by C. J. Miller
A technicality. “I’m sorry, Reilly. I can’t tell you anything more than I have.” Her heart nearly shattered to speak the words. They drew a thick and heavy line between them, the distance lengthening with every utterance. She wanted to draw him closer and she wanted to keep him safe, a complete contradiction.
“Then I’m sorry, too. Because if you stopped running from everyone for a minute, you might find that you could actually be happy.”
Chapter 7
Despite the late night, Reilly made the trip to Denver early the next morning and arrived midafternoon. He flashed his badge at the uniformed police officer who stood guard at the entrance of the DPD. Inside the squad room, chaos ruled. Volunteers and police officers working the phones sat at long tables, telephone and computer cords spilling to the floor. Information from each call was being recorded into a central computer system and analysts were reviewing the data and looking for commonalities that might lead to the Vagabond Killer’s capture.
Every desk in the squad room was occupied, some with more than a few officers clustered around, reviewing data and discussing the case. The conference rooms were filled with men and women in suits, whiteboards displaying names and faces of victims. The team from the PR department was standing in the back of one of the conference rooms, taking notes and conferring among themselves.
“We’re doing our best to keep the media out of the thick of this,” Vanessa said over her shoulder to Reilly, weaving through the crowd toward the lieutenant’s office.
“How’s that working out?” Reilly said, knowing the media was still finding ways to get information. On the eight-hour drive from Ashland to Denver, nearly every station on the radio had mentioned the case.
Vanessa smirked. “Over a thousand people are working on this case in some capacity. How easy do you think it is to plug the leaks?” She reached the lieutenant’s office and went inside, closing the door behind her, blocking some of the noise.
“I know how it works. People love to talk,” he said. In some cases, the more people talked the better. But in this instance, as protective as he felt toward Carey, he wished the case hadn’t hit the front page.
“How’s the witness?” Vanessa asked, taking a seat behind the lieutenant’s desk.
“She’s hanging in,” Reilly said. At least Carey hadn’t bolted. Yet. She understood the severity of the case and her role. But she was also worried about the attention she was drawing, both from the Vagabond Killer and the man she was running from. Reilly curled and released his fists. Every time he thought of that man, quiet rage hummed inside him.
“What’s on your agenda for today?” Vanessa asked.
Get the job done as quickly as possible so he could return to the ranch. “I’m going to make sure I’m seen around town. If anyone’s connected me to the case from that picture, they won’t see Carey with me and it might send them down a different path to find her.” And if the man she feared was watching, he’d see that Reilly didn’t give in to threats. Reilly wasn’t bringing Carey to Denver until he was ready, and even then, no one was getting close enough to hurt her.
Vanessa nodded. “Not a bad idea. My office has received a few calls about protection assigned to the witness and some have asked us to confirm you’re the detective overseeing her security.”
“I assume they get a broad ‘no comment’ in response?” Reilly asked.
Vanessa smiled at him and folded her hands on the desk. “Exactly. You know how it works. We’re going to get this guy. We have too many people looking. Someone is going to find something.”
“The sooner the better.” If they had the Vagabond Killer in custody and the lineup out of the way, he and Carey could focus on other problems. Like dealing with her past. Carey would confide in him eventually and once Reilly knew the identity of man she was afraid of, he’d make sure he never harmed her again. By the time she needed to testify, Carey would have no fear of anyone hurting her and could think about her future. He and Carey could move on with their lives.
Reilly’s thoughts drew to a halt. When he pictured him and Carey moving on, he didn’t picture them moving on separately. The image of them together, having dinner, watching television curled on his couch, spilled into his mind, followed quickly by the image of kissing her.
Kissing her until she was breathless and then taking her to his bedroom and making pulse-hammeringly slow love to her.
He jerked his mind out of the fantasy. He was in charge of her protection and he couldn’t blur the lines between personal feelings and duty. This case was too critical to allow a personal mistake to ruin it. Any impropriety on his part could be shaded to appear as though he’d done something wrong—coached Carey or coerced her to lie. What happened to his former partner wouldn’t happen to him and this case.
“We’re lucky no one has figured out who she is yet. I couldn’t even find information about her. Granted, my investigative resources are a little tight right now.” Vanessa gestured to the busyness of the squad room.
Reilly focused on Vanessa’s words. She was talking about Carey. Reilly cleared his throat. “I get the sense she lives a pretty solitary life.” Was forced to live a solitary life.
Vanessa lifted her brow. “But no one has come forward claiming to know her. That almost never happens.”
Reilly shrugged. “The picture wasn’t crystal clear. And she’s new to the area.”
Vanessa blew out her breath. “We ran the prints from the pepper spray and came up with nothing. You’ve been spending time with her. Any reason to believe once we figure out who she is, it’ll wreck the case?”
Reilly shook his head. If anything, spending time with Carey had shown her to be strong, capable and intelligent. He could have guessed running her prints would come back empty. She wasn’t a criminal. “No drugs. No alcohol. No behavior that sends up red flags.” Plenty of yellow flags, though, in her secretiveness. But whatever and whoever she was running from—he guessed it wouldn’t discredit her or hurt their case.
“Keep me in the loop. Let me know if you find anything,” Vanessa said. “I want to know before the media does.”
Reilly stood. “I will. You do the same.”
Leaving the lieutenant’s office and entering the pandemonium, he stopped to talk to a few buddies, ignoring the newspapers on their desks with Carey’s picture, and then left the police station. He wanted the media waiting outside to snap his picture and they willingly obliged him.
“Detective, is it true that the witness for the case is in rehab?” one of the reporters shouted at him.
He ignored the question. He wasn’t permitted to respond. But they didn’t give up. They wanted Carey’s identity and information.
“Is it true the police believe the killer is a member of a satanic cult?” another asked.
“Is the witness enrolled in the witness protection program?”
Ludicrous. Every last question. But it didn’t stop the worry from mounting. When Reilly brought Carey in for a lineup, he’d be on high alert.
He was tired from the long drive, tired of listening to questions slandering Carey. He went to a nearby diner to refuel, taking a seat at the counter and ordering a turkey club. The diner was busy at this hour and Reilly ate slowly. The more people who saw him without Carey the better.
Carey. Maybe it was better for her not to be seen with him, but he preferred when she was close. His family would take care of her, but it would make him feel better when he was back at the ranch where he could see her, talk to her, touch her.
He’d crossed the line with her several times and instead of sating his need, it had increased it exponentially. It was harder and harder to see her only as the witness in this case, a woman who needed his help. The passion in her kiss lingered in his mind. When she’d been in his lap, he’d seen a side of her that made his blood run hot.
Blocking those thoughts, Reilly finished his meal and paid, leaving a generous tip. After a few more stops, eyes and ears open, Reilly could return to t
he ranch. He could have stayed overnight at his place, but he was eager to see Carey. His family would have called if anything had happened, but he was on edge.
And, despite his best efforts to feel nothing and build boundaries, he’d missed her.
By the time he was ready to leave Denver, Reilly had overheard more conversations about the Vagabond Killer, the reward being offered and the witness in the last few hours than he had in the last few weeks.
Not wanting to listen to more about the case, Reilly decided against tuning in to a news station on his eight-hour drive to Montana. Instead he found a local station playing holiday songs. It was easy to hum along with the familiar melodies. And though he tried to avoid it, the songs about family and having someone at Christmas flipped Carey into his mind. She was an easy thought to settle on.
When he thought of his family, he saw her with them. When he thought of cuddling by the fire, she was in his arms. It might not be appropriate, but eight hours alone on the road gave him too much time to think.
Denying, avoiding and suppressing his feelings for Carey wasn’t working. He needed to tell her how he felt, at least, let her know that after this case was over, he wanted to see her again. Spend time with her. Get to know her.
The highway was quiet this time of night. He took a southern route out of the city, checking his rearview mirror for signs he was being followed. Taking note of a few cars behind him, he kept his pace steady. Most cars changed lanes and zipped ahead of him and some turned off the highway. One car remained on his tail, a dark blue sedan with tinted windows.
Reilly changed lanes, moving to the far right and decreasing his speed. The sedan did the same.
Irritation mixed with adrenaline. Should he attempt to pull the car over and confront the driver? If it was the man chasing Carey, he had more than a few words to say to him.
The time of night and the risk had him thinking twice. He’d have to lose the sedan. If the driver believed Reilly would lead him to Carey, hopefully his misleading direction out of the city would have the man confused about Carey’s whereabouts.
Reilly didn’t let on he was aware he was being followed. He drove for two miles until he saw signs for a shopping district. He took the exit and proceeded toward the center of the shopping area. The sedan followed. Reilly would lose him in the chaos and traffic of last-minute Christmas shoppers.
Reilly caught a lucky break when a mass transit bus pulled between him and the sedan. He snickered at the honking horn of the frustrated sedan driver. Out of his line of sight, Reilly sped through a yellow light and made a right turn off the main road onto a side street. It took him thirty minutes to weave his way in the correct direction toward Montana.
It was time well spent. This time, he wasn’t followed.
Keeping his eyes and ears open, Reilly stopped once for gas and food, and neared Ashland around 11:00 p.m. He called his father to alert him he was almost home—he didn’t want the same kind of welcome Carey had given Brady.
An hour later Reilly pulled into the driveway, hungry, tired and aching to see Carey. He told himself for the hundredth time he couldn’t touch her—not now, not until this was over. He’d find a way to stop himself. He was disciplined. He could control himself. He’d talk with her and explain about Lucas, his former partner, and the mistakes he’d made. Mistakes he didn’t want repeated.
Reilly opened the front door and knocked the snow off his boots on the mat. Disabling the alarm, he closed the door and set it again. When he turned, Carey was in the hallway, staring at him with wide eyes. The sight of her socked him in the gut with lust. He forgot how to breathe, his every sense trained on her.
The red hair was gone, a dark mahogany color in its place. She wore a long robe, her calves bare, and he wondered what she had on beneath it. Less than a minute into the house and he was ready to strip her clothes off and make love to her in the hallway. So much for control and discipline, reasoning and rationalizations. Every word he’d planned to say to her flew out of his mind.
As different as she looked, he was forced to see a new side of her. Carey, the woman, not Carey, the runaway and witness. And when he didn’t have that visual reminder that she was a woman in trouble, his thoughts wandered into dangerous territory.
“Hey, you,” Carey said. “I waited up.” Her hands were jammed into the pockets of the robe. Was she cold? He’d love to warm her against his body.
He struggled to control the reaction of his lower half and his thoughts. Stick to the case. The facts. Ignore how she looked. “I don’t have much to tell you about the case. Vanessa’s working on a few things and she thinks they’ll catch the killer soon.”
She stepped closer. “I’m glad you’re home safe. I was worried.”
He’d been worried about her, too, but admitting it would close the distance and he needed every inch in place to keep from touching her. “The media is making a circus of the Vagabond Killer trial. They’ve got the picture of you at the police station and the sketch of the killer splashed everywhere.”
Carey went rigid and the corners of her mouth turned down. She took another step closer. She was near enough he could reach out and touch her. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right. He would make this work out for her.
“Are you trying to make me change my mind about staying involved in the case?” she asked.
Reilly blew out his breath. He didn’t know what he was doing. She was making it hard to think. “No. Yes. Maybe. Until I was there for myself, I didn’t realize how insane it had gotten.”
Carey squared her shoulders. “I’ve already made up my mind. I’m going to do this. Your mom prepped me today. I look different and I feel different. I can do this.”
Reilly’s eyes swept over her face and across her hair. The dark color softened her. It was shorter. And looked great. His defenses were lying in shambles. “You look different.”
“Your mom helped me. Brady and Harris liked it.”
Of course they did. She looked beautiful. “I never said I didn’t.”
“I thought about you today.” Her tone left no question to the manner in which she was referring.
They could not tread here. What was it he had planned to say? Why was it so hot in here? “Carey, I—”
She pressed her finger across his lips. “Don’t. Please don’t feed me that line about how I’m the witness and you’re the detective. We’ve crossed the line a dozen times and I’ve crossed it twenty times that often in my imagination.”
He was barely holding on to his self-control. Lust enveloped him and he ached to reach out and touch her. “We can’t. This isn’t the time.”
Carey shook her head. “You’re wrong. Now is the only time we have.”
His visions of their future burst in his head. She only wanted something for now. Or maybe the present was all she had to give.
But now was tempting. Now was nearly irresistible.
Getting involved with her could blow the case. Result in catastrophe. Destroy his reputation. He could only think to take her outside, where the cold would dull his raging libido. Where he wouldn’t be so tempted.
* * *
Reilly looked tired, dark circles rimming his eyes. A day’s worth of facial hair covered his jaw. He took off his gloves, scrubbed a hand across his face and gave her a long, penetrating look. “Get dressed.”
“What?” Carey shook her head. Get dressed? “Why? Are we going somewhere?”
“Get dressed and meet me at the back door in five minutes. I want to show you something.”
Unsure where he wanted to go and why, Carey scrambled upstairs to pull on her jeans and a warm sweater. Her mind was a fog of questions, but she blotted them out. She’d learned to take the moments when she was given them.
She grabbed her borrowed boots and crept downstairs. Reilly was waiting in the kitchen, holding a jacket and scarf for her. He helped her into the jacket and wrapped the scarf around her neck, lifting her hair over it.
Reilly zipped his jacket. In a hushed tone, he nodded toward the pockets. “Gloves inside.”
She pulled free the thick gloves and slid them onto her fingers. He disabled the alarm and opened the door, taking her hand in his. “Watch your step. It’s icy.”
It was eerily quiet outside, the full moon and the soft glow of the security lights surrounding the Truman house providing light for her to see ahead of them.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You’ll see.”
They walked in the opposite direction of the barn, threading their way through a copse of pine trees. She was breathing heavily, the cold air biting into her lungs, her eyes adjusting to the dark. The quiet was pervasive, except for the sound of boots crunching through snow.
The pine trees ended abruptly, giving way to a sloped snow-covered field, rocks peaking beneath the mounds of white.
“This is beautiful,” Carey said as they walked across the field, their footprints marring the perfectly crisp blanket of snow.
“Close your eyes,” Reilly said, taking her elbows in his hands.
She did as he asked and he guided her another twenty steps. She slipped once, but Reilly’s hand came to her waist, steadying her. Her body temperature elevated and razor sharp desire pierced her.
He stopped and turned her ninety degrees to the left. He stood behind her, his breath hot on her ear. “Open them.”
She opened her eyes and sucked in her breath. The land dropped off sharply three feet in front of them. From this location on the mountain, she could see into the deep valley below, covered in green trees trimmed in white. Mountain ridges rose up on the other side, spearing into the clouds above.
“Brady and I found this place when we were younger.”
Carey peered over her shoulder at him. He wasn’t looking at the magnificence spread for miles in every direction. He was looking at her, his eyes burning with heat, his cheeks flushed with cold. Maybe his resistance was only marginally better than hers. She held his gaze for a long, loaded moment. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”