by Нора Робертс
“They will be. Word of honor.”
“Good enough. When you’re on the road, I want your car windows up and your doors locked. I want you to carry your phone, and I want the name of every new client you take on. Every one of them. If you get another call for a search, I want you to contact me or my office. I want to know where you’re going and how to verify it.”
“She won’t be staying here,” Simon told him. “She’s moving to my place. Today. She’ll pack up what she needs before you leave.”
“I can’t just—”
“That’s a good idea.” McMahon ignored Fiona, nodded at Simon. “It changes the pattern. I don’t want her there alone, either.”
“She won’t be.”
“Excuse me?” Fiona held up both hands. “I’m not going to be difficult, and I’m not arguing about the need for precautions, but I can’t just move out of my house, my place of business. I teach here, and—”
“We’ll work it out. Pack.”
“What about my—”
“Give us a minute, will you?” Simon asked McMahon.
“No problem.” He scraped back his chair. “I’ll be right outside.”
“Do you know how infuriating it is when you continually interrupt me?” Fiona demanded.
“Yeah, probably about the same level as when you continually argue with good sense.”
“I’m not doing that. But good sense has to coordinate with the practical side. I have three dogs. I have a business here. The equipment I need to run that business.”
Excuses, not reasons, he concluded. And he wasn’t taking any bullshit.
“You want practical? I’ll give you practical. I have a bigger house and more room for those dogs. You can’t be alone because I’m there. I work there. If he comes looking for you here, he won’t find you. If you need the damn equipment, we’ll move the damn equipment. Or I’ll build new equipment. Do you think I can’t build a fucking seesaw?”
“It’s not that. Or not just that.” She held her hands out, then rubbed them over her face. “You haven’t given me five seconds to think. You didn’t even bother to ask.”
“I’m not asking. I’m telling you to go pack what you need. Consider it a change of pack leadership.”
“That’s not amusing.”
“I’m not feeling funny. We’ll get whatever equipment, whatever supplies we can today. We’ll get the rest tomorrow. Goddamn it, Fiona, he was under a quarter mile from your house. You asked me to stay, to go against my instincts and what I wanted to do and stay with you back there. Now it’s your turn.”
“I’m taking that five seconds to think.” She spun away from him, fists jammed on her hips as she stalked to the window.
Her place—was that what was wrong with her? Her place here, the first solid building block of the new life she’d created. Now, instead of holding her ground, defending it, she’d be walking away.
Could she be that stubborn, that foolish?
“Time’s up.”
“Oh, be quiet,” she snapped at him. “I’m being driven out of my own home, so give me a damn minute to deal with it.”
“Fine. Take a minute, then get moving.”
She turned back. “You’re a little pissed that you have—or feel you have—to do this. It’s one thing for you to sleep here, another for me to essentially live in your home.”
“Okay. What’s your point?”
“No point, just an observation. I have to make some calls. I can’t just pack. I’ll need to contact my clients, at least the ones coming tomorrow, and let them know I’ve moved the school. Temporarily,” she added, as much for her benefit as his. “James’s number is four on my speed dial. If you call him, he’ll come and help us move the outside equipment.”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll need to have calls forwarded to your number—from my house phone. For clients, and in case we get a search call.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, wearily now. “I appreciate what you’re doing, especially because you’re not altogether happy about doing it.”
“I’d rather feel a little hemmed in than have anything happen to you.”
She let out a half laugh. “You have no idea, you really don’t, how sweet that is. I’ll do my best not to hem you in too much. Go ahead and tell Sheriff McMahon you won. I’ll start putting things together.”
He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d won as he’d now have four dogs and a woman under his feet, but he stepped outside. McMahon broke off a conversation with his deputies and crossed toward the porch as Simon walked down.
“She’s packing.”
“Good. We’ll still come by here a couple times a day, check things out. When she’s going back and forth to hold those classes of hers—”
“She won’t be. She’ll do it at my place. I’m calling James so he can help me break down and move all that.”
Eyebrows lifted, McMahon looked over at the equipment. “Better yet. Tell you what, Matt here’s about to go off duty. He’s young and got a strong back. He’ll give you a hand. Won’t take much time. Those are your chairs, right?”
“They’re hers now.”
“Uh-huh. What I’m wondering is if you do porch gliders. My wife and I got an anniversary coming up next month. I’ve got a little shop, do some Harry Homeowner stuff, a little this and that. Thought I might try my hand at a glider. I proposed to her on one. I found out pretty quick building one was above my pay grade.”
“I can do that.”
“Something with those nice wide arms would be good. And she’s partial to red.”
“Okay.”
“Good enough. We’ll talk about the details later. You go ahead, get the tools to break what needs to be broken down. I’ll get Matt started on what doesn’t.” He started back, stopped. “Are you really making a sink out of a stump?”
“Yes, I am.”
“That’s something I want to see. Matt! Haul some of this dog playground business into Simon’s truck.”
He ended up calling James anyway, for the third pair of hands and the second truck. And with James came Lori, and with James and Lori came Koby.
Simon’s initial annoyance with having so many people and animals swarming around gave way to the realization that sometimes people didn’t get in the way, but helped make a necessary and tedious job go smoother.
It wasn’t a matter of a couple of suitcases’ worth of clothes, not when it was Fiona. It was suitcases, dog beds, dog food, toys, leashes, meds, dishes, grooming equipment—and that didn’t begin to factor in platforms, the seesaw, the slide, the tunnel. Or her files—and Jesus the woman had files—her laptop, her packs, her maps, the perishables in her refrigerator.
“The flower beds and vegetable garden are on a soaker hose,” she said when he objected to hauling over her flowerpots, “so they’ll be fine. But these need regular watering. Besides, we’ll enjoy them. And besides besides, Simon, you asked for it.”
And that he couldn’t argue with.
“Fine, fine. Just... go start putting some of this crap away, will you?”
“Any preference to where?”
He stared at the last load and wondered how the hell she’d fit all of that into her Seven Dwarfs-sized house. How had it all tucked in so tidily—and that didn’t count what she’d left behind.
“Wherever, I guess. Dump the office stuff in one of the spare bedrooms, and don’t mess with my stuff more than you have to.”
He walked back to help James put the training equipment back together.
Beside Fiona, Lori rolled her eyes and grabbed a box of files. “Lead the way.”
“I’m not entirely sure of it, but I guess we’ll take this first load upstairs, find the best spot.”
As they started in, Lori glanced around. “Nice. Really nice—a lot of space and light and interesting furniture. What there is of it. Messy,” she added as she started up the steps, “but really nice.”
“Probably
three or four times as much space as I have.” Fiona glanced inside a room, frowned at the weight machine, gym equipment, tangle of clothes, unpacked boxes.
She tried another. A stack of paint cans, some brushes, rollers, pans, tools, sawhorses. “Okay, I guess this’ll work. I’m going to need my desk and chair. I didn’t think of that.”
She winced a little at the dust on the floor, the film on the window. “It is messy,” she murmured, “and I know what you’re thinking. Messy makes me twitchy.”
She set down her box of office supplies, turned a circle. “I’ll live with it.”
And him, she thought. For now.
Twenty-Three
She opted to set up her office space first. Which, in this case, meant cleaning the space first. She’d live with messy. It wasn’t her house. But temporary live-in lover or not, she wouldn’t work in dust and disorder.
While Lori and James set out to get her desk and chair—and lamp, and desk clock—she hunted down cleaning supplies. And, as Simon apparently believed in only the barest of basics, called Lori to add a list from her own supplies.
How, she wondered, did anyone—especially anyone with a dog—live without a Swiffer?
Working with what she had, she cleaned several months of dust from the windows, the floor, the woodwork, and discovered what she’d assumed was a second closet but was actually a bathroom.
One, she thought with a long huff of breath, that surely hadn’t been cleaned since he’d moved in. Fortunately, its primary purpose seemed to be gathering more dust.
She was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor when he came in.
“What are you doing?”
“Planning my next trip to Rome. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m cleaning this bathroom.”
“Why?”
“That you would have to ask explains so much.” She sat back on her heels. “I may, at some point, have to pee. I find this occurs with some regularity on any given day. I prefer—call me fussy—to engage in this activity in sanitary surroundings.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets, leaned on the jamb. “I haven’t been using this room or this john. Yet.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed.”
He glanced around the now dust-free bedroom where paint cans stood in stacks tidily beside sawhorses, rollers, pans and brushes on neatly folded tarps.
“You’re setting up in here?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not for me. Did you wash the floor out here?”
“Damp-mopped. Let me point out, as someone who works with wood, you should take better care of your floors. You need some Murphy’s at least.”
“I’ve got some. Somewhere. Maybe.” She was making him twitchy. “I’ve been busy.”
“Understood.”
“You’re not going to go around cleaning everything, are you?”
She swiped a hand over her forehead. “Let me give you my solemn oath on that. But I’m going to work in here. I need a clean, ordered space to work. I’ll keep the door closed so it doesn’t shock your sensibilities.”
“Now you’re being bitchy.”
Because she heard the amusement in his tone, she smiled back. “Yes, I am. Move back so I can finish this. I appreciate what you’re doing, Simon.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I do, and I know it disrupts your space, your routine, your privacy.”
“Shut up.”
“I just want to thank—”
“Shut up,” he repeated. “You matter. That’s it. I’ve got something to do.”
She sat back on her heels when he strode out. Shut up. You matter. That’s it. Honestly, she mused, coming from him that was practically a poem by Shelley.
By the time she’d arranged her office, with her desk tidy under the window facing the back and the woods, she’d have killed for a glass of wine and a comfortable chair. But her sense of order wouldn’t allow her to leave her clothes in suitcases.
She’d scope out Simon’s bedroom, then find him and ask how he wanted her to deal with her clothes.
It surprised her to find the bed made—sort of made, she thought. The dog beds had been tossed in a corner, and the doors to the deck stood open to let in the air.
She poked in the closet, saw he’d shoved his clothes over to make room for hers. She’d need a drawer, she thought. Two would be better. She moved to the dresser, opened one gingerly. He’d emptied it out for her. He was one step ahead of her, she thought, then cocked her head, sniffed.
Lemon?
Curious, she crossed to the bathroom, then just leaned on the door frame. She recognized a freshly cleaned bathroom—the scent of citrus, the gleam of porcelain, the rich sheen of brushed nickel. The towels hung in an orderly fashion on rods melted her heart.
He’d probably cursed with every swipe, she mused, but, well, she mattered. And that was it.
She put away her clothes, stowed her toiletries, then went down to find him.
He stood in the kitchen, looking out the back door at the training equipment.
“Some of that should be replaced,” he said without looking around. “That platform’s crap.”
“You’re probably right. Did James and Lori go?”
“Yeah. She put stuff in the fridge and wherever, said to tell you she’d call you tomorrow. I offered them a beer,” he added, almost defensively. “But they rain-checked.”
“I imagine they’re tired after all this.”
“Yeah. I want a beer and the beach.”
“That sounds perfect. Go ahead. I’ve just a couple things, then I’ll come down.”
He walked over, opened the fridge for his beer. “Don’t clean anything.”
She lifted her hand. “Solemn oath.”
“Right. I’ll leave Newman, take the rest.”
She nodded. She couldn’t be alone, she thought. Not even here.
She waited until he’d gone out, until she’d heard him order Newman to stay, stay with Fee. Then she sat at his counter, laid her head on it and waited for the tears that had begun to burn in her throat to come.
But they wouldn’t. She’d held them back too long, she realized. Pushed them down all these hours, and now they were simply blocked, locked inside, hurting her throat, aching in her head.
“Okay.” She breathed the word out, rose. Rather than a beer she chose a bottle of water. Better, she thought. Cleaner.
She stepped outside where the faithful Newman waited. “Let’s take a walk.”
He bounded over immediately, doing a full-body wag as he rubbed against her.
“I know, new place. It’s nice, isn’t it? Lots of room. We’ll be okay here for a while. We’ll figure it all out.” Her eye instinctively picked up spots that needed flowers, a good location for a kitchen garden.
Not hers to play with, she reminded herself.
“Still it could use more color, more outdoor seating. I’m surprised he hasn’t thought of it. He’s the artist.” She paused as they came to the drop leading down to the beach. “But then there’s this. It’s pretty fabulous.”
The charm of crooked steps led down to the narrow beach and opened to the dreamy spread of water. Stars winked on, adding to the sense of peace, of privacy. Simon walked along with the three dogs sniffing sand and shale and surf.
He’d missed this, she thought, his solo walks in the twilight where the land met the water. Missed the quiet, the subtle whoosh of the surf at the end of the day, but he’d stepped away from that to be with her.
Whatever happened around them, between them, she wouldn’t forget that.
As she stood, looking down, he pulled bright yellow tennis balls from a bag he’d hooked on his belt. He heaved them, one, two, three, into the water—and the dogs charged and leaped.
They’d smell... amazing, she thought as she watched them swim toward the bobbing yellow balls.
Even as she thought it, she heard Simon’s laugh rise up, over the subtle whoosh of the surf, over the quiet—and
the sound of it chased away the demons.
Look at them, she thought. Look how wonderful they are, how perfect they are. My guys.
Beside her, Newman quivered.
“What the hell. Four smelly dogs isn’t any worse than three. Go! Go play!”
He charged down the crooked steps, joy in the speed, in the challenging bark. Simon tossed a fourth ball in the air, caught it, then winged it into the water. Without breaking stride, Newman sprinted in.
And Fiona ran down to join the game.
In his motel room near the Seattle airport, Francis X. Eckle read the most recent message from Perry and sipped his evening whiskey on the rocks.
He didn’t care for the tone, no, he didn’t care for the tone at all. Words like disappointed, control, focus, unnecessary popped out of the text and grated against his pride. His ego.
Boring, he thought, and crumpled the paper into a ball. Boring, scolding and annoying. Perry needed to remember just who was in prison, and who wasn’t.
That was the problem with teachers—and he should know because before he evolved he’d been a teacher himself. Boring, scolding and annoying.
But no more.
Now he had the power of life and death in his hands.
He lifted one, studied it. Smiled at it.
He breathed fear at his whim, dispensed pain, eked out hope, then crushed it. He saw all of that in their eyes, all the fear, the pain, the hope and, finally, the surrender.
Perry had never felt this rush of power and knowledge. If he had, truly had, he wouldn’t constantly preach caution and control—or, as he liked to call it, “the clean kill.”
Annette had been the most satisfying kill to date. And why? Because of the sound his fists made when they pounded into her flesh, cracked against bone. Because he’d felt every blow even as she did.
Because there had been blood—the sight of it, the smell of it. He’d been able to watch, to study the way the bruises gathered, the way they rose up to stain the skin, and to enjoy the different tones—slap or punch.
They’d gotten to know each other, hadn’t they? Taking the time for that, sharing pain, made the kill so much more intimate. So much more real.