by B. J Daniels
Silently he moved toward it, aware that the intruders could be inside there with a knife to Charity’s throat.
At the door, he stopped, listened. Another soft moan. The burglar could have his hand over Charity’s mouth. Mitch tried to imagine that scenario and couldn’t. Charity wouldn’t have stood still for that. Especially if she thought someone was outside the door looking for her.
Mitch reached for the doorknob and turned it as quietly as possible. Locked. Another muffled moan.
He looked around for something to break the lock. A large petrified-wood paperweight sat on a nearby desk. He took it in one hand, his weapon in the other, and prayed as he brought the paperweight down hard on the doorknob. The metal knob thumped to the floor.
He jerked the door open, weapon ready.
It was pitch-black inside what was indeed a small storage closet. He could make out boxes of paper stacked high in the tight quarters. No room for a man to be holding a woman.
Fumbling, he found the light switch, flipped it and blinked as a bright bulb came on overhead.
For a moment, he didn’t see her. Bound with wrapping tape, Charity was wedged in the corner between the stacks of paper boxes.
She blinked, blinded for an instant by the light. He saw relief swell in her brown eyes, but it was nothing compared to his. She made another muffled sound as she tried to speak through the tape over her lips.
He reached in and grabbed an end of the tape, jerking it off quickly to lessen the pain.
She let out a cry, but it sounded more like frustration and fear than real pain.
“Are you all right?” he asked as he moved a few of the boxes to get her out of her prison. Then he lifted her out and set her down gently on her feet. Her hands were bound with tape behind her, her ankles also wrapped tightly. She was fully clothed except for the one sneaker and didn’t seem to be bleeding or injured as far as he could tell.
With his pocketknife he cut the tape, freeing her ankles and wrists. She wriggled as if to get the blood flowing again to her extremities, but he could see that she was trembling.
“Charity?” he asked, worried about her since she hadn’t said a word yet and she’d seemed so anxious to have the tape off her mouth. He’d expected her to be talking a mile a minute. It scared him when she didn’t.
He lifted her chin with his finger to look into her eyes and saw the unshed tears glittering there. She was shaking, her teeth chattering. He’d never seen her this frightened. Not even earlier when she’d scared herself falling down a mountainside in pursuit of a black pickup.
He drew her into his arms and held her tightly. “It’s okay,” he whispered against her hair. “You’re fine.” She smelled like paper stock.
She nodded against his chest and took several big gulps of air before pulling back to look at him. She seemed as if she was about to say something. Her lips puckered and several tears spilled soundlessly down one cheek.
Kissing her right then seemed as natural as breathing. He cupped her face in his palms. Her pulse jumped under his fingertips. He dropped his mouth to hers, wanting to kiss away all her hurt and fear. Wanting desperately to assure himself she really was all right.
Her mouth was pure nectar. Her lips parted, opening to him like a flower to a bee. He pulled her closer and deepened the kiss, his blood thundering in his ears.
At first she felt small and fragile in his arms. But soon his body became acutely aware of her wonderfully lush curves. Charity was all woman, rounded in all the right places. He felt that familiar and yet always shocking chemistry fire through him, warming him to his toes.
Her arms came up to loop around his neck. She pulled him more deeply into the kiss. Yes, she was just fine.
Her kiss was a potent elixir, as addictive as any drug, and he couldn’t get enough of her. Oh, how he’d missed kissing her, holding her. He could never get enough of her. Never.
He felt dizzy and off balance and then, suddenly, he was falling. Dropping like dead weight off a bottomless cliff. Completely out of control.
He jerked back, disengaging his lips from hers. It always ended like this. With that horrible sensation of falling helplessly whenever he got too close to her. Even in his dreams at night about her. He would bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, and realize he’d just had a close call.
He felt that way right now as he cleared his throat and unhooked her arms from around her neck to hold her at arm’s length.
Disappointment flickered across her features, then amusement, as if she thought him a fool for fighting the chemistry between them, because he could never win. It scared the hell out of him that she might be right.
He breathed deeply, trying to restore his equilibrium. “Sorry about that. I just wanted to see if you were all right.”
“Uh-huh.” Charity licked her lips, the kiss still lingering there, and grinned. He didn’t really expect her to believe that, did he? “So am I all right?”
“Fine.” He stepped back. Did he really think putting distance between them was going to help?
She’d seen how frightened he’d been and how relieved to find her. And that kiss…that kiss was no mistake. It was one honest-to-goodness kiss. She was trembling, but it had nothing to do with the intruder now.
But she could see from Mitch’s expression that he was afraid the kiss would give her the wrong idea. He didn’t want her to think that he might want her as badly as she did him. Or that he was finally coming around or that it was just a matter of time before she got him to the altar.
“It was just a kiss,” she said. Uh-huh.
“Right.” But he gave her a funny look as if to say the kiss had been a hell of a lot more than that.
Her head began to clear as she glanced toward the darkroom. “The bastard took the negatives, didn’t he.” She stormed past Mitch. She heard him swear under his breath, then follow her.
“You saw him?” Mitch asked.
She shook her head. “He was wearing a nylon stocking over his head. But I did get in one good kick.” She glanced over her shoulder at Mitch. “From the sound he made, he was definitely male.”
Mitch winced. Who said he didn’t have a good imagination? “Did you see what was on the negatives before he took them?”
Again she had to shake her head. “But it was on there. The truck and maybe the driver.”
“I should have believed you about the truck. I should also have come back here with you to develop the film.”
“You can’t protect me 24/7. Anyway, I never expected the guy to break in. I’m glad Blaine wasn’t here.” Who knows what that fool kid would have done. Or her burglar.
“Where is Blaine?”
She glanced at her watch. “He should have been back by now. Oh, Mitch, you don’t think—”
“Where did he go?”
“To Betty’s to get some food.”
“Stay here,” Mitch ordered. “Lock the door behind me and put a chair against the back door.” He had his no-arguments face on. “I’ll be right back.”
She nodded, worried about Blaine.
Mitch was good as his word. “Blaine’s fine,” he said when she opened the door and let him in again a few minutes later. “Someone jumped him just this side of Betty’s. He was bound up with tape in the alley. I sent him home to his mother.”
“You’re sure he’s all right?”
“He’s fine. His ego’s a little battered, but he wasn’t hurt. He was worried about you.” Mitch held up his hand. “I told him you were fine. I didn’t get into what happened.”
She sighed with relief. Blaine was a sweet kid. She didn’t want him worrying. Nor did she want this all over town—everyone knew what a gossip his mother, Sarah, was. “I did see something on the negatives. Part of the truck’s license plate number 4AKS. Sorry, that’s all I got.”
“Coupled with a description of the pickup, that might be enough to narrow it down,” Mitch said, sounding excited. “You think it was the man driving the black pickup who broke in?
”
“Who else?” She hadn’t even been sure the driver of the black pickup had realized she’d taken his photo. He’d been busy trying to keep from hitting the furry beast that had crossed the road in front of his truck—probably a large bear. And she’d been well behind the animal when she’d taken the shots.
The driver must have seen her, though. He’d stopped his truck and looked down over the edge of the road—until he heard Mitch calling for her. Then he’d taken off fast. Which he wouldn’t have done if he’d been looking down the mountainside for the bear. Or Bigfoot. Right?
So the burglar had to be the driver of the black truck. He’d seen her taking pictures and he’d come after the film. He must really not want her to know who he was.
“You’re sure the back door was locked?” Mitch asked.
She nodded.
“It doesn’t look like a professional job.”
That was supposed to make her feel better? She’d had the truck, possibly even the driver’s face on film. She might have been able to make an identification once she’d blown up the shot and maybe, just maybe, a blurred shot of Bigfoot. Or a large bear. Now she would never know. Now that she wasn’t afraid, she was mad.
“What else was on that roll?”
“Just all the photographs I’d taken for this week’s edition.” She had to fight back tears of anger and frustration. She’d have to reshoot all of her lead photos. That meant the paper would be late this week. Some journalist she was.
“I’m sorry,” Mitch said behind her.
She turned to face him. He looked sorry. He also looked worried. And it was obvious he didn’t know what to say. Men. Right now would have been a great time to kiss her again and tell her he loved her. Even telling her he liked her a little would help.
“I can try to get fingerprints—”
“He wore gloves.”
Mitch nodded and shifted his feet. Any hope of him declaring his love was quickly slipping away, along with any chance that he would kiss her again. He looked like a man who was dying to get away. Nothing new there.
“How long will it take you to figure out what was stolen?” he asked.
She shook her head as she looked at the mess the burglar had made on the desks. “My latest strip of negatives for starters.” She suspected that’s what he was after. So why ransack the office? Had he been looking for something else? Or had he just wanted her to think he had?
Mitch was staring at her, that lawman look on his handsome face.
She felt a prickle of worry.
“I don’t want you going to your house alone tonight,” he said.
Music to her ears. She smiled. “So what did you have in mind?”
He pulled out his cell phone and she watched him start to tap in a number.
“What are you doing?” she asked, afraid she already knew.
“I’m calling your aunt Florie.”
“You wouldn’t!” She grabbed for the cell phone, but he was too quick for her as he pulled it back out of her reach.
“Charity, I’d feel a whole lot better if you were at your aunt’s tonight.”
“Maybe you’d feel better…”
“Come on, one night. How bad can it be?”
Charity groaned, just imagining. “You live right next door to me. How much safer could I be?”
He was shaking his head, still dialing. “Or I can call your mother.”
The ultimate threat. “Just shoot me now.” Her mother would go ballistic, then load up the van with her commune family and drive into town with a plan to take her back to the farm. No way.
“Or I can lock you up in jail for your own protection. Sissy always comes in early. Her face will be the first thing you see in the morning and her voice the first thing you hear.”
“You wouldn’t.” The only face Charity wanted to see first thing in the morning was Mitch’s. But that offer didn’t appear to be forthcoming.
She started to argue that she would be perfectly safe at home, the thief had gotten what he wanted, so why come after her again? But perusing the office, she wasn’t sure that was true. Could the burglar be the same person who’d attacked her outside the post office, followed her and left her presents?
Also, she could see the determined set of Mitch’s stubbled jaw and the pure steel in those wonderful blue eyes of his. He’d make good on one of his threats. She was trying to figure out which was the least of the three evils when she had one of her inspired ideas.
“What about my cat?” she demanded. “I have to be home to feed him.”
“You have a cat?” Mitch asked, surprised.
Didn’t every old maid? After all, at twenty-six, she was on the downhill slide to thirty.
Mitch was frowning. “Why can’t I see you with a cat? What’s his name?”
His name? “Winky.”
“Winky?”
“Winky hates being left alone at night, and you’ll be right next door if I need you,” she said. “I can just yell.” She picked up her purse from the floor, shoving everything back inside it. As far as she could tell, nothing was missing. Not even her twelve dollars in cash.
His frown deepened. He hit the last several numbers he’d been dialing. “Florie,” he said, his gaze meeting Charity’s glare. “Charity needs you to come stay with her tonight.”
Charity crossed her fingers that Florie would be too busy telling Crystal from Evansville, Indiana, or Roberta from Spokane, Washington, about the position of her stars.
“Great!” Mitch said enthusiastically.
Damn. Her luck really stunk.
“Tell her not to bring the tarot cards,” Charity said. But it was too late. Mitch had already hung up.
“She’s meeting us at your house in five minutes.”
Charity gave him her I’ll-get-even-with-you-even-if-it-kills-me smile.
“Add it to that long list of things you’ll never forgive me for,” he suggested, as if she wouldn’t. “I’ll follow you home.”
“You don’t trust me to go by myself?”
“Not for an instant,” he said, and motioned to the door. “I’ll turn out the lights and lock up behind you. I suggest you get dead bolts installed tomorrow and a security light out back.”
The man was impossible. And his lack of trust appalled her. But she did like his company and she was still shaken up. Not that she would admit it to Mitch. She couldn’t stand the thought of him thinking she was one of those helpless females.
Aunt Florie came rushing into the house on a gust of wind only minutes later, her wizard-print caftan billowing around her small frame, her arms full.
“This really isn’t necessary,” Charity said, spotting what looked like one of her aunt’s casseroles. Oh, no, this was going to be worse than she’d thought.
“It’s no trouble at all,” her aunt said. “I go where I’m needed.” Florie charged into the kitchen and put her armload on the table, then threw her arms around Charity. “Tell me everything.”
Mitch filled Florie in as Charity groaned inwardly, knowing her aunt was almost as bad as Sarah Bridges about spreading gossip.
“Oh, you must have been frightened out of your skin!” Florie cried, and hugged her again. “But not to worry. I’m here now. You’ll be safe with me.”
Mitch looked skeptical, but then, he did live next door.
“Where’s your cat?” he asked looking around.
“He must be hiding,” Charity said.
“You have a cat?” Florie asked.
“Winky?” Mitch called. “I don’t see a litter box.”
“He’s trained to go in the toilet,” Charity said.
“Really?”
“Why can’t I see you with a cat?” Florie was saying.
Mitch carried Florie’s huge suitcase upstairs to the guest bedroom. Charity caught him looking around for the cat. But Mitch was gone like a shot the moment Florie offered him some of the tofu-zucchini-eggplant casserole she’d taken out of the freezer for dinner.
/> “This person who broke in,” Florie said as she put the casserole in Charity’s microwave when they were alone. “I don’t like the vibrations I’m picking up. We’ll have to consult the tarot.”
Oh, damn, she had brought the tarot cards!
When Charity was younger, she’d gotten a kick out of Florie’s predictions. Even Charity’s best friend, Roz, loved to have her cards read. The two would stay up half the night laughing and talking about their futures.
Now, with thirty drawing ever closer, Charity would have preferred an aunt who didn’t really “know” things.
At one time, Charity had believed her aunt really did know—right up until the point where the cards started suggesting Charity might not end up with Mitch.
“You know what I think? I’ll bet your stars are out of whack,” Florie said now, studying her through squinted eyes. “We must do your chart soon. I sense that trouble is brewing on your horizon.”
Trouble was often brewing on her horizon.
Charity opted to take a hot shower while her aunt unpacked and the casserole nuked. The two-story house was small, with a nice-size living room decorated with furniture Charity had reupholstered herself.
She’d also done all the painting and put up the wallpaper in the kitchen and the tiny dining room. There was a half bath downstairs with a laundry room. She’d made a small room off the living room into a home office. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a bath.
Charity had bought the house because it was affordable, just the right size, on a quiet dead-end street at the edge of town and next door to Mitch’s house. Theirs were the only two houses on that side of the block, with the town starting one street over.
“See, your aura is already improving,” Florie said when Charity emerged a while later. Florie had her huge suitcase open. A flannel nightgown, a wooden baseball bat, candles and other paraphernalia, including a well-worn deck of tarot cards, covered the bed.
Florie hefted the baseball bat and smiled. “You’re safe now, sweetie.” What Florie lacked in stature, she more than made up for in attitude.
Mitch had always said that it was that indomitable attitude, along with a screwball wackiness, that was Charity’s legacy. As if it was hereditary.
