“We’ll call his provider, see if we can triangulate a signal.”
“Call me back if you get something. I need to know where the bastard is. And I want an update on Patrick as soon as you have one.”
“Will do.”
Tucker hung up and sighed. All hell had broken loose, and Wren never bothered to fill him in. What was he going to say to her? How the hell was he supposed to tell her? She adored Patrick—had defended him viciously the two times he’d brought him up as a suspect. He shoved his phone in its holder and made his way to the dining room.
He stopped in the doorway, studying her. Her cheeks were pale and her shoulders tense—her movements jerky while her leg bobbed up and down under the table. She looked so small and vulnerable in her oversized red sweater. He clenched his jaw and steamed out a breath through his nose. “Cooke.”
Her gaze whipped to his, and she froze, then looked down at her laptop again. “What?”
This wasn’t going to be any easier after the way he’d left things a couple hours ago. He’d handled the news of the Brookes girl’s death poorly. The details of her murder were strikingly similar to Staci’s. He rubbed at the tingle along the back of his neck and dismissed the troubling clench in his gut. Similar didn’t mean there was a connection. Seven years in Homicide taught him that no matter how hard he chased down leads, he wasn’t always going to catch the bad guy. He’d never gotten justice for Staci. God knows he’d tried, searching the DNA databanks every six months for years, but there had never been a match. He’d learned to distance himself from the day-to-day sorrows of violent death, thank God, but Alyssa Brookes’ murder got under his skin. “We need to talk.”
“Can’t. I’m working.” She glanced at her phone, then back at the computer.
“Detective Romano just called.” That got her attention.
She stood. “He said he was going to call me back. Why did he call you?”
“Wren.”
“Don’t.” Her voice quaked with fear, and she pressed her lips together. “Don’t call me that. You never call me that.” Her eyes filled. “Don’t look at me like you’re sorry.”
His heart ached for her as he walked to her and brushed his hands down her arms.
“What’s wrong with Patrick?”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sit down.”
She jerked away. “Just tell me what’s wrong with Patrick.”
“He should be at the hospital by now.”
“Why?” She clutched her arms across her chest. “What happened? Is he going to be okay?”
“They life flighted him—”
“Life-flighted?”
“Yeah, to General. He’s critical.”
“Critical,” she whispered as she gripped her sleeves tighter.
“He has a head injury.”
“He fell.”
He wanted to let her believe what she chose, but the truth would come out eventually. It was better to give her the facts all at once. He shook his head. “No.”
“Then what else?”
“He was hit over the head with some lamp in his living room.”
Her eyes grew huge. “The blue urn lamp?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Yes, it has to be. It’s so heavy.” Her voice broke and she pressed her fingers to her lips.
He took a step toward her, wanting to comfort. “Wren.”
She took a step back. “The man who’s stalking me—he did this?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Yes you are. You’re as sure as I am that it was him.” She strained to talk over the emotions clogging her throat. “This is all my fault.” She turned away as she fought to control her ragged breathing.
“Wren.” He walked up behind her and gripped her shoulders.
“No.” She struggled to step away.
He held her firm, wrapping his arms around her waist as he pressed his cheek to hers. “This is not your fault.”
“I ran for safety and left him to deal with the rest. Why wouldn’t Patrick be a target?” she choked out. “The text yesterday. He didn’t send me that message. And he didn’t call in sick to the Cartwrights either.”
“Did you ever tell him where you were?”
“No, but I should have. I should have brought him with me. How long has he been laying there?”
He clenched his jaw, feeling helpless as Wren fought to keep herself together.
She whirled. “How long?”
He took her hands, holding her gaze. “They think a couple of days.”
“My God.” She closed her eyes and tears spilled down her cheeks. “I need to—I need to…” She gestured toward their rooms.
He nodded. “I’ll come with you.”
“Alone.” She tugged to free her hand.
He held tight. “Cooke.”
“Alone.”
He released her, and she grabbed her phone as she walked away. “Son of a bitch.” He bunched his fists at his side, trying to respect her need for space, but her dark, devastated eyes and ghostly white cheeks wouldn’t let him. “Screw this.” He started down the hall after her, gave a quick tap of knuckles against the door, and turned the knob, letting himself in when she didn’t answer. Her back was to him as she pulled open a drawer and set a small pile of shirts on the dresser top.
“I need to speak with Grant please. Wren.” She shook her head. “Cooke. His daughter. Yes, I assure you he does have a daughter and a son. I need to speak with him immediately. It’s an emergency.” She closed the drawer and opened the next. “Dad. My assistant, Patrick Stone, was life-flighted to General a few minutes ago. Head trauma. I need you to check on him and tell me if he’s going to be okay.” She cleared her throat, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Yes, right this minute. Your meeting can wait. I’ve never asked you for anything, but I am now. Just this once, pretend to be my father and help your daughter. Thank you.” She hung up and stood perfectly still, clutching her phone in a white-knuckled grip.
“Hey.”
She whirled. “I said I wanted to be alone.”
“I heard you.”
She sniffled and brought her clothes to the open suitcase on her bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Going home to Patrick.”
He sighed, understanding that this wasn’t going to end well. “No you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. I’m all he has.” A tear fell and she wiped it away.
“He has parents and a sister.”
She glanced up and held his gaze. “How did you know—ah, your investigation.” She shook her head. “I’m sure Detective Owens missed the part about his family disowning him because he’s gay.” She turned, heading for the bathroom.
Tucker followed, watching as she tossed makeup into a sapphire-colored travel case. “I’m sorry for Patrick, Wren. I’m sorry for you. I know how much he means to you, but you’re not going anywhere.”
She flung her toothpaste and toothbrush in the case. “Don’t tell me what I will and won’t do. I’m leaving.” She grabbed her shampoo and conditioner from the shower.
“Your safety is my responsibility, and I’m telling you we’re staying put.”
“Not anymore,” she scoffed as she zipped her case and skirted around him. “You’re fired.”
“I’m fired? I’m fired? Are you fucking kidding me?” He caught her arm and yanked her around. “I’m not your goddamn employee, and you’re not going anywhere.”
She threw her travel case among her clothes, zipped her luggage, and headed for the door with her suitcase in hand. “Watch me.”
Enough was enough. He walked forward and pulled the Samsonite from her grip. “Give it up, Wren.”
She whi
rled. “Give me my bag.”
“Drop the tough-as-nails act. Go sit down and think for a minute.”
“I am thinking—about Patrick.”
“And I’m thinking about you.”
“I don’t need you to think about me. I don’t need you at all.”
Her shattered eyes and trembling lips told him different. “Maybe, but you’re stuck with me.”
She yanked up her purse and walked out of the room without looking back.
He dropped her case and hurried after her, breaking into a half jog, realizing she was almost to the door. “Damn it, Cooke.” If she made it to the Jeep before he got to her… He grabbed her and she turned, shoving him back a step.
“I said I don’t need you!” She reached for the doorknob.
He yanked her back against him.
She fought his hold. “Let me go.”
“That’s enough.” He turned her to face him and braced her up against the solid wood.
“Let me go.” She shoved and punched as her breath heaved in and out.
He captured her wrists and pinned them against the door, shoving his face close to hers. “Enough, Wren.”
She froze, gasping, looking into his eyes as tears raced down her cheeks.
“Enough,” he said gently, still holding her in place.
She fisted her hands, fighting herself more than him. “I need to go,” she shuddered out before she couldn’t hold back the torrents of emotion any longer. Powerful, racking sobs burst from her body, and she pressed her forehead to his heart.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding tight as he brushed his hand down her soft hair.
“Oh, God,” she cried against his chest, completely undone.
“Come on.” He gathered her up, walking to the bedroom, sitting in the chaise lounge close to the fireplace, cocooning her against him.
“He needs me, Tucker. He needs someone to be there with him,” she said between sobs.
He traced circles along her back. “We’ll make sure someone’s with him.”
“But it won’t be me.”
“No, not for now.”
“What if he doesn’t make it?”
“He’s receiving the best care possible.”
“Please take me home, Tucker.” She lifted her head off his chest and held his gaze. “Please.”
She was breaking his heart. “Don’t do that, Cooke. Don’t look at me with those devastated eyes and ask for something you know I can’t give you.”
“Please.” Her lips trembled, and another tear fell.
He slid his finger along her jaw. “There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for you.” He kissed her temple and pressed her palm to his heart. “You got me, Cooke. But I can’t take you home. We can’t risk it. I can’t risk you.”
Nodding, she bit her lip, suppressing the trembling. “I’ll never forgive myself if he dies alone.”
He wanted to tell her Patrick was going to survive, but he just didn’t know. “He won’t be alone.” He pulled his phone from its case and dialed Jerrod Quinn.
“Quinn.”
“It’s Campbell. You keeping an eye on Abby today?”
“No. She and Alexa are with Jackson.”
“Good. I need a favor.”
“What’s up?”
“Wren’s friend, Patrick Stone, was attacked. He was life-flighted to General about an hour ago. Last we heard, he was critical. Can you go stay with him—bring your badge, tell Detective Owens I sent you over on behalf of Ethan Cooke Security. He’ll go with the flow.”
“Yeah, man. I’ll head right over.”
And that’s what friends were for. Jerrod was fairly new to the Cooke team, but he fit right in, making a great addition. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem.”
Tucker hung up and slid his phone away. “Jerrod’s heading over. We’ll find someone to stay with him tomorrow and every day after until we can get home.”
Her breath rushed out on another sob as she wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He returned her embrace, content to stay like this for as long as she was.
“Thank you for staying with me.”
He rested his cheek on the top of her head, breathing her in. “Don’t want to be anywhere else.”
“I—” She lifted her head and met his gaze. “I need you.”
“I know.”
“You scare me.”
He winked. “I know that too. I meant what I said when I told you you’ve got me, Wren.” No one had ever tangled him up the way she did.
She closed her eyes.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
She met his stare.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She studied him as he spoke.
He touched his lips to hers, hopeful for the first time that she might actually believe him.
“What are we going to do?”
He wrapped her up again and leaned more comfortably in the chair. “Stay put until the authorities figure this mess out.”
“That’s not enough.”
“No, it’s not, but it’s the best we can do for now.”
She sighed and rested her head against his shoulder, clinging for the first time.
Chapter 13
Wren put away the last of the groceries Ms. Hayes’ grandson dropped off, desperately wanting to stay busy. The next order of business was preparing the pot roast—with all the fixings. She shuddered at the thought of eating, but making a meal was something to do.
She hadn’t been able to settle since her father called back with an update. Patrick was in bad shape. If he survived the next few days, permanent brain damage was likely. She clutched the canvas grocer’s bag, fighting another round of helpless tears. Patrick needed her more than ever, and she couldn’t be there for him.
Tucker opened the glass-fronted door of the gym and stepped out, sweaty and gorgeous in his ratty shorts. “You holding up over there?”
“Yes.” She gave him a small smile, knowing that’s what he wanted.
“I’m going to shower off real quick. The alarm’s set. Don’t open the door for anyone.”
“I won’t.” She stared after him as he walked down the hall, nibbling her lip, worrying. Tucker was becoming too important. She was starting to rely on him, and not just for her safety. Her life was careening out of control. One of the people she loved most was fighting to survive hundreds of miles away, and there was nothing she could do to fix it. Her business was falling apart, and she couldn’t leave Utah. The weight of the last few days had finally crushed her to a pulp, and Tucker had been there, holding her while she cried like she never had before, being everything she didn’t know she needed.
Her heart had done a wild flip-flop as she lay cradled against his firm chest and he told her ‘she’d gotten him.’ As she stared into his gorgeous hazel eyes, comforted by his strong arms wrapped around her she’d wanted to be ‘gotten.’ For the first time ever, she’d been tempted to toss caution aside and see where things could go. That alone terrified her, but there was so much more. All these feelings… What would happen when she couldn’t resist Tucker any longer? For surely it was only a matter of time before she was completely sunk—if she wasn’t already.
Her eyes grew wide and she shook her head. No. She was being over-emotional. Her spirits were at an all-time low. She was vulnerable, that was all. Nothing had changed. Tucker was still Tucker, and she was the same old Wren.
In defense against her own thoughts, she preheated the oven and pulled carrots from the refrigerator, washed them, and peeled them within an inch of their lives. Petite red potatoes were scrubbed next, and onions quartered. She tossed them in a roasting pan, along with the
thick beef round and a healthy dash of salt and pepper, then slid them on the rack.
Now what? She glanced at her computer, unable to bear the idea of work—another first. She’d tried to get back to the grind after she climbed off of Tucker, promising him that she was going to be all right, but after several of Lenora’s friends e-mailed their thanks-but-no-thanks on proposed bids for new projects and her long conversation with Brice Movenbeck, she’d lost her motivation to fight a losing battle. Brice had been gracious and understanding once she explained her situation and Patrick’s, but her insistence to refund her fees and deeply discount all furnishings and accents for their huge inconvenience had immediately put Cooke Interiors in the red. She would be eating several thousand dollars in lost profits, and with so many potential new clients turning her away, there wouldn’t be many options to recoup her losses. A rush of nausea twisted her stomach as she thought of her bottom line and the amount of money she would have to cough up for her vendors and Lenora Cartwright. The quarter of a million in product alone for Lenora’s unfinished pool house was going to destroy her.
JT had e-mailed moments after her conversation with Brice, sharing that his mother called him in a snit about the current situation. He assured her he was doing everything in his power to convince her to reconsider her lawsuit, but Wren already understood Lenora wouldn’t back down.
At wits’ end and no longer sure of what to do, she turned away from her laptop and stacked the canvas bags Ms. Hayes would come for tomorrow. She rubbed at the achy tension squeezing the back of her neck and looked toward the wing she and Tucker shared. Now what?
Business was off the table—at least for a little while, and dinner was well on its way. Perhaps she would follow Tucker’s example and indulge in a shower. A long, warm soak was just what she needed. Hopefully the water would loosen the knots along her shoulder blades. She started toward her room, liking the idea of soothing steam and fragrant soaps more and more. Maybe she could find a radio station that played classical—not her typical idea of good music, but what the hell? Patrick always said it helped him relax, so she would give it a try.
Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series) Page 18