Where Danger Hides

by Terry Odell

  “Of course you’re not. How about some coffee?” He was already walking toward the kitchen. “It might be smart to eat something, too.”

  She flopped onto the couch and kicked off her shoes. “I’m trying to be mad at you, you know.”

  “I figured that out. I’m the super-sleuth, remember?”

  Cabinets opened, water ran, the refrigerator opened and closed. Dalton returned with a large glass of water.

  “Drink.” He held it in front of her. “You’ll be glad in the morning.”

  “I did not have that much champagne.” She scooted away from him, got off the couch and stood erect. She stretched her arms out to the sides and aped his mock sobriety test. Then she walked to the window and back. Without the heels, her step was almost perfectly steady. Okay, she had a light buzz—a glow, maybe, but she wasn’t drunk. Not even tipsy. “I should have eaten more, and I was tired. Am tired. I wasn’t the one who slept for fourteen hours.”

  “Drink.” He shoved the glass into her hand. “You’ll wake up without a headache. Even a little champagne can be nasty the next morning. Eight ounces of prevention.”

  Glowering, she lifted the water to her lips. “You’re lucky I don’t throw this at you. How dare you investigate me. I was the client. Or the assignment.” She gulped the water and shoved the glass back in his hands. “And I’m not drunk.” The throbbing at her temples had nothing to do with champagne.

  She found the envelope and yanked out the page with her background check. “What business did you have—what right did you have—to invade my privacy like this?”

  He took the paper and glanced at it. The lightbulb flashed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  She waited. Nothing. “Well? Aren’t you going to say something?”

  Lowering the page to the coffee table, he flattened his yummy, tempting lips before speaking. “I’m working on it. But I have a feeling no matter what I say, I’ll make things worse. If I explain, will you even listen?”

  “Are you saying I’m close-minded?”

  “See? We’re already fighting and I haven’t started.”

  She regrouped. No matter what, he deserved his turn. Let him rationalize away. Crap. She was being close-minded. She wouldn’t last ten minutes on the job if she judged the people who came to Galloway House this fast.

  “Go ahead.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll listen.”

  He worked off his jacket and draped it over the back of her easy chair. “I’ll get the coffee.”

  She followed him into the kitchen. “If you don’t think it’ll be too crowded, do you mind if Ben and Jerry join us?”

  “Always welcome in my book.”

  She opened the freezer. “I’m calling the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. You can have Vanilla or Chocolate Peanut Butter Swirl.”

  “Vanilla’s fine.”

  He poured two cups of coffee as she scooped ice cream into bowls and carried them to the dining room where she could keep her distance. This wasn’t sharing a pint of ice cream on the couch with her sister. This was giving a fair shake to a man who’d professed to want to help her but ran a background check. She’d read the page and knew her past wasn’t there. But she couldn’t control the anxiety snaking through her as she wondered if he had more information squirreled away somewhere.

  Dalton sat across from her. He spooned a good chunk of his ice cream into his coffee and stirred, gazing into the cup as if the words he searched for would appear.

  She ate her ice cream and waited.

  “Background checks are routine,” he finally said. “Blackthorne gets a lot of clients who aren’t totally . . . forthcoming . . . about themselves.”

  “You assume I lied to you?”

  He sipped his drink, then stirred the rest of his ice cream into the cup.

  She put down her spoon with a clunk. “You did assume I was lying.”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Are you thinking this through? Do you believe everyone who comes to Galloway House is telling you the truth?”

  “Of course not.” Her response burst out, apparently of its own accord. With the tip of her spoon, she drew designs in the melting remains at the bottom of her bowl. “But we don’t check up on them. We respect their privacy.” She’d lost most of her anger. All that remained was the fear he knew more than what was on that page.

  She brought the bowls to the kitchen and rinsed them. Dalton materialized behind her, close enough so his body heat radiated through her, in sharp contrast to the cool water running over her fingertips. He reached around her and shut off the water. She braced her hands on the edge of the sink, afraid to turn around. His hands rested on her shoulders and suddenly, the decision was made for her, and she faced him, meeting his eyes. Warm eyes. Caring eyes. Eyes that defused any last vestiges of anger.

  He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Should we talk before or after I kiss you?”

  * * * * *

  “Yes,” Miri whispered.

  He wove his fingers through her hair, letting the silken threads cascade over his hands. She lifted her head, her brown eyes accentuated by thick, dark lashes. When she half-closed her eyes, gold shimmered on her eyelids. He touched his mouth to hers.

  Her lips parted. He nibbled on her lower lip, tasting coffee and chocolate. Lord, he could devour her. He moved his hands downward, tracing her back with gentle caresses. He tried to pull away, to slow down, to be tender and gentle. But her mouth opened wider and her tongue found his. Restraint vanished.

  He tilted his head, angling his mouth over hers. Tenderness gave way to plundering. He needed more. His tongue probed deeper. The ice-cream chill of her mouth rapidly blazed into fiery heat.

  She whimpered. He moaned.

  He cupped her buttocks through the fabric of her dress. Her breasts pressed against his chest. His heart thudded against his ribcage. Blood roared in his ears.

  Her hands, damp from rinsing dishes, clutched at his neck. He lifted her to the countertop where her lips would be level with his.

  She stroked his hair. Every strand sent an electrical shock through him. He couldn’t remember a kiss that consumed his entire being like this. Hell, he couldn’t remember his name.

  Dalton. That was it. It echoed in the distance. Muffled. Sounded like Miri’s voice. He leaned closer, murmuring her name in return. Something pushed at his chest. His hips pulsed against her, his tongue danced in rhythm.

  “Ambrose!”

  The word shot through him, severing the connection. Panting, he jerked away.

  “Too fast,” Miri said.

  Her dilated pupils darkened her eyes to pools of chocolate. Her chest rose and fell, matching his own labored breathing. Her cheeks were flushed. She ran her tongue across kiss-swollen lips.

  Speaking was a challenge. Instead, he lowered her from the counter. Taking her hand in his, he led her to the living room and sat on the couch. She hesitated, then squeezed his hand and sat across from him in the oversized easy chair. Wise move. He had a steel I-beam between his legs that begged for attention.

  Get a grip. She’s right. It’s too fast.

  He exhaled a shuddering breath. What he needed was a long, sub-zero shower. Shifting uncomfortably, he watched as Miri smoothed her dress over her legs and folded her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl waiting for the teacher to call on her. Except she wouldn’t look at him.

  Right. Talk. Get back to business.

  He cleared his throat. “Okay. That took care of the kissing. I guess it’s time for the talking.”

  She nodded, studying her fingers.

  “You want to decide where we start?”

  She shook her head.

  He smiled. “I’ve got to admit, my brain’s not exactly running on all cylinders right now, darlin’. But I think we’re either going to talk about your missing people—because I don’t believe for a minute that you’re satisfied it was all a coincidence—or we’re going to talk about who the hell you are and how come
a standard background search only goes back eight years.”

  Her eyes lifted at last. They widened, then retreated to fix on her fingers, which fussed with the fabric of her dress. Her chest rose and fell once. She shook her head, flipping her hair and tucking it behind her ears. She squirmed in the chair.

  He waited.

  She licked her lips. “My sister and I were practically street kids. I told you my dad went to prison and my mom left. Even before she did, Nancy and I were on our own.”

  Her voice was low but steady. “Nancy did whatever it took to put food on the table and clothes on our backs. Almost anything. Mom turned tricks, but Nancy swore she’d never do that.” She gave him an earnest stare. “I believe her—I know she wouldn’t let men near me. But we begged, shoplifted, ran street scams.”

  “Where did you live?”

  Her fingers danced on the arm of the chair. “Down South until I was sixteen. New Orleans area, mostly.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her CD collection. “Where you learned to appreciate jazz?”

  She nodded, smoothing her hair behind her ear again. “Nance and I hustled for street musicians. She had a decent voice and a good body—I made sure the audience paid for the music.”

  “By picking pockets.”

  “Like I said, we did what it took to survive.” Pride and defiance radiated from her eyes.

  “Social Services didn’t help?”

  “We stayed under the radar. We moved so often, they never found us, assuming they bothered.”

  His chest ached. Although she’d obviously accepted her past, he could understand her wanting to forget it. And hide it. Which she’d done well, or the Blackthorne research department would have found her. Or she was lying. “I don’t hear the Southern accent.”

  “Good. We both worked very hard to lose it.”

  He distanced himself. Made her a generic interview subject. “How did you disappear?”

  “We came to San Francisco when I was sixteen. Nancy was eighteen. We were lucky. We found Galloway House, and they gave us the help we needed. We’d changed our names. Like I said, they don’t require ID.”

  “Who were you before?”

  “I’ve always been Miri.”

  “Miri who?”

  She narrowed her eyes. Shook her head. “Nope. That’s all you get.”

  “Why? What would it hurt to tell me your real last name? I’m not going to use it against you.” He rested his ankle on his knee, glad things had settled enough to get comfortable again. “Or did you do something worse than pick a few pockets? Even if you did, I’m sure it’s too late for any prosecution.”

  Except for homicide. No. Whatever she was, whatever she’d done, she wouldn’t have taken a life. He’d bet his own on that.

  “Not for me. For Nancy. She’s afraid of what the Sandersons would do if they found out she was something they’d scrape off the bottom of their shoes.”

  “Her husband?”

  “I don’t think he’d mind—he truly loves her. But she’s not sure it would be worth the risk, and I’ve promised to respect that. Saying for better or for worse, and then having to live with the for worse part are two different games.”

  “And what’s the worst that could happen?”

  She twirled a lock of hair. “Nancy’s afraid his parents would disinherit him. Disown him. Or get Patterson to fire him. Who knows?” She lowered her eyes once more. “That’s why I was in Patterson’s study that night. To make sure his background check hadn’t uncovered anything. That the PI he hired didn’t find anything except the identities we created.”

  “And he didn’t, I’m guessing.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “It’s not that hard, really. Find a one-horse town where the hall of records burned down, and there’s your place of birth. Nobody can verify your birth certificate. And fake ID’s are easy enough to get on the street.”

  Her hands settled at last. There was an underlying serenity, as if she’d emerged from the confines of a cocoon, ready to spread her wings and soar through a world, seeing it from an entirely new perspective.

  His groin stirred again. He glanced at his watch. “It’s after midnight. I should be going.” He stepped behind the chair and retrieved his jacket.

  Miri got to her feet. “Dalton?” She stretched out a hand.

  He let his fingers slide down hers. His pulse quickened. Emotions he’d kept tamped down wormed their way toward the surface. He was afraid she’d ask him to stay. If she did, he wouldn’t be able to say no, and he knew it wasn’t the right time. “What?”

  She met his eyes head on. “About tonight. I was confused. I wanted to be mad at you—because if I wasn’t mad at you, I was afraid I’d—you know—what started in the kitchen. But it’s too soon. Nancy said maybe I should have a fling. But I’m not sure I could have a fling and walk away. Not from you.”

  Her cheeks glowed bright pink, and he found that all the more endearing—and arousing. His sort of women were definitely the fling sort. Like Debbie. Mutual tension relievers. Itch scratchers. Tonight he found them all totally unappealing.

  “Shh. I know what you mean. I’m flattered.” He kissed her palm. “And that’s why I have to leave. But I want to see you again.” He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

  “You said you’d have more information about Luisa on Monday.”

  That wasn’t what he had in mind. But it would have to do.

  Chapter 15

  Miri scrubbed the makeup off her face, wishing she could scrub away her body’s reaction to Dalton as easily. And not only the physical reaction. She’d known him a week, and in one night she had revealed things about her past that nobody but Nancy knew.

  Maybe it was because he’d bared himself to her. For the first time, she found someone she trusted.

  Too antsy to stand still, she wandered into the bedroom and pulled back her bed covers while she brushed her teeth. The phone rang. Who would call after midnight? Nancy? Her mind whirled, her pulse kicked into overdrive as she grabbed the handset, rushed into the bathroom, and spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink.

  “Miri? Thank goodness you’re home. I didn’t know who else to call.”

  She tried to connect the voice to a person, but the voice hovered one notch below hysterical. A female voice, and to her relief, not Nancy. “Slow down. Who is this?”

  “Sammi. Miri, you have to tell me what to do.”

  “All right, Sammi. It’s all right. What happened? Where are you?”

  “I’m at the front desk. But you need to go to the police station. They took Jillian.”

  Will’s mom. “When? Why?”

  “I don’t know. She called from the police station.”

  “Where’s Will?” Miri tucked the handset under her chin and went back to the bedroom.

  “He’s here. Asleep. He doesn’t know.”

  “Okay, Sammi.” Miri opened drawers, grabbed underwear and a sweatshirt. “Look in the top right drawer under the counter. There’s an emergency call list. Find the number for legal services.”

  “I already called. I got a recording. She’s gone for the weekend. That’s why I called you.”

  Miri snatched a pair of jeans from her closet. “You did good, Sammi. I’ll take care of things. You hang tight. Be there in case Will wakes up, okay?”

  She clicked off the phone and tossed it on the bed. Where was her cell phone? She shrugged into the sweatshirt and did a circuit of her apartment.

  Calm down. You’re worse than Sammi.

  Her everyday tote hung on a hook by the entry. Right where it belonged. She yanked it down and fished inside for her cell, punching the speed dial she’d programmed with Dalton’s number.

  She waited for the call to go through, and a thought slammed into her like a bolt of lightning. Every time she’d needed help, she’d called Dalton. She tried to tell herself it was because she didn’t trust cops. Or that it was logical to call him. He couldn’t be more than a few minutes away,
and no busses ran at this hour, and a cab would be expensive and—and he’d kissed her like there was nobody on the planet except the two of them. She tingled at the memory. The phone clicked.

  “Miri? Hey, darlin’.”

  The mere sound of his drawl erased some of her panic. “Um . . . one of the House’s residents is at the police station. I don’t know what happened, and the lawyer we use is away. I thought—”

  “On my way.”

  To rescue the fair maiden.

  The chill air on her legs sent her to the bedroom for her jeans. Why did he scramble her brain? She was not a maiden in need of rescue. Thrusting legs into the denim, she tried to come up with a reason Jillian would be at the police station. Like so many people who arrived at Galloway House, Jillian was a victim who had finally been pushed too far. Miri recalled Jillian the day she’d arrived in reception. Strawberry blonde, petite. Nice clothes, well groomed. Not coming from poverty. Unable to keep the trembling from her voice, yet she’d maintained an upbeat façade. Being brave for her kid, who cowered behind her.

  Miri zipped and buttoned her jeans, jammed her feet into socks and sneakers and snagged her purse. She checked for her wallet, ATM card and checkbook as she went to the shoebox in her closet for her emergency cash.

  Minutes later, a quiet knock on the door made her jump. “That was quick,” she said when she opened it.

  “I was in the neighborhood.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “Walking. Cooling off.”

  “Can you drop me at the police station?”

  “Let’s go.” His hand on her back as they hurried to his car provided a security blanket. By the time they were on the road, she’d centered herself again.

  “You do this often?” Dalton asked. “Bail people out of jail in the middle of the night?”

  “Me? No. We’ve got paralegals we can call, and there’s even a full-fledged lawyer who donates some time. This is a first for me.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Sammi—she’s the one who called me—said Jillian called from the police station.” Her insides twisted at the thought of Jillian in jail. And Will. The one thing they had going for them was each other.