by Talley, Liz
Kit had forgotten his iPad, and he’d be upset because he preferred using it over his laptop when he was on the move.
Melanie craned her neck and saw the text was from Charlotte.
Room 342. Key is at the front desk. Can’t wait.
What the—
“Mother. Effer.” Melanie picked up the iPad, not exactly repeating the word her son had used earlier but totally thinking the real version in her head.
Was Kit cheating on her with Charlotte?
CHAPTER TWO
Tennyson O’Rourke set the glass of somewhat decent cabernet on the glass-top table beside her and tried not to scream. Another bump sounded from the back of her house. She may be on her third glass of wine, but she wasn’t hearing things.
Someone was in the house she’d moved into only a week ago.
More specifically, someone was in her bedroom.
Slowly she reached for the cell phone she’d tucked beneath her thigh and dialed 911, praying that whoever was in her room would stay there long enough for the police to arrive.
Tennyson wasn’t ready to die . . . especially looking the way she currently looked.
For one thing, she’d slapped a charcoal mask on her face minutes ago. Then there was too much gray lining the part of her too-shaggy mane. Those hairs of doom would be dealt with the next day. If she managed to live long enough. And finally, she wore an old T-shirt of Andrew’s, one she’d tugged on to unpack the rest of the boxes, that was now stained with the red wine she’d spilled when she opened the bottle. Oh, and her lululemon leggings were torn at the knee, thanks to a rogue fence at the park. She was a mess.
Tennyson watched CSI. She knew they took crime scene photos that the detectives tacked on the wall and then later passed around to the jury. So she could not die looking like this.
Could not.
“911. Where’s your emergency?” said a very professional-sounding woman.
“There’s someone in my house,” she whispered, glancing desperately toward the back of the house.
“Ma’am, you’re going to have to speak up. I can’t hear you,” the 911 operator said.
“I said there’s someone in my house,” she said in a whisper-yell.
“Someone’s in your home?”
“Yes. Send the police. Please.”
“Okay, ma’am. Are you calling from a landline or a mobile phone?”
“My cell phone,” she said, trying to concentrate on the woman’s words. Fear squeezed her so hard she could hardly think.
“Okay, I’m pinging it now. Please confirm the address.”
What was the house number? “Uh, I just moved in, but it’s on Fairlane Boulevard. I can’t remember the number.”
“In Briarcliff Estates?”
“That’s it.”
“Okay, ma’am, I’m sending help. Is there a way you can safely exit the premises?”
“There’s a set of French doors off the kitchen, but I’m afraid he will see me.” Someone else could be outside in a getaway car. With a gun.
“Okay, ma’am, stay with me. Are you armed?”
Armed? Tennyson darted her gaze around the small sitting area off the kitchen. She didn’t own a firearm, and the butcher block with her new knives was still in the box on the kitchen cabinet. What could she use as a weapon? On the table to her right lay the nail file she’d used earlier, her wine, and a copy of Us Weekly. The nail file might work. Or she could smash the goblet and use the glass in some way? Or the lamp. She could throw the lamp and try to run. Her eyes landed on the nearly empty bottle of wine.
“Ma’am, are you still there?”
A crash and thump sounded in her bedroom.
“Oh God. I hear him. He’s in my bedroom.” She pressed a hand to her mouth and thought about what she should do. “Uh, I don’t have a weapon. Um, there’s a wine bottle on my coffee table.”
Had she locked the windows in her bedroom when she’d closed them earlier? She thought she had. Earlier that afternoon, she’d opened them to air out the stuffy house. She’d been sick with a cold for the first few days after moving in and finally felt well enough to unpack the boxes she’d shoved against the wall. Was that how he’d gotten in? Oh God, what if there was more than one person?
Another muffled thump made her heart leap.
“Ma’am, I have an officer en route. Is there a secure place you can go? Perhaps a place to conceal yourself?” the 911 operator asked. The woman’s voice was so professional. So calm.
Tennyson’s hands shook so hard she thought she might drop the phone. A place to hide? Something inside her told her to stay as quiet and still as possible, but perhaps hiding would be best. There was a closet to her left, but it had shelves. The couch sat flush against the wall, but her grandmother’s refurbished armchair might be big enough to crouch behind.
“Should I hide?” she whispered, keeping her eyes trained on the hallway just beyond the kitchen. Her Louis Vuitton bag sat agape on the marble counter. Surely the burglar would go for her wallet and the cash she’d taken out at the bank earlier that day. Unless he wasn’t after money.
What if . . .
“If there is a safer place for you, please go there. An officer should be there in two to three minutes.”
“Okay,” Tennyson said, easing off the couch and moving as silently as she could toward the chair that had been delivered from the upholstery shop three days before. She could still smell the fabric dye. Her body ran hot and cold, and the panting breaths she took sounded loud in her ears. Her galloping heart thumped so hard against her chest she was certain whoever had broken into her house could hear it.
“When the officer arrives, I need you to make sure he can access the property.”
“What?” she asked as she sank into a crouch behind the chair.
“You have to let him inside, ma’am.”
“Okay. Can you tell him to come around back? I mean, that’s where I am, and I’m afraid to walk to the front. It’s a big house, and I don’t know how to work all the locks and stuff yet.”
If the intruder came into the hearth room and saw her, she would grab the wine bottle and throw it at him and then bolt for the French doors that led out onto her patio. The dead bolt was probably turned, so she would have to be fast. And she wasn’t very fast. She’d always been picked last in gym class . . . even if her toe touch was to die for. Or, well, it used to be before she got freaking old.
She sat with the phone glued to her ear, reminding herself to breathe and stay calm. Finally, flashing lights glanced off the freshly painted wall.
Thank God.
She strained to hear any further noises from her room but heard nothing more.
A shadow fell across the floor, and she reared back only to realize it came from the French doors. The door made a sound as the officer tried the knob. It was locked.
Just as Tennyson was about to move to twist the bolt so the officer could get inside, the door exploded, smashing against the wall with a huge crash.
She screamed as a uniformed officer with a gun drawn moved into the room. He held the weapon out in front of him like they did in the movies. He had dark hair and wore a black belt with all kinds of equipment. He said, “Clear,” into a microphone on his chest.
He turned to look at her, a question in his blue eyes. Tennyson shouldn’t have noticed how hot he was, but she wasn’t dead yet, so she totally noticed.
She knew his questioning look meant he wanted to know where he should search. She pointed past the kitchen into the recesses that led to the bedroom, sitting room, office, and powder room.
He nodded and jerked his head toward the now open doorway.
She kept her hand on her mouth and moved behind him into the dark yawn of the night. The officer moved past the gleaming counter where her purse sat and crouched behind the counter. His gun remained trained on the empty space. Tennyson clutched the doorframe above the splintered wood of the jamb, too afraid to let the police officer out of her sight.
>
“This is the Shreveport Police. I need you to come out with your hands completely visible,” the man commanded.
Silence met his demand.
“If you do not come out with your hands visible, you will not like what comes next,” the man said. “Let’s do this the easy way.”
Tennyson watched with eyes wide as the man stood. He said a string of numbers and words into his microphone thing and then nodded when someone on the other end said some more numbers and something that sounded like “Proceed with caution.”
She yelped as someone tapped her.
Spinning around, she prepared to fight, but another officer stood there, her weapon drawn. Behind her was another policeman. The woman officer pulled Tennyson outside as she entered the house.
Tennyson stood, arms wrapped around her waist, though it wasn’t cold. She shook so hard she thought she might rattle. This was why she should have gone against her stupid inclinations and stayed in New York. She knew she made bad gut decisions. Always wanting to believe things would be as good as they were in her head before realizing that those decisions could . . . uh . . . land her in a casket. Moving back to Shreveport had been a mistake. Yeah, her boy would be here, but there were too many memories . . . and secrets . . . and Kit and Melanie.
Just as she had that thought, she heard a bark of laughter, and then the female police officer holstered her gun and said something into the mic on her uniform. Something that sounded like dispatch contacting animal control.
“What is it?” Tennyson said, drawing the attention of the officer.
“Ma’am, there’s not an intruder. Well, unless you count a raccoon as a burglar.”
“A raccoon?” Tennyson repeated. She stepped back in the house and stood surveying the opening to the back of the house with suspicion. It hadn’t sounded like a raccoon. Did they make that much noise? Oh God. What had it broken? Stephen’s ashes were on the shelf along with her priceless collection of lacquered makeup boxes. And where had she left the Tiffany candlesticks her grandmother had given her? Damn it.
The female officer cracked a smile. “Seems like you have a new pet.”
“I don’t . . . wait, it’s a raccoon in my bedroom?”
The good-looking police officer came out and shook his head. “I shut the door. Did someone call animal control?”
“Shut the door?” Tennyson asked, shouldering her way toward Tall, Dark, and Hot. “What about my things? It broke something. I have some expensive pieces in there. Can’t you go in and roust the thing out of there? Chase him back through the window or something?”
The officer whose name badge read J. Rhett turned bright-blue eyes on her. Bright-blue eyes that looked almost startling against his tanned skin. His gaze then dropped slightly to take her in, and she wished like hell she wasn’t wearing the stained T-shirt and no bra. “Ma’am, did you leave the window open?”
All three police officers were now looking at her like she’d committed the crime. “Well, I aired the house out. I thought I had closed and locked all of them, but I must have missed one. A friend called, and I sat down with my wine and . . .”
She could see in their eyes exactly what they thought of her—a stupid, rich blonde wasting their time. They’d be wrong on two accounts, though. Not that she would let anyone know her IQ was over 140, and she was pretty much mousy brown under her blonde hair dye. God forbid. People expected things of smart people, and blondes had more fun. And she’d given it the old college try on the fun.
“We’re out of here, Joe,” the woman said, raising her hand in a half-salute wave thing. “Gotta get that hit-and-run report on the captain’s desk.”
“Joseph,” the man uttered under his breath before returning the “later” wave.
“Thank you,” Tennyson remembered to call out as they disappeared through the French doors.
Joseph Rhett, hot cop that he was, didn’t seem to be pleased to be left with her.
“What’s on your face?” he asked, securing his weapon.
Tennyson lifted her hand and encountered the goopy charcoal mask that was half-dried and half-gummy. She’d forgotten about the stupid mask. “Uh, a purifying mask. It’s charcoal.”
He looked at her again, and damn her, she couldn’t help but tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Disaster wasn’t even the word for what she looked like. “You probably need to call someone to repair the lock on the door.”
Tennyson looked at the door. “You broke my door.”
“Well, I thought you were in danger.”
There was that. If a dangerous criminal had been in the house, would she be upset over the splintered wood? Probably not. But it wasn’t a burglar, and she was the person who’d left the damned window open. Wasn’t like she could blame the SPD when she’d caused the issue.
A crash came from her bedroom.
“Damn it,” she said, starting toward the bedroom. Officer Rhett caught her by her elbow. She turned. “I don’t want that thing to tear up my bedroom.”
“Raccoons are known to carry rabies and distemper.”
“Did it look like it was sick?”
He blinked. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I can’t have it tearing up my stuff.” She pulled her arm away and stalked toward her bedroom. She didn’t want to face a rabid raccoon, but she also wanted to sell some of the stuff the creature was likely rummaging through. The Colorado house was still on the market moldering even after she’d lowered the price, and the apartment in Manhattan was still without a lease. She’d paid cash for the Shreveport house, but it had wiped out one of her savings accounts. If she could sell some of the couture she never wore anymore, she could use that to pay the decorator’s bill.
Nothing wrong with upcycling. It helped the environment. And she wasn’t going to wear last year’s styles.
She threw open the door and damned if the raccoon wasn’t lying in the middle of her bed like a freaking sultan. It had rifled through her trash, leaving tissues and a tampon wrapper on the floor, and knocked over a goblet she’d left on the bedside table. The crystal pieces lay strewn on the wool rug she’d brought from the mountain house. The lamp had fallen, and the curtains she’d had custom made framed the six-inch crack the little bastard had somehow managed to climb through.
Tennyson, with an eye on the raccoon, who sat regarding her curiously, stomped to the window and raised it higher. She then moved toward the end of the bed, far enough away from the raccoon that she could dart toward the open doorway if it came at her, but close enough to command the little beast’s attention. Throwing out her arm toward the window, she said, “Out.”
The raccoon rolled into a Jabba the Hutt pose and twitched its nose.
“Out. Get out,” she yelled at it.
“How much wine have you had, anyway?” Officer Rhett asked from the doorway.
Tennyson glanced back at him. The man had his hand on the gun, ready at any moment to fire if needed. Well, that was somewhat comforting. Just in case Rocky did, in fact, have rabies.
“Enough to not be afraid of a stupid raccoon,” she said.
The raccoon followed instructions the way most men followed instructions, which is to say, it sat there and did nothing.
“Ugh, why doesn’t it move? Isn’t it scared of us?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not a raccoon expert.”
She waved her hands, and the raccoon leaped up and moved toward her pile of down pillows. “Shoo!”
Then the animal turned and came toward her.
Tennyson bolted, sliding behind Officer Rhett. She pressed against his back, peeking around to see the raccoon lumbering off the bed. She also noticed how firm the hot cop felt beneath her fingers. Oh, and he smelled yummy—like fabric softener and something manly.
Who did his laundry?
“Stop,” Officer Rhett said, trying to pull away from her, but Tennyson had a death grip on his waist.
The raccoon leaped to the sill and climbed out the window. The li
ttle bastard didn’t even look back as a farewell gesture.
Tennyson released her hands. “Oh, thank God. Go close the window.”
Officer Rhett turned. “You do it. It’s your house.”
“But you’re the cop.”
“Police officer.”
She made a face. “Are you scared of a raccoon?”
“No.” But he looked a bit like he was. His hand was still on the butt of the gun. She felt him stiffen his spine before striding to the window and slamming it down with a bang. The glass panes actually rattled.
The doorbell rang.
“That’s probably animal control,” she said, hurrying back toward the front of her house, leaving Officer Rhett behind.
Ten minutes later, animal control was gone with no raccoon in their animal trap, and Officer Rhett had finagled her broken French door into a reasonably secure position. She’d found a toolbox—a cute pink one she’d bought at Home Depot the only time she’d ever been to Home Depot—that had enough tools for him to make the door somewhat functional.
“You need to call someone tomorrow to fix this. Do you have someone?” he asked. He’d spent a good five minutes cleaning up the debris. Tennyson wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be done by a police officer, but she appreciated that the man was conscientious. And smelled like an invitation for a big-person playdate. She kept noticing things like the way his pants fit him (nicely), the way his jaw clenched while he was working (chiseled), and the way he talked to himself under his breath (sort of adorable).
“Do I have someone?” she repeated.
“Like a boyfriend? Or a neighbor?”
“Are you asking if I have a boyfriend?”
He looked at her like she was nuts. “Only if he can fix this. I know a guy and can leave you his number. Let me go out to my unit and grab my card in case you need his information.”