O'Halloran's Lady

by Fiona Brand

  Jenna studied the blurred image, which supplied approximate height and build, but little else to add to what they already had. “A shame we can’t see the rose, that would have been conclusive.”

  O’Halloran shrugged. “Farrell wouldn’t jump through any hoops even if we could see the rose. The fact is, you can’t prove he left it there for you in the first place, because there was no card. Anyone could have gone and sat in the front row and found the rose.”

  As much as she hated to admit it, Jenna had to agree.

  Every piece of “evidence” she had was frustratingly without substance. All she had were a gut feeling and a few details from a fictional book that seemed to be coming true in her own life, none of them particularly menacing or life-threatening. Yet.

  O’Halloran produced another business card, scribbled on the back of it and handed it to Selene. “Can you email me a copy of that footage?”

  Selene took the card. “No problem. Hey!” She laughed and shook her head. “I know why you’re so familiar.”

  Jenna groaned inwardly as Selene dragged out her copy of Deadly Valentine and turned it over on the desk, so the vibrant cover with its larger-than-life, half-naked hero was displayed.

  Selene stared at O’Halloran. “You look like Cutler.” She looked at the cover then back at O’Halloran again. “Man, that’s freaky. You could be Cutler.”

  Chapter 8

  O’Halloran insisted they pay a visit to Auckland Central, and take the rose in for fingerprinting.

  Jenna slid into the front passenger seat of his truck, which was black and sleek and upholstered with leather. She had decided to leave her little Porsche in the parking lot, since the mall was so close to home. At this time of night it wouldn’t be easy finding parking near Auckland Central Police Station.

  Farrell wasn’t in, but one of O’Halloran’s old colleagues took Jenna’s statement, and packaged and booked the rose for fingerprinting. A couple of days, max, and they would have a result, provided the perpetrator had a fingerprint record.

  By the time they walked back to O’Halloran’s car, the sun was setting, and the streets were filled with couples strolling to one of the many restaurants located along Ponsonby Road.

  O’Halloran unlocked and held her door. When he climbed behind the wheel, he didn’t immediately start the engine. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

  Jenna, still on edge since those moments in Selene’s office, and the woman’s blunt comment that he looked like the hero of Deadly Valentine, was so hungry she felt faint. “I could eat something.”

  “Take-out, or do you want to go to a restaurant?”

  “Take-out, please.” Then she wouldn’t have to look at O’Halloran across a table while they ate and face the unpalatable truth that had hit her in Selene’s office. That one of the reasons she had never been able to forget O’Halloran was that she had been unconsciously patterning all of her heroes on him.

  He started the car and merged with traffic while they debated what to eat. Because her workday was so sedentary, she needed to watch her weight so, in the end, she opted for Chinese.

  After collecting the food, O’Halloran placed the paper sack of containers on the backseat. “We’ll pick up your car first.”

  Minutes later, he turned into the mall parking lot. After checking that no one was lurking around, he waited for her to get in the car then leaned down and spoke through the open window. “I’ll follow you.”

  Her fingers tightened on the wheel. “Where are we going?” Although she had a sneaking suspicion.

  “Your place. I was going to check out your house tomorrow, but it’s a better idea to have a look around now.”

  A small chill went down her spine. Until that point she hadn’t known how seriously O’Halloran was taking her allegation of being stalked.

  She didn’t voice the other thought that had been dominating her mind ever since O’Halloran had asked if the guy in the cinema had approached her.

  She had taken his photo. It wasn’t a good one, but he didn’t know that. She had also taken the rose, which quite possibly had his fingerprints on the wrapping.

  Whoever he was, he was more calculating and methodical than the misspelt email he had sent would seem to suggest, which told Jenna that the mistakes in the email had probably been deliberate. A smokescreen created by someone who understood the process of criminal profiling.

  And he now had to assume she was in a position to identify him, that she could be a threat to him.

  * * *

  Wearing a pair of overalls branded with the city council logo, and carrying an official-looking clipboard, Branden Tell walked through the block of flats adjacent to Jenna’s old mausoleum of a house.

  She had taken his photo. He couldn’t believe it. And she had taken the rose, something else he hadn’t anticipated. He didn’t know what she had done with it. He had left the mall immediately, just in case she called security, but he had to assume that she had taken the rose to the police.

  His fingerprints had to be all over the cellophane, although that wouldn’t do Whitmore any good because he didn’t have a criminal record.

  However, if he did ever get caught on one of the little night excursions he indulged in just to break the boredom, that would change things. The minute the police ran his prints through their computers they would connect him to a whole raft of crimes. They would lock him up and throw away the key. By the time he got out, he would be an old man.

  All he had wanted to do was frighten her into withdrawing the book from stores and cancelling the book signings. And if one of the “accidents” he had planned for her worked out, he would send a whole bunch of white roses to the funeral. The last thing he needed was a whole lot of publicity about the book, and people lining up to read Deadly Valentine. He didn’t think that cops, most of them men, would read Whitmore’s books, but he had read them so he had to assume that some other men would, too.

  After the near miss with the pot plant, he was pretty sure he had her spooked, but she was proving oddly stubborn and resourceful, the complete opposite of the soft, vulnerable Jenna he remembered.

  He skimmed the windows of the apartment block, checking for movement or evidence that he was being watched. Although, he expected that at this time of night most residents would be either eating dinner or watching the news on TV.

  Jenna living next door to the apartments was a gift because it meant he didn’t have to expose himself to an entire street of nosy neighbours by entering through her front gate. Even pretending to repair the gate, he would still attract notice. Most tenants of large apartment blocks were happy to accept the presence of anyone in workman’s overalls on the property, automatically assuming they were there on behalf of the landlord.

  With a raking glance at the end apartment, which appeared to be empty, he disappeared under the dark overhang of a tree. Tossing the clipboard into the long grass, he levered himself over the wooden fence, landing in the middle of a shaggy green shrub that smelled like insecticide.

  Muttering beneath his breath, he worked his way free and emerged from the heavy undergrowth directly opposite a room lined with bookshelves that looked like her office. Walking around to the kitchen, he extracted a set of picks from his pocket. Within seconds, he had the door open.

  Taking a penknife from his pocket he released the blade and walked quickly through to Jenna’s alarm system, one that a firm he supplied had installed. Accessing the panel, he used the master code to disarm the alarm. He checked his watch. He didn’t have much time to find what he needed.

  The afternoon light was dimming as he walked through the house. Suppressing his irritation that Jenna had actually gotten wealthy writing those ridiculous books, he found her office and began a systematic search.

  * * *

  Streetlights glowed, ill
uminating the murky twilight as Marc turned into Jenna’s driveway. Her sleek little Porsche disappeared into a garage, so he parked on the broad sweep of gravel fronting an old Victorian house that had had a distinctly modern makeover. The lines of the villa were colonial, but the biscotti paint job with aubergine accents was cutting-edge.

  He checked the automatic wrought-iron security gate, frowning a little at the slow-motion action. Someone could easily step through and hide in the shrubbery in the time it took for the gate to close. He would get one of their techs out to reprogram the system. If he had to, he would replace the gate himself.

  As he exited the truck, he checked out the front garden, a stretch of smooth lawn edged by a tangle of heavy, dark undergrowth. The border of shrubs was thick enough that it mostly hid the house from the road, but it also provided a convenient hiding place for anyone breaking into the property.

  Dark clouds massed overhead. A droplet of rain splashed the bonnet of the truck. The scent of ozone, the quick flight of a bird as if something had disturbed it, combined to set him subtly on edge.

  Frowning, he skimmed the street, which was empty. He put his unease down to the incoming electrical storm, which seemed to charge the atmosphere, the cool rush of damp air heightening his senses and making his skin prickle.

  He grabbed the sack of take-aways and found his briefcase as Jenna strolled toward him.

  The murky light made her creamy skin look magnolia-pale and her eyes even darker. She had unbuttoned her charcoal-grey jacket, revealing the mint-green camisole she was wearing underneath. Silky and utterly feminine, it was a startling contrast to the long grey skirt and red accessories, somehow creating the effect of an edgy, retro elegance that matched the house and garden.

  In that moment, Jenna came into sharp focus for Marc.

  Her delicate features and stylish haircut aside, there was a strength in her firmly moulded cheekbones, the set of her jaw and the clear direct way she met his gaze. Nine years ago, Jenna hadn’t been overtly sexy; the main word that had always sprung to mind had been nice. Now her cool, underlying sensuality, which had nothing to do with any descriptive as innocuous as nice, hit him like a kick in the chest.

  Forcing himself to suppress the kind of reaction he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager, he turned his attention back to the garden. “Nice property.”

  She shrugged. “It’s too big, but I’ve always loved it. I used to walk past it every day on the way to university, and the privacy suits me.”

  He handed her the paper sack of take-out containers. “Take these inside. I need to do a quick walk around the grounds before it gets too dark. I won’t be long.”

  Her expression tightened fractionally, informing him that she wasn’t quite as composed as she seemed. Out of nowhere, like the unscripted moment in the mall parking lot that afternoon, a fierce surge of protectiveness hit him. He had known that the run-in with the stalker had shaken her. He just hadn’t realized how much.

  Grimly, he clamped down on the impulse to pull her into his arms. He had already pushed the boundaries with the kiss in the elevator; he didn’t want to scare Jenna off by pushing for too much, too fast.

  He watched the slim, graceful line of Jenna’s back as she walked up the steps to the front door, the satiny fall of dark hair shot through with lighter streaks. The attraction that had flared to life when he had met Jenna at the gravesite was showing no signs of fading, and now he didn’t expect it to.

  He knew his nature. When it came to women, for him the situation had always been black and white. He either felt something or he didn’t; there had never been any middle ground.

  That was one of the reasons it had been so easy for him to remain single since Natalie had died. He simply hadn’t felt anything strong enough to tempt him into an actual relationship. He’d had occasional casual liaisons, but as convenient as it would have been for those liaisons to grow into something more, a part of him had remained remote and uninvolved.

  Until now.

  Grimly he registered the growing tension in his body, his utter masculine focus on Jenna.

  Jenna turned and shot him a veiled look as she unlocked the door, letting him know in a subtle, entirely feminine way that she had noted his interest but that the jury was still out. “I’ll get you a flashlight.”

  Marc’s gaze shuttered. “There’s no need, I have one in the truck.” And the last thing he wanted was for Jenna to insist on coming with him, just in case he found evidence that someone had been on the property.

  He checked to make sure Jenna had disappeared inside then collected the flashlight and the other piece of equipment he wanted: a Glock 17 handgun with a shoulder holster.

  Shrugging out of his jacket, he pulled on the shoulder holster, fastened the webbing then unlocked the metal storage case, which held the gun. With swift, practiced movements, he slotted the magazine into its casing, holstered the gun and shrugged back into his jacket.

  Picking up the flashlight, he locked the truck and began a systematic examination of the fence and garden.

  In the thickening twilight, the powerful beam had the effect of making the evening seem darker than it was. Sounds seemed more distinct, the scents of city and garden intensified. He waded through foliage, checking the fenceline, and looking for areas of crushed foliage. A few steps farther on and he discovered a dilapidated shed.

  Directing the beam of the flashlight into the shed, which was filled with a jumble of old tools and firewood, he kept moving. Another few steps and he found a damaged shrub and trampled ground directly across from a room with a large bay window and a desk. At a guess, Jenna’s office.

  * * *

  From the kitchen window, Jenna glimpsed the flickering beam of the flashlight and the pale flash of O’Halloran’s shirt as she placed the take-out containers in the oven. O’Halloran had taken a good five minutes to work his way around one side of the house, she guessed it would take him the same to check out the other side, and in the meantime she didn’t want their food to go cold.

  Tiny droplets of rain speckled the window. She flicked on a light to brighten up the kitchen, and frowned when nothing happened. She tried a second light switch with no better luck. Power outages weren’t uncommon, especially in her suburb with its old plantings of graceful but tall trees. Every time they got a strong wind, branches swayed and hit lines, or came down altogether.

  Shrugging, she hunted out candles and a lighter and laid them on the table where they’d be easy to find then strolled toward the stairs, intending to change into some warmer clothing before O’Halloran came in.

  She flicked on another light switch, just in case the problem in the kitchen was a blown fuse and the rest of the house still had power. When the hall remained dim, she frowned. The weather was definitely deteriorating, but as yet the wind was hardly strong enough to cause a problem.

  A small trickle of unease, courtesy of the creepy episode in the mall, inched down her spine. Although it was ridiculous to think that anyone could have been in the house. The power had been on when she’d walked into her home, because she had turned off the alarm when she’d walked into the hall.

  Added to that, the alarm included a wireless connection to her broadband modem. If anyone tried to interfere with the alarm in any way, aside from the ear-splitting siren and instant call to the security company, it was programmed to text her phone with a message. If anyone had broken into the house, she would have known about it before she had gotten home.

  Still feeling vaguely unsettled but putting it down to the crazy day and the fact that she was hungry, she walked through the shadowy interior of the house, her heels echoing on polished floorboards. Movement caught her eye. Her pulse jumped, but it was only O’Halloran glimpsed through one of the French doors in the sitting room, checking the fence.

  Letting out a breath, she forced herself to relax. O’Ha
lloran was large, muscled and an ex-cop who had been a decorated member of the Special Tactics Squad, an elite frontline squad of armed police. If her poisonous fan was anywhere near the property, then he was the one who had the problem.

  On impulse, she walked through to her office and checked her laptop. The battery should have kept it going, and she had a surge protector, but sometimes freak occurrences like lightning strikes could fry the electrics anyway.

  She glimpsed O’Halloran again. He lifted a hand. Reassured by his presence, but still on edge, she disconnected the laptop from the power source and, on impulse, decided to take it upstairs. It had about four hours of battery, so if she wasn’t too tired later on, she could work at the small portable desk in her bedroom.

  Still feeling oddly tense, she walked upstairs, deposited the laptop on the portable desk positioned in one corner of her room and kicked off her heels. She quickly changed into slim-fitting jeans and a polo-necked midnight-blue sweater that clung softly to her hips.

  With the light almost completely gone now, she searched in her bedside table and found a penlight.

  She glimpsed O’Halloran out of her bedroom window as she slipped into more comfortable flats and her breath lodged in her throat as she recalled the tension that had gripped her as she had unlocked the front door.

  O’Halloran’s gaze had been focused and intent. In her various dating forays she had glimpsed desire, and quite often liking, but none of her dates had ever looked at her in quite that way.

  Somewhere downstairs a floorboard creaked, pulling her out of her reverie. She could no longer see O’Halloran outside. Frowning, she walked out onto the landing and stared into the deep well of shadow cast by the staircase.

  The house was old. It creaked when the timbers warmed up during the day, then again when it cooled down at night. There was nothing to be alarmed about, but with the fading light, and without her cheerful array of lamps glowing, the atmosphere was definitely creepy.

  She should flick on the penlight and walk down the stairs, but some preternatural instinct kept her frozen in place in the dark, her gaze glued to the hall below. Despite O’Halloran’s presence, she kept getting an unnerving tingling sensation down her spine.