Most ignored Travis, though he stood there, right beside Manny Fernandez’s brightly-painted snack cart, juggling six-inch steak knives.
He had become part of the scenery. Fine with him. His job was to watch the passersby. Their job, as far as he was concerned, was to go about their business.
Except for Farley. His job was to mess up. Get caught. Now.
“Hey, mister, you ever cut yourself?” An adolescent boy, whose attempt to look uninterested had failed miserably, stopped in front of him.
Cut himself? Never! But thinking about Dianna that way had distracted him so that the kid’s voice had actually startled him.
“Did you ever cut yourself?” the boy insisted.
Travis did his customary assessment: Kid from the local high school, probably, on his way home. With a group of friends who’d stopped, too, so he had to look cool.
“Nope, never even a scratch. I’m good.”
The kid’s dark eyes narrowed in a grin of appreciation as he walked on with his buddies.
“You got an ego, too,” said Manny, who’d just handed an older lady a cappuccino. Manny was leather-skinned and middle-aged, and his family owned one of the small coffee shops along Van Nuys Boulevard. He’d told Travis he’d jumped at the chance to run the cart, since it kept him out in the nice, smoggy Los Angeles air instead of inside with his squabbling brothers.
“Who says?” Travis turned so his knives could slice a nice chunk out of the man who’d helped him establish his cover here. Could, but wouldn’t. Travis had them under complete control as he tossed four, catching each in turn by its handles and casting it back into the air so the blade flashed but never neared his flesh or anyone else’s.
Manny smiled his pumpkin grin. “Tomorrow I’ll bring tomatoes from the restaurant that you can slice for me, okay?” He nodded at the glinting knives.
“Sure. I’m easy.”
“Now, though,” Manny said, “I’m ready to go home.”
A while later, after helping Manny pack up the cart and wheel it away, Travis returned to his corner of the walkway outside Englander Center.
Twilight approached, and with it came the chill of evening. He was active enough not to feel cold, despite the way he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He had to make allowances in his tosses, though, for a slight, but burgeoning, breeze.
His knives flipped and landed easily in his palms with a faint slapping sound, only to be tossed again to make room for the next. He probably looked out of his element, without Manny and the cart to lend him legitimacy—an entertainer drawing attention to a vendor. He caught the gazes of passersby more frequently now, when they couldn’t ignore him as part of the place’s commercial ambiance. A few tossed coins, which he would donate to charity when this was over. Eyes in every shade studied him. Acknowledged him. Some even appreciated him.
None, he was certain, were Farley’s. No slyness. No furtiveness. No pretense.
Travis was relaxed, yes. But he maintained his vigilance.
And then he saw Dianna.
Though wilted-looking after her tough day, she smiled at him. Her blue skirt and light blouse had held up better than the rest of her, for her shoulders slumped, and beneath her eyes was a bruiselike darkness of exhaustion.
Tired, drooping from fatigue, whatever, she was still one pretty lady.
Travis’s muscles tensed, though not enough to make him lose his rhythm. His blood already flowed heatedly as a result of concentration and motion. The smile that brightened Dianna’s weary face made him even more conscious of its circulation.
Its flow to body parts that had nothing to do with juggling.
She drew closer. She wasn’t alone, of course. Snail was with her. The kid was diligent. He stood behind Dianna, then edged around nonchalantly, as if he’d nothing better to do. But he was alert. Travis knew that artless pose. He assumed it himself, often. For Snail did have something better to do—shielding Dianna from an unseen foe.
This time, when the hilts of Travis’s knives reached his palms, he held them. His juggling for this day was done.
“Good evening, Ms. Englander,” he said. “I’m calling it a day. You, too?” He still played the role of a routine juggler, deferential to the executive with control over his fate. Ms. Englander could invite him to continue his act, or tell him to move on.
As if he would allow the latter.
“Yes,” she responded. “Jeremy’s still upstairs with Julie. He’s got one more appointment today—a possible subcontractor. But I’m going home. It’s been a long one.”
That’s right, Travis thought with a scowl, gazing around. Announce to the world where you’re heading.
Of course, Farley would know she’d head home. Travis made himself relax again.
“Have a good evening,” he said, then watched her saunter toward the parking lot.
Snail stayed with her. “So tonight I’ll help you organize those files you wanted at your house, Ms. Englander.” Right. The kid’s cover was, after all, as a temporary secretary.
Juggling beat that any day.
But there had to be a reason for the undercover cop to accompany their subject home. Organizing her personal files seemed flimsy, but what the heck?
Except that the idea of someone else spending the night in Dianna’s home didn’t sit well with Travis. Not even Snail.
A short while later, he shadowed them in his Jeep, though not too closely. Far as he could tell, he was the only one following.
And Travis knew well how to spot a tail.
Soon, as they’d arranged in advance, he pulled into the parking lot of a mini-mall a few blocks away. Dianna’s little red sports car had already slid into a parking space in front of a dry cleaners, and beside it was Snail’s car, a clunky, five-year-old sedan. Travis, his eyes still surveilling the road, approached Dianna’s car. So did Snail.
“Is everything under control?” she asked after opening her window.
“Looks that way.”
“Good.” She glanced over her shoulder toward Snail. “So it’s okay for me to take my babysitter home now?”
“No, the plans have changed,” Travis said, surprising them all, including himself. “After that episode earlier, I think you need to discuss the entertainment for the Englander Center birthday bash with the area’s best juggler.”
“But you said—” Snail began. At a look from Travis, he shut up.
“Don’t you have a date tonight?” Travis growled.
“Not yet, but I will,” Snail said enthusiastically. Travis caught Dianna’s half amused, half irritated grimace. “I don’t really need to discuss files, juggling or anything else tonight.” Her tone rang with barely repressed exasperation. “Can’t you just have someone watch my place again tonight—outside?”
“We’ll do that, too,” Travis said, “but Farley’s getting bolder. He didn’t just play peek-a-boo with you today. And I’ve no doubt he knows where you live. So, no, Dianna. You’re going to have someone hang around inside—at least for tonight. Me.”
DIANNA WOULDN’T ADMIT IT, but after the way Farley had grabbed her earlier, she was glad Travis would be with her. She trusted him. At least she trusted him to keep her safe. If she followed his damned overbearing orders. But what choice did she have?
She still felt unnerved after that morning’s attack. Her body had been weak with soreness and anxiety the entire day. Not that she’d given in to it.
They’d grabbed a quick sandwich from a fast food place in the shopping center. Now, as she settled back into her driver’s seat, she recognized that having Travis with her that night, for protection, would be a relief.
And a temptation to make part of his cover all too real—the part that said the street performer was hitting on the building executive. Or vice versa.
She glanced into her rearview mirror. The silver Jeep he drove had pulled from the parking lot and now followed her, a few cars behind. Obviously trying to be protective, but unobtrusive.
A
s if the sexy, handsome juggler could ever be unobtrusive.
All this stuff with Farley must be driving her crazy, for she’d never felt so sexually aware of a man in her life as with Travis.
She pushed the button on her steering wheel, and the car was suddenly filled with a recent tune played by her favorite soft rock radio station. She drummed a finger on the leather cover in time with the music. The rhythm reminded her of sex, which reminded her of Travis…
Oh, she’d loved Brad. Their lovemaking had been enjoyable, for he’d waged a campaign with his body the same way as he had a political campaign—personably. Intellectually. As if he had to impress the world with his abilities.
Dianna sensed Travis wouldn’t give a damn about impressing anyone. He wouldn’t plan; he’d do. Spontaneously. He’d use his sleight-of-hand skills to tease and taunt and—
Damn. She’d almost missed the turnoff to her narrow street, up in the hills. Sheepishly, she slowed and directed her car to climb along homes shrouded by tall palms, twisting eucalyptus and wild bougainvillea over-growing solid picket fences.
She pulled down her driveway, using the electronic button to open her garage door. Her little car rumbled as she eased it into its space. She glanced again into her rearview mirror. Travis didn’t try to pull in behind her.
Where was he now?
She reminded herself that she didn’t like the idea that he’d followed her home to protect her. She just wanted to be left alone. She just wanted—
She jumped as a shadow appeared behind her. But she calmed as she recognized that tall, substantial form. The way Travis always stood, relaxed, yet poised as if to leap on an enemy and slit his throat with one of his lethal-looking juggling knives.
He opened the car door for her. “You ready for another juggling lesson?” he asked. “I’ve also been thinking about some other guys we can get to perform on the plaza for the Center’s birthday. None juggles as well as me, but they’re all great undercover cops.”
“Right.” She tried to sound disgruntled, but she actually wasn’t. She didn’t like this undercover stuff, figured Farley would see through it, but what if he did? The idea was to keep her safe—and to catch the miserable wretch. He was most likely insane, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. To the contrary, he seemed much too smart. He’d probably figured she was under police protection. If so, he apparently considered it a challenge, for he had come after her anyway.
Might come after her again…
Shrugging away that chilling thought, she hurried to unlock the door from the garage into her kitchen, flicked on the light and hurried inside to press in her alarm code within the grace period before it went off.
And gasped, even as she heard Travis swear aloud.
Her kitchen had been trashed. Plates, glasses, flatware, small appliances—everything was in a shattered heap on the hardwood floor.
And spray-painted in bright red paint on the walnut cabinets were the words, You’re going to die, bitch.
Chapter Nine
“Oh, no,” Dianna moaned. On top of the nearest pile were the shards of an antique, handpainted canister set. The heirloom wedding present from Brad’s family was now nothing but broken remnants, just as her marriage had been crushed by that horrible creature Farley. She took a step into the destroyed room and reached for one of the pieces.
Travis grabbed her, stopping her. “Don’t touch anything.”
“But—”
“I need to get the SID techs here. They’ll know of someone to help clean this mess once they’ve collected evidence.”
Dianna made herself stand stiffly, when all she wanted to do was fall to her knees on the shreds that had been part of her life. “Why do they need evidence?” she whispered brokenly. “We know who did this.” She swallowed, becoming aware for the first time of the nauseating odor permeating the room—a conglomeration of all the things pulled from the open refrigerator-freezer and hurled into a congealing mess on the floor. She couldn’t help the small keening noise that emanated from her throat—which was just healing from Farley’s last onslaught. “What does he want from me?” she wailed.
She would have slid to the floor if Travis hadn’t wrapped his strong arms around her. “He wants to scare you,” he responded in a tone so low and furious and feral that Dianna drew in her breath, as if he had slapped her. “Let’s find you someplace to sit,” he said more gently.
He led her carefully around the mess, though she still felt things she could not identify beneath the thin soles of her dressy pumps, heard them slide along the floor and crush. In a moment, they were in the hall, and he ushered her into the den.
“Here.” He eased her onto the chair behind her antique walnut desk, also an heirloom from Brad’s family. At least everything seemed all right in here.
He called someone on his cell phone, resting one lean hip against the desk. He didn’t take his eyes from her, as if he expected her to shatter like the things in the other room that had once been her possessions.
She wouldn’t, damn it. Somehow, she would find a way to stop Farley’s campaign of terror against her.
She took a deep breath, and then another, willing her heart to stop pounding so hard in her chest. She let herself gaze again into Travis’s narrowed blue eyes, as if she could absorb some of his strength from his stare.
Only then did she glance down at her desk. A light blinked on her phone’s answering machine, and the digital readout indicated she had received five messages.
She froze. When had she turned her machine on? They were probably the usual hang-ups, but she had to be sure. She wasn’t expecting any calls at home. During weekdays, her friends knew to call her at work—sparingly. When she’d seen her neighbor and friend Astrid bundling her kids into her car the morning after they’d been sick, she had told her to come knock at the door if she wanted to chat.
It wouldn’t be her family, either. Dianna had spoken with her mother that weekend, as usual. After her father’s death ten years earlier, her mom had moved to Florida, where she had met a man five years her junior who loved to travel. The two were in Rome by now. And Dianna’s only other relative, her brother Dan, though reliable and a dear in his own way, was a stodgy stockbroker in New York. He had helped her manage Brad’s estate and now called every Sunday evening like clockwork. This was a weekday. He wouldn’t have called—unless in an emergency. And for that, he had her cell phone number.
Shaking her head, she pushed the button, expecting the mechanical female voice she always heard when the caller hung up: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again…”
But the first message was eerie laughter. Farley’s laughter.
Travis reached over and gripped her hand, without shutting off the answering machine. “You don’t need to listen to this,” he growled. But he was wrong. She did need to listen. She didn’t let him steer her from the room.
The second and third messages echoed the first, and Farley’s hooting, boisterous laughing carved a chunk out of any sense of well-being Dianna might have retained. According to the machine’s automatic time stamp, they had been left shortly after Farley attacked Dianna in the garage that morning.
The fourth was from later in the day. In it, a voice disguised electronically said, “In case you are picking up your messages remotely, Dianna, it’s time to come home. I’m waiting for you at your place.”
Oh, lord. He might have been in and out of her house all day, making the mess. Maybe he had even turned on the answering machine. And there had been no indication he had set off her burglar alarm even once.
By the time the fifth message started to play, Dianna felt as if all the blood had drained from her body. Tears streamed down her face, but she made no move to wipe them. This message said, in an undisguised voice, “You’re too late, Dianna. You’re always going to be too late.” At the sound of the receiver slamming down, a sob choked Dianna.
Before she realized what she was doing, she reached out. Travis resp
onded. In a moment, she was standing, held tightly against him, his strong arms crushing her in a protective embrace that reminded her how sore her body felt. But she didn’t move.
“We’ll get him, Dianna,” Travis said. There was not even a hint of doubt in his voice.
She couldn’t reply. She only held on, as if Travis was her only connection with reality. With safety. With sanity.
And for that moment, she was certain he was.
TRAVIS STOOD in the kitchen doorway, watching the techs sift through the shambles for evidence.
He had regulated his breathing, so it was calm and unhurried. But inside, everything was too fast, too irregular, pressing for the fight that he wouldn’t have with Farley…tonight. It would come. He would make sure it came.
He just hoped he could maintain enough control to simply arrest the SOB without maiming him first. Almost unconsciously, he shook his right leg gently, feeling the hardness of the snub-nosed gun in his ankle holster.
“I’m done, Lieutenant.”
Travis turned at the brusque female voice. It was the investigator he had left with Dianna. “You have her fingerprints for comparison?” he asked.
The short, plump woman’s hair was pulled back in a bun so not a strand moved with her nod.
“Fine.” Travis maneuvered around to let her into the kitchen, while he headed down the hall. Dianna was by herself.
Not that Farley was likely to break in and harm her with all this activity around, but who knew what that bastard might do? He’d once owned a small business that sold security systems. His knowledge was probably why he’d gotten in here without setting off Dianna’s alarm. He obviously could enter at will. Travis would arrange for her locks to be changed but doubted it would do much good.
In any event, he had no intention of leaving her alone. Not when she’d had so many mind games played on her just today. Not after Farley had clearly intended to destroy any sense of safety she might have.
The hallway was short. It had thickly plastered walls of an irregular texture made to look aged, in keeping with the old European flavor of the house. They were painted bright white. Cheerful. Too cheerful for what had happened here that day.
Guardian of Her Heart Page 11