Wanting You

by Leslie A. Kelly

  “So what are you worrying about?”

  “Nothing.” He shook off his concerns. There was no reason to think the mugging had been anything but a random crime of opportunity. And the news van was far behind them. “Forget it, I’m overanalyzing. Everything will be okay.”

  He didn’t realize they would not be okay until he reached an intersection at the end of her street and stopped before turning left. “Oh, shit,” he muttered.

  She leaned forward and peered around him, letting out a low sigh at the sight of two of those news vans.

  “How much do I win if I bet they’re parked in front of your place?” he asked.

  “I’m not going to take that bet,” she said, throwing herself back in the seat.

  He didn’t make the turn, going straight instead. “Is it always like this?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m a nonentity, seriously. But since this Hollywood deal came along and I moved out here, it’s put me in a fifteen-minutes-of-fame spotlight.” She fisted her hands in her lap, drawing his attention to her long fingers and trimmed, no-nonsense nails. A writer’s hands.

  Of course, he’d noticed those palms before they’d gotten into the car. They were scratched and scraped, and one of those nails was torn. He didn’t imagine she’d be in any condition to type tomorrow.

  He suddenly remembered something he’d heard in passing on the news a few days ago. “There’s another reason you’re in the spotlight, isn’t there? Angstrom…his appeal has progressed a step, right?”

  “Yeah. And if he gets a new trial…”

  “You’ll have to testify again.”

  “Exactly.”

  The situation wasn’t unusual in today’s legal system, with murderers and lawyers dragging appeals through the courts for years—or decades. Families and witnesses had to hold their breath, not sure if the torment would ever end.

  Sure, everybody deserved a fair trial. The possibility of an innocent person being imprisoned or even executed for a crime he or she didn’t commit made exhaustive appeals necessary. But Angstrom? They’d found a fucking slaughterhouse in his basement. If he recalled correctly, this latest appeal was on a technicality over a legal filing, not because the sonofabitch could be innocent.

  Evie would have to be dragged back into the world of a deranged monster, not only as a random witness or journalist, but also as the friend of a victim. Christ, no wonder the media was on her trail. She had the whole Hollywood thing going on and was connected to the most brutal serial killer caught this decade.

  “I wonder how long they’ll stake me out.”

  Honestly? Probably until every one of Angstrom’s legal options were exhausted and he took his place in the last chair in which he would ever sit.

  “Depends on how slow a news night it is.”

  She rubbed a weary hand over her eyes. “God, I’m tired.”

  “What about a hotel?”

  “Looking like this?”

  Idling at a red light several blocks from her place, he glanced at her dirty, rumpled clothes. Her hair was tangled—twisted by a brutal hand. A red scrape and the beginnings of a yellowish bruise marred her jaw, and flecks of dried blood stood out against the pale skin. That alone made Rowan want to go back, find her attacker, and beat the shit out of him.

  “Yeah, I suspected that’s what I look like,” she said, reading his expression.

  “Sorry. You’re beautiful, but you do look like you’ve been in a street fight.”

  When she sucked her lip into her mouth and looked down at her hands, he realized he shouldn’t have made the beautiful remark. It wasn’t exactly cop-and-victim appropriate. Then again, she had essentially agreed to a future coffee date.

  Her throat worked as she swallowed hard before mumbling, “I guess that’s fair, since I was in a street fight.”

  “I saw as I drove up. You handled that really well, fighting back and trying to get free. It could have been bad if he’d gotten you into that alley.”

  “And if you hadn’t come along.”

  He didn’t like the thought.

  “Think if we go for that cup of coffee they’ll be gone when we get back?”

  “Probably not. I don’t suppose you have any family in the area you could stay with?” Knowing she was a new resident, he seriously doubted it.

  “No.”

  “What about the friend you texted?”

  She nodded slowly. “I guess that’s possible. But her new husband…”

  Rowan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Bad guy?”

  “Not really. Just a very ambitious one. She’s my publishing agent, and he’s my Hollywood one. He’s always got an eye on deal making, and I suspect he’d love to use tonight’s incident to get more media attention.”

  Just what she would not want. “Is he, uh, ambitious enough that he’d have tipped off the press about what happened? Or even shared your address?”

  Evie started to shake her head, but slowly stopped moving. “He wouldn’t have. He couldn’t have.”

  “You sure about that? This town can bring out the worst in people.”

  “Can I borrow your phone?” she asked.

  He nodded and pointed toward the center console. She took it, tapped some buttons, and then waited. In the dark interior of the car, he saw the screen darken and then, almost immediately, flash to life again.

  “She swears it wasn’t him,” she said.

  Huh. Maybe. “Do you believe her?”

  “Of course I believe her.”

  Catching the inflection, he knew what he meant. But he didn’t push it. Her opinion of her friend’s husband was none of his business, though if he’d ratted her out to the press to gain some publicity, Rowan already couldn’t stand the guy.

  Thinking about her predicament a little more, he came up with another solution. He just had to word it in a way that didn’t sound creepy.

  “Look, I have a place you can stay for the night. My brother and his girlfriend are out of town and I’ve been house-sitting for them.”

  The light changed and he drove forward, thinking about the idea and liking it more and more. The house Reece had rented while his fire-damaged one was being rebuilt was entirely secure. That would probably make Evie feel better after tonight’s experience.

  “You want to take me home like a stray puppy?”

  He laughed softly. “I don’t think Cecil B would like that.”

  “Who?”

  “My brother’s dog.”

  “Cecil B…DeMille?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s a Hollywood dog’s name if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “He’s the main reason I’m house-sitting. You’re not allergic to dogs, are you? He’s a slobbery golden retriever.”

  “No allergies.”

  “Perfect. The house is in the hills. It’s gated and has security cameras everywhere. You’ll be totally safe.”

  “Sounds that way. But, uh…”

  Hearing her concern, he quickly explained. “You can have the place to yourself. I’ll drop you off and go back to my own apartment to sleep. That is, as long as you don’t mind letting C.B. out while I’m gone?”

  “Of course I don’t mind. But I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “Believe me, I would enjoy a night in my own bed. There’s only so much Hollywood Hills luxury my cop lifestyle can handle.”

  She laughed softly.

  “Besides, Jagger would probably like a night away from the dog.”

  “Jagger?”

  “My cat.”

  “You weren’t kidding about the cat?”

  “Nope. And he’s an unfriendly terror. He’s had about enough canine as he can stand. That’s why I didn’t just bring C.B. to my apartment while my brother’s out of town. It’s too small for them to retreat to their separate corners.”

  “Won’t your brother and his girlfriend mind having a stranger in their home?”

  “No. It’s a furn
ished rental. His place in town is being rebuilt after a fire.” He didn’t want to get into specifics by mentioning the word arson—or, well, if Steve Baker’s last words were to be believed accidental arson. “There’s not a lot of personal stuff at the rental. I know they wouldn’t mind.”

  “I don’t know…maybe a hotel would be best.”

  “Sure, so a clerk can snap a picture and sell it to the tabloids?”

  “I’m not that famous.”

  “In this town, it doesn’t matter.” Glancing over, he saw her nibbling on her lip and read her indecision. “Believe me, it’s not a problem, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll call my brother to be sure.”

  After a brief hesitation, she nodded. “Okay. I would feel better if you did.”

  No cop would use a cell phone while driving, and he was no exception. So he barked a familiar number into his Bluetooth. His brother answered almost immediately, his voice sharp and hard through the car’s speakers.

  “What’s wrong? Is it Dad?”

  Suddenly remembering the three-hour time difference, Rowan answered, “Sorry, dude, not an emergency.”

  His brother’s low sigh held both relief and a hint of irritation. “Then why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”

  Rowan quickly ran down the situation, trying to be succinct and careful considering Evie could hear every word being said. He didn’t want her to feel more like a stray dog than before.

  “Of course she can stay at the house.” After a brief murmur in the background, Reece added, “Jess said to tell her to feel free to use or wear anything she needs.”

  The response didn’t surprise Rowan at all. Reece might have been described as self-protective—even cold—a year ago. Since falling for Jessica Jensen, a sexy, sassy redhead, however, his icy walls had been blown all to hell. She had him eating out of her hand, and the rest of the family couldn’t be happier about that.

  Ending the call with a promise to get together when Reece and Jess returned to California in a week, he glanced at Evie and said, “Okay?”

  “Just like that?” she asked, her eyes wide. “They’re really fine about you bringing a complete stranger to their house and letting her stay there?”

  “You heard him.”

  “I don’t know whether that says more about your brother or about you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning either he’s very trusting overall, or he has complete faith in you.”

  He barked a laugh, picturing his brother, the poster child for self-protective, reclusive Hollywood mogul, being overly trusting. Reece might have been named the Sexiest Man Alive a few years ago, but more than one starlet also privately called him the biggest asshole alive. He’d been an immovable mountain of cool calculation…until Jessica.

  “Of course he has faith in me. We’re twins.”

  “Oh my God, there are two of you walking the streets?” She immediately gasped and put a hand to her mouth, as if angry at herself for having made that remark, which was when he realized she was paying him a compliment.

  He hid his amusement. “Fraternal. Some people actually think he’s the good-looking one. Can you believe it?”

  He might have heard the tiniest snort, but didn’t push. He liked that she was actually relaxed enough—and no longer arguing about where she was going to be spending the night—to laugh about something.

  But as he watched her, seeing the dashboard lights make art out of her profile, watching her stretch to make herself more comfortable, noticing the soft curves of her body as she settled back for the ride, Rowan realized he might have made a mistake. A big mistake. And not just professionally.

  He had invited a crime victim to come home with him. Worse, she wasn’t just a crime victim; she was a woman to whom he was incredibly attracted.

  Maybe a hotel would have been a better idea.

  Maybe he should take her out for coffee and then try to go back to her house in an hour.

  Maybe they should have tried going over a neighbor’s fence into her yard.

  Maybe…anything.

  Anything other than going home with a woman he most definitely could not take advantage of, but who he wanted more than he’d wanted anyone in a very long time.

  * * *

  Parked on Evie Fleming’s street, one block down from her house, the dark-cloaked figure jerked awake with a curse, angry at himself for having drifted off. He quickly peered up the block to make sure the situation hadn’t changed.

  All was the same.

  Three local news vans were parked in front of the small house, right where they’d been since he arrived. Had there been news to report, had they caught up with their quarry, they would have been gone by now, or else in the midst of shoving cameras into her face. So he almost certainly hadn’t missed her, and didn’t give himself too much of a hard time about falling asleep. Judging by the dashboard clock, it had only been for a couple of minutes.

  He slunk back down in his seat, hiding in shadow, parked away from any streetlights for even more concealment. Other cars stood at the curb, so he didn’t fear standing out, but it would be stupid to take a chance on being seen and remembered. His SUV was dark, nondescript, and dusty. And he’d taken the precaution of removing the license plate. Were he pulled over, he could always claim it was stolen. Anyway, it was worth taking the risk.

  He just hadn’t counted on the damn press.

  “Assholes,” he muttered, staring at the vans, willing them to just go away. But he knew they wouldn’t. They were waiting for the same person he was—a snotty writer who needed to be taught to mind her own business. Or else to shut right the fuck up permanently.

  “Where are you, nosy bitch?”

  He began to wonder if she was going to come home at all. Little pigeon was probably so scared after tonight’s attack that she’d checked into a hotel. She would be afraid of things that went bump in the night for a while and probably on guard once she did get home, which made things a little harder for him.

  Not that much harder, though. He could be very quiet when he wanted to be.

  He would get to her. Sooner or later, he would get to her.

  He reached for a cigarette, but decided against it. The tiny flare of a match might be enough to draw the attention of a neighbor looking out a window to see what the excitement on the street was all about.

  Thinking about going home, figuring tonight was probably a bust, he realized there was another possibility.

  “Did you sneak home, Ms. New York Times Bestseller?”

  Had she gotten here before he or the press had arrived, and was she now playing possum inside her house, keeping the lights off and blinds closed?

  Possible.

  He could go check. It would be the easiest thing in the world to go over to the next street, creeping through lawns, over fences, until he reached hers. He could be in her place in ten minutes, easily finding her bedroom.

  Easily finishing what that idiot downtown had started.

  You just couldn’t trust anybody these days. If you wanted anything done right, you had to do it yourself.

  The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He hated sitting here with his thumb up his ass, risking exposure just by staying still.

  “Yeah, do it,” he muttered, liking the idea of creeping into her home and silencing her when there were cameras and reporters set up right outside.

  But not from here. There was no point risking it.

  He started the engine and put the SUV in gear. Not turning on the headlights, he drove slowly toward the intersection and turned, going to the next block. Just as many cars parked on this side. Just as easy to blend in.

  And much easier to go through a neighbor’s yard so he could get into her house and end this once and for all.

  Chapter 3

  The drive back to his brother’s place was silent. Evie had fallen asleep, her slow, steady exhalations the only sound in the car. He’d looked over too often, at least until the
y hit windy Laurel Canyon Road and he had to pay closer attention to his driving.

  It hadn’t helped, though. Every glance before that had reinforced what he already knew.

  She was beautiful. She was smart. She was strong.

  And he wanted her.

  Dropping her off and going home, going home, going home.

  When they arrived at the exterior gate and he stopped to enter the code to open it, she yawned, sat up straight, and looked around. As everyone who went up the driveway did, she gasped when they hit the sharp curve in the driveway that appeared to miss a deadly-steep drop-off by mere inches.

  “Wow, nice view,” she mumbled.

  He shrugged. “Too close to the cliff for my taste. I was worried during the mudslides over the summer. A place a mile away slid right down into the canyon.”

  “Scary.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be glad when their house is finished and they move back in there. It’s closer…and no cliffs.”

  Just childhood “friends” with grudges who liked to throw alcohol around and then light a match.

  Let it go. Steve Baker had plunged into the canyon as ruthlessly as that house up the street had. With equally deadly results. Whatever debts Steve owed had been paid by that plunge…so much like Rachel’s all those years ago.

  Not that she’d had any debts. At sixteen, she had barely started to live, even though her childhood had been cut short by Baker’s sick, abusive father Harry.

  As always, memories of Rachel—and Harry Baker—hit him like a club to the head. He had to force away the images that haunted him, knowing if he thought too much about them they’d revisit him in his darkest nightmares.

  “Let me show you how to use the alarm, give you a quick tour of the place, and then I’ll be outta your hair.”

  Once inside, he entered the code to shut off the alarm system, then showed her how to reengage it. With the animals inside, only the exterior motion sensors and window alarms were on, but she looked pleased to have that much security. Given what she had been through earlier tonight, he wasn’t surprised.

  Cecil B knew the drill and had been patiently waiting for Rowan to finish. As soon as he had, the dog bounded over to offer a slobbery greeting. Jagger, meanwhile, watched with paw-licking disdain from atop a nearby bookshelf.