It hadn’t happened. And right then he knew that if he married Katie he might be content, but he wouldn’t be happy.
Would contentment be enough? The thought scraped over his mind like sandpaper. The answer scraped even harder: No. It wasn’t enough.
Damn. His fiancée was missing and all he could do was stand there thinking about how he couldn’t marry her.
Les moved to the sofa, where she promptly collapsed. Oh, God, she was a terrible, terrible person. Her best friend was missing and, five minutes ago, all she could think about was kissing Katie’s fiancé. What kind of person did that? Les hugged herself against the building pain. Maybe a very panicked person, she told herself, hoping to relieve some of her guilt.
Joe was right. They hadn’t done anything. Not on purpose, anyway. Seeing each other naked had been an accident. And being attracted to him was an accident as well. A huge fucking calamity, but an accident no less.
She heard Joe talking on the phone to the police. She toyed with the idea of leaving and going to stay at her parents’ house. But what if Katie called? What if she needed her?
Closing her eyes, Les tried to think of the reasons Katie wasn’t calling, reasons that meant she was okay. She’d had car trouble. She’d run into someone from high school and lost track of time. But neither of those reasons held water. Everything felt so…so fuckedup. And if Katie were here and heard Les say the f-word, she’d tell Les to save the f-word for only the f-word–deserving moments. In Katie’s weird way of thinking, cussing wasn’t a bad thing if the situation really warranted it. Les just prayed that this whole mess—Katie being missing, Les being attracted to Katie’s fiancé—weren’t going to be f-word worthy.
Katie sat on the floor beside the toilet and stared at Carl holding out one of Tabitha’s cups, which he’d pulled from one of the boxes. The cup was filled with water. Sure, she’d mentioned she would kill for a drink of water but…
“I am not drinking that.”
“It’s clean, Red.”
“Clean? It came out of a toilet.”
“The back of a toilet. The sink isn’t working.”
“Back, front, it doesn’t matter. A toilet is a toilet.”
“Maybe a drink of water will help settle your stomach.”
“I don’t drink from toilets. I don’t even like throwing up in toilets that aren’t my own.”
“Seriously, I’ve heard that the water from the back of the toilet is just like tap water. Look, I’ll drink it.” He started to take a sip.
She made a face. “At least now I won’t want to kiss you anymore.” Oh, God, had she said that aloud?
His widened eyes told her that yes…yes, she’d said that aloud.
“Fudge!” She gave her word choice a quick consideration and revised it. “Fuck!”
“Now it’s f-word worthy, huh?” he asked.
She dropped her head between her knees and wished she could curl up into a ball and just die. Okay, considering her current situation, that she’d seen someone die, maybe she should be careful what she wished for.
“Are you sick with a bug or something?”
She didn’t raise her head. “No.” She spoke between her knees. “I told you earlier. It’s just a nervous stomach.”
“Wedding nerves?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
He chuckled and she somehow knew he was thinking about her flushing her ring. Something she tried not to think about.
But as soon as she got out of here, she knew she’d have to think about it. Even if she threw up constantly. Like it or not, she couldn’t marry Joe until…until she knew it was the right thing to do.
And for the right reasons.
Chapter Thirteen
Where the hell was his son? Buck had gone from fretting to pacing in a little over three hours, and the damn poodle paced with him. A phone call to his elder son, Ben, had made Buck worry even more. Carl had never shown up at their place.
Buck gave his watch another glance. After midnight. That was it. He couldn’t wait anymore. He had to stop thinking like a father and start thinking like a cop.
He went to the cabinet and found the yellow pages and looked under J. Buck remembered Carl saying he was going to talk to a lady about a case. That lady could be Tabitha Jones. And if Ms. Jones was listed, she was going to get a visit. Buck didn’t care what time it was, not when his gut told him his son was ass-deep in trouble.
Les watched Joe pace across the living room. “That’s it. I’m tired of doing nothing!”
Les had never agreed with anyone more. Doing nothing sucked. A crazy thought shot through her mind. She’d been doing nothing with her life for the last eighteen months. A year ago, she’d looked at her relocation to Boston as moving on, but now she saw it for what it had been: running away. And the only thing that sucked more than doing nothing, was running away.
Joe headed back into the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m calling that wedding planner again. And if she doesn’t answer, then I’m going over there. I think Katie has her card in the book. It has her address on it.”
Les jumped from the sofa. “I’m going with you.”
Red had finally fallen asleep. Carl lay there, his body throbbing with awareness—he was aware of how she smelled, aware of the soft strands of her hair that clung to his five o’clock shadow. Aware that he hadn’t been this close to a woman in over a year. Aware that he, wearing a fuzzy pink scarf with glitter, was sporting a woody about the size of a two-by-four.
And he was also all too aware that a killer might try to come back and finish what he’d started earlier. No way in hell would Carl fall asleep and let the asshole get the jump on them.
The canine whimper sounded at the door again. Careful not to wake Red, Carl got off the cot and reached for the bag with the cakes.
He reached in, pulled off a little piece and, kneeling, he shoved the bit under the door. His mind went to his own prissy mongrel at home without his dinner, and he wondered how pissed Precious was right now.
The dog outside the door licked Carl’s fingers clean.
“Now, go for somewhere warm to sleep,” he whispered to the mutt. Standing up, he studied Red. Even wearing a ski jacket and covered with a thin sheet, that feminine form got his blood pumping.
“Thought you were going to arrest me if I gave him some cake,” she said, her voice sleepy warm and so damn sexy it was painful. His gaze shot to her face; her eyelids were only half-opened.
“It was just to shut him up.”
“And not because you might have a heart,” she said, and rolled back onto her side. The sheet rolled with her and slipped to the other side. “You don’t fool me, Carl Hades,” she said.
He stared at her sweet butt encased in those light blue jeans. Closing his eyes, he sought the willpower to crawl back in that bed and not attempt to seduce her.
At least now I won’t be tempted to kiss you. He heard her words from earlier, the first sign that the attraction hadn’t been one-sided.
But for every reason his cock told him to go for it, his brain dumped out a whole mess of reasons why he’d regret it. And so would she. First, she belonged to another man—in theory, anyway. Carl didn’t know what to make of the whole I-flushed-my-engagement-ring-down-the-toilet story, but it didn’t bode well for a June wedding. Still, he had a thing about tapping someone else’s well.
Second, there was something about Katie Ray herself. Something instinctively good. Something like the kind of women Carl had avoided for a long time, like a sharp poke in the eye.
He had thought that by staying away from Red’s kind he could keep himself clear of emotional ties. Little had he known that even flawed women could needle their way into his heart.
Amy sure as hell had.
But then, Amy’s flaw had ended up being the thing that attracted him to her. She needed rescuing. Needed saving from herself and her addiction to drugs. Without a doubt, he’d kno
wn that if Amy didn’t get herself straightened out, she would die. So Carl had taken her in, protected her, and fallen so deeply in love with her that she’d blindsided him. Never in a million years had he expected to come home that day, six months after she’d been clean, to find her sitting on his sofa with her bags packed.
One look into her eyes, and he’d seen she was using again. He’d still tried to keep her from leaving. Biting his pride back, he’d admitted he loved her and offered to make it official, marry her, have a couple of kids. He’d expected his proposal to win her over; instead she’d thrown it back in his face. Stop trying to save me, Carl. I’m not your mother.
No, Amy hadn’t been anything like his mother, who’d spent her entire life taking care of others. But Red was.
She pulled the sheet around herself, telling Carl she was cold. Shaking off the past, he climbed back in bed with her, pulled the sheet around both of them, and shared his body warmth. But that heat was all he was sharing. Nobody was breaking his heart again.
Then Red rolled over. At first he thought she was awake, but when she pillowed her head on the edge of his shoulder, he knew better. If he pressed his lips to hers right now, if he slipped his hand up under that jacket and touched those sweet breasts, slipped his hand inside those jeans and showed her how well he knew his way around the female body, he suspected she might give in. But he wouldn’t do that. Plain and simple, he didn’t seduce women who didn’t want to be seduced.
That was why Red’s little statement about him using women was a hard one to swallow. When he was playing the field—before Amy—he’d never played games. Or better said, he’d made sure the women knew the rules to the game he was playing. Before he and the lady ever got to first base, he’d made his position clear: he wasn’t looking for forever. If there was even the least bit of hesitation, Carl had walked away. He didn’t even care how close they were to first base, or how much Mr. Wiggly had wanted to stay and hit a home run. Carl had never been one much on rules, but that one he followed.
Red snuggled closer. Carl couldn’t stop his body from enjoying this. Not that there was a lot to enjoy. The ski jacket kept him from feeling the good parts. Ahh, but he’d felt her soft, full breasts earlier, and he knew they were there. C-cups, he’d bet. The kind that filled a man’s hands. With a set like that, a woman didn’t need a pretty face.
She had one, though. He glanced at Red’s face. He counted five freckles across her nose. A few more on her cheeks. Odds were she hated her freckles, too.
He tilted his head to the side to see her neck. While the scarf she wore mostly covered it, and he didn’t see freckles there, he knew she probably had those little brown speckles spread all over her sweet body.
What he wouldn’t give to spend a lazy Sunday morning counting them, kissing them, making her realize how precious those little marks were to a man who’d had a hard-on for redheads since third grade.
The image of making love to her played like a film in his head, and because in his imagination no one walked away hurt, and because being hard as granite helped him stay awake, he pulled the pink scarf up over his ears, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the show playing on the back of his lids.
At the service station, Tabitha’s killer filled the gas can and put it in his trunk. All he had to do was set the house on fire and leave.
As he drove down the back roads, he realized how close he was to his other brides. He’d left flowers yesterday. Beautiful carnations, pink and white. But maybe tomorrow he’d go back to see them. Maybe tomorrow he’d add Katie to his collection.
The laughing started in his head again. He rocked as he drove. Back and forth. Back. Forth.
Carl wasn’t sure how long he’d lain there, Red’s head on his shoulder, her hand curled on his stomach, but the show playing in his head had just moved from R-rated to XXX when something pulled him out of the fantasy. He listened. A low snarl, a growl: the cake-loving Baby by the door wasn’t happy.
Sitting up, Carl held his breath. Baby’s growl grew deeper. A serious kind of a growl. He shook Red by the shoulder.
“Wake up. You need to go to the bathroom.”
She raised her head and blinked. “No, I don’t.”
The dog’s growl grew more intense. “Yes, you do, Red. Come on. Don’t argue. Move it!” He heard footsteps. “Now, damn it!”
Her eyes widened with alertness and her frightened gaze shot to the door. She threw off the sheet. “This time you’re coming with me.”
The footsteps grew closer. The dog yelped as if someone had kicked it. Carl grabbed Red by the arm and pulled her up and shoved her into the bathroom. He didn’t have time to argue. “Lock the door. Now!”
As soon as he heard the bathroom door click shut, Carl heard some splattering noises in the hall, as if something was being poured. Then the smell of gasoline penetrated his senses. Instantly, he knew the plan. Jeezus, of all the ways he didn’t want to go. This one came second only to being skinned alive.
“Damn it!” Carl yelled at the door. “Listen to me, you yellow-bellied coward, open the fucking door and fight me like a man.”
“Don’t have to,” the voice came back.
Carl aimed his gun at the door and was very close to firing—even though he knew the bullet wouldn’t penetrate the metal. His thoughts zipped to Red. About to get married and start the rest of her life. She deserved that. Damn, he wanted to be her hero.
The smell of gas grew thicker. A sense of doom filled his gut: they were trapped, and if the house went up in flames…
But damn him if he would give up. Not a quitter, he yanked off his coat and stuffed it under the door, hoping to stop any of the gas from seeping inside. “Just unlock the door,” he said. “Give us a chance.” And I promise, when I shoot you, I’ll make sure it hurts!
Carl could swear he heard another voice. Then more footsteps. Then running. “Talk to me!” No one answered.
The dog barked again. Then he heard someone call his name. “Carl?”
Carl recognized the voice instantly; relief came in a flood. “In here, Dad.”
Shots exploded. Carl’s gut turned inside out. He slammed his hand on the door. “Dad?!”
Katie bumped up against him. When the hell had she gotten out of the bathroom? His patience snapped. “Get back in there!” He shoved her toward the bathroom door. Of course, she didn’t go. Women never listened.
“Who is it?” Panic hung in her voice. “What’s that smell?”
“Son?” His father’s voice again, and Carl breathed.
“There’s gas everywhere, Dad. Be careful!”
The creak of the bar being removed from the door filled the silence. Carl held tight to his gun, and he pushed Red behind him.
The door pushed open; his dad appeared. Carl spotted the concern firing his dad’s eyes. Then, just as quick, a look of relief filled his expression. “You gonna shoot me?” Humor was his dad’s way of dealing with stress, or emotional issues.
Carl lowered his gun. “No, but I might kiss you.” And Carl must have inherited a bit of his dad’s coping methods.
“Now ain’t that sweet.” He gave Red a nod. “Buck Hades, ma’am.”
Carl frowned. “How about we skip introductions.” He gave Red’s hand a squeeze and released it. “Ready?”
He looked back at his father, and they moved into the hall, guns held out, heads shifting left, then right. The light from the room they’d just left bounced off the wall and reflected in both directions.
“Which way did he go?” Carl asked.
His dad pointed toward the back of the house.
Carl nodded. “Red, go with my dad.”
“Why don’t you see to her?” his dad said, again serious. “I’ll go after—”
“No.” He looked over his shoulder at his dad, trying to communicate with his eyes that this wasn’t negotiable. “Get her out of here,” Carl said, and saw the panic on Red’s face. He felt the overwhelming need to assure her. “And watch her.” He grinned an
d touched his face. “She scratches like a girl.”
“No. There’s safety in groups.” Katie grabbed Carl’s arm, her tight hold sinking into the firm muscle of his forearm. “You might get hurt.”
“Careful.” Carl winked. “You’ll make me believe you care.”
She frowned. “Please, stay with us.”
He saw concern brighten her eyes. “I’ll be fine. Go.”
“My son can take care of himself,” his dad said, and reached out and took Red by the arm.
The older Hades, an aged version of Antonio Banderas, graying at his temples, gave her a gentle tug. Katie let go of Carl, but she didn’t want to. What if the idiot who poured gas everywhere lit a match and Carl couldn’t get out. What if Carl got shot like Tabitha? Katie’s insides started shaking again as she watched him move down the dark hall, going deeper into the prison that was now doused with gas.
As she watched him disappear, fear curled inside her chest. “Why do men always do this?” she seethed.
Mr. Hades walked in the opposite direction, down the hall, into the darkness, and left her little choice but to follow. Well, she wasn’t stupid. She didn’t want to be alone.
“Do what?” Mr. Hades asked.
“Always think you know what’s right,” she snapped.
“That one’s easy, ma’am,” he said. “Because we’re the inferior sex.”
“You mean superior?” she asked. The darkness grew thicker, but she could still make him out.
“No, ma’am. Men may have been the first created, but it only makes sense that the Almighty did a better job the second go-round. We’re the inferior sex, which explains why we always think we’re right.”
If fear hadn’t run off with her sense of humor, she might have laughed. But the smell of gas flavored the air, and the man who’d taken care of her for the last twelve hours, the man who’d made her feel safe, who had cuddled with her, thrown up with her, was still back there.
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