by Linda Howard
The bare spot on the window was aesthetically unpleasing. I hadn’t run out of things to say, so I wrote another note and stuck it up. I had to use the same piece of gum that had held the stalker note, but it was still pliable enough. Good thing; no way would I have put it back in my mouth to chew it again.
I didn’t watch Wyatt to see what his reaction was. I didn’t care, because no matter what he did now, he was too late. She was long gone, and I was so far beyond pissed there were no words for it.
I saw Wyatt coming toward the squad car, his face grim. I moved to the center of the seat, clutching the blanket around me, and faced forward.
He came to the left door. As he opened it, I scooted all the way to the right. He leaned in and barked, “Are you sure? Can you give me a description? Where was she?”
There was so much I wanted to say, beginning with Why bother now, she’s long gone, thanks to you being such an asshole, but I couldn’t say anything right now so I didn’t even try. Instead I grabbed my appointment book again, furiously scribbled “blond hair, wearing a hoodie, WAS in the crowd,” tore out the page, and extended my arm to give him the note. Looking for her now was a totally useless effort, no way was she still hanging around, but he wasn’t going to be able to accuse me of not cooperating. She had escaped, it was totally his fault, and I intended to keep it that way.
Sometimes being morally superior is the only way to go.
Wyatt quickly scanned the note, handed it to DeMarius, and began spitting out orders as he slammed the car door closed again.
There are no words.
Chapter
Twenty
Eventually Wyatt came back to the squad car, but by then dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, which meant I’d been in that damn car for hours. Nothing was left of my condo except debris, stench, smoke, and some dully glowing embers that one unit of the fire department was hosing down. Wyatt’s truck was a goner, no doubt about it; so was the car parked next to it. The family who had lived next door huddled together, the little kids’ faces solemn and big-eyed, the parents clutching each other and the kids. Their place wasn’t a total loss, but they wouldn’t be living there again anytime soon.
What had I done to make someone hate me so much that she’d not only try to kill me, but didn’t care if she also killed innocent people in the effort? Well, I mean other innocent people, because I couldn’t think of a thing I was guilty of that warranted killing. I try not to break any major laws, I don’t cheat on my taxes, and if someone gives me back too much change I always give them back the correct amount. I also tip twenty percent. There was no logical reason I could see for this kind of malice and destruction.
Which meant the reason had to be illogical, right? I was dealing with a psycho. Their thought processes are warped.
Wyatt strode through the mess and debris, his frustration and temper evident when he viciously kicked at a chunk of wood and sent it flying. I knew they hadn’t caught the blonde, because I hadn’t seen anyone being escorted into the back of any of the other squad cars—no, that honor was reserved for me, the victim—but then I hadn’t expected her to be caught because she was long gone by the time anyone paid any attention to me. Wyatt’s badge was clipped to his belt, he was armed, and his face and arms were black with soot. A fire is not neat. I could just imagine what I looked like—after all, I’d been in the place. Let’s just say it’s a wonder DeMarius had recognized me in the crowd, though maybe it had been my soot covering that gave me away.
Opening the door, Wyatt leaned in and extended his hand. “Come on, let’s go home.”
I didn’t have a home, thank you very much, and I wasn’t inclined to go to Wyatt’s. I wasn’t inclined to go anywhere with him. I thought I’d just go back to the police department with DeMarius, seeing as how I was in his squad car already.
I didn’t say anything, of course, because I still couldn’t make a sound. I sat against the right side door, wrapped in the blanket, and stared resolutely ahead.
“Blair—” His tone was heavy with warning but he bit off whatever he’d been about to say and instead leaned in and dragged me, blanket and all, out of the car, then simply swung me up in his arms. Wrapped up as I was, I couldn’t do anything to ward him off so I continued staring straight ahead.
“Someone get those signs off the windows,” he ordered, and DeMarius leaned into the car and began plucking my messages free from the wads of gum. The gum, of course, remained behind. He also handed out the pieces of my cell phone as well as my tote, which had been knocked to the floorboard when Wyatt dragged me out, giving both to a female officer I didn’t know.
“What happened to your phone?” Wyatt asked, frowning at it.
I didn’t answer. Well, I couldn’t, could I?
DeMarius straightened from the squad car, my chef’s knife in his hand and a stunned look on his face. “Holy hell,” he blurted.
The knife must have fallen out of my tote when it had been knocked to the floorboard. A group of cops, both plainclothed and uniformed, had gathered in a loose knot around us and they all stared at my knife. The wide blade itself was a good eight inches long, and the entire thing measured about fourteen inches. I was proud, because it was an impressive sight.
Wyatt sighed. “Just drop it in the bag,” he said.
The patrolman with my tote pulled it open so DeMarius could deposit the knife, then said, “Wait a minute.” Reaching in, she pulled out my wedding shoes.
They were beautiful, sparkling with rhinestones, the straps delicate works of art. They so obviously weren’t shoes you could wear to any job, unless you were maybe a Las Vegas showgirl, that looking at them was almost like disconnecting from reality. They were magic. They were a fantasy come to life, as if Tinker Bell had suddenly lit in her hand.
“Don’t want to take the chance of cutting these babies,” she said in a properly awed tone. “Put the knife on the bottom.”
Omigod, I hadn’t even thought of that. I was stricken. What if I’d accidentally scarred my shoes?
DeMarius placed the knife in the bottom of the tote, then the female officer reverently put my shoes on top. DeMarius began shuffling through the notes in his hand. Sunrise was close enough now that they could be easily read without needing a flashlight. His eyes widened, and he made a choking sound.
“What is it?” asked someone I recognized, Detective Forester, reaching to take the notes. He quickly flipped through them, his eyes widening, too, then he broke into a guffawing laugh that he tried and failed to convert to a cough.
Wyatt sighed again. “Hand them over,” he said wearily. “Just stick them in the bag with the weapon and the fashion statement. I’ll deal with them later.”
DeMarius grabbed the notes and hurriedly stuffed them into the tote; Wyatt sort of swung me around so he could take the tote into the hand that was clasping me under the knees. I glared at both DeMarius and Detective Forester. I’d been making various points with my notes, and they were laughing? Maybe it’s a good thing I couldn’t make a sound right then, because if I’d said what I was thinking, it’s pretty likely I’d have been arrested.
“Good luck,” Forester managed to choke out, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder. He didn’t say “you’ll need it,” but I was pretty sure he was thinking it.
As Wyatt carried me to the car I refused to look up at him. Instead I watched the fire department units coiling up their hoses, while two men with “Fire Marshal” lettered on the back of their Windbreakers were poking around in the blackened rubble. The crowd of sightseers was slowly dispersing, some of them going to jobs, others hurrying to get their children ready for school. I also needed to be doing a bunch of things but just about all of them required talking, as well as clothing, so I foresaw a couple of problems there.
I didn’t want to talk to Wyatt at all, but as he was currently my only means of communication, at least until I got to his computer, I’d have to at least write notes to him. This not-being-able-to-talk thing could get old in a hurr
y.
He put me on my feet when we got to the car, keeping his left arm around me while he opened the car door with his right hand. I rewrapped the blanket loosely enough that I was able to get into the car under my own steam, though I did have to fight with the fabric a little. By the time Wyatt slid into the driver’s seat, I’d worked my arms free and reached for the tote.
He pulled it out of my reach. “I don’t think so,” he said grimly. “I saw the size of that knife.”
I needed my appointment book, not the knife—not that the knife wouldn’t have tempted me. Accepting the inevitable, I made a pad with my left hand and pretended to scribble on it with my right. Then I pointed at the tote.
“I think you’ve written enough notes,” he muttered, putting the key in the ignition.
I slapped his arm, not hard, just enough to get his attention. I pointed to my throat, shook my head, then used emphatic gestures for the pad and pen again.
“You can’t talk?”
I shook my head. Finally he was getting it!
“Not at all?”
I shook my head again.
“Good deal,” he said with satisfaction, cranking the engine and putting the car in gear.
By the time we reached his house I was so spitting mad I could barely sit still. As soon as he stopped the car I unclipped the seat belt and bolted, making it into the house before he did. I zipped straight into his pitiful excuse of an office and grabbed a notebook and pen. He was right behind me, reaching to take it away from me, when he saw that I was writing instructions instead of insults.
CALL MOM! was my first directive. I underlined it three times, and put four exclamation points after it.
He regarded me with narrowed eyes, but saw the wisdom of what I wanted. He nodded and reached for the phone.
While he talked to her, giving her the bad news that I’d been burned out of my home but the good news that I wasn’t hurt, I was writing down more stuff.
First and most important, I needed clothes, just something to wear today so I could go buy more. I listed bra, panties, jeans, shoes, and blouse, as well as a blow dryer and hairbrush. I gave that list to Wyatt, and he read it to Mom. I knew she’d handle it from there.
The next call on my list was Lynn at Great Bods. I might be late today.
Wyatt snorted and said, “You think?” But he made the call.
Next on my list was my insurance company, but it wasn’t open yet. Because I wanted to be fair, I also listed Wyatt’s insurance company. He had things he had to deal with, too. Then I started listing everything I needed to buy. I’d just started on the second page when Wyatt jerked the notebook away from me and pulled me out of my chair.
“You can organize your shopping spree later,” he said, physically shepherding me toward the stairs. “You should see yourself. We both need to shower.”
No argument there. What I didn’t need to do was shower with him. I jerked away from him, almost stumbling from the effort, and held up my hand like a traffic cop. My jaw set, I pointed at him, then at myself, then emphatically shook my head.
“You don’t want to shower with me?” he asked innocently. Damn him, he knew how mad I was, and he was deliberately taking advantage of my laryngitis.
All right, let him see what he could make of this. I pointed to both of us again, then made a circle with the thumb and first finger of my left hand, and thrust the first finger of my right hand back and forth really fast in the circle, then dropped my hands and shook my head even more emphatically than before.
He grinned. “You don’t have a clue how bad you look, or you wouldn’t think my mind is on sex. Let’s get cleaned up, then we’ll go to the station and you can answer some questions, make a statement.” Then he corrected himself. “Write a statement.”
I had some idea how I looked, because I could see him. That didn’t make me any less wary of his intentions. This was Wyatt, Mr. Perpetually Horny. I knew how he operated. We’d had sex in the shower more than a few times.
There were three bathrooms upstairs, but in typical Wyatt decorating only the master bath had towels in it. I went in ahead of him, grabbed two towels and a washcloth from the linen closet in the bathroom, shampoo and conditioner from the shower, one of his shirts and a robe from his closet, and headed out again.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
I pointed in the direction of the other bathrooms, and left him to shower alone. He needed to meditate on the enormity of his sins.
But he was right about how I looked. Once I was safely behind the locked door of the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and would have moaned if I’d had a voice. The rims of my eyelids were red and swollen, I was covered in oily soot, and my nostrils and around my mouth were completely black with the stuff. My hair was stiff with ashes and soot. There was no way one lathering with shampoo and soap would take care of this mess—at least, not this kind of soap.
I went back downstairs and stood a moment, considering. Dish detergent, or laundry detergent? I decided dish detergent would be less corrosive, but still good on oil and grease. I grabbed the bottle from underneath the kitchen sink and returned upstairs.
Thirty minutes later, even though I’d used only lukewarm water and turned it completely off while I was lathering, the hot water was gone, but then with two of us showering I wasn’t surprised. The Palmolive had done an admirable job removing the soot, though it had left my hair with a texture like straw, so I’d had to shampoo and condition it, which had taken even more water. As I toweled dry I checked my face in the mirror. My eyes were still red-rimmed, but I couldn’t see any soot. My hands and feet still showed some dark spots, but I didn’t want to scrub my skin raw getting rid of them; they could wait.
I didn’t have any underwear, of course; I hadn’t left any clothing at Wyatt’s house any of the nights I’d spent there. Feeling ridiculously naked, I put on Wyatt’s shirt, then his robe over that. Finally, my wet hair wrapped in a towel, I went downstairs to wait for someone to deliver my requested clothes.
Wyatt was in the kitchen; he was freshly shaven and dressed in a suit and tie as he always was for work. He’d put on a pot of coffee—I blessed him for that, even if I was angry at him—and was standing with my sheaf of notes in his hand, looking through them.
He looked up when I appeared in the doorway. The expression in his eyes was a little disbelieving. He glanced back at one of the notes.
I could see it from the doorway, because I’d written all the notes in big block letters. That particular one proclaimed:
WYATT IS A JACKASS
Chapter
Twenty-one
I circled around him, giving him a wide berth, and headed to pour myself a cup of coffee while he continued pondering my notes. He chose another one, held it at arm’s length, and cocked his head as if he’d never seen a note before. “‘I need a shotgun.’ Now, there’s a thought that probably has all my men on high alert.”
I thought it was a good idea. I needed one right now. Peppering his ass with buckshot would make me feel ever so much better. Turning my back on him, I reveled in the fantasy as I took my first sip of coffee, which was a lot more work than I’d expected. My throat didn’t want to cooperate, didn’t want to do the swallowing thing. The coffee felt good going down, bathing my sore throat in heat. Drinking hot stuff usually helps a sore throat, and I wanted my voice back. I had a lot I wanted to say.
I needed to make a list of everything I wanted to say, so I wouldn’t forget any of it. I also needed to get started on Wyatt’s list of transgressions, because this was going to be a good one.
His arms came around me from behind and he eased me back against him, resting his chin on top of my towel-wrapped head. “You were talking to me on the cell phone, and now all of a sudden you can’t make a sound. Is something really wrong with your throat, or are you just not talking to me?”
Carefully I sipped more coffee. What was I supposed to do, answer him?
I thought about slinging an elbow i
nto his ribs, but all that cop training he had made getting physical with him sort of dangerous, plus he never let me win, which is just so snotty of him I can’t believe it because letting me win every now and then would be the gentlemanly thing to do. Besides, all I had on was his shirt and his robe, both of which were way too big for me. If we started tussling, the robe would come off in a heartbeat, and the shirt would be pushed up to my neck, and, well, that’s just what happened when we started tussling.
Instead, because I knew this would worry and annoy him more, I set down the cup and calmly removed his arms from around me. After topping the cup with more coffee, I took it with me to the table, where I sat down, and then was momentarily distracted by my tote bag sitting in the middle of the table. I hadn’t noticed it before, because I’d been so intent on battling with him, which tells you what a horrible effect he had on me. I hadn’t forgotten the tote—or my shoes—while fighting for my life, but throw Wyatt into the equation and I lost all sense of concentration. Scary.
Briefly I wondered if he’d left my knife in there, or disarmed me. I’d check later. Right now I had some communicating to do. I pulled the notebook toward me and began writing. After I finished the note, I twirled the notebook around and pushed it to the other side of the table.
He poured himself more coffee and came to the table, frowning a little as he read. Both. I coughed a lot from smoke inhalation, then strained my throat even more screaming to get SOMEONE’S attention when I saw her in the crowd. Plus I’m not speaking to you, and the wedding is OFF!!
“Yeah,” he said wryly. “I saw the note about the wedding.” He glanced up, his green eyes narrow and glittering, intently focused on me. “Let’s get something plain between us. Whatever I have to do to protect you, to keep you safe, I’ll do it, no matter how pissed off you get. Putting you in a patrol car and keeping you there was the best way to keep you out of trouble and out of danger. I won’t apologize for doing that. Ever. Got it?”