Wanting You

by Leslie A. Kelly

  “I don’t expect to find anything, at least not as it relates to that case. I’m looking more to just understand the person who once lived there. How the apartment was laid out, the position of the windows, the doors. The vibe.”

  “The vibe?” He rolled his eyes. As far as he was concerned, the only vibe the place could possibly hold was the depression of the building’s tenants about how much they paid in rent.

  “You volunteered for this,” she pointed out.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  After a slight hesitation, she asked, “Why’d you do it?”

  His response came out of his mouth before he could think about it. “I have no friggin’ idea. I must be a glutton for punishment.”

  She sucked in an audible breath, and he realized how that must have sounded. Like being with her was a punishment.

  Well, it was, but not in the way she was thinking.

  Frankly, being stuck in a car with her, or in a cramped room to research old case files, was going to be agonizing because every minute he spent with the woman increased the churn of hunger in his gut.

  He’d left the house last night cursing who she was. That hadn’t stopped erotic dreams about the woman from wrecking his sleep, however. And this morning, when he’d seen her in broad daylight, the California sun shining on that soft blond hair, the breath had been pulled right out of his lungs as a sheer wave of attraction washed over him.

  He wanted her. Badly. Wanted the woman who was on a mission that could destroy his life, and the lives of his brothers.

  If she got too close, she could blow up his entire world.

  And with his impulsive offer, he’d inserted himself into hers instead.

  He cast a quick glance at her, seeing the way she’d dropped her head down as if staring at her folder, her hair swinging forward in a curtain to conceal her face. She was obviously avoiding looking at him.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” he muttered.

  “Forget it.”

  “Evie, look,” he said, trying to think of an excuse, something to say other than the truth. Finally, he settled for some of the truth. “You’re incredibly attractive, you know that, right?”

  This time, her gasp was different, more feminine. She jerked her head up to look at him and pulled a hand to her own chest. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he changed lanes. “Carlton—well, he’s a real piece of work.”

  “I noticed. Get back to me being attractive and why you’re a glutton for punishment.”

  Damn, the woman didn’t pull any punches.

  “I meant, I guess I’ve already fallen into the habit of taking care of you.”

  She harrumphed, obviously dissatisfied with that answer. “And I very much appreciated that last night. But I’m not in the grip of a violent criminal trying to drag me into an alley anymore. I don’t need you to physically protect me.”

  “I know that. But when I thought about you getting stuck with somebody like Carlton, who wants—”

  “I know, he wants to be a writer.”

  “I don’t think he even knows how to spell writer, much less become one. The only thing he wants to hear from you is the word yes. The guy’s a slimeball.”

  “I noticed that too.”

  “Then you understand why I did it.”

  “Um, you offered to be my police guide because you were, what, protecting my virtue or something?”

  That did not sound right. “Of course not.”

  “Then what?”

  Jesus, she was persistent.

  “I didn’t like the way he was looking at you, okay? That piece of shit would have harassed you, which would’ve caused all kinds of trouble.”

  “Oh, so you were protecting the LAPD from a sexual harassment claim?”

  He was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to growl. Instead, he bit out, “I didn’t want him touching you.”

  She still didn’t let it go, didn’t accept the very true explanation. “So you were playing a boy’s game of claim-the-toy-by-putting-your-hand-on-it-first?”

  “God, you’re pushy. You shoulda stuck with being a reporter.”

  “Answer the question.”

  Stopped at a stop sign, he turned his head to look at her. “All right. I put my hand on you first.”

  Despite her huffy annoyance, her eyes gleamed in feminine satisfaction at having gotten him to admit it.

  But he wasn’t finished. “I put my hand on you when I hauled you out of the frying pan last night, and the last thing I wanted was to watch you dive headfirst into the fire this morning.”

  Her triumphant expression faded. “You really think Carlton’s that bad?”

  Did he? Was he really concerned for Evie’s safety with the other cop, or was that just a justification for what Rowan had done?

  He thought about it, but he honestly couldn’t say for sure.

  “I don’t know. But I do know this. There’s more to him than his kiss-ass, brown-nosing façade. He’s at headquarters, in an office job, not just because he’s ambitious, but because he has family connections that he took advantage of to get ahead. Worse, it’s because nobody trusts him enough to work with him on the streets. I didn’t want him around you. And that’s the truth.”

  Not the whole truth, not nothing but the truth, but it was as far as he was willing to go right now. No way could he tell her he was incredibly attracted to her himself. Kissing her last night had probably made that indisputable, but he was hoping she would forget about that crazy encounter, just as he intended to.

  One of these days.

  Memories of the taste of her notwithstanding, he was determined not to act on that attraction, oh hell no. He had to be on guard, walking a tightrope between assisting her with her research and preventing her from digging into anything that could incriminate his family. That meant letting her know he still wanted her would be a very bad idea.

  And actually letting something happen between them—like the kind of hot, wild, sweaty, outrageous sex he wanted to have with her—would be sheer insanity. He needed to keep his hands—and all his other all-too-interested body parts—off her.

  She nodded slowly, her vividly blue eyes still locked on him, gauging, judging…accepting. “All right. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He just hoped he didn’t live to regret his protective instinct.

  When they reached their destination, Rowan went into cop mode and immediately began assessing the location and possible threats. The area wasn’t bad—the neighbors were certainly quiet, considering the place was very close to a cemetery. The apartment building itself was small and old, two story, brown and beige, and gated. An on-site manager was waiting for them and immediately came over to greet Evie. He was holding a hardcover book in one hand and a clanking ring of keys in the other.

  Not sure what, exactly, his part in this play was, Rowan simply stood beside her, listening, as the other man gushed about her books and asked for an autograph. She gave it while asking and answering a few questions, smoothly managing the man and getting exactly what she wanted: private access to the apartment.

  Making a mental note to stop by a bookstore and pick up a copy of one of her books for himself, Rowan went with her into the vacant unit, which smelled like old shoes, bleach, and lemon.

  “So how’s the vibe so far, murder fan?” Rowan couldn’t help asking as he followed her through the one-bedroom space, which looked just like any other small, old apartment.

  “Hmm,” was her only reply as she studied the ancient refrigerator.

  “I don’t think that was here in 1984. It can’t be more than thirty years old, tops.”

  Another Hmm. Evie was absorbed, lost in her own thoughts, taking notes, measurements, and pictures. In the bathroom, she got on her hands and knees and peered into the under-sink cabinet. She was on all fours. His mind went right into the gutter.

  Lord have
mercy.

  He turned around and walked out of the bathroom, waiting for her near the front door, wondering why he was so attracted to someone who was so wrong for him in every way. Not only because she could put a key in a lock his family had been keeping over the Harry Baker case, but because she was very different from most other women he went for. He liked beer-drinking sports fans, brunettes usually, young, energetic, and sunny-dispositioned.

  This woman was not at all like that. Thirtyish Evie was blond, cool, brainy, and detached. Obviously successful, with fame from her books and potential Hollywood connections, he suspected she had a fairly large bank account. Her mind was constantly churning with the darkness from her work, the world that she’d chosen to embrace for her career. He doubted the sun penetrated that exterior very often.

  Maybe in a different life, she’d be right for him. Or, rather, he’d be right for her. Before he’d ever thought about becoming a cop, he’d been enrolled in law school. It was only after the Baker incident that he’d dropped out and applied for the LAPD, feeling the need to atone for what he’d done by walking a beat, not by becoming some rich, successful attorney.

  That guy—the lawyer Rowan with money, prestige, and higher-level tastes—might have been a match for the woman snooping through the musty apartment. The one he was now, with the small apartment that still broke his bank every month, a beat-up old Mustang, and a savings account in the low-four-digit range definitely was not.

  The truth didn’t stop the wanting.

  “Fuck,” he mumbled, wishing he could stop thinking of her like a woman he wanted and merely like a threat he needed to block before it achieved complete Winchester destruction.

  He was able to console himself with one small fact. If he was working closely with Evie, he should be able to steer her away from anything regarding Harry Baker’s murder, or Steve’s suicide. She already knew he didn’t want anything to do with that case, and since Steve had been so publicly involved with his poor sister, Rachel, and he’d put that topic off-limits, too, maybe it wouldn’t be too hard to keep this situation under control.

  Just make sure you keep your dick in your pants, he reminded himself.

  Right. Because if he got personally involved with her—had sex with her—it would be a lot harder to tell himself he was doing this for legitimate reasons.

  The illegitimate ones would be so much nicer.

  It took several minutes for her to finish what she was doing and find whatever the hell it was she was looking for. When she returned, she was mumbling to herself and tucking her phone and notebook into her oversized purse.

  “It doesn’t matter that this isn’t the right unit?” he asked, his curiosity aroused by her single-mindedness. He’d gotten into this for dumb reasons of his own; now he was actually getting a little interested.

  “No, the manager said it’s a mirror image.” She tapped lightly on an interior wall. “It’s right there.” A tiny shiver shook her slim form, as if she felt some taint in the very air that lingered from that long-ago crime.

  Rowan felt nothing.

  He had been to plenty of crime scenes for his job…and a couple not for work. He’d even cleaned them up—once for his intoxicated mother when he was just a little kid. Another for his brother, who he’d feared was a killer.

  Seeing the evidence left behind at a crime scene affected him. Seeing the victim definitely did. But this, and the apartment on the other side of that wall? They were just rooms. Just places. Places removed from the dark past by decades’ worth of moments, of breaths, of meals, of sleep, of sex, of tears.

  Evil wasn’t a tangible force that lingered in a single spot where something awful had happened. Evil was a man-made malevolence. Something that found dark and fermented soil in which it could swell and grow in hearts and minds and deeds every single solitary day.

  “Okay, I think I’m finished here,” she said.

  Shaking off his thoughts, Rowan straightened and opened the door. “Did you get everything you needed?”

  She nodded, eyeing him. “What, no quippy comment?”

  “Are you calling me quippy?”

  “If the quip fits…”

  “Nobody uses the word quip in real life.”

  “I do.”

  “You would. You’re a writer.”

  Reaching the car, he opened the door for her. Before she got in, she said, “You really should be careful, you know.”

  “Of what?”

  A smile. “As you said, I’m a writer. If you don’t watch out, I might just have to include you in this book of mine.”

  Rowan’s heart pounded and slid down to his feet. Somehow, though, between the time he closed the door on her side and walked around to his own, he pulled it back, forced it into a steady beat, and built a wall of silent self-protection.

  He couldn’t lower his guard toward her. She might be kidding now, but if she found out the truth and published it, his sister’s memory and legacy would be tarnished, and he and his brothers would be in the spotlight for all the wrong reasons.

  Chapter 5

  Tell me everything,” Candace Oakley said, scooting her chair closer to Evie and lowering her voice. “What have you been up to?”

  Evie and her agent sat in a crowded restaurant during the weekday lunch rush on Thursday afternoon. They had met at a place near Candace’s office so they could catch up without being interrupted before Evie set off for another crime scene visit later today. And because Evie didn’t want to go to the office and see Candace’s husband, Marcus.

  It wasn’t that Evie actively disliked her movie agent. It was just that he was…a movie agent. He was a slick California stereotype. Although handsome and successful, he had little personality and less charm. She still couldn’t comprehend what, exactly, about him made Candace pick up and leave New York for LA, a city she’d once claimed to hate.

  “Come on, give me details,” Candace whispered.

  Considering her work wasn’t exactly appropriate for restaurant conversation, she assumed that was the reason for the super-spy routine.

  “Tons of research, reading, and taking notes. The usual early days of a book.”

  “And, um…your side project?”

  The “side project.” That was one way to put it.

  Another way was the potential new serial killer case.

  Candace knew about Evie’s suspicions. She was the only person who knew. She was fully on board with Evie doing what she could to connect the dots on the Southern California murders of those twelve women whose cases remained unsolved and mostly forgotten.

  “Everything’s fine. Thanks for the help. If you hadn’t called in some favors, I might have been stuck sitting in a room in the Archives and Records Center begging for crumbs from every file. Having access anytime from the private office they set up for me at headquarters is a real blessing.”

  Candace waved a hand. “No worries. Marcus knows lots of people, and the member of the board of commissioners really is a fan of yours.” She dropped her voice into that rough whisper again to ask, “Were there any questions about why you wanted cold case files from so many random, unsolved murders in addition to the more well-known, closed ones?”

  Evie shook her head. “I asked for so much information, I don’t think those particular files would stand out much. Nobody has said anything.”

  Hopefully the lead detectives who investigated those cases weren’t too suspicious either. Six of them were still members of the LAPD, another was dead, and four were retired. Considering they hadn’t connected the murders before, she didn’t imagine they would be on the phone comparing notes about her requests for interviews now.

  She didn’t doubt that Rowan would eventually catch on and would want an explanation. So far, she’d been focusing on the infamous crimes, reserving her research into this longshot idea for when she was at home alone. But if she wanted to really dig into the files, she would have to do it at headquarters, which meant Rowan would probably be on hand. And cur
ious.

  Of course, since she had made arrangements to talk to a retired detective who’d been the lead investigator on two of the murders tomorrow, and since Rowan would be with her, as her “bodyguard,” he would likely be demanding answers sooner rather than later.

  “So how’s the rental house? Everything okay there?”

  Evie hesitated, but then nodded.

  “What’s wrong? More press?”

  “I’ve managed to dodge them. I suspect they’ve lost interest. They haven’t shown up at my house since Tuesday.” Evie still wasn’t sure she totally believed Candace’s assurances that Marcus hadn’t given out her home address to the media.

  “But there’s something else.” Candace wagged her index finger. “Come on, what is it?”

  Evie shrugged. “I’m being stupid. A little paranoid after what happened, it’s nothing.”

  “What’s nothing?”

  Breathing deeply, Evie replied, “I just…I suddenly feel uncomfortable there.”

  “Well you haven’t been here a week yet.”

  “I know, I mean, well, the other day when I came home, the day after the attack, I just felt very tense.” Realizing she’d admitted she had not gone home that night, and not wanting to answer any questions about where she’d been all of Monday night, she rushed on. “I was uncomfortable as soon as I walked in the door. I kept thinking things had been moved around, very subtly. And a window was unlocked. I thought for sure I’d latched it. The milk was gone, but I don’t remember finishing it, and the pillows were reversed on the bed. Things like that.”

  Candace tapped a brightly painted fingernail on her mouth, appearing concerned. “Was anything missing?”

  Evie shook her head. “No, nothing. I know I’m being ridiculous. If anybody had broken in, it would have been an easy thing to grab my iPad, the jewelry off the dresser, and a few small bills lying on the bedside table.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Forget I said anything, please.”

  Reaching across the table, Candace covered her hand and squeezed. “Sweetie, you went through a terrible trauma. It would be surprising if you weren’t overly on guard. It’s natural.”