by Linda Howard
Maybe it wasn’t altered DNA. Maybe it wasn’t a form of mental illness. Maybe she was just being competitive. She was okay with being competitive. If she looked at it that way, trying the damn cake again was more admirable than alien.
But she couldn’t shop effectively with Zeke-the-dragon breathing fire over her shoulder, telling her to hurry. And he would; she could feel the first “hurry it up” coming her way, probably within … say, five minutes, if she wanted to bet with herself.
Well, he could just breathe fire all he wanted, she thought grimly. She was in charge of this expedition, and if he didn’t like doing it her way then he could just find somewhere to sit and wait until she was finished—
Uh-oh. Reality abruptly punched her between the eyes. She looked at her list again and almost groaned aloud. The list itself wasn’t extraordinarily long, but she needed a lot of the items on it. She didn’t need five pounds of flour, she needed at least twenty. Ditto for the sugar. She was buying multiples of literally everything, which meant there was no way it would all go into one cart; she’d need at least two, maybe three—and that meant she needed Zeke.
But along the silver-lining-in-every-cloud line of thought, at least he could do the grunt work.
She jerked and tugged a cart out of the line, shoved it toward him, then freed another one. “Ground rules,” she said tersely. “Don’t try to hurry me up, or I’ll forget something. Don’t mess with me while I’m thinking, or I’ll forget something—”
“How can you forget anything? You have a damn list. Just check off each thing as you get it.”
“And don’t interrupt,” she added. “Any idiot can get what’s on a list. It’s what isn’t on the list that requires creativity.”
“It’s a shopping list, not a work of art.”
“But it isn’t a complete list. That’s why I need to think, and why you need to just follow along and be quiet.”
A thin, elderly white-haired woman wearing jeans, boots, and a denim shirt pushed a cart past them and said, “You tell him, honey.”
Zeke gave his head a little shake as he watched the elderly woman walk away and, raising his voice, said wryly, “Thanks, Mrs. G.”
“You’re welcome, darling.” Mrs. G. never looked back, just trundled on into the produce section where she stopped and began examining every offering of lettuce.
Carlin pursed her lips thoughtfully, then cut her gaze up at him. “Ex-girlfriend?”
“First-grade teacher.”
For some reason, imagining him as a gap-toothed six-year-old made her stomach squeeze. As she’d cleaned the house she’d seen a couple of pictures of him—not many, which made her think he’d probably packed most of them away—so she had a good idea of how his adolescent face had morphed into the hard-edged features of the man, but she hadn’t seen any of him as a child. It kind of made sense. What man wanted his baby pictures sitting around? Pictures of his own babies, yeah, but not of himself. Okay, that was another stomach-squeezing moment, thinking of Zeke as a father. No, actually, it was the baby-making part that affected her stomach. Oh, God, instead of getting used to him and building up immunity, she was actually getting worse.
“You look like you’re about to puke,” he observed, pushing his cart forward.
With a quick, inner shake she gathered herself and cut him off to take her rightful position as lead cart. “I was trying to imagine you as a kid. It was horrifying.”
He grunted. “You’re on the right track.” Then he grinned. “But Mrs. G. had my number. She could back me down with a look.”
“I gotta go talk to her.” Just to get a rise out of him, she actually steered her cart in Mrs. G.’s direction, but he reached out and locked a hand over the cart handle, stopping her in her tracks.
“I don’t have all day. Let’s get these groceries bought and get out of here.”
Too bad she hadn’t made that bet with herself on how soon he’d say “hurry up”—or words to that effect—because she’d have just won the jackpot.
“All right, but—” She shook her finger at him. “Remember the rules: follow me, pick up what I tell you needs picking up, and don’t talk.”
“Oh, so now I’m supposed to do your manual labor for you?”
“A smart worker uses whatever tools are available to her,” she said, leaving it to him to decide exactly what she meant by that.
“A smart worker stops wasting time, and starts working.”
The only reason she didn’t bother with a comeback was that he was right. She had a ton of groceries to gather, and they wouldn’t hop in the carts by themselves.
The produce department was easy: none of the men, present company included, were big on things like romaine or celery. Onions, potatoes, some squash, and that was about it. But still, she needed a lot of potatoes, a lot of onions.
Her brain was humming with the recipes she’d read as she wandered down the aisles, pondering the different types of diced tomatoes, dried soup packages, and whether mac and cheese was still mac and cheese if you used some other kind of noodle. She also pondered on whether or not she could manage mac and cheese; it had always struck her as the type of thing that looked simple, but was in reality a cesspool of culinary disasters just waiting to strike. For God’s sake, it was noodles and cheese; what could go wrong?
“I don’t know what that Kraft box did to you, but you’ve been scowling at it for five minutes,” Zeke growled. “Either pick it up, or move along.”
“I’m deciding.”
“Decide faster.”
“Do you like mac and cheese?”
“I’m a man. I pretty much like anything with cheese on it.”
“I didn’t see any of these in the pantry.”
“Then I guess Libby didn’t use the boxed kind. Spencer never made mac and cheese, and God knows I never tried. Buy it or don’t, but let’s get moving.” Impatience was beginning to put an edge into his tone. Figuring she could at least give it a shot, Carling grabbed the family-sized box and tossed into her cart.
“Just one?” he asked. “If you’re going on a mac and cheese binge, you’d better stock up, because it’s too far to drive to town to pick up one or two items.”
“I’ve never made mac and cheese before,” she replied, a little humiliated by the admission. What kind of cook did that make her, other than an inadequate one? “If it turns out okay, I’ll get some more next time.”
“I guess we’re all in for an adventure, then,” he muttered.
Thank God for ungrateful, unsympathetic employers, because annoyance promptly rescued her from humiliation. Humiliation was embarrassing; she could work with annoyance. She curled a lip at him. “You remember the ‘be quiet’ part of the rules? Embrace it.”
“I’m just a little curious: did you ever have any kind of professional training? Were you absent the day they went over the part about not being a smart-ass to the boss?”
“I’ll have you know I’m an exemplary employee. This situation is a little different.”
“Yeah? How?”
“We both know it’s temporary. Therefore I’m under no constraints to kiss your butt—metaphorically speaking, of course. It may be more temporary for me than it is for you, so I’m in the driver’s seat. In fact, given your housekeeping skills and how the house looked the first time I saw it, you should probably be the one watching your mouth, because you don’t want to piss me off. I might leave. And come spring, they’d find your body buried in that house under a pile of your own stinking laundry.”
They’d been walking along as they shot words at each other; she consulted her list as they walked, and she’d pointed at a couple of items for him to put in his cart—multiples, of course. In his household, there was no such thing as buying one can of diced tomatoes; she needed ten, and she hoped that would be enough to get her through at least a week.
She turned her cart and headed up the baking aisle, where all good things resided—well, except for the other good things, like ice cr
eam and candy and cookies. She could already spot several rows of cake mixes, which only reminded her of her ignominious failure. There wasn’t a thing wrong with cake mixes; if they were good enough for Betty and Duncan, they were good enough for her—
A dark-haired man walked across the front of the aisle, his face turned away from her.
Brad. She was swamped by terror so sharp and overwhelming that the brightly lit store went black for a moment, and the floor seemed to fall away from her. Carlin felt her heartbeat literally stutter, and she stopped so abruptly she might as well have slammed into an invisible wall. Zeke, following behind, had to swing his cart hard to the left to keep from running into her.
“Damn it, watch what—” he began, but Carlin whirled, her face paper white, operating on sheer instinct as she abandoned her cart in the middle of the aisle and darted past him, heading for the back of the store where there was always a delivery dock and therefore an escape.
But quick as she was, Zeke was faster. His long arm snagged the back of her shirt, hauling her to a standstill. She struck at him, rattler-quick, using her fist like a hammer on his forearm to stun the muscle and loosen his grip. “Shit!” he said between clenched teeth, because she’d hit hard and right on target, but before she could tear herself free he grabbed her arm with his other hand. “What the hell are you doing?”
Chapter Twelve
“LET ME GO!” Carlin’s eyes were wild with fear, but she fought him with a fierce determination that made him feel as if he were trying to hold a ninja worm, attacking and wiggling all at the same time.
God almighty, what kind of attention were they attracting? People would think he was attacking his housekeeper right there in the middle of the grocery store. But by some quirk of luck at the moment they were the only ones in this particular aisle, and no one had passed by since she’d freaked out.
“He’s here!” she hissed, lashing out with her foot and catching him on the shin.
“Ow! Shit! Damn it, stop fighting!” Catching her from behind, he wrapped both arms around her and lifted her off her feet, because that was the simplest way to control her. But as he spoke his head was swiveling as he looked for the man who had thrown her into a panic, his expression settling into a hard, grim look that some people had had the misfortune to see before, right before he took care of business. A few times that business had left the other person bleeding, and this might be one of those times.
Her heels hammered against his shins; damn it, he’d have bruises for the next month, because she kicked like a small mule. “Stop it,” he commanded in a low, hard voice. “Where is he? Point him out to me.”
Wildly she shook her head. “He’ll kill—you, me, anyone!”
“No, he won’t. I guarantee you half the people in this place are armed.” He put his mouth close to her ear, so he wouldn’t have to use a normal voice. Part of him registered the smell of her skin, the silkiness of her blond hair, but the rest of him was focused on handling the situation, and number one was getting her calm enough that she could point out the stalker—though that might be as simple as locating the only stranger in the store. “I know for a fact the store manager is. We’ll protect you, and we’ll protect ourselves. That’s a promise. Just calm down. I won’t let anything happen to you. Where did you see him? Can you point him out?”
“He—walked by—end of aisle.” She was panting so hard she could barely talk, and her delicate features were so white he was surprised she was still conscious. She sucked in air, held it for a moment as she fought for control. “Dark hair. Green shirt.”
“Good enough.” He plunked her down, spun her around so she was facing him. “Stay here. Do not run. Do you understand me? I need to know where you are.” He grasped her shoulders, gave her a little shake as his sharp green gaze bored into her. “Promise.”
She was trembling from head to foot. He could feel tension running through every fiber of her body, like electricity through a fine wire. The blue of her eyes were the only color in her face; even her lips were white. No one could fake this kind of physical response, and any doubt he’d had about the truth of her stalker tale vanished as if it had never been. Some son of a bitch was terrorizing her, and if he got his hands on the bastard—
“Promise,” he said again.
Her eyes walled around as if looking for some escape, the way all captured or frightened animals did, infuriating him even more that she’d been reduced to this.
Promising was beyond her. She stared up at him and Zeke had to choose between maybe letting the bastard get away, or continuing to hold Carlin so she didn’t bolt.
Well, if she bolted, it would be on foot, because he had the truck keys in his pocket.
“Stay,” he said in harsh command, then released her and moved swiftly toward the front of the aisle, rounded it, looking for his target—
—who was astonishingly easy to find, standing just two aisles down, looking over a selection of snacks. Zeke was already gathering himself for a bone-crushing tackle when what he was seeing clicked with his brain and he skidded to a halt.
He backed up a couple of steps, so he could look down the aisle where he’d left Carlin. He more than halfway expected the aisle to be empty except for two abandoned carts, but she still stood there, frozen and white, her wide gaze locked on the front of the aisle for all the world as if she expected a monster to appear there.
Zeke lifted his hand and beckoned her forward.
Violently she shook her head.
He gestured more emphatically. “It’s okay,” he said. “Come on.”
Gingerly she eased forward. When she was within touching distance, he put his hand on her arm and pulled her closer, so she could see around the edge. “Is that him?” he asked, pointing toward the man in the green shirt.
She was terrified, but she had grit, and she looked. He felt the jerk in her body as she instinctively recoiled, then she stopped, looked again.
“That’s him,” she said in a thready tone. “But it isn’t him.”
“No. It’s okay. That’s Carson Lyons. He owns a little ranch just south of here, works it with his wife and two kids.”
She sucked in air, then doubled over and braced her hands on her knees. “Oh my God. I didn’t see his face, just … his hair, the shape of his head. I—I couldn’t think. I panicked. I’m so sorry, I made a complete fool of myself—”
“Easy.” Using his body, Zeke herded her backward into the narrow confines of the aisle. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself. You perceived danger, and you reacted. It’s okay. That’s what you should do. But if there’s a next time, just point him out to me, and I’ll take care of the problem. Now let’s get the rest of the groceries rounded up so we can get out of here. I’ve got a lot to do today, and we’re wasting time.”
The ruthlessly logical approach was just what she needed. He pretended to ignore her as he shoved the cart down the aisle, but instead he surreptitiously watched as she gathered herself, focused, forced herself to the task at hand. She was still trembling, but she didn’t let herself falter.
He felt a mixture of admiration and a grim sense of protectiveness. She was dealing with something that was evidently a lot more serious than he’d thought, and she was hanging in there. Yeah, grit was a good word for her.
She was under his protection now, and he’d be damned if he let anything happen to her.
BRAD HENDERSON STARED at the computer screen, his full attention on the information before him. More accurately, the lack of information before him.
Carlin had dropped off the map this time, damn her. If she was working, then she wasn’t using her social security number. She hadn’t gotten a speeding ticket, hadn’t participated in any social media, hadn’t opened a bank account. He’d hacked into her sister’s Facebook account, but that had been a waste of time. He knew Carlin wasn’t all that close to her brother and sister, but you’d think they were keeping in touch somehow. He just hadn’t figured out how, yet.
H
is eyes narrowed as he glared at the screen. Maybe she wasn’t all that tight with her siblings, but if he cut their throats she’d care. If he killed every member of her family and made sure they knew it was Carlin’s fault before they died, then she’d be sorry she’d run from him.
Brad took a deep breath. Murdering the family would only satisfy him if Carlin was there to watch. It would be a waste of time, and a danger to his own safety and freedom, to do the deed otherwise.
In the comfort of his own house, in the home office he’d set up for himself, Brad searched and cursed and imagined what he’d do to Carlin when he finally found her. It would be risky to use one of the computers at the station, using police resources to get information he couldn’t find on his own, but if he didn’t have better luck soon he might have no choice but to take that risk.
Stupid bitch, what did she think she’d accomplish by running? Sooner or later, she’d make a mistake; all the idiots who tried to run from the law did. She should have listened to him; he’d tried so hard to explain it to her. Didn’t she know that she was his? She belonged to him, and had since the moment he’d first seen her. She’d smiled at him, and he’d known in that instant.
She was his. When he’d thought he was taking her life, he’d felt no remorse; because she was his, he could dispose of her however he wanted, like any other piece of trash. When he’d found out he’d killed the wrong woman—that damn red raincoat had fooled him—he’d suffered a few moments of guilt, but the feeling had passed. If the woman hadn’t interfered, she’d be alive today. Not his fault.
His search at an end, for now, Brad opened up another file. Pictures of Carlin filled the screen, one and then another popping up. In one of the photos she smiled. In the others, she hadn’t even known her picture was being taken. He reached out, placed the tip of his finger against her cheek in one particularly sexy photo.
He whispered, “Mine.”
CARLIN WAS STILL shaking a little as she put away the groceries. The ranch hands had made a mess in the kitchen, putting together their sandwiches, opening bags of chips, drinking tea and soda and milk and leaving glasses and plates everywhere. Compared to what she’d found here when she’d arrived, the job ahead of her was certainly manageable. She was even glad to have something extra to do, to keep herself occupied. She tried to concentrate on the mess, to plan the cleanup that would follow the task of putting away the groceries.