by Karen Rose
She smiled fondly at the umbrella. “No. My sister’s little stepsister made it for me as a going-away gift when I left Baltimore to come here. Cordelia is the queen of glitter.”
“Your sister’s stepsister?” he asked slowly.
“I guess she’s technically my stepsister’s stepsister. Taylor’s bio-dad got remarried and Cordelia is his stepdaughter.”
“Oh. That actually makes sense.”
“I’m glad you think so.” She turned the fond smile on him. “Any other questions?”
He glanced in the closet. “Why do you have all the sports stuff?”
Her smile became an offended frown. “Because I play sports.”
He held up his hands. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I know I don’t strike anyone as the athletic type.”
“But you are,” he murmured. “You fought off that guy last night.”
“I did. Just . . . don’t judge so quickly, okay?” She clucked her tongue before he could respond. “Brutus!” The little dog came running and she scooped her into her arms.
“You can’t take him—I mean, her into the restaurant,” he said, then winced again because her frown had returned. “Can you?”
“She’s a service dog,” she said quietly. “I’ve had her since I left rehab. She senses an oncoming anxiety attack and is trained to distract me, to get me out of my head. If that fails, she’ll bring me medication and call 911 if I need her to.” She proceeded to take a tiny service vest from her bag and slip it over Brutus’s body, before gently settling the dog in the bag. The patch on the vest read Service Animal and Some Disabilities Aren’t Visible. “Time to work, Brutus,” she said, then glanced back at Gideon. “I’ve never needed the call, but I have needed the medication. Mostly she keeps me from spiraling to the point where my sobriety is threatened.”
“Oh.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I keep putting my foot in my mouth.”
She adjusted the bag’s strap on her shoulder, then patted his arm. “It’s okay. You’ve had a rough afternoon. I’ll cut you some slack. Plus I didn’t have her vest on earlier, so that’s on me. The radio station knows she’s allowed to be there, so I don’t always have her wear it.”
“So the vest and ‘Time to work’ tell her she’s on duty?”
Daisy nodded. “And ‘Shazam’ is her release word. Tells her that she’s off the clock.”
He chuckled. “I wondered about that. I heard you say it to her earlier.”
“Some people use ‘Release’ as the release word, but the man who trained her liked ‘Shazam.’” She closed and locked her door behind them, then looked up sharply. “You don’t have a key to my apartment anymore, do you?”
“No. Just the garage door code.”
“Oh.” She pocketed the key and started for the front door of the house. “Not that I’m suggesting you’re a serial killer or anything,” she added with a wince of her own.
His lips twitched. “Good to know.”
She looked appropriately chagrined. “I think Rafe changed the locks anyway.”
“Wouldn’t have mattered. I didn’t give anyone the key.”
She stopped a few feet from the door. “No one?” she asked, uncertainty in her voice.
He knew what she was asking, so he met her eyes directly as he answered. “No. No one. I had a girlfriend back in my last posting, but we broke up a year before I was transferred to Sacramento.”
He hoped he wasn’t imagining the satisfaction in her expression. Maybe, when everything calmed down, he would ask her out. On a proper date. Not as a bodyguard.
“Where were you before here?” she asked, not moving from where she stood inside the door. The only light came from the streetlamp through the leaded glass in Rafe’s front door, creating an intimate little bubble in the semidarkness.
“Philadelphia. Before that I was in Miami.”
She kept her gaze locked on his. “Irina said you’re a linguist and are fluent in six languages. One of them is Russian. What exactly does a polylinguist do in the FBI?”
“A lot of translating. I work in the organized crime division.”
Her eyes widened. “That sounds dangerous. But I guess all those law enforcement jobs are. What languages do you speak?”
“Russian first, then Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, and French.” He smiled at her. “Any other questions?”
She nodded slowly. “Did you ask to come back to Sacramento?”
“Yes. I missed the Sokolovs.” They were the only family he had, other than Mercy, and he feared he and his sister would never truly be family.
“And now I’m here and you won’t come to Sunday dinner anymore,” she murmured sadly. “And don’t say it wasn’t because of me. I know Irina asked you to come every week.”
He wanted to say that sharing Sunday dinner with her no longer sounded like a hardship, but his voice was not cooperating with his brain.
“We can do a rotating schedule,” she offered cheerfully when he continued to stand there silently. “We’ll each go every other week. That way you don’t miss out.”
“Daisy,” he managed to grind out, and she abruptly stopped talking. “You should go to Sunday dinner. They were your family before they were mine. And when I can, I’ll join you. If that’s all right.”
Her smile lit up their little bubble. “That would be fine.” She opened the door and stepped into the light drizzle, opening the umbrella and motioning him under it.
He remained on the porch. “I thought I was going to follow at a discreet distance.”
“You’ll get wet.”
“I’ll live,” he said dryly.
She shook her head. “Get under the damn umbrella, Gideon. Please.”
He obeyed, fighting the urge to lean in and sniff her hair. She smelled like almond cookies. He took the umbrella from her hand, holding it a little higher so that he fit beneath it. “What will you tell people when they ask who I am?”
She stopped and looked up at him. “Who do you want to be?”
A dangerous question. “I’d suggest a friend from out of town, but there will be people at the restaurant who know me. I lived here for nine months before I moved to Rocklin.”
“That’s where you live?”
“Stanford Ranch area. It’s close to the office.”
She bit her lip, making him want to lick the indentations left by her teeth. Which was not going to happen. Get a goddamn grip. And fucking pay attention!
He scanned the area belatedly. Anyone could have jumped out and hurt her and he would have been off in la-la land, daydreaming about licking her. God.
She let out a slow breath, seemingly oblivious to his mental disarray. “Let’s just say we’re on a date, okay? That Irina set us up. That’s close enough to the truth that we won’t have to remember details.”
And welcome back, Mental Disarray. His brain was forming all kind of images now. None of which approached appropriate.
“Is . . . is that okay?” she asked cautiously.
“Yes,” he said too quickly. “It’s fine. Let’s go.” And before he could talk himself out of it, he switched the umbrella to his right hand and slid his left along her back. Just to guide her. The pavement got slick when it was wet.
You are such a fucking liar.
A car door slammed across the street and Gideon was instantly alert. “Take the umbrella,” he said, shoving it into her hand so he could more easily reach his gun.
She complied, warily watching the young man crossing the street toward them, a large black bag over his shoulder. His car was a blue Prius and Gideon committed its license plate to memory.
“Are you Eleanor Dawson?” the man asked.
“For God’s sake,” she muttered. At normal volume she said, “Who wants to know?”
The man’s smile was charming enou
gh. If one liked snakes. Gideon swallowed what would have been a legit growl.
“My name is Elliott Scott. I’m with Action News, Channel 7. I was wondering if I could talk to you about what happened last night.”
Daisy stiffened beside him but Gideon wasn’t terribly surprised. He was more surprised that it had taken this long for the press to approach her. Keeping his left hand firmly on her back, he held up his right. “That’s far enough, Mr. Scott.”
The man adjusted the hood of his raincoat to better see Gideon. “And you are?”
“A friend,” Gideon replied curtly. “You need to stop right where you are. Now.”
“Miss Dawson?” Elliott persisted, coming a few feet closer despite Gideon’s warning. “Is it true you were attacked on J Street last night?”
“No comment,” she said, the strength of her tone giving the man pause. Or it could have been Gideon’s glare. “Should we go back inside?” she murmured to Gideon.
He bent his head to whisper in her ear, working hard to focus on the situation at hand and not how warm her skin was. “We can call for takeout, but this probably isn’t the last reporter you’re going to have to fend off.”
She leaned up on her toes to get closer to him. “Do you think I should talk to him?”
“It’s up to you. If you do, you might get unwanted attention. On the other hand, you might also ask if any of their viewers was a witness.”
Her brows knit together. “You’re no help.”
He chuckled. “At least he’s getting rained on while you’re making up your mind.”
She glanced at Elliott Scott, who waited patiently. “He doesn’t seem intimidating.”
“He’s a reporter. They’re like chameleons. He can be whoever he wants to be.”
“I could talk to him on the porch. I’m not allowing him inside.”
Gideon wouldn’t have allowed it, even if she had. “Sounds like a plan. Keep it short. We have reservations.”
She blinked up at him. “We do?”
“We do. I made them while you were changing.” He turned back to the reporter. “She’ll talk to you, but only on the porch.”
Elliott ignored him, replying to Daisy. “Thank you, Miss Dawson.” He followed them up to the porch, where he withdrew a camera from the shoulder bag. “Can I film you?”
Daisy hesitated. “You won’t show my address, right?”
“Of course not. I’ll show you what I’ve recorded before I leave, if you want.”
She squared her shoulders. “Okay. Let’s get this done, Mr. Scott. My friend and I have dinner reservations.”
Scott set the camera on a tripod and turned the lens to Daisy while Gideon edged away enough that he was not in the picture. “Miss Dawson, can you tell us what happened last night?”
“I was attacked by a man wearing a nylon stocking over his face. He’d been following me for several blocks. When I confronted him, he grabbed me around the throat and dragged me into an alley. He had a gun. I fought him off and a friend called 911. If anyone was in the area last night, please let the authorities know if you have seen my attacker. The man is about six feet tall, bald, has dark eyes, and wore a blue nylon ski jacket and jeans with wingtip shoes. Oh, and a Giants cap.”
“It must have been terrifying,” Scott said sympathetically. “How did you fight him off? Weren’t you scared?”
“I was petrified,” she admitted. “But I’ve trained in self-defense and martial arts. I was able to injure him enough to run away.”
“That’s lucky,” Scott said, sympathy now admiration.
“No, sir, that was preparation,” she corrected solemnly. “I was scared—that’s the point. But I’d practiced over a period of years, and my muscle memory kicked in. I encourage women to choose a self-defense option and stick with it. Don’t think that because you’ve taken one class that you’ve mastered self-defense. Even the most seasoned martial artists can get scared in a real-life situation. It’s the practice that counts more than anything.” She looked straight at the camera. “If you know anything about this, please call either Detective Rafe Sokolov or Detective Erin Rhee with SacPD. Thank you.”
Scott turned off his camera. “Well, that was simple. You’ve made my editing job a million times easier. You must’ve had practice in front of a camera. You’re a natural.”
“Thank you. You won’t mention my address, right?” she repeated.
“No, ma’am,” he said kindly. He turned the camera so that she could see the screen and replayed what he’d recorded, showing that there was no sign of a street name or house number before slipping the camera back in his bag. “Thank you for talking to me. I’ll let you get to your dinner now.”
“Wait,” Gideon said when Scott started down the steps to the sidewalk. “How did you get Miss Dawson’s name?”
“From her friend, Trish Hart.”
Daisy’s brows shot up. “How did you get Trish’s name?”
“Right place, right time. I was in the bar where she works and heard her telling one of the other servers about the attack. I’d read about the incident on the blotter this morning but didn’t know who the victim was.” He flashed the same charming smile that made Gideon want to punch him in the mouth. “I would have gotten your name sooner or later. Your friend just saved me time. I’ll put the phone number for the SacPD switchboard at the end of the segment. Hopefully someone saw something that will help you.”
“Thank you,” Daisy said again. “Stay dry.”
“Too late for that.” Then he jogged to his car, got in, and drove away.
“Do you really think he’ll put my address in the segment?” she asked fretfully.
“I think it doesn’t matter. If someone wants to find you, they will. But you need to tell your friend Trish to shut her mouth.”
“I was planning to use language that was a little more colorful,” Daisy said grimly.
Gideon put the umbrella up and held out his arm. “Dinner?”
She moved into his side easily, leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment that was far too brief. “Thank you. I was freaking out a little there.”
He let his arm slide around her waist. Because it felt right there. “I never would have known. Scott was right. You’re a natural.”
She laughed, husky and deep, and this time he didn’t fight the shiver that raced over his skin. “You wanted to punch him,” she fake-whispered.
“In the face,” he confirmed.
She looked up. “Thank you. For wanting to. And for not doing it.”
He hugged her a little closer. “You’re welcome. Let’s hurry. I’m starving.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 6:45 P.M.
He stepped back, breathing hard. Miss Rude had been playing possum, pretending to still be out when in reality she was ramping up for a fight.
He’d given her one. Now she lay tied to the bed in his basement, breathing just as hard as he was, tears and sweat causing her mascara to run down her face. “You look like a reject from a goth festival,” he said. “You’ll be sorry for making me work so hard.”
Because now he had to go to her. She’d already texted three times. Where are you? Then, I’m getting annoyed. Finally, If you’re not dead, you’re going to wish you were.
One of these days she’d wish she were, he growled inside his head. But he didn’t say the words aloud because he was afraid he’d never be able to go through with it. Somehow hearing the empty threats in his head made him feel like less of a loser.
Miss Rude sneered up at him even as the tears continued to roll down her cheeks. “I won’t be sorry for anything, you sonofabitch.”
The back of his hand hurt when it came into contact with her jaw, but her cry of pain went a long way toward soothing his discomfort. “You need to apologize for that.”
H
er chin jutted out. “No.”
He smiled down. “I’m glad to hear you say that,” he murmured. “You’ll be so much fun to break. Nothing like the last one. She broke like a cheap chair.” Watching her pale, he leaned in, his smile widening. “Relax. You’ll need your strength. I’ll be—”
He jerked back when her spit landed on his face. His fist had connected with her cheekbone before his movement registered and he got a grim satisfaction from her low moan. He wiped his face on his sleeve and grabbed his knife.
He needed to shower and change before meeting Sydney anyway. What was a little more bodily fluid? Miss Rude’s one working eye widened in fear.
“No,” she whispered.
“Say please,” he countered lightly.
She clenched her jaw. “Please,” she gritted out.
“Say you’re sorry,” he pressed in a singsong voice.
Her good eye closed. The other was swelling shut on its own. “No.”
He blinked, a little surprised. “Why not?”
Her eye opened again and she stared straight up at him. “I’ve said ‘I’m sorry’ for the last time. To you or to anyone else. You’re going to kill me anyway. So just do it.”
He had to hand it to her. She was good. She almost had him backing away. “You’ve been someone’s boss,” he said, letting her hear his admiration. “That is a very good power-reversal tactic.”
He rubbed his palm over her stomach, felt it quiver, then clench. He took the knife and traced the tip over her skin, just deep enough to draw a thin line of blood.
“S.”
She was panting when he straightened, her good eye filled with new tears she was valiantly trying not to shed. She had guts, he had to admit. He cleaned his hands, then searched his pocket for her ID. He’d left her purse and phone next to her rental car in the parking lot of the bar in Eagle, taking only her driver’s license.
“Miss Zandra Jones of Providence, Rhode Island. You were far from home this afternoon, Zandra.”
She said nothing, the breath sawing in and out of her lungs.
“What I’d started to say before you so rudely interrupted is that I’m going to leave for a little while, but I’ll be back.” He walked to the door, then turned to smile at her again. “Scream as much as you like. No one will hear you. No one has heard any of my guests.”
