by Rita Herron
Before he reached the porch, Detective Moss flung open the front door. “Hi Trevor, nice to have you on the case. I’ve got to run if I’m going to get the kids to school on time. Merry,” she called back over her shoulder, “this is Detective Adkins.”
Trevor waved at Amanda as he stepped up to the front door and scowled at the narrow strip of face he could see. “Good morning, Mrs. Randolph. Like Amanda said, I’m Trevor Adkins. I’ll be your new day-shift detective,” he said dryly. “Replacing Roger Stokes.”
When the door finally opened, Trevor ran slap into a pair of wide green eyes under a red Santa hat. Black hair framed a heart-shaped face, and a lovely, sensual mouth showed a hint of white teeth above a determined chin.
The Santa hat was a shock. His usual aversion to anything connected with Christmas warred with an unwelcome stirring of lust as he took in the faint pink glow of the woman’s cheeks and her hesitant smile.
So this was the widow. She was familiar, and not just from TV news spots. He’d noticed those lovely emerald-green eyes before.
He scowled and concentrated on his assignment. “You got word that I’m taking Detective Stokes’s place over Christmas?”
“Yes.” She took a step backward, still hanging on to the door. “But Amanda will be back tonight, right?” The quaver in her voice matched the wariness in her eyes.
“That’s right.”
A flicker of relief passed across her face. He frowned down at her, confused for an instant, before it dawned on him.
She was afraid of him. Of course. He’d seen that look before, usually in rape victims. A fearful mistrust of men that for some victims never went away.
He quelled an odd urge to apologize to her for invading her privacy. Then he nearly laughed at himself for even considering it. She was under his protection, and he would never violate her trust. She’d figure that out soon enough, then she’d relax.
He stepped past her into the modest living room. The sight that greeted him almost knocked him to his knees.
Every square inch of floor space was covered with Christmas. A sea of gold Ducharmes Christmas bags overflowing with ornaments, flowed into dozens of red and pink poinsettias in brightly wrapped pots. To his left, dwarfing the heavily draped picture window, stood a monstrous Christmas tree, aglow with white twinkling lights.
“What the—” The damn woman must have cleaned out her store’s Christmas department.
A staggering horror built inside him and streaked like electricity out to his fingers and toes. He felt the blood drain from his face. The smell of mulberry and cedar turned his stomach.
Images he’d banished to the dark side of his heart swirled around him—long, bright corridors, sympathetic faces, the low soft lights of the hospital’s chapel.
Trevor squeezed his eyes shut. He’d never passed out in his life, but there was always a first time. Grabbing the back of the couch, he sucked in a deep breath as he struggled to ground himself in the present.
“What the hell is all this?” he rasped when he could finally speak.
“I—I asked the store to send over some Christmas decorations. No one had decorated the house.” Her voice went from shaky to defiant in the space of those few words.
“This is not a store window. It’s a safe house,” he said harshly.
He heard her take an impatient breath. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“So that’s what the damn truck was delivering.” The captain was a coward. He knew Trevor’s history. He could have warned him.
Well, the stuff would just have to go back. He would not be subjected to Christmas. He’d taken this job to avoid the damn holiday and the tragic memories attached to it.
He turned, prepared to take the heat for ruining her little Christmas decorating party.
“Oh, God—” His chest tightened and his head spun as he took his first good look at the young, glowing woman in front of him. He gripped the back of the couch more tightly and fought the surge of dizziness and gut-wrenching nausea that broadsided him.
“You’re pregnant!”
Confused, Merry Randolph stared at the detective’s chiseled features. His mouth was compressed so tightly, the corners of his lips were white.
“Well, of course I’m pregnant. How could you possibly not know?” Her every move had been chronicled by the media for the past nine months. “My husband’s helicopter accident, then the attack, have made me the favorite local news filler for the entire Atlanta area these past months.” She tasted the bitterness that colored her voice.
Trevor Adkins didn’t move a muscle. He just stood there, his face drained of color, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Detective, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He wiped a hand over his face and shot her a hard glance, then turned away and shrugged out of his black leather jacket.
With his back to her, he didn’t seem quite so intimidating. She’d felt comfortable with Detective Stokes, a big bear of a man whose size hid a sweet, fatherly disposition.
Detective Adkins had been here less than five minutes and already her emotions were in turmoil.
Despite her unease around men since her attack, she couldn’t ignore her new bodyguard’s body. She’d thought his jacket had shoulder pads. It didn’t. Those shoulders were all his.
Faded jeans hugged his long, sturdy legs so perfectly that a few designers she knew would be green with envy. A shoulder holster criss-crossed his black T-shirt, emphasizing the ripples of muscles in his back and arms. His movements were smooth, with no wasted effort, as he checked his weapon.
He should have been a model.
No. Merry corrected herself. This man was too predatory, too tense to be comfortable on a runway. He’d probably break the photographer’s camera after one minute of orders to turn and gyrate and pose. She almost smiled. Touching her mouth, she tried to remember the last time she’d felt like smiling.
He angled his head, as if he’d sensed her scrutiny, then rounded on her. “Do you realize you placed yourself in jeopardy by having all this delivered?”
She recoiled at the fury in his voice.
“That Ducharmes truck might as well have sported a banner, This Way To The Witness.” He shook his head, his voice as cold as the wind outside.
Merry’s heart pounded and she bit her lip. She should have thought of that. But in her defense, this was Ducharmes’ busiest time of year. “Ducharmes has trucks making deliveries all over the city.”
The detective shot her a disgusted look. “Not in abandoned neighborhoods.”
She had no response for that.
“I’m here to protect you from a suspected killer, not deal with a house full of Christmas crap. This is serious business.”
Frustration burned in Merry’s stomach, then morphed into determination. She’d never had a real, homey Christmas. Not once. Her parents preferred the jet-setting lifestyle, and her twin sister had taken after them. Merry had spent Christmas all over the world, but never at home.
But this year, the worst year of her life, she would, for her baby’s sake. She was certain her little guy would be born this week, and no matter what happened, he would find Christmas waiting for him.
“Detective, I’m aware of how serious my situation is. A man who may be a serial killer is out on bail, and he knows I can identify him.” She lifted her chin. “I can only imagine what you think of me. But if I stay in this house, it will be decorated for my baby’s first Christmas.” To her utter dismay, she felt a tear spill over and drip down her cheek.
Stop playing havoc with my hormones, little guy!
She flicked the tear away. She would not cry in front of Scrooge McCop. She turned her back and picked up a crystal ornament from one of the Ducharmes bags. “I apologize if guarding me is keeping you from Christmas with your wife and children,” she said as she stretched to hang the ornament.
He sucked in a long breath. Her shoulders tensed.
“You’re not keeping me f
rom anything. I’m divorced. I don’t have chil—”
He practically choked on the word children. She turned and caught a haunting sadness clouding his eyes.
His sadness pierced her heart like an arrow. She’d unwittingly tapped into a private place inside him, a place she was sure no one ever saw. With a flash of insight, she realized that Detective Adkins wasn’t just a Scrooge who hated the holidays. His gruff manner hid a tragedy—a tragedy that centered around Christmas and children. His children?
Trevor couldn’t look at Merry. The single tear glistening on her cheek had seeped past his defenses.
How had he forgotten she was pregnant?
He remembered now where he’d seen her before. She’d been in the precinct to ID Bonner a few months ago. She’d been accompanied by a medium-height man who’d looked like an alcoholic and who was very attentive to her. She was memorable for two reasons. Her sparkling, emerald-green eyes and her reaction when the detectives had accidentally led Bonner out into the room right in front of her.
How had he noticed her eyes and not her pregnancy? He knew how, of course. He’d pushed that observation into the dark place where he hid all the things that hurt.
He brushed a hand across his eyes. The decorations, the Christmas lights, her radiant face, made them burn.
He fought to regain control. Forcing his unruly emotions back where they belonged, he flopped casually onto the couch and leaned back.
“So, Merry Randolph, take me through the night of your attack.”
Chapter Two
At his mention of her attack, Merry’s gaze faltered, but she lifted her chin. Trevor had to admire her determination as he watched her force herself to speak. “A friend and I had met in a coffee shop. We’d sat and talked until closing time. The parking lot was deserted.”
Her voice was steady, but her hand shook as she picked up another ornament.
“My friend had already driven away. I got into my car and started the engine. Before I could close the door, he was there.” Now her voice held a tremor.
Trevor felt an unwanted urge to hold her, to comfort her, and stop her from reliving the horrible experience, but he restrained himself. He didn’t need to know the specifics of her attack to guard her. Still, he liked to be thorough. He’d read her case file, but written statements never told the whole story.
She was the victim, and dead or alive, the victim was always the key to the truth.
She picked up a little furry teddy bear and held it to her cheek for a second before placing it on the tree. “He pushed me down in the seat and fell on top of me, then put a gun to my head.” She closed her eyes and held her left hand in the shape of a gun, the index finger pointed to her temple.
The sight chilled Trevor’s blood.
“He said ‘Good evening, Mrs. Randolph. You cheated death once. Now it’s time for you to join your husband.’” Her pale face reflected her remembered fear.
Trevor frowned. “There’s no proof he had a gun. All we have is your statement. Can you describe the weapon?”
“Big. Cold.” She shuddered.
“You say he fell on top of you.”
She nodded. “He was heavy.”
Trevor thought about the other widows who’d been shot in the head, each with a different caliber weapon. If her attacker was a serial killer—“Was he aroused?”
“What?” Her eyes widened in shock.
“It’s a theory. Serial killers are often sexually aroused by the killing.”
She bit her lip. “No. He was—nothing. I couldn’t even hear him breathing.”
She’d never mentioned that before. “He didn’t act excited or nervous?”
“Not until I cut him.”
Trevor’s mouth quirked in appreciation of her defiant tone. He could believe she would cut anyone who threatened her or her baby. “Right. You had a razor blade.”
“A box cutter, on my key ring. I always approach my car with the blade exposed, day or night.”
He realized he was staring at her rounded tummy. He looked away. “Because you and your sister were almost kidnapped a number of years ago.”
She cocked her head and sent him a questioning glance. “So, you do know about my case.”
He ignored her. “What else?”
“Nothing else. Everything is in my statement.”
Trevor knew that wasn’t true. People often remembered things later they hadn’t consciously noticed at the time. It wasn’t his case, so he had no idea how thoroughly she’d been questioned.
“Not everything. No statement lists the questions that aren’t asked. What about smell? You claim he had a gun. Had it been fired? Did you smell smoke?”
Merry’s face softened and glowed as she held up another ornament. It was a little baby cradle.
Trevor’s heart wrenched painfully. He’d bought an ornament just like it for his wife for Christmas four years ago. He’d tossed it into the trash after they’d lost the baby. He dragged his eyes away from the hand-painted trinket.
“No. Not smoke. More like bananas.” She froze. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a little O.
Trevor’s body stirred at the sight of her sensual, pursed lips. He gritted his teeth.
“I’d forgotten about that,” she said. “There was a weird smell, like bananas, but more chemical. It was nauseating.”
Trevor sat up, all thoughts of her sexy lips forgotten.
Gun cleaner had a distinctive banana-like odor. Maybe they could prove that Bonner had a gun, if the lab could find traces of the gun cleaner on her clothes. If they could do that, they’d be able to put Bonner away for sure. “You didn’t tell anyone about the smell?”
She shook her head. “I hadn’t remembered it until you asked. All I remembered was trying to get him off me. I cut him pretty bad.”
“Yes, you did. The police found him in the ER. Thirty-five stitches.”
“He deserved a lot worse for what he did to those women.” Her eyes filled with tears.
Those tears were going to be Trevor’s undoing. He tightened his jaw. “You were brave.”
“I was terrified. He yelled and nearly dropped his gun on my chest. I screamed and kicked at him and he fell backward, out of the car. Then he ran and I called 9-1-1.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you.”
“He was bleeding pretty bad.” She hugged herself. “I wish I could give you something to connect him to the other three victims. Is there still nothing?”
Not a damn thing. Trevor stood and started pacing back and forth. “Serial killers can be very organized, but most have a fatal flaw. They’re obsessive. They’re repetitive. They can’t help it, because the reason they kill is linked with the way they kill—their signature. These killings have proven impossible to connect.”
“So Bonner is only being charged with robbery and assault.” Her eyes, full of sadness and fear, met his. “That’s why he’s out on bail, walking the streets, and I’m under guard here.”
He nodded. “He had no priors. Even though you positively identified him, we can’t connect him to the other murders. Can’t put a gun in his possession. All we have is his blood on your clothes, your box cutter and your statement. He claims it was robbery. That he just needed money.”
“He didn’t need money.” Merry hung a star ornament on the tree.
Trevor stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes sparkled as she walked over and took Trevor’s hand. His long fingers dwarfed hers and her creamy skin looked pale against his tan. But her touch ignited something inside him and he wanted to wrap his fingers around hers and pull her close.
He didn’t like these urges. Being a protector was in his job description, and he was good at his job. But he’d also become good at keeping his feelings out of the mix.
“I could tell by his hands. His nails were manicured and buffed.”
The tip of her thumb traced Trev’s blunt-cut nails. Yearning, swift and sharp, tore through him, surpris
ing him. He’d been alone too long. Being so close to Merry, who glowed with ripe womanhood, was torture. He felt awkward, like a horny teenager.
Merry marveled at Trevor’s long, elegant fingers. She’d never thought of hands as sexy. But his were. Their warmth promised safety and comfort and all the things she’d been looking for all her life.
Stop it. She was just emotional. Nine months of pregnancy did that. But she couldn’t resist the urge to entwine her smaller hand in his and take that one step that would put her into his protective embrace.