by Mallory Kane
“I guess it stunned me. I fell. I remember hearing him throwing things around and cursing.”
“Are you sure it was a man?”
She nodded. “I could tell by his voice, and—and aftershave or cologne. He smelled like a man.”
“Good. Could you identify the aftershave?”
“No.”
“Did he—touch you again, or talk to you?”
Rachel shuddered at the implications of Neil’s words. “I was afraid to move. I wanted him to think I was still unconscious. He threw something—or kicked something, cursed loudly and slammed the front door.” She took a breath. “I didn’t know whether he’d left or not, so I still didn’t move.”
“Okay. When did you move?”
“I heard someone come in. I could hear their footsteps. Then I heard—I heard Ash’s voice.” Rachel’s eyes filled with tears and she put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. “I’m sorry, Neil. I was just so scared. I thought the man had come back.”
Neil nodded.
“But it was Ash—” She sniffed.
Neil dug in his pocket and handed her a neatly folded handkerchief. “Have you had a chance to look around? Is anything missing?”
She shook her head and handed back his handkerchief. “I haven’t looked.”
“Why don’t we look now?”
Rachel let Neil take her hand and help her up. They went through the rooms. The man had trashed each one, but for all the disarray, Rachel couldn’t tell that anything was missing. Not even her jewelry, which was scattered across the top of her dresser.
“What about papers, case files, anything to do with a case you’re working on?”
“I don’t bring anything home that has to do with a specific case,” she muttered, grimacing at the stinging pain from the head wound.
“Nothing?” Neil asked. “Not even a laptop or PDA?”
She shook her head. “No. Nothing. We have to sign out case files. I’ve never signed one out. If I have to work late, I stay at the office.”
“Does everyone know that? Is it possible that someone might break in here thinking you’ve got files at home?”
“I’m sure it’s possible. You think that’s why he broke in? Why he didn’t steal anything? I thought he was just a burglar who probably didn’t know anyone was home.”
Rachel didn’t want to think about the possibility that the intruder might have targeted her. She worked on sensitive cases, identified dangerous criminals. So she was very happy that her job was insulated from direct contact with criminals and victims.
She knew a lot about police procedure and handling dangerous situations from her dad. He’d taught her how to shoot and clean a gun. She even had a carry permit. Then her dad had been killed when he’d answered a call about a domestic dispute.
After he had died, Rachel, who’d almost let him talk her into going to the police academy despite her mother’s opposition, went back to graduate school and got her Ph.D. in Molecular Biology.
“Could be.”
“What?” Rachel blinked. She’d drifted off into thought. She pressed her fingers against the skin near the cut.
Neil was still talking. “I’ll need a list of your current cases. Is there one that stands out? That might be particularly controversial?”
Rachel bit her lip. Of course there was. The Christmas Eve Murders. Could the man who had assaulted her have been looking for information about Rick Campbell’s DNA? She glanced over at Ash, who was talking to one of the EMTs. She wasn’t supposed to know whose DNA it was. And neither was Ash. She tried to corral her thoughts so she could answer Neil.
“I work a lot with cold cases, where DNA is analyzed or reanalyzed. Those files are usually sanitized.” That was true, as far as it went. She hoped Neil would take the cue and request those official files rather than asking her anything else about them. She knew Neil would find the Christmas Eve Murders in with the rest of her recent cases, but she didn’t want to call attention to it. Let him be the one to bring it up.
“Okay.” Neil pocketed his notebook and stood. “I’m sure I’ll have more questions later, but that’s it for now.” He smiled and shook her hand. “Have you got someplace to go? Need a ride anywhere?”
She shook her head as Ash came over to join them.
“Anything?” he asked Neil.
“Not much. Rachel can’t identify anything that’s missing. I think we’re going to have to assume the break-in was connected with one of her cases until we can prove otherwise.”
“One of her cases? Which one?” Ash glanced at her sidelong.
Neil shook his head. “I’m going to have to get a list of all her recent files—see what turns up.”
Rachel saw Ash’s shoulders visibly relax. He’d been worried she’d tell Neil about Campbell.
“How’s your head?” Ash asked her.
Before she could answer, Neil spoke again.
“There is one more thing,” he said.
Rachel looked at him.
“How did you happen to find her?” This was directed at Ash.
Rachel realized she hadn’t even thought about why Ash had come to her rescue. She’d just been thankful that he was there.
Ash frowned at Neil, then shrugged. “I had something I needed to talk to her about. I got here a little after six, because I figured she’d be home from work by then.”
“You missed her at work?”
Ash’s lips thinned. “This wasn’t work-related,” he said shortly.
Chapter Five
It was nearly midnight before they made it back to Ash’s house. The crime scene guys had cut Rachel a break and allowed her to pack a small bag.
A very small bag, she thought, looking at the change of underwear and the work outfit she’d grabbed. The pants and sweater were a dark chocolate brown. She hadn’t remembered to get shoes, so she’d wear the black pumps she had on with the brown outfit.
Not only would she have the St. Louis police hovering over her, she’d have the fashion police on her tail. She giggled and then winced as the throbbing in her head increased.
She’d seen Ash’s guest bedroom before. It was small and furnished with period pieces that she knew came from his aunt Angela’s attic. As had the comforter—a flowered print with ruffled pillow shams.
Smiling, she turned back the comforter, expecting to find that the bed was bare, but no, it was made—with pink sheets. This had to be the work of his aunt.
A rap on the open door behind her made her jump.
“What’s so funny?” Ash asked. He’d changed from his dress pants and shirt to jeans and a white T-shirt that gave her more than a hint of his rock-hard abs and left his biceps bare. He was holding two folded white towels that made his tanned skin shimmer in contrast.
Her fingers tingled with the remembered feel of his skin, and so did her body. “Funny?” she asked.
“I heard you laughing.”
“Oh. The pink sheets and the floral comforter. I’m guessing you didn’t pick them out yourself.”
“Hmph,” he muttered, and handed her the towels. “I don’t think I have any pink towels.”
“I actually prefer white. They look and feel so clean.”
“Right.” Ash was obviously not enjoying this conversation about linens. “Need anything else?”
She shook her head.
He turned to leave, but she stopped him. “Ash?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for letting me stay here. I’m really sorry about—everything.”
He shook his head, waving away her apology. “It’ll only be for a few days. I can handle it if you can.”
“Handle it?” she repeated. “Please don’t let me put you out.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, backing out of the door. She slammed it behind him, blinking. For some silly reason, his offhand comment had hurt her feelings.
I can handle it if you can. Like he was dreading having her here. No, not even that. It was more
like he couldn’t care less whether she was here or ten thousand miles away.
But she remembered the catch in his voice and the concern in his eyes as he’d asked her if the baby was all right. Had she imagined that he was terrified that the baby was hurt?
She rubbed her damp eyes. She was reacting to everything that had happened. That was all. That and her changing body. The doctor had warned her that the hormones that were surging through would make her not only tired, drowsy and queasy, but also highly emotional.
As she ran her palm across her gently rounded stomach, her eyes stung again. She set her jaw in determination. She had to get a grip. She was a scientist, and her job required analysis, not feelings. She couldn’t afford to spend the next seven months fighting back tears.
Piling underwear and a camisole pajama set on top of the towels, she headed for the hall bath. Checking behind the mirror and behind the shower curtain, she discovered there were no toiletries. No soap. No shampoo. Not even toothpaste. She went into the kitchen and found Ash staring at the back of a frozen entrée.
“Do you have shampoo? Soap? Toothbrush and toothpaste?” she asked.
He looked up and frowned. “What?”
“I didn’t bring shampoo or anything with me. Can I borrow yours?”
“You’re not supposed to wash your hair.”
“Soap and toothbrush then.”
He seemed to be studying her, the frown still furrowing his brow. What was wrong with him? “Ash? Soap? Toothbrush?”
“Yeah.” He looked back down at the frozen dinner in his hand. “In my bathroom,” he said.
“Do you want me to cook that for you when I get out of the shower?”
“No.” He opened the freezer and tossed the bag inside. Then he opened the refrigerator. “I’ve got stuff for sandwiches. You hungry?”
“Not really. Just exhausted.” She cocked her head. “Are you all right?”
He let go of the refrigerator door. It drifted shut. “Sure. I’m fine. What about you? Is your head still hurting?”
“It’s getting better. I’m going to take my shower now.”
He nodded, but as she turned to go, he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Are you sure you feel well enough to take a shower?”
She smiled quizzically. “Of course. I’m fine.”
“I could—I could help you bathe if you don’t feel like standing in the shower.” He blushed.
“No!” she said quickly. “I mean, no, thank you. I promise you I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
Escaping before he changed his mind, she found a new bar of deodorant soap under the vanity in Ash’s bathroom and a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste lying on the sink. Behind the mirror was a new toothbrush, the type the dentist hands out.
Heading back to the hall bath, she took a hot shower, taking care not to wet the cut on her head. Then she brushed her teeth and put on her pajamas. She eyed herself in the mirror, deciding that the pajamas weren’t sexy or suggestive by any definition. They were pale blue and the drawstring bottoms had teddy bears on them.
Besides, Ash had seen her in less—much, much less. She watched her cheeks turn pink in the mirror. “A little late to be blushing now,” she admonished herself, then yawned.
Folding the towels and gathering up her clothes, she left the bathroom and then stuck her head into the kitchen. Ash was still there, drinking orange juice from the carton.
The sight of him leaning against the counter twisted her heart as poignant memories flooded her brain. Memories of weekends spent making love, watching the Cardinals play, cooking together. Actually, she’d usually cooked while he teased her by sliding a cold beer bottle or soda can across the back of her neck or her arm or any of several other intimate places.
She shivered. How many times had they ruined dinner because he’d turned off the food and carried her into his bedroom? They’d made love for hours, then ordered pizza.
She gave herself a mental shake. That was then. And it was how she’d ended up pregnant, while Ashanova had smiled charmingly and moved on.
Poignant memories dissolved into bitter ones. “I’m done,” she said. The words came out more harshly than she’d intended.
Ash turned and the carton stopped, halfway to his lips. If she didn’t know better, she might think that green gaze was stripping her bare as it traveled down to her toes and back up. And did it linger on her tummy? Her hand moved automatically, but she managed to stop it before her fingers could spread protectively across the barely discernible bump.
Before two seconds had passed, Ash’s hand moved again and he was taking a long swallow of juice. She might have dreamed anything else.
“I’m going to get some water and go to bed.”
“Want some orange juice?” he asked, holding out the carton.
She shook her head and got a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the refrigerator dispenser, then headed for the guest room.
“Rach, leave the door open. I need to check on you every couple of hours.”
“What? Why?”
“Concussion, remember? The EMT told me to wake you and check your eyes and get you to talk to me.”
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t have a concussion. The symptoms would already be showing. I just looked at myself in the mirror. There’s nothing wrong with my pupils. They’re perfectly even.”
“Still—”
“Besides, he said four hours—not two.”
Rachel bit her lip and fought the slight sting at the back of her eyes. She didn’t want him to check on her. She didn’t want him looking at her while she slept.
For four months she’d slept beside him, breathing in his warm, sleepy scent, feeling his hard body against hers, feeling cherished and safe, protected and loved. And trying to ignore the voices of the well-meaning women at the precinct. His motto is love ’em and leave ’em—happy.
What Ash was doing now, he was doing from a sense of duty, just as if he were back in the army and facing a horrible assignment. His face, his whole attitude, radiated resignation and determination. He was the father of her child and no matter how onerous the job was, he would handle it.
She’d rather be watched by a drill sergeant than by Ash in his new role as duty-bound sperm donor.
“Fine,” she said, hurrying into the guest room and turning off the light. She got into bed and turned her back to the door. She sniffed as quietly as she could and dried her eyes on the pillow case. She was not going to let him see her cry.
ASH PICKED UP THE JUICE carton, but it was empty. He tossed it into the trash.
Then he paced. Or more accurately, he prowled. After a second trip from the kitchen to the living room and back again, he glanced at his watch. 2:00 a.m. Damn. He wasn’t the least bit sleepy. Unlocking his front door, he slipped onto the porch. Aunt Angie had insisted on giving him an ancient yellow metal porch glider. At the time he’d tried to refuse, thinking it was the ugliest piece of furniture he’d ever seen.
But he’d discovered that when he had trouble sleeping, or if he had a tough case, he liked to sit out there. He’d oiled it, and the smooth, silent back-and-forth motion relaxed him. Sometimes he’d fall asleep, but even if he didn’t, the night air would clear his head and help him think.
Maybe it would help him tonight. He sat and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds. His house was on a cul-de-sac, so he didn’t get much traffic, but the interstate was within earshot.
Sometimes, he found the muffled traffic sounds distracting, even relaxing. But not tonight. Tonight—or rather this morning, he had so much on his mind that his thoughts were not only racing, they were bouncing crazily from one problem to another.
Ironically, all his current problems involved Rachel.
She’d surprised him earlier when she’d walked into the kitchen. He’d realized he’d been trying to wrap his brain around the idea of being a father.
Then he’d looked up and t
here she was, in funny little pajamas with teddy bears on the pants, glowingly beautiful, even with the dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes.
He wondered what she’d say if she knew that on the same day he heard about the petition to test Rick Campbell’s DNA, he’d been seriously considering calling her.
It had been a crazy thought, but he’d made up his mind that it was the only way for him to move on. Because he was having trouble getting Rachel Stevens out of his mind. Was it because he’d sensed something? There were plenty of old wives’ tales, ranging from expectant fathers who had sympathy morning sickness to those who reported feeling the baby kick inside their own bellies. Ash gave a quiet snort.
No. Rachel had stuck in his mind for no other reason than all the stuff she’d left at his house.
Still, there had only been a few times he’d even considered revisiting a previous relationship. Of course he’d never done it. He’d always been committed to keeping things light and casual.
A split-second flash of headlights caught his attention. He glanced at his watch—2:15 a.m. One of his neighbors was coming home late on a weeknight. Usually Ash was the only one who came in at all hours, if he was on a case.
When he looked up again, the headlights were gone. Idly, thankful for something to distract him, he tried to figure out which house up the street the car had stopped at.
Then he saw a faint glint of the streetlight on metal. He froze. Was that the same car? Holding his breath, he listened. Yes, he could hear the soft whir of the engine. Someone was creeping down the street with his lights off. A guilty husband, hoping not to wake his wife? Or more likely a guilty teen. Good luck with your mom not meeting you at the door, kid, he thought.
As he watched, the car slowly crept into the cul-de-sac. No. This was no guilty husband or child. Whoever was in that car was acting suspiciously.
He half closed his eyes. He didn’t want anything, not even lights reflected by his pupils, to alert the driver that he was sitting here. He wished he had his weapon, and that he didn’t have on a white T-shirt, but there was nothing he could do about either right now.
