Wanting You

by Leslie A. Kelly

  She supposed so. Remembering the days after Blair’s murder, she was pretty sure Candace was right. Her apartment had been a crime scene, of course, so she couldn’t move back in. But she hadn’t been able to keep living downtown on her own, either. Although she’d sworn it was the last thing she would ever do—that she’d never be one of those college grads living in Mom and Dad’s basement—that’s exactly what she’d done for a few months. This current reaction was similar, just on a smaller scale.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she said.

  “You know you’re always welcome to stay with us.”

  “You’re very kind, but I’m fine.”

  Evie considered her agent a friend, but she would never have accepted. Not with Marcus there. That didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate the offer, however.

  “So what else is going on? They still want you to have a police escort on your field trips, right?”

  “Right,” she said, but then fell silent again.

  She didn’t want to talk about Rowan to the other woman. She feared she had already revealed her personal interest in him when she and her agent talked on the phone. If his name came up now, in person, she didn’t doubt her astute friend would ferret out the truth that Evie felt something other than professional appreciation for the man.

  What that might be, she didn’t know.

  Well, attraction, yes, she knew that. But over the past two days when he’d been chauffeuring her around, waiting patiently as she took pictures and drew sketches of buildings, of bridges, of hillsides, of empty lots, she’d begun to like him a lot too.

  Yes, he was still reserved with her. No, he hadn’t completely reverted to that warm, friendly guy she’d met the night he’d rescued her. He certainly hadn’t kissed her again.

  But oh, God, did she want him to.

  “Have you found any particularly interesting angles, fresh ways to look at old cases?”

  “Yes, actually. It’s really going well.” If you could call being immersed in some of the worst crime scenes, forensics, autopsy reports, and photos in history going well. “I might be able to shine some new light on some old blood.”

  Wincing, Candace said, “I don’t know how you do it. Better you than me, honey.”

  “I know, I know. You ran out of the theater screaming when Scar killed Mufasa.”

  “Come on, that was fucking brutal.”

  “Meanwhile, I was rooting for Mufasa to whip out a claw and scratch the crap out of Scar’s face,” she said, pausing as their server topped off their cups of coffee.

  “So,” Candace said when they were alone. “Everything okay with LA’s finest?”

  “Yep, all good.”

  “The cops are being cooperative?”

  Evie turned her gaze toward her cup and slowly added sugar, watching it dissolve. Finally, she murmured, “Very cooperative.”

  Yes, cooperative. Professional. Respectful.

  Not personal, though. Nothing truly personal had occurred between her and Rowan since he’d volunteered to be her police escort during her research mission.

  Actually, no, the strong vibe between them, the heat and the awareness, had come to a screeching halt the other night at his brother’s house. When she’d made herself appear to be just as bad as the paparazzi and reporters, who still tried to get her on camera whenever she was spotted, though they had, at least, stopped staking out her house.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Candace asked, her tone sharp and her gaze piercing. “I know you. There’s something you’re not saying.”

  Although Evie trusted Candace, she knew that as a newlywed, still infatuated with her six-years-younger husband, the woman might not be the excellent secret-keeper she had once been. So although she might otherwise like to have confided in someone about the frustrating attraction she felt for Rowan, who was trying so hard to treat her like she was a client and he a bodyguard, she just couldn’t do it.

  “No, seriously, everything’s fine. I’ve been to several sites already. Spahn Ranch is right after lunch. My police escort is picking me up here soon. Should be a really interesting day.”

  She only hoped Rowan did not come into the restaurant when he arrived. She didn’t want Candace meeting him. Her agent had an eye for good-looking men, and Rowan would be impossible for her to ignore.

  Candace wrinkled her nose, recognizing the name of the ranch where the Manson “family” had lived. And, supposedly, killed. “Ick. The way your mind works, woman, you kinda scare me sometimes.”

  “I get that a lot,” she grumbled.

  She scared a lot of people, or at least made them look at her strangely. Maybe that was one thing that so drew her to Rowan. He didn’t eye her and see a ghoul…just a nosy writer.

  “Sorry,” Candace said, looking a little sheepish. Her warm brown eyes, the same shade as her short hair, shifted toward her purse. “Speaking of scary things…” She opened her Gucci bag and retrieved a white, letter-sized envelope.

  As Candace slid it across the table, Evie saw the stamped notice across the front.

  Notice: Forwarded from the Virginia Department of Corrections.

  Angstrom.

  Swallowing hard, she put her fingertips on the letter, drawing it closer. Seeing that the top of the envelope had been slit open, she took no offense at the invasion of her privacy. Evie didn’t give out her contact information, having everything sent through her agent. Candace’s staff opened and copied all correspondence, including the infrequent letters from the murderer Evie had helped put away. It was a cautionary measure, one she appreciated.

  “Do I want to read it?” she asked with a shrug, feigning nonchalance she definitely did not feel, even with Angstrom locked up in a maximum-security prison thousands of miles away.

  “Same charming guy,” Candace said with a sneer.

  “No threats?”

  “Not in so many words. Were you expecting any?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  Ever since she’d gotten the news that there might be a new trial, Evie had been waiting for Angstrom to make his move. He would almost certainly try to prevent her from testifying against him. Her testimony in his first trial had been pivotal, and she’d already been told by prosecutors that his attorneys wanted her excluded for some BS reason.

  She had already begun to suspect that if legal maneuvers did not work, Angstrom wasn’t above trying less legal methods. Like threatening her…or even, the prosecutor had warned her, sending someone to find her and make her cooperation even less likely.

  She had little doubt that Angstrom, despite being a monster, held a fascination for a certain kind of lonely, needy individual. Some people believed in his innocence, some didn’t. Some with equally twisted minds applauded what he’d done and wanted his approval for their own adventures. Some wanted to cure him, some to learn from him.

  Would any of them, she wondered, be crazy enough to do his bidding and eliminate witnesses against him?

  Despite the warm California breeze wafting in through the open doors of the restaurant, she couldn’t contain a chill as an invisible, icy finger slid up her spine.

  “You don’t have to read it now,” Candace said, trying to take the letter back.

  “Begun is half done,” she murmured, quoting something her grandmother used to say. “I’d rather get it over with.”

  She slid the single sheet of folded paper out of the envelope, opened it, and quickly scanned the words from the monster who’d brutally murdered her friend.

  Dearest Evelyn—

  Hope this letter finds you well. I hear you’re in California working on a new book. Can’t wait to read it! A fan sent me one of those new ebook devices, so you can count on me to download it the day it comes out. Can you believe I’ve turned into such a reader? Funny how your tastes change when you have lots of time on your hands and nothing else to do. I miss my old activities…hope you’re keeping up with your oil changes and checking your air pressure. Sure wouldn’t want y
ou to get a flat out in the middle of nowhere!

  How do you like California? I used to go there sometimes. An old buddy of mine lives there, and I always liked to visit. Maybe I should hook you two up so you have somebody to make friends with.

  Getting out much? Remember what they say, all work and no play makes Evie a dull girl! Be careful on that sunny beach—your skin is pretty fair, as I recall. So pretty with that blond hair of yours.

  I guess you heard I might be getting a new trial.

  Between you and me, I really hope I don’t see you there.

  Stay well,

  J.H.A.

  Having felt the blood drain from her face, Evie lowered the paper to the table and reached for her water glass. Her hand trembled as she picked it up, and cool liquid sloshed onto her thumb. Ignoring it, she brought the glass to her mouth and drank deeply.

  “Why don’t you throw it away?” Candace said gently. “I made a copy for your file.”

  “I can’t.” She lowered her glass. “Someday I will. For now, I’m keeping all the originals…just in case.”

  Just in case he got a new trial. Just in case her world went red with blood again. Just in case she was dragged back into his insanity.

  Just in case he came after her.

  Just in case.

  Joe Henry Angstrom had been writing to her since shortly after his conviction. Chatty letters, with pointed references she would understand while censors might not. Like the line about his hobbies and her car maintenance. He blamed her for his capture, and undoubtedly wanted to keep himself in the forefront of her mind. She’d done a pretty fair job of ignoring his continued existence for a couple of years now. With the potential of a new trial, however, that was becoming harder and harder to do. His letters were coming more frequently, and the press had been pressing her more diligently.

  God, she just wanted it to be over.

  “Frankly, I think he’s been reading too many Hannibal Lecter books on that e-reader of his,” Candace said with an eyeroll. “He’s got delusions of out-eviling the biggest literary devil in history.”

  “Yes, delusions. He’s not a genius-for-the-ages. Smart, yes, but certainly not a mastermind. And I am no Clarice Starling.”

  Angstrom had been a mechanic with sick proclivities whose own arrogance had helped Evie figure out what he was up to. He’d been a fool to keep and display trophies from his victims.

  Of course, he hadn’t been careless enough to put her license tag on the wall of his shop, not when she was a customer and Blair’s roommate. That would have been just begging to get caught.

  If not for that weakness, his need to see and remember what he’d done, to flaunt proof of it in front of anybody who came into his shop, she never would have connected him to the murders. He might still be out there, doing the monstrous things he did.

  “Are you okay, hon? You’re not worried, are you? There’s no way he could get to you.”

  “I know. I’m really fine.”

  “What happened the other night, though…the mugging…”

  She waved a hand. “Random crime of opportunity.”

  Her friend nodded in agreement. “I think so too. Lord, I almost had a heart attack when I got that photo text from you. I screamed so loud Marcus thought somebody was breaking in.”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking very clearly. It was my first impulse.”

  “It was a good one. I knew right away you were in trouble. If I hadn’t reached you, Marcus was going to go out and look for you since we could just barely make out a sign on a business across the street.”

  “That’s kind,” she said, glad Candace’s husband hadn’t come to the rescue. Knowing him, he’d have wanted to call a press conference right on the spot.

  “Hey, there are my girls!”

  Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

  Candace’s husband—tall, impeccably dressed in a designer suit and spit-shined shoes, with perfectly styled hair and a closely shaved face—strode to stand beside the table. Without waiting for an invitation, he grabbed a vacant chair from a nearby table and pulled it up close.

  Evie found herself wishing they’d met somewhere far away from the agency office instead of right across the street.

  “What are you girls up to? Gossiping?”

  Candace looked embarrassed by his intrusion. “Shop talk. The book, the…”

  “Hey, what’s the deal on the guy who attacked you?” Marcus asked, interrupting his wife, who dropped her lashes and looked away.

  “He couldn’t make bail, so he’s still in jail,” Evie responded, not happy that her lunch with her friend had been intruded upon, and even less happy at his casual rudeness toward his wife. Marcus might be a superstar Hollywood agent, but he wasn’t a very thoughtful husband.

  “That’s good news.” Marcus glanced out the open sliders toward the street, and then back at Evie. He smiled. “How’s the new book coming? How are you liking California? When are you coming over to see the house?”

  Fine. Okay. Never if I can help it.

  She couldn’t help it, of course. Candace was her friend, Marcus was Candace’s husband and Evie’s Hollywood agent. She had to play nice, whether she liked the man personally or not. And that would be a very big not.

  “Soon,” she promised. She smiled at Candace, seeing the other woman shifting uncomfortably, obviously embarrassed that her husband had shown up and inserted himself into their lunch, and into the conversation. “I look forward to seeing what you’ve done to the place.”

  Marcus draped an arm across the back of his wife’s chair. “She’s a born decorator,” he said, his huge smile revealing those perfect, expensively capped teeth. “I keep telling her she’s in the wrong business. She should become a designer and start supporting me for a change.”

  Cringing inwardly with embarrassment for the extremely successful literary agent, Evie sipped her coffee. But she did notice Marcus looking again out the doors toward the street.

  Suddenly, he looked outside again, and his eyes gleamed. She suspected what he was seeing one second before she heard someone at the next table whisper about the arrival of a news crew from a local channel.

  “Son of a bitch,” she muttered.

  Candace jerked and started. Marcus merely smiled.

  “Did you set this up?” Evie asked, not trying to hide her anger and dismay.

  “Now, don’t get upset. Keeping you in the news can only help in our negotiations with the studio. A little competitive interest due to some hot press is a good thing, believe me.”

  Evie rose from her chair, letting her napkin fall to the floor. She quivered with rage at having been cornered like this by someone who was supposed to be a member of her team. She had known Marcus was ambitious, but she’d just never imagined he would pull a stunt like this.

  “Oh my God, Evie, I’m so sorry,” said Candace, starting to rise from the table as well. Marcus’s hand on her shoulder pushed her back down in her chair.

  For that alone Evie wanted to slap the man.

  The news media van made her want to kick him right between the legs.

  “Evie, come on. Back door.”

  Shocked to hear a familiar male voice, she looked across the restaurant and saw a broad, brown-haired figure watching her from behind dark sunglasses. Rowan was weaving between tables, moving quickly and deliberately, almost gracefully for a man so masculine and strong.

  “Let’s get outta here.”

  She grabbed her purse. He took her by the arm.

  “Thank you.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Marcus asked, trying to step in their way.

  Not even slowing, Rowan elbowed the other man out of the way. They hurried toward an emergency exit in the back of the café even as she saw a reporter enter through the front.

  Rowan’s dark sedan was illegally parked in the alley behind the place, blocking a Dumpster and a delivery truck, whose driver was honking in annoyance. Flashing his badge at the irritated man, who
immediately stopped yelling, Rowan unlocked the door, watched her get in, and then joined her in the car. Two minutes later, they disappeared into LA lunch hour traffic, leaving the restaurant, the press, Candace, and her jerk of a husband behind them.

  Evie finally relaxed enough to lean back in the seat, close her eyes, and take a slow, deep breath. Her heart had kicked up its pace when Marcus had appeared. When she’d spied the media outside, the quickening beats had roared like a freight train.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded, not looking at him, content merely to sit close to him, soaking up the warmth and security that the man always gave off.

  “I pulled up outside to wait for you and saw the news van arrive. Did a quick run around the back to try to get you outta there before they got the microphone in front of your mouth.”

  “Thank you,” she said, turning her head to look at him. “This is getting to be a habit, you showing up in the nick of time to save me from creepy men or stalking reporters.”

  He glanced over at her, concern in his dark eyes, a tender smile on his mouth. “I saw the reporters. I take it the creepy man was the dude in the shiny suit? He looks Hollywood.”

  “He is Hollywood.” She wrinkled her nose, explaining about her lunch with Candace and Marcus’s unexpected arrival. “I still can’t believe he did that.”

  Rowan whistled. “So you really think this guy intentionally called the reporters to ambush you when he found out you were having lunch with his wife?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  After a brief hesitation, Rowan murmured, “Okay, I know we talked about this the other night. But with what just happened, have you rethought the possibility that he really was the one who sicced the press on you given how easily they tracked you down after you were attacked?”

  Evie stiffened in her seat. “Candace swore he didn’t. I have such a hard time imagining somebody doing that,” she said, spacing her words slowly and carefully.

  Because she could. She could imagine it. Although they hadn’t gotten an interview, there had been some film footage of her hurriedly getting into Rowan’s car at the scene, along with brief details about the attack, which was being called a mugging.