He didn’t. She called again. Voice mail.
This time she left him a message. “Please call me at Enid’s house. It’s urgent.” She couldn’t take Muriel to the hospital with her; it was too confusing and upsetting for her. But she desperately wanted to go the hospital and stay with Enid.
She found the ancient address book that Enid kept in a kitchen drawer. The Richardson sisters had several close friends, and searching through the book filled with crossed-off names underscored Kate’s worry about Enid. Would she become a scratched-out entry in some other friend’s worn address book?
Stop being morbid, Kate. She tried to funnel her worry into more productive channels, so she called the homes of Enid’s friends. Her relief was almost palpable when one of them answered. Kate knew Mary was one of the Richardsons’ closest, oldest friends, but even so, when she offered to spend the night with Muriel, Kate hesitated. “I told Enid I would stay with Muriel.”
“Listen, Kate. I can only do tonight,” Mary said. “My granddaughter is coming on a visit tomorrow. Don’t worry, Muriel still knows who I am. Give yourself the night off, because you could be in for a long week.”
“Thank you,” she said. It would give her a chance to check on Enid in the hospital, do her laundry and catch up on the Sloane file.
“I’ll be over in an hour.”
“Thank you,” she said again. She hung up the phone and turned to Muriel. “Do you want to watch some TV, Muriel? I can put on Fawlty Towers for you.”
“That would be nice,” Muriel said. They went into the sitting room. While Muriel watched the show, Kate called the hospital to get an update on Enid’s status.
The doorbell rang just as she got off the phone.
Kate hurried to the front door. It was Finn. She almost melted with relief.
He stepped inside and followed her to the kitchen, a concerned expression on his face. “I just got your messages. What’s wrong?”
Kate leaned against the kitchen counter. “It’s Enid. She’s in the hospital. Her heart is acting up.”
“Oh, no. That’s terrible.”
“I know. I’m really worried about her.” She felt the tension ease from her shoulders. It was good to be able to share her worry with someone who knew and cared about Enid.
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s stable. She’s in the E.R., still waiting for a hospital bed.”
“Sorry I didn’t get your call right away.”
“It’s okay.” Finn’s personal life was still a mystery to her. He spent a lot of time at her house, but she knew very little about him, except that his family lived on the West Coast, where he had attended university before dropping out and heading east. They wanted me to be a dentist, he’d once said, rolling his eyes. “How long do you think Enid will be in the hospital?”
“They thought a few days.”
“What are we going to do about Muriel?”
“I’m going to call some home-care agencies as soon as they open. I thought we could get someone to help during the day, and then you and I could take turns at night starting tomorrow.” She held her breath. Finn had no obligation at all to help the elderly sisters, but she knew he had a soft spot for them. Who wouldn’t?
“Sounds good.”
Kate exhaled in relief.
“I’ll check in on you after I take the dogs for their walk,” he added. “I’ll do that right now.” He headed to the door. There was a stain—looked like pus—on the back of his T-shirt, by the shoulder.
“Finn, did you cut yourself?” Kate pointed to the spot.
He shook his head. He had a strangely bashful expression on his face. “I was…um…gonna surprise you.”
That didn’t sound good.
“Oh?”
“I got a tattoo.” He grinned, pride and excitement all over his face. It was hard to resist Finn when he smiled like that, but Kate felt a little twist in her heart nonetheless. He’s your friend, Kate. Nothing else. He doesn’t have to share every detail of his life with you.
He pulled his T-shirt over his head, wincing a little when the fabric stuck to the fluid dried on his skin.
“Let me help you.” Kate eased the stiff patch off his skin. His shoulder, once so smooth and tanned—she’d seen it many times last summer while he worked on her home—had a large bandage taped to it.
Pus stained the gauze, crusting the skin below it. “It looks infected,” Kate said.
“Where?”
“I can’t tell with the bandage on it.”
“Lift up one side. Then you can see it.”
She had the feeling he was more interested in showing off his tattoo than investigating his infection. As a precaution, Kate washed her hands before lifting one edge of the bandage.
“It’s not too infected,” she said. “Just on the edges.”
“But do you like it?” Finn asked. “It’s a Foo Dog, the symbolic protector of the home.”
Kate studied the tattoo. The Foo Dog crouched on his shoulder. It had been so artfully created that it appeared to be breathing, its muscles tightening, ready to spring against any foe.
“Yeah. I love it.” She forced enthusiasm into her voice. “It’s really striking.” It was really striking.
It just wasn’t Finn.
Or at least the Finn she thought she knew. When had he changed? Why hadn’t she noticed? Even though the redecorating of her main floor had been completed in the fall, she still saw him almost every Sunday, when he, the Richardson sisters and Kate would meet for Sunday-night dinner.
His voice slightly defensive, Finn added: “When Yoshi—” Yoshi? Who was Yoshi? She really didn’t know any of his friends, she realized “—told me that Kenzie Sloane was going to be a guest artist at his shop, I decided to get this piece done. She’s considered one of the best artists of the Japanese style on this continent.”
Oh, God. You can’t be serious. “Kenzie?”
“Kenzie Sloane. She’s from here but lives in New York now.” Finn pulled his arm back through his sleeve and winced. “Still a bit tender.”
Most people are after an encounter with Kenzie. She exhaled. So, Frances had been correct when she said her daughter was a successful tattoo artist.
“Are you planning to get more?” Kate asked.
Finn shook his head. “I don’t think so. Although she thought I should get a matching one on the other side.”
I’ll bet she did.
Kenzie was putting her mark on him.
And he’d never be the same.
Don’t say anything you’ll regret, Kate.
“You need to keep an eye on the infection. So it doesn’t get worse.”
“I’ll get Kenzie to check it,” he said. “I’m walking her dog for her. Alaska likes pugs.” He kept his tone light, but a faint blush tinged his cheeks.
Oh, God. Not you, too, Finn.
Kenzie Sloane had stolen Imogen from her in the worst possible way: through addiction. And now she was about to poach one of the good guys.
“You’d better get home and put some antibiotic cream on your tattoo,” Kate said. “I’ll wait until Enid’s friend arrives.”
He nodded. “You sure you don’t need anything else?”
“No. But I bet Enid would love it if you called her.”
“I’ll take a detour down to the E.R. before I walk the dogs. Just to say hi.”
Bless you, Finn.
He left, hands shoved in his pockets. The stain was barely visible on his shoulder.
She hoped that Foo Dog would guard his back.
20
You can prepare yourself for days, months, years, but still not be prepared. It was like deciding to get a tattoo, savoring the design, imagining the art on your flesh—in your flesh—and then wincing from the first sting of pain when the needle penetrates the skin.
McNally had just taken a bite of pizza when the door to Yakusoku Tattoo opened. He slid down in his seat and peered out from under his ball cap.
Kenzie Sloane hurried out, her kit bag on her shoulder, holding the leash of a little black dog.
McNally spat his mouthful of pizza onto his plate. He wiped the back of his mouth with his sleeve. And stared.
It had been seventeen years.
Seventeen years of wanting. Waiting.
Hating.
Her hair was longer than the photo he’d seen of her in ExtINKshun! magazine. It curled in the damp, tentacles of dark red whipping around her face. Medusa in hi-def. The tentacles reached toward him, sensing his presence, and then whipped away from her face. The light caressed her neck, and the purity of her porcelain skin through the design of her tattoo made his throat ache.
Oh, God.
He thought he could handle seeing her. That the longing he felt could be tamped down.
But it spilled through him, boiling and raging, the magma of betrayal and unrequited love.
When they had been together, everyone had always talked about Kenzie’s eyes—the remarkable sky-blue shade, the tilted shape, the way she could slay you with a glance from under her delicate lids.
But for him, it had always been her neck that had driven him crazy. He’d stroked that neck, kissed that neck, bitten that neck. But it wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.
His gut clenched. Her neck was covered in tatts. She had made sure that he would never be able to tattoo her neck now.
But what about the raven?
Was it still there on the back of her neck?
She yanked the collar of her jacket higher as if sensing his searching gaze and glanced over her shoulder. He averted his eyes, suddenly nervous. She disappeared down the driveway to the back of the building. He took a deep breath. Take it easy, McNally. She won’t like it if you are all freaked out on her.
He jumped out of his car and smoothed his hair, an automatic gesture from the years before he had shaved his head. Nervous sweat pricked his T-shirt.
What would she say?
Would she be happy to see him?
Would she kiss him hello?
He still remembered how her lips felt, how they clung to him, how they teased him, taunted him, made him scream in the agony of pain-drenched pleasure that was a Kenzie specialty. Redheads don’t feel pain, she had told him.
He hurried down the driveway to the rear parking lot, searching for the whirlpool of red hair. At first, he didn’t see her. She was bent over the passenger side of her car, strapping her dog into the seat.
He could pinpoint the moment she saw him. Really saw him.
The shock of recognition.
The disbelief.
He smiled at her. Fear was good.
He could do a lot with fear.
She rushed around the hood of her car, trying to reach the driver’s side.
Her hand was on the door when he blocked her escape.
“Kenzie.”
Up close, she was older than the Kenzie in his dreams. Her face was more defined, her makeup more skilled.
“Stay away,” she said, her voice tense.
He flinched. “I need to talk to you.”
“You are the last person I want to talk to.”
“Kenzie. Please.” He hated the pleading note that had crept into his voice. He cleared his throat. “I just want to talk.”
His hand trembled with the effort of keeping it by his side. He longed—ached—to touch her hair.
It gleamed in the sunlight. Shades of red, each highlight more glittering and complex than the last.
“Haven’t you seen the news?” she hissed. “We should not be seen together.”
“We can meet at my place—”
She was already shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk to you. Ever.”
She opened the car door. Before he could grab her arm, she dove into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut.
She just missed his fingers.
“Hey!” he shouted, pounding on the window.
She turned on the engine, slammed the gear into Drive and hit the gas.
Her eyes flashed at him.
Those merciless eyes.
He jumped backward. His heart pounded as he watched her car disappear down the driveway.
She had left him.
Again.
How the fuck had he let that happen?
He’d been too nice to her, that’s what had happened. His head had been so messed up imagining her lips that he had been totally unprepared for the real Kenzie.
The heartless Kenzie.
The bitch Kenzie.
Who the fuck did she think she was?
Seventeen years ago, she had run away, leaving him with a dead body to dispose of.
She thought because she had managed to escape that night that she could do it again.
He stalked back to his truck.
She had no idea who she was messing with.
He had been young, naive, when he met Kenzie. She had wrapped him around her little finger. She was willing to try things, do things—things that no other girl would ever do.
And in return, she had goaded him to prove his love.
He had proven his love beyond what any ordinary man would do. He had demonstrated the lengths he would go for her. He had given up his whole future to please her.
And what had she done?
She had left him holding the bag and disappeared without a word.
It had turned out perfectly for her: she had gotten away with murder and followed her dreams.
He needed to make her realize that she could try to cover her true nature in symbolic Japanese art, but the tattoos couldn’t conceal her soul.
Kenzie was as cold-blooded as he was.
In fact, more so.
Then he grinned. She didn’t realize it, but when she chose to ink a koi on her chest—her symbol of “transformation”—her subconscious had kicked in.
Fish were cold-blooded, right?
21
The key card shook in Kenzie’s hand as she slid it into the lock on the door to room 549. She had kept her nerves under tight control after her run-in with McNally and the two hours previous to that while she inked her last client. Her fingers would no longer hold steady. It was a good thing her clients couldn’t see her now. They would never let her go near them with a needle.
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