by Jane Drager
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced such a strong surge of happiness. Never had he strolled along Fifth Avenue with the early-morning crowd while a beautiful woman held onto his arm. Most of his dates demanded the limo, and they walked no farther than the distance from the curb into a restaurant. Not so with Lauren. She insisted they leave early and take their time to enjoy every moment together. Damn, she was special.
At the next street corner, Deems glanced at Lauren’s glowing face, and she returned a smile brilliant enough to melt his bones. Their night of lovemaking had transformed her from a gorgeous woman to an absolutely breathtaking one, and she walked by his side, her arm draped in his, looking as happy as he felt.
Despite the threat posed by dark clouds overhead, the morning was pleasant with cool air and temperatures hovering in the low sixties. With summer a few weeks away, sweltering city heat would follow. Definitely not his favorite time of year, but for a born-and-bred city boy, he rarely concerned himself with the change of seasons.
Lauren would. She struck him as a woman always outdoors, regardless of the weather. For a city dweller, so what if the air changed from one day to the next? No one noticed. No one stepped outside to suck in a large breath since all they’d receive was a snoot-full of car exhaust.
He shouldn’t think about how different she was, but deep down, he couldn’t ignore their disparities. Maybe she would grow to love New York. Maybe her love for him would be enough to change her mind. He hoped so. His options were few.
They turned off Fifth Avenue and headed along Seventy-Fifth Street.
Antonio’s studio was a few blocks from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which made sense since he was a well-renowned artist. Scanning the line of parked vehicles alongside the curb, Deems caught movement within a gray sedan several slots away from the studio. An older man scrutinized them from behind the steering wheel, his gaze unwavering. The car had the familiar chrome spotlight within reach of the driver’s window and an official license plate—two tell-tale signs of a cop car. Seconds later, the door swung open, and the rotund driver stepped onto the pavement. He wore a black suit, black shirt, and white tie, as if he played a hitman in a gangster movie. Gray hair covered a round head, and a pair of gray eyes shifted from Lauren to him.
Approaching with a clipboard in hand, he blocked their path to Antonio’s door. “Lauren Howell?”
“Yes?”
Lauren showed no recognition, but her hand tensed on his arm. Instinctively, he stepped a few inches in front.
“I’m Detective Rick Baylor from NYPD.” He produced a gold badge. “I went to the address on your mugger’s report, but the landlord told me you packed up and left. I called your cell, but your phone was off.”
Shrugging, she shot Deems a quick look. “I only turned on my phone this morning. Sorry.”
A pink flush rose onto her cheeks. Deems inwardly smiled, because he hadn’t a clue when she had the time to turn off her phone.
“Miss Howell, you reported three attempts by a man to steal your backpack. Is this the man?” He extended his clipboard to show a mugshot of a Hispanic male, containing front and side views.
Nodding, she gasped. “You caught him!”
The detective ignored the comment and pointed to her shoulder. “Are you carrying the same backpack?”
“Yes.”
The older man tugged on an already long earlobe. “He’s dead, ma’am. Knifed from behind. We identified him as Rafael Torres, a two-bit smuggler with a rap sheet a mile long.” His brows furrowed into a deep crease. “I’m curious why he wanted your pack when he had a nicer one in his apartment. May I take a look inside?”
“Sure.” She slipped the strap off her shoulder and handed him the pack.
Detective Baylor carried the bag over to his car, placed his clipboard on the hood, and unzipping the main compartment, extracted the items one at a time. He inspected each and then placed the item on the engine hood. Her stuff was ordinary—safety glasses, leather gloves, a notebook, T-shirt, a set of keys, and a small bottle of perfume.
Deems smiled at the last one because Lauren’s vanilla scent lingered on his skin.
The detective dangled the keys in front of Lauren.
“They’re the keys I use for home,” she explained. “They serve no purpose for my visit to New York, so I keep them clipped to the inside of the pack.”
He nodded, lifted out a large sketchpad, and flipped through the pages. “These are good.” He held up a likeness of Deems.
Brows high, Deems took the book. “Wow, Lauren, you never showed me.”
She shrugged. “That’s because I’m still practicing.”
Deems placed the pad on the car to flip through the pages. Several faces he failed to recognize. One was Jan and another Mr. O’Reilly, the landlord. Her details were phenomenal. “They’re great!”
With a shy smile, she closed the sketchbook. “I’m hoping to do portraits one day, maybe when I grow too old to do large murals.”
Baylor turned the backpack upside down and gave the bag a vigorous shake. Then, he ran a hand along the lining.
Lauren cocked a brow. “What are you looking for?”
“Something to pique the interest of a two-bit smuggler, but I don’t see or feel a thing.” He replaced the contents into the pack and drew the zipper. “Torres offered to buy it, right?”
“Yes.” She slipped the strap over one shoulder. “Contents included. I wasn’t interested.”
Deems’ posture stiffened. “You don’t think his murder had anything to do with her pack, do you?”
Again, Baylor tugged on his ear, his gaze distant. “Hard to say. Crooks like Torres hang with the wrong crowd.” He released his ear and grabbed his clipboard. “He probably looked cross-eyed at someone and got repaid with a knife. Happens all the time.”
One down, one to go. Now, if someone would take care of Eric… Nasty thoughts. He shook them away. “Detective, I witnessed this Torres guy being shoved into a black sedan.” He relayed the events of following Lauren home. “I completely forgot to report the incident.” He had been too distracted by Lauren’s shabby room. All his concentration centered on improving her situation.
Baylor flipped to a clean page on his clipboard and, with a pen from his breast pocket, scribbled several notations. “A black sedan with tinted windows is common in New York, and without a license plate number, we’re up a creek without a paddle.” He dotted a few i’s and then looked at Deems. “Hard to say if the abductors killed him, but I’ll keep an eye out for the one man you described. Torres had fresh bruises on his face. So, someone worked him over pretty good.”
The detective’s cell phone rang. He excused himself to answer while, again, scribbling on the clipboard. An occasional “uh-huh” escaped from his throat until he thanked the caller and disconnected. His gaze shifted from Lauren to Deems. “Do either of you know an Eric Drummer?”
Lauren’s eyes widened to show white surrounding the green. While biting her lower lip, she flashed a glance at Deems.
Suppressing a sigh, he had hoped to have one day pass without hearing the man’s name. Obviously not. Chest tight, he spoke through gritted teeth. “We both know him. He’s my sister’s fiancé. Why?”
With his pen, the detective motioned over his shoulder. “He semi-hid in a sedan at the corner curb. As you two approached, he took off. Out of curiosity, I called in the plate.”
Deems yanked on his belt as if his pants were falling. In truth, Baylor’s news rolled his stomach. That friggin’ Eric just defied logic. Taking a calming breath, he explained Eric’s obsession over Lauren. Just verbalizing the words turned his blood into lava.
“Infatuated, eh? And engaged to your sister?” Clucking his tongue, Baylor replaced the pen to his pocket.
Lauren tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “The word isn’t infatuated, Detective. He has a determination to conquer.”
Her last word twisted Deems’ gut. Without question, his si
ster required a serious talk, but at present, Lauren’s safety was paramount. He had to arrange security, but dammit, she’d argue every step of the way.
Baylor leaned toward Lauren. “I recommend a restraining order, miss. Legal action gives the police a reason to arrest him.” He handed her and Deems his card. “If you think of anything else about Torres, give me a call. As for Drummer, stop into the court clerk’s office and file a petition to restrain. The process isn’t easy these days, but you’ll start the ball rolling. Thanks for your help.” He stepped into his car, turned the ignition, and joined the flow of traffic.
Brow wrinkling, Lauren stared after him. “Jan will dispute anything I claim when I go to the court clerk.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want him near you, and truthfully, I don’t want him around Jan either.” He hadn’t liked any part of the detective’s information. All right, so this Rafael guy was dead, but to know Eric sat outside the studio irked him to no end. Eric spotted Deems with her and took off. He’d return later to follow her to the condo—if he hadn’t already. Scanning the area for Eric’s clunker, Deems made a mental note to give the condo security Eric’s description. Under no circumstances must Eric approach Lauren Howell.
Chapter Seventeen
The next day, Lauren informed Antonio she’d be late, and she used some of Mr. Stewart’s money for a cab to the court clerk’s office. The male clerk had a lackadaisical air and only begrudgingly handed Lauren the paperwork for the restraining order, while advising of the severe backlog in the court system. The man explained the process took weeks and, more often, months. Lauren would be home in Arendtsville by then so her effort to keep away Eric was fruitless, not to mention expensive. Jaw clenching, she tore up the application and headed to the studio.
If her father and brother were here, they’d handle Eric in ten seconds flat. One punch a piece. They always watched out for her, as did some of the men in the apple-processing warehouse. Here in New York, she had only Deems.
Already, she missed him. Deems’ smile and liquid-honey gaze warmed her like no other man, but after yesterday’s meeting with Detective Baylor, he received a phone call from his assistant. He promptly called Lou for a drive to the airport. Something to do with a problem in Dallas.
So much she didn’t know about him—except how he captivated her in ways she never experienced. As if by magic, she’d become a puppet dangling by strings. He was attractive and kind, generous and protective, and above all, a fantastic lover. He restored her self-esteem and filled her heart with happiness. Because of Deems, nothing would prevent her from rebuilding her life.
That night, after a stop for more groceries, Lauren entered the building lobby to see Johnny, the night watchman, jump to his feet.
He gave her a big smile. “Evening, Miss Howell. A package came for you.”
“Oh?” She approached the desk and rested her bag of food stuffs on the counter. “I’m not expecting anything.”
Johnny handed her a rectangular box. “A laptop, miss. A special courier delivered the package about an hour ago.”
A thrill coursed through her. She’d forgotten Deems promised her a computer. But she hadn’t anticipated a new one. The box was still sealed. Thanking Johnny, she tucked the package under her arm, lifted the grocery bag in the other, and headed for the elevator.
In record time, she connected to the Stewarts’ Wi-Fi and gleefully accessed the Internet. Since her phone budget lacked unlimited web surfing, the laptop gave her the freedom to roam for however long she wished. She was dying to find out more about Deems Lambert and High-Rise International.
With the computer on her lap and her legs stretched across the sofa, she began her search and easily accessed a slew of information on the company. High-Rise International was a multi-billion dollar conglomerate of five-star buildings located throughout the world. She found no list of employees, but an itemization of the properties filled a page. New York, of course. Dubai. Paris. Virtually a building in every major city around the globe. The only contact information was through a public relations executive named Cynthia Patterson.
Her next search was on the man himself. After typing his name in the box, a list of his addresses popped onto the screen—all in Chicago, but nothing for New York. No social media sites, no professional listing, and only one mention of his attending the University of Chicago. If Deems had done a similar search on her, he’d have discovered her website for three-D murals, her affiliation to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and her artist work with the underprivileged children in Harrisburg. So basically, she uncovered nothing more about this wonderful man. Releasing a heavy sigh, she closed the laptop.
After a quick shower, she crawled into bed and lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Without Deems, the bed felt cold, but his musk scent lingered on the pillow. Smiling, she hugged the pillow and sniffed only to have her reverie interrupted by the shrill of her cell phone. Her heart skipped a few beats to see Deems pop onto the screen. The mere sound of his voice lifted her spirits. She was falling hard for the man and way too fast. Until we say goodbye. They both understood the limitations to their relationship, but every time she repeated the mantra, the words stuck in her throat.
At the end of class the next day, Lauren exited the studio with the rest of the students and felt a tug on her jacket.
“Lauren, wait a minute.”
Marylou, one of her classmates, stopped her.
The poor woman had bright orange hair and skin loaded with freckles, but she displayed an extraordinary sense of color with design ideas good enough to impress Antonio. With a raised brow, Lauren nodded toward the street. “You usually walk in the opposite direction.”
“That’s the reason we need to talk. Face me.”
An odd request. Marylou put her back to the street, forcing Lauren to pivot a hundred and eighty degrees.
“Do you see the white SUV down the block?”
Lauren glanced over Marylou’s shoulder and spotted Eric sitting behind the wheel of his old jalopy. Heat immediately flushed up her neck. Looking farther, she caught sight of a pearl-white luxury SUV sparkling in the late afternoon sun. She met Marylou’s gaze. “So?”
“I think he’s following you.” Biting her lip, she shifted on her feet. “I don’t know for sure, but yesterday after class, the vehicle drove slowly behind you. I noticed because I’m walking toward him.”
Great. Obsessive Eric and now a white SUV. What next, a red car to make a caboose? She glared at the sparkling vehicle. More tinted windows. “Did you get a look at the driver?”
“No, the windows are too dark.” Marylou touched Lauren’s arm. “Be careful, will you? We have a lot of weirdos in this city.”
Lauren took Marylou’s hand and squeezed. “Thank you. I’ll be careful. See you tomorrow.” She stole one last look at the luxury model, glared at Eric, and then turned to head home.
After several peeks over her shoulder, Lauren confirmed Marylou’s suspicion. Eric’s bucket of bolts blocked the traffic behind him by driving too slowly. The white SUV followed several cars behind. But was the SUV tailing her or Eric?
Under normal circumstances, she’d be terrified someone followed, but annoyance surfaced, along with the strong need to pound Eric’s face into the concrete. Her usual route was to leave Antonio’s studio on Seventy-Fifth Street and walk straight up to Fifth Avenue, always traveling in the direction of traffic. But since two cars followed, and they were in the throes of rush hour, Lauren turned right onto Madison Avenue then left onto Seventy-Six Street where she walked opposite the traffic flow. Unable to follow, her two pursuers continued on Madison, and she sprinted toward Fifth Avenue. Not bothering to wait for the green traffic light, she continued across the street and entered Central Park, dodging behind several trees to wait.
Eric’s smoke-spewing jalopy passed moments later. Cussing up a storm, Eric slammed his fist into his steering wheel and hit the gas, screeching around the corner and out of sight.
A black se
dan with tinted windows followed.
Lauren’s gut jolted. Was this the same car involved in Rafael’s abduction? And where was the white SUV? What the hell is going on?
Knowing Eric would break every law to circle the block, Lauren walked along Fifth Avenue at a brisk pace. When his smoke trail fogged up the next street light, she, again, darted into the park. Eric and the black sedan passed and still no white SUV. All right, the sedan is following Eric. Why? Several blocks later, she hurried into her condo building to see Robert wiping his computer screens.
He looked up with a broad smile. “Evening, miss. How’s the glass artist doing?”
“Hopefully, getting good enough to make some money.” With a quick glance over her shoulder at the front door, she strolled toward the desk. Should she tell Robert about being followed? She opened her mouth to speak when Eric’s smoke-spewing sedan inched by the glass doors.
Eric’s gaze searched into the lobby. Too late to hide. Nothing stood between her and the front door.
A minute later, the black sedan drove by, the windows too dark to see within. With hands balled into fists, she fought the urge to run out and strangle Eric. With her luck, they were his friends in the black sedan.
Finished with the last computer screen, Robert threw the wipe into the trash bin. His gaze studied her. “You looked ready to confront that Drummer fellow.”
Her brows rose. “How’d you know about him?”
A small smile curled his mouth. “Mr. Lambert left his description.”
Deems again, taking care of her, and always making sure she remained safe. A warm glow settled in her chest.
Robert motioned with a nod toward the door. “Drummer’s already been by several times, miss.” He pointed to the computer screens. “We monitor the exterior of the building, too.”
She peeked around the corner of the desk at the screens. Crystal-clear pictures. The sight of so many camera angles loosened the tightness in her gut. “How about a white SUV?”
