by Julie Miller
“Rosemary? I thought this might be a needlessly upsetting errand.” Ah, hell. Was this guy thinking he could manipulate Rosie—and her money—the way his younger brother had? Despite his disclaimer, did Bratcher blame Rosie for his brother’s murder and think she owed him some kind of payback? The solicitous attorney reached for her. “Would you like me to take you home?”
She wanted his protection? Max pulled out a chair and propped his foot on it, casually sitting back on the tabletop—purposefully blocking the attorney’s path to Rosie. “She told you about the damage done to her house last night?”
The attorney pulled up short, his gaze dropping to the chair, then back up to Max. He was probably trying to figure out whether the lumbering detective was clueless, rude or smarter than he’d given him credit for. That’s right, buddy. It’s the last one. Howard Bratcher backed off a step and faced Max. “Yes. That’s why I insisted on driving her here today.”
Max’s gaze went to the soft gray eyes that watched him from the corner of the room now. “Rosie’s got her own car. She’s perfectly capable of driving herself.”
The attorney’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve been close for several years, Detective. I’m concerned for her welfare.”
How close? “Did you see the man who was taking pictures of her at the prison?”
“I didn’t see anyone taking pictures.”
Rosie stepped forward, grasping the back of the chair. “The man with the cell phone? I pointed him out to you. Described him as a lawyer-type guy?”
“I recall your amusing description, but—”
“You didn’t stop to take a good look at the man who upset your close friend?” Max challenged.
“I don’t remember.”
Rosie’s hopeful gaze crashed at Howard’s noncommittal answer.
If this self-absorbed wise guy was her ally, no wonder she’d sought Max out for help. Even half-toasted, he’d paid attention to the details this bozo had missed. Unless Howie here had missed them on purpose. Could he be behind this terror campaign? Max’s ability to read people might be on the fritz, but logic alone told him that a longtime friend would know best what kinds of things could frighten a woman the most.
For a split second, Max understood Rosie’s aversion to being confined inside a small space. Especially with Mr. I’ll-support-you-as-long-as-I’m-in-charge using up so much breathable air. With so-called friends like Bratcher here, Max wondered how much of Rosie’s isolation had to do with her past, and how much had to do with her fear of getting trapped in another relationship with someone who, even without similar looks, had to remind her a lot of her dead ex-fiancé.
Following an instinct as ornery and strong as the urge to kiss her last night had been, Max snatched her hand, kicked the chair under the table and pulled her past the tailored suit. “Come with me, Rosie.”
“Where are we going?”
He opened the door, picked up the mug shot books and tightened his grip around her protesting fingers as he led her into the familiar bustle of the main room.
Howard’s snort of derision followed them out the door. “Shouldn’t you address her as Miss March, Detective?”
Shouldn’t you recuse yourself from serving as her attorney, Howie?
Max kept his snarky remark to himself and pulled Rosie around chairs and desks, colleagues and computer towers, suspects and complainants in for questioning and statements, until he reached the two desks pushed together where he and Trent worked. He dumped the notebooks on top of the blotter and pushed aside the mess of notes and files before pulling out his chair for her.
“It can get noisy out here, but you’ll have plenty of space to spread out. Move anything you want that’s in your way.” She paused, tilting her face to his, no doubt questioning his sudden bout of chivalry—maybe even questioning if he was the same man she’d recruited for bodyguard duty last night. But the grief and guilt over Jimmy’s death was firmly contained today. He hoped. Taking care of Rosie March—keeping her safe from stalkers and pompous attorneys and wannabe boyfriends—was his mission now. Flattening his hand at the small of her back, he urged her to sit. “I apologize for the clutter, but as you can see, there are no walls here. Those interview rooms are all tiny.”
When her lips curved into a serene smile, Max nearly succumbed to the boyish urge to smile in return. “I can work here just fine. Thank you.”
The crown of her hair brushed past his nose as she moved into the chair, and Max couldn’t help but take a deep breath of her sweet, summery scent. A man could get addicted to Rosie’s fragrance. Who was he kidding? Old maid bun and conservative clothes aside, Rosie March turned him on like some kind of crazy aphrodisiac. Maybe because he kept thinking of what she’d be like without the severe hairstyle and all that skin covered up.
Reminding himself that she was an assignment, and that she had more of a relationship with her dogs than she did with him, Max pulled the first mug shot book in front of her. “Here you go.”
Her shoulders lifted with a resolute sigh and she flipped over the cover to look at the first six men. “So I just start turning pages to see if I recognize anyone who might have been watching me at the prison?”
“Or anywhere else. Unfortunately, we have even more photos you could look at, but I narrowed down the suspect pool to men with a history of harassment and other predatory crimes who fit the general description you gave.” He left out the fact that pictures of Leland Asher and his known associates were scattered throughout the books, as well. If the crime boss was behind Richard Bratcher’s murder or the threats against Rosie, she’d have to make the connection herself for any kind of case against him to stick. And if she recognized anyone who might be working for Howie here... Max tossed one of the books over to Trent’s neat desk. “There, Howie. You can look through some of our pics, too. See if anyone there jogs your memory from the prison waiting room.”
Not that he’d trust Bratcher’s recognition, or lack thereof, of anyone in the book. But it would get the attorney farther out of Rosie’s personal space.
Instead of taking the hint and moving to Trent’s work space, Howard circled behind him to bookend the other side of Rosie’s chair. “I don’t like your tone, Detective Krolikowski. And I’d appreciate it if you’d show my client more respect.”
“I’ve got nothing but respect for Miss March.” Max leaned his hip against the edge of the desk, facing the woman between them. She was picking up the papers of an old report that had fanned across the desk and tucking them into a neat stack. “You got a key for me?” Max asked.
Howard put a hand on Rosie’s shoulder. “What’s he talking about?”
“This is between the lady and me.” Although the dots of color on her cheeks made him wonder if she was going to renege on the deal they’d made. “Rosie? Do you remember my terms?”
Do what I say. When I say it. Trust me. If Jimmy had trusted him enough to share how bad things really were, then maybe Max could have gotten him help. He could have been there for his friend. He could have taken the gun away from him. He could have saved—
“I haven’t forgotten.” Rosie interrupted the guilty gloom of his thoughts and set aside the neat stack of papers before reaching into her purse. She pulled out a single key and laid it in his outstretched palm. Her fingers lingered a little longer, dotting his skin with warmth. Her upturned gaze locked on to his for a moment, as if she sensed that he’d checked out for a split second. “This was Stephen’s. It will get you in the back entrance.”
With Rosie unexpectedly pulling him back to the present, Max frowned, curling the key into his palm, catching her fingers in a quick squeeze before she drew away. “Not the main part of the house? Do I at least get access codes?”
The heat faded from her cheeks. “The apartment has a separate entrance. It’s not hooked up to the alarm system. I didn’t think you�
�d—”
“We’ll make it work,” Max interrupted when he saw Howard Bratcher leaning in to intervene. “I’ll see you there on my lunch break.”
“So soon?”
“I’m a soldier, remember? I travel light.”
Howie’s hand settled on her shoulder. “Rosemary, what is this detective talking about?”
Max stood to face him, squaring off over the top of Rosie’s coppery bun. “Didn’t she tell ya? We’re moving in together.”
“Excuse me?” Uh-huh. The touching? The temper? This guy thought he and Rosie were more than friends. He at least thought he could control her actions and influence her decisions.
Shrugging off her attorney’s hand, Rosie went to work pulling items from beneath the three mug shot books and straightening the rest of his desk. “Max is moving into my downstairs apartment.”
“That’s right, Howie. I’m her new tenant.” He had his story all worked out. “Good part of town. Use of a pool. My building is being renovated. Renting a couple of rooms costs less than staying in a hotel. And Rosie didn’t seem to mind having a little extra security around the house.”
“I see. Why didn’t you tell me you were taking on a new tenant?”
Rosie’s busy hands stopped. “Because it didn’t concern you. My name has been in the papers, Howard. You said it yourself. Kansas City’s newest millionaire? And now these threats?” She tilted her face up to her attorney. “Even with the security system you had me install, I’ve never really felt safe being there by myself. Duchess is getting older. Trixie makes a lot of noise but isn’t a real threat to anyone. I really didn’t think having a cop on the premises at night could hurt.”
Howard knelt down beside the chair, pulling Rosie’s hand into his. “You know I have connections to private security firms across the city. I could have hired someone if I’d known how truly frightened you were.”
“I did tell you. I told Detective Krolikowski, too.” She pulled her hand away and glanced over at Max before busying her hands again. “He listened.”
Tell him, honey. Rosie March isn’t alone and vulnerable anymore.
Howard pushed to his feet. That was not a friendly look. “You know I have only your best interests at heart, Rosemary.”
“I know,” Rosie answered. “And I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me. But I need to do this for myself. I need to do more to make decisions and handle my own problems.”
“I see.”
“Maybe you should go back to your office, Bratcher,” Max suggested. “This may take a while. I can give Rosie a ride home. After all, we’re heading to the same place.”
“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Krolikowski. If you take advantage of Rosemary in any way, I will have your badge. And know I’ll be asking around to find out what kind of cop you really are.”
“Detective?” a quivering voice asked.
Max propped his hands at his waist, ready to take whatever threat this blowhard threw at him. “I intend to make sure no one takes advantage of her in any way.”
“If you’re using Rosemary as some kind of pawn in your investigation—”
“Max.”
Rosie’s sharp voice demanded his attention. “What is it?”
He braced a palm on the desk and leaned in to see what had alarmed her.
She held a picture that had fallen out of his file on Leland Asher. A picture of Asher and his entourage from a hoity-toity society event at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Only, Rosie wasn’t pointing to the crime boss. She was pointing to the younger, shorter man with glasses standing on the other side of Asher’s date.
“I know him. This is the man from the prison.”
Chapter Eight
Rosemary wondered how she was ever going to survive the first night with Max Krolikowski living in her basement.
If she couldn’t stop this restless pacing, flitting from one room to the next, she’d never get any sleep. She’d start a project in the library, leave it at the first unfamiliar noise and wind up in the kitchen, refreshing the dogs’ water bowls. She’d hear the muffled voices of a television newscast through the floorboards, then head off to the front room to adjust the blinds. She’d peek out a window to look at the clouds gathering in the sky and covering the moon, but she’d hear the rumble of thunder in the distance and go back to the kitchen to make sure it was Mother Nature talking and not her new tenant grumbling about something downstairs. Then the dogs would woof at something outside and the whole anxious cycle would start over again.
Max’s Cold Case Squad hadn’t been able to immediately identify the man in the picture with Leland Asher, since he didn’t have a record and wasn’t in their criminal database. But she was certain the narrow-framed glasses and nondescript brown hair belonged to the man who’d smiled and taken her picture at the penitentiary. Knowing there was a mystery man out there somewhere, bent on terrorizing her, who might or might not have some connection to organized crime, was upsetting enough. But adding in the disruption of having a man on the premises once again, a man who seemed to occupy her thoughts the way Max did, left her unable to find any sense of calm or control. Routine, and the secure normalcy that went with it, had flown out the window.
Max had probably only needed a few minutes to put away the items he’d brought in his backpack and duffel bag and familiarize himself with the bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette, which he said would serve him just fine. And why wouldn’t the man just go to bed already? One time she’d discovered Max out front, installing the new glass globes on her porch lights.
“The weatherman says we’re having thunderstorms tonight,” she warned.
“I know.” He continued his work, sounding far too nonchalant about making himself at home here. “I want to make sure everything is secure before I head to bed.” He nodded for her to go back inside. “But you go ahead.”
Much later, she peeked out the door to find him reclining in her rocking chair, sitting in the dark with his big booted feet crossed on the porch railing. His shirt hung unbuttoned and loose from his shoulders, the tails flapping in the breeze that was picking up as lightning flashed in the clouds overhead. He still wore his gun and badge on his belt, and a stubby, unlit cigar that made him look like the gruff Army sergeant he’d once been was tucked into the corner of his mouth.
“Go to sleep, Rosie,” he’d ordered, before removing the cigar and turning those watchful blue eyes to catch her spying on him. “You’re safe.”
Safe from her stalker, maybe. There’d been no phone call, no threat, no visit from anyone who wanted to hurt her for twenty-four hours now. But she wasn’t so safe from the curious attraction she felt toward the unrefined yet inarguably masculine detective. And she certainly wasn’t safe from the troubling memories of being alone with another man who’d turned her home into a prison where he’d inflicted pain and fear until fate alone had allowed her to escape.
“You won’t bring that cigar into the house, will you?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her fingers curled and uncurled around the edge of the door. “You need your sleep, too.”
“Good night, Rosie.”
Rosemary locked herself in her bedroom after that, counting down the hour until she heard the apartment door open and close at the back of the house. Duchess sat up from her cozy pillow beside Rosemary’s bed, and Trixie yipped at the unfamiliar sound.
Lightning flashed and thunder rattled the window panes. A few seconds later the rain poured down, whipping through the trees and drumming on the new roof, finally drowning out the sounds of the house and the man in the room below hers.
“Settle down, girls,” she whispered. “It’s just a storm.” The dogs curled into their respective beds and fell asleep long before Rosie turned out the bedside lamp and crawled beneath the sheet and quilt.
But it was hard to follow her own admonishment. Normally, the sounds of a summer storm lulled her into relaxing, but her sleep was disrupted by memories of the moonlight gleaming through the golden hair that dusted Max’s muscular chest, and the desire to run her fingers there to discover the heat only hinted at when she’d touched him through his shirt. She remembered that kiss, too, and the way his hands had moved with such urgency through her hair. Maybe he’d put his hands in other places, skim them over her skin and pull her against all that brawny strength and heat. Maybe he’d kiss her again, and this time he wouldn’t hold back. Maybe she wouldn’t hold back, either.
Later, the bold wishes that filled her dreams and left her perspiring and uncomfortable in her crisp cotton sheets mutated into darker, more disturbing images.
Max’s tawny jaw and imposing shoulders gave way to a shadow that was taller, slimmer, darker than the night. Rosemary squirmed in the tangle of covers as the shadow darted past her window. The black figure swirled around the walls of her bedroom, spinning closer, moving so fast that the sea of black miasma soon surrounded her bed. She moaned in her sleep as the blackness closed in all around her, stealing away the light, robbing her of warmth.
Her breathing quickened as the chill permeated her skin. But her arm was too weak to push it away. The darkness consumed her, reached right into her very heart and ripped it from her chest. Then she was burning, bleeding, begging for a reprieve.
A tiny circle of light flared in the darkness and a voice laughed. The tiny light was a fire, glowing brighter, hotter with every breath. She was powerless to move, powerless to do anything but anticipate the coming pain. Laughter rang through the darkness as the fire moved closer and closer, until the hot ember hissed against her cold skin, branding her.
Rosemary came awake screaming. She shot up in bed, her hand clutching at the scars on her collarbone, her heart pounding in her chest. In the instant she realized the torture had been a dream, the instant she realized the shadows were no more than one of the Dinkles’ trees, silhouetted by lightning against her window shade, the instant she realized she was perfectly fine and lowered her hand, she realized the laughter was real. High-pitched. Distorted. Distant.