In the bathroom, Alyssa stripped off her clothes and put her T-shirt in a sink full of cold water. She would put it in the washer in the morning. All she could think about was sleep. Back in the bedroom, she slipped into a cotton nightgown and crawled into bed.
Despite her lightheadedness and fatigue, Alyssa had one clear thought as she turned off the lamp. Nick Trammel was an enigma. When Isabella had made that noise, and he grabbed her arm protectively, there had been a strange look on his face. An intensity that had unnerved her.
Then, when it turned out to be just the cat, unguarded relief had shown on his face. And being close to him had made Alyssa’s heart flutter more than it had even when, at the age of sixteen, she had a crush on Carl Tadley, Aunt Ellen’s business partner.
In Nick Trammel’s presence, her heart had fluttered even more than it had two years ago when she thought she loved David Johnson, a fellow teacher, enough to marry him. Until she caught him with another woman. His lame excuse had been the end of that romance.
Nick Trammel was handsome and sexy, but Alyssa had too much on her mind to fall into another relationship. Besides, intuition told her he was emotionally dangerous.
She settled herself under the covers. Weariness rolled over her. A large black car loomed at the edge of her memory. A hazy image tugged at her thoughts, but before she grasped the importance of the discovery, she slept.
Chapter 3
Nick backed down Alyssa’s driveway and glanced up at the house. A light went on in the upstairs window on the left. Alyssa’s bedroom, he mentally marked it. A sign painted on a large slab of irregularly shaped wood hung over the porch, to the right of the door: Ellen’s Attic – Antiques & Fine Estate Jewelry.
Out on the street, he cruised to the corner, then on to the next corner where he made a left turn, went around a few blocks, and then turned back onto Alyssa’s street. He cut the headlights, coasted to a stop opposite her house and turned off the ignition. Her across-the-street neighbors’ house was dark, and a couple of newspapers sat on the porch. Fewer people to remark on his presence.
After a few minutes, what he assumed was the bedroom light went off. A soft glow illuminated the curtains. Probably a nightlight.
She’d gone to bed. Pleasant dreams, Alyssa Mallory. She would sleep better than he. He opened the car door, slid out and eased it closed. He glanced up and down the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. Half a block away a young couple walked a golden retriever, their voices subdued. They turned the corner and were lost to his sight. The dashboard clock showed twelve forty-one.
The neighborhood had settled into quiet serenity. Nobody was awake to see him in the shadows. He remembered what it had been like in his neighborhood. An oasis of peacefulness in the midst of his troubles.
Damn. Don’t think about it. It hurt too much when he thought about what was lost forever.
Why had those thoughts seemed so close to the surface tonight? He thought he had them buried deep, but they were bubbling up alongside the image of Alyssa Mallory’s face.
He opened the car door and slid back into the driver’s seat. His calm, purposefully monotonous existence had been jarred. This woman was not his responsibility, yet something about her had touched him. The pony tail that made her look younger than she was. The impatience in her hazel eyes, the way she tossed her head, then the accident. The blood –
The other car. The rational part of Nick’s mind wanted to dismiss it, make it an unimportant happening in an otherwise ordinary day. But the preternatural sixth sense he had never lost would not rest.
The Mallory woman would be all right. He didn’t have to babysit her. Yet, he could not leave. He was drawn to her.
One by one, up and down the block, the few lights still on went out. Nick was alone in the shadows cast by the streetlights shining through the trees. The night ahead loomed long and lonely, but he would not sleep. His training was still second nature. He stretched and settled into the seat.
Nick felt every second that passed. The Beemer was not designed for comfortable waiting. It was designed for performance. He dozed, never deeply enough to lose the sounds of the night around him or his sense of smell. Sometime later he roused. One twenty. He would be exhausted in the morning.
Fully awake now, he stretched. He should have gotten coffee at the nearby convenience store. For the first time in three years he wanted a cigarette. The thought of Alyssa’s face covered with blood quashed his desire to smoke.
Stupid, he told himself. This wasn’t doing her any good. There was nothing to indicate any problem. The thought of the other car haunted him. If he went home, he wouldn’t sleep anyway. So he might as well stay where he was.
Two a.m. came and went. A car meandered down the street and turned into a driveway. Bars were closing. Still, he waited.
At Alyssa’s bedroom window a slight breeze pulled the curtains tight against the screen. The faint glow of the nightlight played a shadow on the curtain. He blinked, but the shadow remained. Was there someone inside, stalking an unsuspecting, sleeping woman?
Adrenaline sped his heart up. He grabbed the tire iron from under the seat. An unobtrusive, effective weapon. He got out of the car and eased the door shut.
Quick, furtive bounds took him across the street and into the front yard where he stood with his back against a huge maple. Hidden in the shadows he had a clear view of the second floor windows.
The shape in the window arched its back and stretched. The cat. Relief flooded through him. He leaned against the tree, choking on laughter that bubbled up inside him. He turned to go back to the car.
A cry split the darkness, piercing Nick’s heart. Alyssa, screaming. He did not hesitate. He ran to the back of the house.
The door was locked from inside. He remembered locking it. He tapped the tire iron against the window glass. It shattered. For a second he froze. Would she hear it and freak out? Was there an alarm? Too late. He reached inside, fumbled the lock open and pushed the door back. Silence greeted him.
He squeezed his eyes shut to help them adjust to the dark, then opened them quickly. Up the stairs on your toes, he coached himself. Keep to the edges to minimize squeaks.
The upstairs door gave with no resistance. Not locked. The thought of the locked door downstairs bothered him. How could anybody have gotten in through the back door? No one breaking in would lock it behind them. Fear knotted his stomach. Had someone been in the house all along?
He slipped inside and froze against the wall, scanning the dim room, placing furniture by memory. The streetlights illuminated faint outlines. No one.
Alyssa groaned. Nick crossed to her bedroom door, tire iron raised. He flung the door open. She sat upright in bed, fair hair tousled, the sheet clutched to her breasts, eyes wide and staring. She did not react to his presence. Tear tracks gleamed on her cheeks.
“No, no, no,” she said over and over.
There was nobody else in the room. Dreaming. She was dreaming. Nick dropped the tire iron on the foot of the bed.
“Alyssa.” He fumbled with the bedside lamp. Finally, he found the switch, and light flooded the room.
“Hey,” he said and sat on the edge of the bed. He took her shoulders gently, conscious of her nearness, her warmth, and ‒ in spite of the tough exterior she showed the world ‒ her vulnerability. “Wake up. You’re dreaming. Wake up.”
She jerked her head back, her eyes not focussing on him. “Oh God. Uncle Henry. The gun.” She covered her mouth with one hand.
He held her gently, afraid of being rebuffed, and yet, not wanting to be drawn into her tangled emotions. He patted her back with an awkwardness he’d not felt with a woman in a long time. He had never known what to do when women cried. It always reduced him to helplessness. Whatever had been in Alyssa’s dream brought him uncomfortably close to his own nightmares.
“Shh,” he said. “It’s okay. It was a dream. It can’t hurt you.” Dreams could hurt. His did.
Alyssa stiffened and looked at him
and then the tire iron. She scooted away from him and pulled the sheet to her chin. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” Her eyes were hard and suspicious, not frightened. As if reality could not scare her, only dreams.
Nick sighed. Explanations were always required, which in turn, needed more explanation, and sometimes weren’t believed anyway. He hated lying but had no choice. He slipped into it easily, remembering the rules of the successful liar: tell just enough truth to make it reasonable, tell the truth about things that are easily checked.
“I was worried about you,” he said. “I didn’t like the idea of leaving you here alone. So when I couldn’t get to sleep, I thought I’d come over and check on you. It’s just a few blocks. I was outside when I heard you scream.” Mostly the truth.
Her body did not relax. “So how did you get in?”
He mustered what he hoped was a disarming smile. “I’m afraid I owe you a glass panel for your back door. I broke it.” He paused to gauge her reaction. She was still waiting, keeping him on the defensive, letting him talk his way into a corner. The woman wasn’t stupid.
Time to turn the tables. “And you,” he said, pointing at her, “left your upstairs door unlocked.”
“Oh. I was so dopey from that pill, I forgot. And I didn’t set the alarm.”
He’d been believed and forgiven. Trusted, perhaps.
Alyssa released her grip on the sheet, and it slipped down. “Thank you.”
Nick gazed at her nightgown. The lace at the neckline had tiny pink roses entwined in it. A blush spread up Alyssa’s throat and into her cheeks. Even tousled and tear-stained she was attractive.
“You’re welcome, of course,” he said.
“I think I’m all right, now.”
“Good, good.”
“If you would get off my bed and out of my bedroom, I could stand up and see if I am. All right, I mean.”
Nick sprang to his feet. “Oh, here, let me help you.” He reached out to her.
“I’m not dressed for company.”
“I took you to an emergency clinic tonight, and I just broke down your door. I know we’re not best friends, but I’m not exactly company.”
Alyssa’s color deepened. “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just have never had my door broken down in the middle of the night by a man with a tire iron. And I’m not sure what to do now.”
She looked so distressed Nick found himself smiling. “I have to admit I don’t do this very often. And I’m not sure what to do, either.” He paused to consider. “Two things. First, we should get you on your feet and see if you’re okay. Second, we could get us both a cup of coffee.”
She smiled slightly. “Okay. Why not? I’m awake now.”
Nick took her elbow and helped her to her feet. She did not pull away, but she did not lean on him. The sheet fell away, revealing a thin nightgown that struck Alyssa mid-thigh.
Lovely slim legs. He pushed the thought from his mind. What was he thinking? Not with his head, that was sure.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Maybe you’d make us coffee while I splash water on my face. I think I’ll be up for a while.”
“Meet you in the kitchen.”
Alyssa smiled. She was beautiful when she smiled. “Deal.”
Moments later at the bathroom sink, Alyssa washed her face to clear away the dregs of her nightmare. After this incredible evening, it was no wonder she’d had the dream again. It was always a repetition of the reality of fifteen years ago.
***
She is twelve years old. Aunt Ellen is off at her bridge club. Alyssa sits in the office of the shop on a stool slightly behind Uncle Henry’s rolltop desk. The small space is lit by a desk lamp, but the shop beyond the doorway is dark. Uncle Henry sits at the desk humming while he makes notes in his account book. The familiar smell of his pipe is comforting to her. Alyssa hunches over her own book.
“So, Lyssa,” Uncle Henry says. “What you reading there, m’dear?”
“Oh, just a book.”
“Hmm, just a book, eh? I guess that means a grownup book that your Auntie wouldn’t approve of.”
“Uncle Henry, I’m not a child.”
“Um-hm,” Uncle Henry says. He reaches across and puts his finger in the book so he won’t lose her place, then lifts it and stares at the title.
“Nineteen Eighty-four,” he says solemnly.
She holds her breath, hoping he won’t disapprove.
He looks over his bifocals at her. “Is it any good?”
“Yes, I think so.” She breathes out.
“Do you understand it?”
“Not all of it.”
“But you want to read it anyway.”
She nods. “I saw the reading list for high school. Now I know what it means when people say ‘Big Brother is watching’.”
“Well, don’t let me stand in the way of your literary leanings.” Uncle Henry hands the book back and smiles at her. “When you finish it, we’ll talk about it.”
“You won’t tell Aunt Ellen?”
Her uncle snorts. “What? And admit I let you stay up an hour past your bedtime on her bridge night?” He winks at her.
She laughs. “You always do.”
“Not so, Miss. Only when I need your help, or your company.”
“But that’s always.”
Uncle Henry sighs. “Lord save me from logical women. Are you complaining, Lyssa?”
She shakes her head. Her hair brushes the sides of her face. She is growing it longer because Uncle Henry says it’s the color of golden oak.
“Well, then,” he says. “Just go back to your reading.”
Except for Henry’s occasional humming and puffing on his pipe, silence again reigns while Alyssa reads.
Finally, he sets aside the stack of receipts and bills and closes his book. He taps his pipe into a big ashtray on top of the desk, then rolls down the desk top.
“That’s it, Lyssa,” he says. “Let’s call it a night and send you off to bed.”
She closes her book, and Uncle Henry rises from his chair and turns off the desk lamp. Light filters in from the back entrance. She savors the last few moments before her uncle motions her up. Through the open window comes the sounds of crickets chirping in the soft spring night. The neighbor’s toy poodle yaps. Chasing a squirrel at night?
Other sounds: a rustle, a slight squeak from the front of the house that is the shop. Then a soft pat, pat, pat, moving closer to them.
Footsteps? Not Aunt Ellen. She isn’t due for another half hour, and she would come in the back door. Uncle Henry puts a finger to his lips, motioning her to silence. He steps to the doorway between the office and the shop. From her seat she cannot see the shop. Her view is blocked by the roll top desk. Uncle Henry cocks his head, listening, and then puts a hand to his chest. A grimace passes over his face.
“Lyssa, there’s someone out there.” His voice is a hoarse whisper. “Get the gun, Lyssa. Fetch the gun for me.”
Fear knots inside her. Uncle Henry wouldn’t ask her for the gun unless something was terribly wrong. It’s on the shelf above her head. All she has to do is reach up. She cannot move. She is too frightened.
“Lyssa.” Uncle Henry’s voice is tight. “The gun. Hand me the gun.”
None of her muscles will respond. In the shop, something clatters. A man curses. Not a voice she recognizes.
Henry presses on his chest. “Who’s there?” he calls. A gunshot rips the silence of the night and blazes its way indelibly into her memory. Uncle Henry takes a step backward, staggers and crumples to the floor.
More sounds from the shop. Glass shatters. The front door slams.
Alyssa sits with her feet tucked up on the top rung of the stool. She is frozen, can barely breathe.
Aunt Ellen and the police find her, sitting on the stool, staring, seeing nothing. When they touch her, she collapses. Mr. Wilson, a neighbor, carries her upstairs into her own room. For six hours she barely moves, breathing shallow breaths, her ey
es shut, although she sometimes hears vague bits of conversation:
“... just awful ....” “... robber ....” “... not shot, heart attack ....”
And Aunt Ellen crying. Alyssa hasn’t heard her cry since the accident that had claimed the lives of Alyssa’s family.
When Alyssa opens her eyes, her bedside clock says 5:36 a.m. She struggles to sit up and screams, one long, thin, piercing shriek. Aunt Ellen and the Wilsons, who have stayed, come running.
“Uncle Henry,” Alyssa says. “The man ... the gun. I couldn’t help.”
Ellen hugs her with a fierce protectiveness. “Hush, child. No one could help. There was no help for it.”
***
Alyssa shuddered at the memory of the dream. Her stomach roiled. Must be from the painkiller. Bad dreams and an arrogant man who had wheedled his way into her life.
She pushed the memories back down into the recesses of her mind and blotted her face on a towel. This time her scream had brought a tall stranger to her side. Was Nick being honest with her? Had he really just come back to check on her, or was he stalking her? She dismissed the thought. There was nothing creepy about him. The campus officer had vouched for him, and he had been a gentleman.
A gentle man with quick, brown eyes and a handsome face. He had broken into her house to rescue her and was at that moment making coffee in her kitchen. It was so absurd she almost laughed. Now she must face him, her white knight, her housebreaker, whatever and whoever he was. Alyssa slipped into the robe she left on the hook on the back of the door. She was awake, and nightmares couldn’t hurt her when she was awake.
She tightened the tie about her waist.
Bella followed her into the kitchen. Alyssa hadn’t noticed the cat was missing. She’d probably retreated to her hiding place under the bed when Nick showed up so unceremoniously.
Alyssa felt woozy and sank into a chair while Nick brought down two dark blue mugs from the cupboard.
“I see you found the coffee,” she said.
He nodded. “To the right of the sink, directly above the coffee maker. It was a logical place for it.”
Double Danger Page 4