by Linda Turner
Heat staining her cheeks, she said, “I don’t know what I would have done without him last night. Did he say where he was going after he left you this morning? He was gone when I woke up. Maybe he had to work—”
The words were hardly out of her mouth when she heard a key in the lock. “That must be him now,” she said quickly. “I’ve got to go. I just wanted to let you know I was all right so you wouldn’t worry.”
Hanging up with a promise to call her after she checked out the damage at the café, Jennifer stepped out of his bedroom, her stomach a jumble of nerves, just as he walked through the apartment door. She had what she’d say all worked out in her mind—she’d thank him for his hospitality, then find a way to get out of there. God only knew where she’d go, but she’d worry about that later.
However, the second she saw him, the words she’d carefully rehearsed flew right out of her head. He’d obviously been shopping—his arms were laden with packages—but it was the tiredness that etched his face that drew her eye.
When he’d carried her to bed sometime between three and four in the morning, he’d claimed he was going to bed down on the couch, but now, she had to wonder if he had. She’d fallen asleep almost immediately and hadn’t a clue what he’d done after he’d walked out of the bedroom and shut the door behind him. If he had stretched out on the couch, he’d put the covers up before he’d left. Had he slept at all?
Walking into the living room, he stopped short at the sight of her, something hot and intimate flaring in his eyes before he quickly blinked it away. “You look better,” he said by way of greeting. “You must have slept well.”
Her pulse skittering wildly, she nodded. “I did, thanks to your taking such good care of me. But you shouldn’t have let me have your bed. You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”
“I stretched out on the couch for a couple of hours,” he said with a shrug. “That was all I had time for. After you went to sleep, I went back to your apartment to confer with the evidence team.”
“My God, you must be dead on your feet! Here, give me those things.” She took the packages from him. “What are you doing going shopping, anyway? I just talked to Molly...” Suddenly suspicious, she added up the numbers in her head and scowled. “You didn’t sleep, did you? How could you? You left here around three to go back to the apartment and Molly said you were still there when she got there at six. Darn it, Sam, you should have let me take the couch so you could have your bed! What are you grinning at?”
“You.” He chuckled. “You really are a caretaker, but I guess you know that. You might want to try those things on,” he added, nodding at the packages she was still clutching.
“What things?” she asked, eyeing him warily. “What have you done?”
“Bought you a few clothes until you can pick some things out for yourself. I thought you’d be more comfortable in something besides my old sweats and T-shirt.”
“You went shopping for me?”
He nodded. “I guess I could have dragged some of those blackened jeans and shirts from the closet in your apartment, but I figured you’d rather not walk around smelling like a barbecue pit. But if you want me to take them back...”
She knew he was teasing, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Clutching the bags to her chest, she took a quick step back. When his grin only deepened, she couldn’t help but laugh at herself. “I’m a little bit paranoid about clothes right now, so I guess I should warn you that if you even think about trying to take these from me, I’ll have to break both your arms.”
“Hey, never let it be said that I got between a lady and her clothes.” He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “They’re all yours, sweetheart.”
Warmed by the amusement glittering in his eyes, she felt her heart turn over at his thoughtfulness, and suddenly, to her horror, she found herself battling tears. “I’m sorry.” She sniffed and waved him off when he cursed and stepped toward her worriedly. “Don’t mind me. My emotions have been going up and down like an elevator all morning. I just didn’t expect you to buy me clothes.”
“It’s nothing fancy, honey. Just the basics. Jeans and shirts. Underwear. Some new nightclothes. Oh, and a pair of loafers. You can’t walk around barefoot all day.”
It could have been biker shorts and polyester and she still would have treasured it. Sinking onto the couch, she opened the bags to see what he considered the basics and then glanced back up at him in surprise, her mouth trembling with a smile. “Everything’s the right size. Even the shoes. How did you know?”
He never moved, but something shifted in his eyes, something hot and knowing and masculine that stroked her from the top of her head all the way to her toes. “I’ve got a good eye,” he said roughly. “Go try them on and see if you like them.”
Caught in the heat of his gaze, she nodded dazedly, her heart thundering wildly. He hadn’t laid a finger on her, but he hadn’t needed to in order to make her want him. How she made it to the bathroom without running into a wall, she couldn’t have said.
Everything fit, including the shoes, once she removed the bandages on her feet and replaced them with Band-Aids. Staring at herself in the mirror, she flushed and had to admit that he did, indeed, have a good eye. The jeans he’d picked out for her were a flattering cut, and the forest green turtleneck brought out the green in her eyes. But it was the new bra and panties that stole her breath. Hardly more than lace and promises, they were the sexiest underwear she’d ever worn. Just thinking about them in his hands made her burn,
If he noticed how pink her cheeks were when she rejoined him in the living room, he didn’t let on, but simply assessed her with knowing eyes and nodded in approval. “Good, they fit.” Once again a detective investigating a case, he was all business as he motioned for her to take a seat on the couch. “I know you’d rather not talk about the fire now, but you need to while your memories are still fresh. What do you remember?”
“The sound of breaking glass.” The answer came automatically, the images sharp before her eyes. Too restless to sit, she prowled over to the window that overlooked the Lone Star’s famous back garden. Surrounded by an antique wrought-iron fence and bordered on one side by the River Walk, it was beautiful with fall flowers.
But her gaze was focused on last night, and Jennifer saw nothing but her own apartment. Flames licking up the walls and the scent of smoke pungent and burning in her nose. “I was in bed when I heard glass breaking in the living room. By the time I got up and ran in there, the curtains and rug were on fire.”
“Did you see anyone on the street? Hear anything?”
“No. It all happened so fast.” A faint memory pulled at her. “Wait, there might have been a car. It seems like I heard one racing up the street, but I was so busy trying to put out the fire I didn’t pay any attention.”
“All right, that’s a start at least,” he said, relieved. “We know the bastard wasn’t on foot. Do you know anyone who would do something like this to you?”
Astonished, she whirled. “Of course not!”
“Don’t be so quick to answer,” he cautioned. “Think about it. I’m not talking about a friend or even an acquaintance. It could be a stranger. Can you think of someone you might have accidentally ticked off without even knowing it? Maybe a customer who didn’t like the way his eggs were scrambled? Someone you cut in front of in the bank line or wouldn’t let in on the expressway? Anyone.”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“What about Rosa’s boyfriend?”
“Carlos? Oh, I don’t think so.”
“He never made a secret of the fact that he didn’t like you, did he? He even talked her into quitting to get her away from you. What if that wasn’t enough? What if he felt like you were always going to be an influence in her life—unless he got rid of you? You know him better than I do. Would he try to burn you out if he got mad enough?”
Would he? She didn’t want to think she was such a poor judge of character that she hadn’t even guessed the gu
y had been capable of that kind of vindictiveness, but she couldn’t be sure. And that was what really worried her. The world was full of nutcases who really got off on terrorizing women. How many of them had she had dealings with without even knowing it?
Her knees suddenly turning to jelly, she plopped down in the nearest chair. “I don’t know,” she said hoarsely. “Maybe. How can anyone know what someone else will do if they crack?”
“Then we’ll check him out and see if he has an alibi for last night.” Making a note in the small notebook he drew from his pocket, he shot her a penetrating look. “All right, who else? Maybe a supplier you don’t order from anymore? Or a neighbor who’s sick of you getting up before the crack of dawn to bake?”
“No, no one. I don’t have any neighbors—just other businesses, so it’s not like I’m disturbing anyone or anything. And I’ve been using the same suppliers ever since I opened the place.” Rubbing at the ache that had lodged between her brows, she frowned. “God, I can’t think! Business has been good—great, in fact! Ever since that interview with Jonathan Lake—”
Suddenly realizing what she’d said, she froze, her eyes wide as they lifted to his. “Oh, God, that’s it, isn’t it?” she whispered, horrified, and saw the answer in his eyes. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew this could be linked to whoever shot Mr. Stubbings.”
“I knew it was a possibility when I heard how the fire started,” he said grimly. “That’s why I called in the evidence team and went back to your apartment after you went to bed last night. I got to thinking about that interview with Lake. Even though you couldn’t give a physical description, the psychological one was pretty damning. If our boy was watching when it aired—and according to the overnight ratings, most of the city was—he had to be sweating bullets by the time the interview concluded. If you nailed him like I think you did, he was one desperate son of a bitch.”
“So you think he was trying to kill me?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Either that or scare you into shutting the hell up.”
“Oh, God.” Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself, but it didn’t help. She was cold all the way to the bone. “That guy who came into the café the day after the interview aired,” she muttered half to herself, “he warned me this could happen, but I just laughed. I never dreamed—”
“What guy?” he asked sharply.
“He was just some customer,” she said absently. “The place was packed and everybody was talking about the interview. He was curious like everyone else and wanted to know what I could see.”
“And he told you you could get hurt?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And you didn’t tell me?” he roared. “Dammit, woman, what were you thinking? He was threatening you!”
“No, he wasn’t,” she said, taken aback. “He was a customer. He was just making conversation.”
“No,” he snapped. “He was a stranger. Wasn’t he? You didn’t know him, did you?”
“Well, no.”
“He was never in the café before?”
“No, but—”
“Then how do you know he wasn’t the same bastard who shot Stubbings and tried to choke the stuffing out of Agatha Elliot?”
It was a logical question, one that drained the blood right out of her cheeks. Stricken, she took a step back. “No. I would have known.”
“Would you?” he asked quietly. “You said you usually can’t see things for yourself. Isn’t it possible you could have waited on this jerk, talked to him and never suspected he was going to come back in the middle of the night and torch your place?”
God, was it? She didn’t know, couldn’t think. Could she have been so blind as to not sense a monster when he was standing right in front of her? What kind of psychic was she?
“I don’t know,” she said, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. “If you’d asked me this last week, I would have said no way, but now—” she shrugged “—maybe. I don’t know. I guess anything’s possible.” Suddenly remembering the rest of the conversation, she groaned. “God, I even told him I couldn’t see things for myself! Damn! How could I have been so stupid?”
“You weren’t stupid,” he replied. “Just trusting. How were you supposed to know he was insane enough to walk right into the café and talk to you? If that was even him. Sit down and tell me what you remember about him. I don’t suppose there’s any chance he told you his name.”
Shaking her head, she sat, but only on the edge of the couch. Not surprised that she popped right back up again, he said, “Okay, we’ve got no name. What did he look like? Was he short? Tall? Ugly? Fat? What?”
Most people, when they were put on the spot to give a description, started with the basics—height, weight, eye color. Not Jennifer. Staring into space as if the guy stood right in front of her, she said, “He was odd.”
“Odd? What do you mean by that? Odd how?”
“I don’t know. Like he didn’t add up or something. It’s hard to describe.”
“Try.”
Closing her eyes, she frowned and pinched the bridge of the nose, as if bringing the picture in her head into focus. “It’s like the parts didn’t add up to the sum of the whole. At first glance, he looked like he was Amish or something. He was dressed in a long black coat and had a shaggy beard that looked as if it hadn’t been trimmed in years. He even carried a Bible. But when I looked into his eyes, there was this coldness there that made my skin crawl.”
Understanding, Sam nodded. “Go on,” he said gruffly.
“And his coloring was all wrong. His skin was really white, but his eyes were nearly black.”
“He could have been wearing contacts. What else was odd about him?”
“He had this strange face. I only caught a glimpse of it because he kept his head down and he was wearing a slouch hat, but his features were kind of flat, almost expressionless. I—” Blinking suddenly, she glanced up at him in amazement. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out why he looked so weird, and it just hit me. He didn’t have any eyebrows!”
“None?”
“Not a one,” she said firmly. “Come to think of it, I don’t even know if he had any hair at all except for his beard.”
Now they were getting somewhere, Sam thought, pleased. A bald guy walking around with no eyebrows was bound to draw some attention from someone. “He probably shaved his head so he wouldn’t be recognized when his hair grew out,” he told her. “What about his eyelashes? What color were they?”
“Blond,” she said decisively. “Which would explain his light complexion.” Somber, her gaze locked with Sam’s. “He does sound suspicious, doesn’t he? You think he’s the one? The one who burned me out and shot poor Mr. Stubbings?”
It was a logical conclusion, one Sam couldn’t dismiss, not when his gut was telling him they were on the right track. “It could be a coincidence, but I don’t think so,” he said truthfully. “It fits. Why would anyone go to that much trouble to change their looks unless they were up to no good?”
Chapter 9
“All right, that should about do it,” Emma Kitchen said in satisfaction. “What do you think?”
Seated across the table from the police artist in one of the small interview rooms at the police station, Jennifer looked at the drawing the woman held out to her and felt her blood turn to ice. When Sam had asked her if she’d mind going to the station to work with Emma, she’d reluctantly agreed, but she really hadn’t thought it would do much good. Not when she only had fleeting impressions of the man she’d talked to at the café. Emma, however, had pulled things out of her she hadn’t even realized she’d seen. Now, staring at the finished sketch, she wondered how she’d ever thought she hadn’t gotten a clear look at the man. The image that gazed coldly back at her was, without question, the man who’d warned her she was in danger.
“That’s him,” she said flatly.
Standing behind her, where he’d hovered protectively ever since they’d w
alked into the room, Sam squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “Good girl. You did great. You okay?”
She nodded. “If he’s the one who threw that firebomb through my window, I’ll be a lot better when he’s behind bars. What happens next?”
“We show the picture around, feed his description and MO into the computer to see if he’s got any priors, look for witnesses.”
“Witnesses? D’you think there were any?”
“It’s too early to say,” he said with a shrug. “Just because no one’s come forward yet doesn’t mean no one saw anything. Sometimes people don’t realize what they’ve seen until days later.”
“But it was so late,” she argued. “Who would have been downtown at that time of night?”
“You’d be surprised,” he replied. “Tourists coming in late to hotels on the river, shift workers, truck drivers. The city’s never completely deserted, and a speeding car draws a lot of attention on an empty street. Someone blocks away might have seen it racing for the nearest freeways and not given it a thought. Then when they see the story on the news or read about it in the paper, they start to think about it and give us a call. If we’re lucky, they not only can tell us the make and model of the car, but the license number.”
And if they weren’t lucky, there would be no license number, no description of the car, no witnesses. And the man who had tried to shut her up, who may have hoped to kill her, would remain free to try again.
Sam didn’t say the words, but he didn’t have to. She wasn’t an idiot. Last night’s fire was the act of a desperate man, a man who’d felt his back was to the wall, or he never would have taken such a risk. The fact that he’d failed to eliminate her as a threat would only make him more determined to succeed. It went without saying that he would be watching her. And waiting.
For one quick unguarded moment, fear clutched at her heart, and every instinct she had screamed at her to run, to hide, to find a place to lie low until the nightmare was over. But she cringed at the thought of living her life in fear. She wasn’t a coward, nor as trusting as she’d been yesterday. She’d made a mistake when she’d overlooked a stranger. It wouldn’t happen again.