Criminal Promises

by Nikki Duncan

  “After following her outside… She could’ve been hurt.” Adalia had been too close. “What was Adalia looking for?”

  “Nothing seems to have been messed with. And why wait until we’re both here to come in?”

  “Power.”

  Helplessness was an unfamiliar feeling, but it was how BD felt at the moment. “Maggie is a stay-at-home mom. She shouldn’t be on Adalia’s radar.”

  “It goes back to the husband. It has to.”

  Adalia wouldn’t have had much time. Craig looked through the numerous books on the shelves. BD opened the top drawer of Maggie’s desk to discover tidily organized pens, pencils, paperclips, staples, rubber bands, scissors, a small tube of hand lotion and a lip gloss. The second drawer was filled with color-coded and alphabetized files he pushed backward and forward. Finding nothing behind, between or under the files he flipped through each one.

  “If these were pleasure reads, Sullivan must’ve been a blast.” Craig placed a book back on the shelf and pulled out another one.

  “Why?”

  “Most of them make school textbooks look exciting, or are written in bizarre languages and symbols.”

  “He was a linguist with a specialty in ancient languages.” And yes, it sounded boring.

  “Whatever.” Craig continued looking for anything Adalia left behind.

  She always left something behind.

  “Why come straight in here?” Going through Maggie’s bills and personal documents was an invasion of her privacy necessity did nothing to minimize. She had never been just a part of the job and deserved better than this. He shifted to another file. “It wouldn’t have taken long to plant something or look for something obvious to her. She had to know the house layout to target this room. How?”

  “City Planning office would have blueprints, or she’s been watching the place close enough to know the layout.” Craig placed a book on the shelf and turned. “I’m finding nothing.”

  “Keep looking. At the very least we’ll find a note.”

  “She would have put it someplace obvious.”

  “Obvious to us or to Mags?” Sitting back in the chair, BD looked around the warm and welcoming room with a great view of the street through a large grouping of windows. Walking to the window he turned. With the blinds mostly open, it wouldn’t be hard to know what was in the room. “To brave coming in here she would have had a plan. Precise timing.”

  “Makes sense.” Craig sat another book back on the shelf.

  “She’s been watching, but she has help.” The mystery there was who?

  “She thought this room was the best place to find whatever she’s after.”

  “She plays games, but is methodical with them.” Viewing the room the way Adalia would have seen it from outside, BD considered the options.

  Discounting the bookshelves and the table by the reading chair, the desk would’ve been the obvious choice. She wanted her message to be received, but she’d want to control who found it—Maggie.

  Returning to the desk, BD sat and picked up the mail in an envelope sorter. Flipping through the envelopes, he found a paper folded neatly between two bills with Maggie’s name scrawled on the outside.

  “Found something.”

  Craig approached as BD opened the letter.

  “The cops will not get in the middle again. I’ll have the key to harnessing the power.”

  —Adalia

  What had they gotten in the middle of, other than a killing spree? What kind of power did she think she could harness?

  “Maybe she went a little insane on the inside.” Craig sat on the corner of the desk.

  “What kind of key harnesses power? Is she talking magic or something more tangible?”

  Craig grabbed a pencil and began flipping it between his fingers. “You buy into magic?”

  “No, but if it means stopping Adalia I’ll explore it.” He rolled his shoulders back. Maggie was a room away and he felt her breathing down his neck. “I have to end this fast.”

  “Right.” Craig hesitated. The pencil never slowed down. “Is there anything in her old notes?”

  BD shoved out of the chair to pace. He couldn’t dodge the impotence of having his hands tied. “I’m not seeing any connections.”

  He had a promise to keep to Mike Sullivan and a family to protect, a deranged killer to put back behind bars and a strong desire to taste the forbidden to ignore. The promise and the desire for Maggie proved the most difficult. In ten years on the job, he’d never blurred the line of involvement. Craig the Tender Heart took the lead when someone needed sympathy, but with Maggie… The lines were more than blurring. They were vanishing.

  Samantha’s death hadn’t been as grizzly as Sullivan’s, but her face had flashed in BD’s mind as he’d sat with Maggie’s husband. Then he’d followed Maggie to her bathroom, held her while she threw up and comforted her while she wept.

  One glance and she awakened everything he had sworn to never feel again. A year of distance had changed nothing. Her grief brought his back. Her family made him remember all he had once wanted.

  Her voice, slightly breathless, sometimes skimmed over his skin in a feather-soft stroke. Samantha had sounded the same at the end. Even as she’d said it wasn’t his fault, his heart ripped to shreds.

  In every obvious way, Maggie was nothing like Sam. She preferred things orderly. Her understated sensuality hid beneath tailored slacks and silky tops. Sam had been messy and blatantly sexy with a preference for low-rise jeans and snug T-shirts with outrageous sayings.

  “Do you think Maggie would know what key Adalia’s talking about?”

  “I don’t know.” BD pinched the bridge of his nose and forced his thoughts back to the case. He could worry about Maggie’s appeal and Sam’s fading memory later. Much later. “Right now she thinks Adalia’s here because of me. If I ask her about this, she’s going to put things together.”

  “Assuming she hasn’t already.”

  A possibility he couldn’t ignore.

  “How are you going to handle this?”

  “No clue.” She would be well armed with questions by now and she’d be relentless if he didn’t have a great explanation. “What are the chances Sullivan was having an affair with Adalia?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely from his file.” Craig waved his hands at the room. “Look around this place. The man was a straight arrow. Dull.”

  BD’s stomach knotted. “Unless he was leading a double life.”

  “Man, you can’t let her know that’s crawling around in your head.”

  “And I was thinking of leading with it.” Without proof the supposition would only crush her. He pulled a blank envelope from her desk, slipped the note inside and handed it to Craig. “Take care of this and keep Grace and the kids out of the way.” He turned to the door preferring an old fashioned firing squad or a stoning. “I’ll talk to Maggie.”

  “I’m getting the better deal.”

  They stepped out of the office into silence like the one from the other night.

  Something was wrong.

  Adrenaline flooded his veins. If he found her in danger, he’d take out the offender. If he found her safe… She better hope she’s in danger. He couldn’t protect a woman incapable of following orders and staying put.

  Years of training had his blood slowing as he went on the defensive. Adalia had not gotten in again so fast. They pulled their guns. He went right toward the bedrooms. Craig headed left through the entry toward the guest room and dining room. They met in the living room and shook their heads. Empty.

  The kitchen was empty too. Where are they?

  “Grace’s car is still out front.”

  Half way across the kitchen to check the garage, he heard a grunt and a thwack. The hair on his neck quivered. He wanted to run across the room, jerk open the door and barge in. Training had him waiting for Craig. Standing to the side, he twisted the knob. Craig stooped down to go low.

  After a brief nod, they went thro
ugh the door together.

  Chapter 5

  Maggie shifted her weight and studied her opponent. Taking her time to calculate the most effective attack, she crouched, sprang and delivered a hard side kick. The punching bag wobbled creakily in the brackets.

  Who did Harte think he was? Lying to her about his presence, letting her think he was doing her a favor. Pretending he hadn’t known Adalia Wood was out of jail. Ordering her around. Locking doors on her.

  He wasn’t getting away with it.

  Landing lightly on her feet, she eyeballed the bag. Her knee ached, a little swollen from the branch incident, but she was glad she’d changed clothes and sent the kids with Grace. Sitting around the living room would’ve driven her batty.

  The woman who’d killed four people, including Mike, was back. She couldn’t change it. She couldn’t accept it without question. The state should’ve bumped up their schedule on the lethal injection. They should have informed her of the release.

  Bouncing side to side on the balls of her feet, she delivered alternating punches into the imaginary images of Adalia Wood and Harte rotating over the bag. They were both playing mind games with her. Both were doomed to failure.

  “Sweet hell.” Harte’s voice startled her.

  She spun and looked into his aroused blue eyes. “Go away.”

  “Mags, where are Grace and the kids?”

  “I preferred not to have witnesses when I sliced off your balls and roasted them for dinner.”

  “Well,” Craig cleared his throat and backed toward the kitchen. “On that note, I’ll go take care of…stuff.”

  Narrowing her eyes she watched Harte’s partner. “Chicken.”

  “Smart.” He smiled as he slapped Harte on the back hard enough to propel him three steps forward. “I’m not the one on the chopping block.”

  Turning to Harte, she waited eager to see if he led with the truth or excuses.

  “I told you to stay in the living room.”

  “I’m a grown woman. This is my house. I chose not to.”

  Shrugging, she turned back to the bag and hit it again with a little less force. Twenty minutes of punishing hits and kicks had her muscles burning. If she went much longer at that rate she wouldn’t be able to move for three days.

  “Next time, do what I say.” He walked to the opposite side of the bag. “The empty house worried me.”

  “Awww. I might almost think you gave a jackelope’s ass.” She slid her eyes back to the bag before punching it hard enough to have the ceiling and floor brackets rattling. “Except they aren’t real and you’re lying.”

  “Mags.”

  Punch. “Harte, if you ‘Mags’ me one more time I’m going to use your face instead of this bag.”

  Punch.

  He cleared his throat. “Maggie, I have a job to do. This may be your home, but there are things I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

  He paced the width of the garage like a caged animal. The rage pulsing from him was so thick her sharpest kitchen knife wouldn’t penetrate it. Watching him hold it in was amazing, but didn’t change things.

  She had a brain. He’d known who had targeted her or he would have held to his resolve to not move in.

  Conflicted between worry and anger, suddenly too exhausted to land another punch, she bit a strip of Velcro with her teeth to pull off a glove. After removing the second one, she stretched lightly to keep her muscles from tightening up.

  She wasn’t invisible, boring or willing to be pushed around. He had another think coming if he thought he could issue orders and expect her to blindly follow. Whatever kind of women he was used to being around, she wasn’t one of them.

  Her privacy had been invaded and Harte had reverted to caveman mode. With the sensation of a hundred fuzzy spiders running across her exposed skin, impressions of dirty filth suffused her. She had never felt more violated and scared in her life. More betrayed.

  The haven she had designed for her children, their security and peace of mind, had been threatened. If Adalia had marched into her living room and held a gun to her head, she could have handled it better.

  “You will answer my questions.” Or get out. “I’m not playing mind games with you on top of everything else.”

  Blowing out a deep breath, she assured herself she could and would remain calm, rational and logical. She would not become irrational. Well, any more so than she already had.

  Narrowing her eyes, she studied him and again waited. Instead of cool caution, his stare remained glacial. Every muscle in his giant body was taut. His jaw twitched. The bulging vein in his neck throbbed. He fisted and un-fisted his hands. She’d done the same things before working the bag.

  Menace vibrated off him and grabbed her by the throat. His nostrils flared slightly with each breath. As surely as she knew he wouldn’t tell her everything, she knew he itched to pound the stuffing out of something. Impatience warred with logic. She wanted answers, but she may have better luck if she let him cool off.

  She walked to the cabinet in the wall that hid the punching bag when she released it from the floor and ceiling anchors, pulled out a larger pair of boxing gloves, and tossed them to him. A feral grin spread across his face as he secured the Velcro fasteners.

  She stepped back and sat on his weight bench. Once his hackles lowered she would demand answers. Or maybe she’d take advantage of the distraction the bag provided.

  Like the caged beast had been set free, he went after the bag. His fists hammered the leather, bouncing the bag a little. The echo of his power and satisfaction sang in her body. She’d spent many sleepless nights in the garage with only the bag for company.

  With each slap of leather against leather, Harte’s wrath mounted rather than eased. Rolling his shoulders back, he pummeled the bag. For five minutes the sounds of his rough breathing and leather slapping the bag dominated the garage.

  He became the distraction. Maggie leaned back against the barbell and extended her legs on the bench with her ankles crossed.

  His muscles coiled and released beneath the power of each precisely delivered blow. He worked out with punching bags often. Her brain flashed to an image of him working out shirtless and her breath stuttered.

  Don’t go there. She shook her head clear. “How long have you known Adalia was out?”

  “Since the first morning I came here.” He pivoted his hip to put more power behind the punch. The mounting brackets clanged.

  “Why wasn’t I notified of her release?”

  The dangerous edge of his temper surged briefly. His shoulders jerked. His hands fell to his sides and he stared at the bag with his chest heaving. “She wasn't released.”

  Maggie leaned forward, not sure she’d heard him correctly. He’d spoken so quietly. “Excuse me?”

  “She escaped.”

  Swarmed with building heat, she gritted her teeth. “The woman killed my husband. Shouldn’t I have been told?”

  He sighed and turned to her. Anguish deepened the laugh lines around his eyes. “It wasn’t my decision.”

  No apologies. No evasions. No explanations. How was she supposed to argue with a man who wouldn’t argue?

  Instead, he stood before her with sweat soaking his hair and running down his temples. His T-shirt clung tightly to his chiseled torso and had her thinking more about the masterful sculpture that was his body. She’d love to explore him, to again feel the press of him against her.

  She bit into her lower lip. Sweaty men had never done it for her. Harte did. The leashed power he’d only partially shown as he ripped into the bag amazed her. Aroused her when she shouldn’t be aroused.

  Focus! She swung her legs off the bench and went to Harte. Struggling to organize her thoughts, she took the gloves he’d removed and carried them to the storage cabinet. His spicy and masculine scent trailed her. Awareness fluttered in her gut. “I need answers.”

  She hadn’t been afraid of him when he’d looked ready to murder, but now, with raw energy pulsing off him,
he threatened her. She craved him. His passion. His ability to make her forget her own name with a brief kiss. Adalia wasn’t the only thing she needed answers about, but she was priority.

  He said nothing. Maggie turned back to see him on the floor inspecting the bar extending out the base of the bag. When he stood, he looked at the ceiling, grinning.

  Now that’s power.

  His pleasure with the bag filled her with pleasure. She liked that he’d found something in her home that pleased him. Too much of that pleasure was detrimental to her safety.

  “This is genius. Who did it?”

  “Me.”

  His head jerked to her in shock. “You?”

  “Yes.” He could have sounded a little less archaic in his shock. “You see, we little women aren’t helpless. We don’t need chauvinistic men around to do things for us, tell us what to think, or when to move.”

  “I never said you were helpless.” He wrinkled his brow and slid his gaze down her body before slowly working his way back up. “And I’m not a chauvinist.”

  “Great. Then behave as if you believe that.” His survey of her body had her blood sizzling…not entirely from anger. “Why wasn’t I told Adalia was out? Why is she here?”

  “I don’t have those answers.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, braced her legs apart. She’d wanted to be calm and rational. Too bad. “Harte—”

  “Mags—” He stepped forward with a hand out. “Maggie, can’t you trust me on this?”

  “I could ask the same of you. Things were sane until you showed up. But now a woman has been killed, I’ve dealt with one screwed up prank after another, and my husband’s killer has been in my home. You give me no answers, but want me to trust you.”

  “It would be easier.”

  “For you.” Unable to stand still and unwilling to pace nervously, she moved to the punching bag. Bending down, she slid the pole from the floor up into the base of the bag. “You should have warned me.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  She opened her mouth and then shut it. Disbelief gripped her throat. “You’re trying to decide if I’m somehow involved. Do you think I as somehow responsible for Mike being there that day?”