by Julie Miller
Cole shot to his feet and followed her to the door. “You’re not going back to that park alone.”
“Like this house is any safer.”
He braced his hand above her head, just in case she turned the knob. He had a feeling this woman could outrun him if she got a head start. She was still facing the door. Cole resisted the urge to move closer, to align that long, lithe body of hers with his, the way she’d done in the passageway.
But he didn’t resist the urge to lean in and inhale that scent she called perfume but his senses called nirvana. “There’s a gym you can use out back, if you don’t mind getting wet or waiting until the rain lets up. You can run the treadmill there.”
“I need the fresh air. It’s not just the physical outlet. It clears my head. It makes me feel like I…” She shrugged.
Cole took a guess. “Like you can stay ahead of those demons if you just keep running?”
She turned and pressed her back into the door, forcing as much distance between them as possible. The stunned look on her pale face told him he’d struck a nerve. But when he reached out to touch her, to apologize, she blinked and lifted her chin away from his hand.
“I was just going to say that it’s something I’m good at. Running makes me feel like I can do anything.”
Cole pulled both hands back but didn’t retreat. “Is there something you think you can’t do?”
That, she wouldn’t answer. “Okay. I’ll go run the treadmill for half an hour. Then I’m going to bed. I intend to be down in those catacombs bright and early tomorrow morning.”
Cole read the determination in those green eyes and matched it.
“Then so do I.”
TORI UNWRAPPED THE TOWEL from her damp hair and blotted one last time before hanging it up and reaching for her comb. With her teeth brushed and the shorts and tank top she wore for pajamas on, she figured it was safe to go back into her bedroom and parade before the camera and whoever might be watching.
She stopped in front of the mirror on her dresser to comb her hair back from her forehead and temples. Her stomach rumbled over her decision to skip dinner and run in the gym. But even though she’d worked up an appetite after her workout, memories of all she had seen and survived today made the idea of food register somewhere between unappealing and nauseating.
A murdered young man. Cole being shot. A mummified finger. Cole kissing her. A dead man’s voice. Cole holding her close. Cole.
“Ow.” The comb snagged in her hair. She freed it from the tangle and massaged the tender spot on her scalp.
She’d gotten too preoccupied with her thoughts and lost track of what she was doing. With a resolute sigh, she worked loose the tangle and started combing again.
The repetitive motion was soothing to her frayed nerves. It calmed her the way Cole’s hand rubbing the back of her neck did. It mesmerized her the way that incredible voice of his could lull her past her inhibitions. Low-pitched and even-cadenced, working its magic on her high-strung sensibilities the way a horse whisperer’s magic tames a skittish mare. Tori’s eyes drifted shut and she could almost hear that sexy voice, soothing her, exciting her. Loving her.
Her eyes popped open at the foolish thought.
“Ian Davies.” She said the bastard’s name out loud.
It was enough of a reminder to shock her system out of wanting what she didn’t need and couldn’t keep.
Tori set the comb on the dresser and headed for her bed. She paused as she went past the wardrobe. The door was held shut with nothing more than a skeleton key. What she wouldn’t give for a dead bolt or her own Glock handgun tucked beneath her pillow at night.
She settled for propping the desk chair in front of the door. The knob was too high to wedge it tightly, but it would make plenty of noise should any nighttime visitors try to come in that way. She locked the door to the hallway and pulled back the covers.
Another mint rolled out from between her pillows and bounced across the floor. “I told you to keep your candy,” she announced to anyone who might be listening.
Of course, there was no answer. She picked it up, but instead of heading for the trash can, she dropped the mint inside her bag. She’d call A.J. tomorrow and ask him to run it through the lab and test it for poison. She needed to get a hold of one of Jericho’s cigars and a sample of his prescription meds, too.
If nothing else, she was beginning to sort out how the crimes against this family were being committed. It was the who that remained the big problem. Everyone was a potential suspect.
Except for Cole.
“Damn.”
She’d almost gotten him worked out of her system.
“Ian Davies,” she said again. But it seemed impossible to summon his smiling blond image to replace Cole’s sterner, darker one.
No wonder her mother despaired over her ever finding a man to love her. She was just too neurotic.
Recalling some of her mother’s choicest comments took the edge off her fascination with Cole, and Tori crawled beneath the covers, turned off the lamp and made herself go to sleep.
TORI’S RESTLESS SLUMBER was plagued with nightmarish laughter and images of body parts floating through her subconscious mind. Her mother chased after them, wielding a scalpel.
She got up and splashed water on her face, then filled a glass to set beside her bed in order to get past that vision. After a few sips, she lay down and tried to sleep again.
First, she was cold, with the rain outside dropping the temperature several degrees and the air conditioner still running inside the house. Then she was hot, her dreams erotic images of Cole’s long, dark hair caressing her naked body as she reveled in his kiss. Then Cole himself was sliding over her naked body.
She woke herself enough to kick off the covers and hug a pillow tight in her arms, seeking a release her body wanted but her mind refused to pursue.
When the cool air chilled her long legs and bare arms again, she reached for the covers and cocooned herself beneath them once more, sinking into a deep, dreamless abyss that finally gave her peace.
Minutes, or maybe hours, later, she heard a creaking sound. She swatted at it like a fly buzzing her ear, disturbing her rest. The jangle of metal against metal had her squinting her eyes open as she tried to identify the sound and decide whether it was real or part of another nightmare.
She sat bolt upright at the smack of wood against wood.
A split second later, when the chair in front of the armoire crashed and skidded across the floor, she threw off the covers and scrambled to the side of the bed.
But a shadowy figure, blacker than the rain-drenched night around her, leaped from the armoire and charged the bed, shoving her back onto the mattress. Tori pushed up on her feet and elbows and crab-crawled to the far side of the bed. But the man was as quick as he was strong. He snatched her by the ankle and jerked her back across the mattress.
Tori raised her free leg and smashed her heel into the center of his chest. The momentum knocked him back a step, but he didn’t let go. As he stumbled, he jerked her leg in its hip socket and dragged her to the floor.
Grunting at the jolt of pain, Tori swung around, trying to knock him off his feet. But suspended by the ankle, she couldn’t get the leverage she needed.
When she connected with his shinbone, his muffled curse told her he was wearing a mask. That’s why she couldn’t see his face. Her attacker was a nameless, faceless brute in black.
He bent over her then and smacked his club-shaped fist into the side of her face. Her whole skull rang with the impact and a circle of stars swirled in the shadows. She squeezed her eyes shut to override the dizziness and block out the pain.
But her disorientation gave her attacker enough time to switch his grip to her arm. He lifted her and tossed her onto the bed. Tori landed on her stomach and tried to crawl. But he flipped her over and climbed on top of her. His hips pinned hers, rendering her kicking legs useless.
His thick, leather-gloved hand closed around her
throat. He leaned his weight into her windpipe and cut off her air.
Tori pounded his arms with her fists. She clawed at his hand. She thrashed beneath him. She snatched at his mask. But he was too tall. He tipped back his head and he was beyond her reach.
No! Her throat gurgled as she struggled to make a sound. Her lungs burned as they used up the last of their oxygen.
Tori struck out for anything she could reach. She wouldn’t die. She was too tough to die!
She grabbed a pillow, shoved it at his face. He batted it aside.
Her vision was fading, her world creeping toward black. The perpetual gloom of the Meade estate seemed to be rushing in, consuming every part of her. No!
She reached out, knocked the lamp from the bedside table. She barely heard the crash through the stuffing that filled her ears. Her lips sputtered. Her eyes closed.
She closed her fingers around a solid cylinder of glass.
Summoning the reserves of strength her training had inspired, Tori swung her arm and smashed the glass into the side of his neck.
Her attacker gave an unearthly screech that rattled the bed and echoed in her brain. He grabbed at the spot with his free hand.
Water ran down her arm along with something warmer.
His death grip loosened. Her chest heaved as it sucked in its first gasp of air. She beat against his wrist and his arm buckled.
She was free!
Free enough. She twisted her hips, rocking straight up between his legs. This time he rolled onto his side, writhing in pain and damning her with every foul name in the book.
Tori pushed his legs off her and tumbled off the side of the bed. Scrambling on her hands and knees she tried to put distance between her and her attacker until she could catch her breath, until she could see.
She was aware of other sounds now. Doors opening and closing. Footsteps running up the stairs. Voices.
“Help,” she croaked, her throat raw with pain. She coughed and tried again, managing a whisper. “Help me.”
But as oxygen flowed through her body once more, she gathered strength. Help wouldn’t come in time. Her attacker was crawling off the side of the bed, tripping over the chair, kicking it aside, holding his neck and crotch and climbing back into the armoire.
Tori pushed to her feet and dashed after him.
“Tori!”
She ignored Cole’s voice and the pounding on her door and jumped up into the armoire. She shoved her clothes aside and bolted into the dark corridor, chasing the sound of fading footsteps.
“Dammit, Victoria, you open this door or I’ll knock it down!”
Tori stopped short, suddenly swallowed up by the darkness surrounding her, and the dizziness returned. She’d been running on instinct, but intellect was trying to reassert its control. Dust and grit caught beneath her curling toes. She thrust out her hands to find either wall and orient herself.
Her attacker had vanished into the bowels of the hidden corridors and she had no way of knowing whether he was thirty feet or three feet in front of her. She was unarmed, barely dressed, and a little worse for wear following that struggle.
“Go ahead, open it.”
“If you’re in there, stand back from the door.”
She would survive the night and resume her search in the morning. It sounded like a plan.
Tori felt her way around and hurried back toward the wardrobe. “No!” she shouted, raw pain tearing at the lining of her throat. “I’m coming.”
She hit the edge of the armoire, jumped down and ran for the door. “I’m coming.”
She flipped the lock, and the doorknob turned in her hand. She jumped back a step as the door swung open and Cole swept in. He scooped her up off the floor with one arm around her waist and clutched her tight to his body. His free hand carried a weapon, pointed past her toward the bed.
The light from the hallway flooded in, illuminating the evidence of her fight. Cole angled her away from the center of the room and backed toward the door, carrying her away from the threat of danger. “What the hell happened in here?”
For a few needy moments she wound her arms around his neck and just held on, letting his strength sustain her.
“Tori?” He slid her feet to the floor and rubbed his hand in circles across her back. She heard an uncustomary catch in his voice. “You’d better start talking to me.”
Other voices talked instead.
“Is she hurt?”
“How’d he get in?”
“I can’t believe this happened in my house.”
“Can we get a light in here?”
“I’ll go.”
Tori didn’t know which alarmed her more—the notion that she was clinging to Cole’s bare chest and shoulders, or the realization that she was surrounded by a circle of concerned, frightened faces—none of whom she felt comfortable turning her back on.
Latching on to modesty and common sense a little too late, she let go of Cole and stepped away to face those potential enemies. “A man broke in—” she pointed “—through the wardrobe. I fought him off. He tried to kill me.”
“He?” Cole questioned.
Tugging the hem of her shirt down past the waistline of her shorts and hugging her arms to give herself at least the semblance of protection, she couldn’t help letting her gaze slide to each man in the room. She saw nothing so obvious as anyone wearing a mask or even dressing in black. They’d all been awakened from their sleep and wore robes and pajamas and slippers.
Except for Aaron. She caught her breath when he appeared in the doorway, carrying a large flashlight and his gun. He still wore his black uniform with the white shirt, though the tie was missing and his clothes were wrinkled. Could he have stashed a black stocking mask and gloves somewhere? She tried to remember what else the man had been wearing. But she hadn’t been able to grab hold of anything loose like a jacket. Still, she kept staring.
“Can you tell us anything about him? Did he say anything? What did he look like?”
Cole was pressing her for answers, thinking the way a good cop or chief of security would. The way she should be thinking.
“He wore black.”
Aaron swung his light around and shone it in her face, as if he’d taken her statement as an accusation. Tori squinted and turned her face away from the high beam.
Cole swore. “Dammit, Tori, you’re hurt.”
Unable to see his intention, she jumped when his fingers touched her throat. Goose bumps radiated out across her skin from the brush of warm heat.
“He tried to strangle you, didn’t he. I can see the marks.”
Then his fingers were in her hair, gently lifting it aside to frame what must be a bruise or swelling forming on her cheek.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
His fingers stroked behind her ear, giving her neck a gentle massage. His touch was remarkably gentle, considering the absolute fury darkening his eyes.
“I’m okay.” She wondered if her reassurance could reach him through the layers of guilt he wore like an invisible cloak. She summoned a weak smile. “I think I did more damage to him.”
His gaze riveted on that smile before he released her.
“What’s that on your hand?” Chad stood across the circle from her, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his cashmere robe.
Cole seized her wrist and lifted it into Aaron’s light. “It’s blood.”
Odd. Her head ached and her throat burned, but she couldn’t feel any pain in her hand. Pulling away, she flexed her fingers and turned her hand from side to side.
“There’s blood on the bed, too.” Paulie had moved on into the room to inspect the damage. The snub-nosed revolver he carried was incongruous with the paisley robe he wore over his silk pajamas.
Tori shook her head. “It’s not mine.”
“Should I alert the guards and have them search the grounds?” Aaron asked, his accent thick with urgency.
Cole nodded. “Do it.”
“Wait.” To
ri caught Aaron at the door.
If she hadn’t been cut, then… She grasped his chin and turned it to the side, inspecting the unblemished surface of his beard-roughened skin and receding hairline.
Tori released him and quickly circled the room, openly checking the right side of everyone’s face and neck. Chad. Paulie. Jericho. She even brushed aside Lana’s hair and checked her for cuts, though Tori knew her attacker had been a man. His size and weight and voice had been a man’s. And when she’d racked him between the legs, the goods had been there.
She nodded to Cole to dismiss Aaron.
“You can go,” he ordered. Aaron passed the flashlight over to Cole and disappeared. “What is it?” he asked her.
She even took a glimpse at Cole’s face. “The blood. It has to be his.”
Comprehension dawned. “None of us has injuries.”
Tori crossed her arms in front of her and shivered at a very discomforting thought. Facing down an enemy she recognized was one thing. But…
Jericho, his face ashy, his eyes distant, leaned heavily on Lana’s arm. “It was Daniel, wasn’t it. He came back to hurt you because I haven’t done what he asked.”
“No, it wasn’t Daniel!” She paused and took a deep breath to drain the harshness from her tone. “I’m sorry.” She tried to make him understand. “This guy was solid and real and he had a nasty right hook.”
She paused to let the suspicion she felt register with everyone in the room.
“There’s someone else in this house. And it’s no ghost.”
Chapter Eleven
The Meades weren’t exactly the sort of people who called the cops when there was a crime committed on their property. But Cole had acted like true KCPD, questioning everyone before sending them back to bed, and combing Tori’s room from top to bottom, inside and out, looking for anything he could use to piece together clues to the attack.
Paulie had brought her an ice pack for the swelling on her cheek and she’d curled up in her overstuffed chair to watch Cole work. She decided she had a fine appreciation for his investigative style, though she couldn’t honestly say whether it was his quick, precise, miss-no-detail thoroughness—or his attire.