his watch. “I’m going to call my editor. I have a noon deadline I’m going to miss.”

  “You could dictate your column.”

  “Sure. If I’d written it already.” He stood by the phone. “Would you look at this? It’s a rotary. The dark ages.” He dialed a number. “Once I get my laptop, I’m going to have to have an Internet connection, and I’d really like my cell back.... Angela? Jaron.” His voice dropped. “Yeah.” He chuckled. Purred, actually.

  Bonnie didn’t want to hear him flirt with his editor, or whoever that was. She went over to the window. It was the same third-floor view as their other room, but from a slightly different angle. There was a stone ledge outside the window, blocking out the sidewalk directly beneath, but Bonnie could see traffic and watch for Sorenson to come out of the coffee shop, assuming he hadn’t already.