by Pat Warren
“That’s because I know it’s going to be a loud sound. Dad took me to the shooting range where they have protective ear coverings.”
“Out here, we have to rough it a bit.” He stepped up behind her, placing his hands on her elbows. “Loosen up. The tension should be in your wrist and hand, not throughout your body.” Close behind her now, his hands slid along her arms, adjusting her fingers. “Your left hand should lightly grip your right wrist to steady it, not in a death hold. If you grasp it too tightly, you’ll cause the shot to jerk to one side.”
She was wearing the navy corduroy jacket they’d bought earlier this afternoon, yet even through the heavy material, she could feel his touch along her arms, the strength of him. Terry swallowed. “I see.”
“You’ve got to leave some play in your stance.” Molding himself to her, he touched first one leg then the other with his bent knee, getting her to relax a little. “Now line up your head so your eyes are directly across from the target.” Placing his cheek along hers, he aligned their upper bodies.
It was a cool evening, but Terry suddenly felt warm. She could feel his breath on her neck, his five o’clock shadow brushing her still-sensitive skin, his heart steadily beating against her back. The clean masculine scent of him was playing havoc with her concentration. She shifted her feet nervously.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Then go ahead and shoot.”
Terry took careful aim at the empty twenty-eight-ounce can of tomato sauce sitting on a stack of wood about fifty feet away. She pulled the trigger.
And missed by a mile. “Shit!”
Luke stepped back. “Don’t get discouraged. It takes practice.” He pointed to the glass jar he’d placed next to the back door. “And go put a quarter in the jar.”
“I don’t have any money, remember? And you’re not my father. Besides, how’d you know I’d swear and you’d need the jar?”
“Because I’ve been living with you for two weeks.”
That had an uncomfortably intimate sound to it. “Swearing releases tension.”
“Not as well as a few other things I can think of.” He held out a closed fist to her.
She chose to ignore his last comment. “What’s that?”
He reached for her hand and dropped in a pile of quarters. “I know your father would appreciate it if I’d make sure you clean up your language.”
That made her smile. Dutifully, she walked over and tossed a quarter in the jar, then shoved the rest in the pocket of her new jeans before returning to try again. But when he stepped close to surround her again, she lowered the gun. “Look, why don’t I try this on my own? You… you make me nervous.” Which was certainly the truth.
Luke waved his hand, indicating she should proceed.
Drawing in a deep breath, Terry again assumed the stance. She shuffled her feet until she felt just right, corrected her grip the way he’d shown her, and took careful aim. When the bullet pinged off the can, knocking it onto the ground, she let out a victory yell.
He smiled at her. “Okay, hotshot. One hit doesn’t a marksman make. Let’s see some more.” He’d lined up six cans.
She managed to hit two more making it fifty-fifty, not a bad first day out. She hadn’t practiced in years. They strolled back toward the back door as the sun slipped into the sea and the breeze picked up. Terry hefted the small gun, gauging its weight. “Dad had me practicing on a Smith & Wesson five-shot snubby, I remember he called it. It was lighter than your .38.”
He took his weapon from her. “Yeah, but not much. This is a Colt Special, used by most police. I’ve got a Magnum locked in my case that would probably knock you on your ass, which is probably the only place you haven’t had a bruise lately. We might try it one day. I think it’s important that you practice daily.”
Her hand on the doorknob, Terry paused. “Why? Do you think we might get into a shootout?” She felt foolish just asking.
“No, but being prepared for anything is what keeps people alive.” He touched the ends of the short wig and remembered her file picture, the long blond hair that used to fall past her shoulders. She was right. The color was all wrong. “Does this feel kind of like wearing a tight hat?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Why don’t you take it off when we’re inside? I prefer short hair to fake hair, don’t you?”
It seemed to Terry that ever since Sara had left, Luke’s remarks tended to lean more toward the personal than before. She didn’t answer, but instead opened the door. Prince rushed out, relieved to have his freedom back. She waited until he walked to her, then stroked the sleek black Doberman’s coat.
Watching, Luke was amazed that Prince had taken to Terry so quickly. She’d been raised around dogs, she’d told him, but not dogs trained to guard and attack on command. Yet he noted that she was very careful not to move too quickly or to surprise Prince from behind. For his part, the Doberman seemed smitten with her.
Shivering, Terry stepped inside and went to hang up her jacket. The clothes she’d picked out earlier did make her feel more comfortable, more like her own things. And she’d gotten used to the house, the dog, and even some of the restrictions imposed on her, for she knew they were only temporary and very necessary.
A movement outside the kitchen window caught her eye. She stretched on tiptoe to watch Luke throw a stick for Prince to go fetch. What she hadn’t gotten used to or comfortable with, Terry realized, was the federal agent she was forced to live with, someone she was having trouble thinking of as a protector instead of a man.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Neil Manning dropped the stack of papers he’d been studying onto the coffee table and leaned back on the couch. Wearily, he scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d been going through his friend’s, Jerry Foster’s, papers over and over for days now. There was no getting around what he’d found. Numbers didn’t lie.
Jerry had to have been on the take.
A surge of anger had his hands curling into fists. How could Jerry have risked everything—his future, his friendships, his very life—for money? Neil was as fond of money as the next guy. But to look the other way while scumbags manipulated his fellow officers in the city he’d called home all his life—the thought was inconceivable. How had Jerry been suckered into playing along?
He’d worked with the man for ten years, lived with him for two. How was it that he hadn’t even suspected? Neil sat up, slamming a fist into his open palm. Because he’d trusted his friend, that’s why. He’d turned from the gossip making the rounds at the station, defending Jerry to the point of getting into some near-fights with some of the guys. Not Jerry, he’d told them all. Not his best friend.
Yeah, right.
He’d found the bankbooks in the pockets of Jerry’s old suit at the back of the closet when he’d been bundling up the clothes to give away, as Mrs. Foster had asked him to do. Three separate accounts. And crudely sewn into the lining of an old leather jacket, a plastic bag of money. Eighteen thousand, to be exact. Neil stared at the stack of small bills he’d just finished counting, struggling with his emotions.
But that wasn’t the worst of it, Neil thought as he picked up the small black notebook and thumbed through it. Coded names, dates, amounts—all recorded in Jerry’s neat handwriting. Enough here to end half a dozen promising police careers.
He felt betrayed. How was he going to tell Jerry’s blind mother that her son was a thief, a bad cop, a turncoat? He swallowed down his anger, trying to think clearly.
He’d have to report this, of course. A frisson of fear raced up his spine as he wondered if they’d think he’d been in on it with Jerry. Well, they could check his bank account. About seven hundred in savings, maybe two in checking. That ought to prove something.
Neil wished Mac was still around. He’d always been able to talk to Mac. Had Jerry been involved in the same thing that Mac was accused of? Had Jerry been killed by some of his cohorts in crime because he’d been about to spil
l the beans? But, if it had been a hit, how was it no one had come to check out the apartment? They probably hadn’t known about the notebook.
Was anyone at Central still clean? he wondered. Who could he trust? The captain was still on the sick list. He probably wouldn’t have gone to Marino even if he weren’t. He was no longer the man he used to be.
Of course, Neil knew the Feds had been sniffing around. He could call them. But loyalty to the honest cops he knew at Central made him decide to check it out at the local level first. But who should he take all this to?
Best option left was the lieutenant. Remington wasn’t exactly a cop’s cop. He’d always given Neil the impression he thought he was a shade better than the other guys. Still, he was a man who got the job done.
Neil scowled with distaste as he gathered the notebook and evidence into a neat stack, then shoved it into a large manila envelope. He had three days off. He wouldn’t talk to anyone till after he thought things over. A dead friend’s reputation was at stake here, as well as those of several prominent cops at Central, to say nothing of possibly endangering himself.
Should he see a lawyer? No, that would make it seem as if he had something to feel guilty over, some act to defend. Should he call Internal Affairs? Hell, they’d probably call for him once he turned everything over.
Neil rose and walked to Jerry’s room, placing the envelope in the top drawer of his dresser. He’d sleep on it. Meanwhile, he’d pack up the rest of his friend’s clothes. Disappointment weighed heavily in his chest as he moved to the closet.
Terry adjusted the earplugs of her Walkman, then fiddled with the radio dials until she found the station she wanted. She stretched out under the covers of her bed, hoping the music would lull her to sleep. She’d talked Luke into buying the headset for her yesterday when they’d gone shopping in town, explaining that she was having trouble sleeping. The trouble was that she didn’t do enough during the day to wear herself out sufficiently to sleep. Boredom was tiring, but rather than becoming drowsy, she was wide-awake till the wee hours most nights.
“Are you lonesome tonight?” the deep voice of the male singer on the golden oldies station asked. You can say that again, Terry thought. Lonely and feeling sorry for herself. A bad combination. And the situation wasn’t apt to improve soon.
Physically, she was feeling better. The clavicle was healing, for she was able to move her shoulders with hardly any discomfort. The bruises had faded. Her hair was only about an inch long, but that obviously couldn’t be rushed. There were two slashes on her face that, despite the surgery, were still very visible. Apparently the glass shards had been jagged. The doctor who’d checked on her recently had hinted that she should consider more corrective surgery soon, but when she’d grown agitated at the very suggestion, he’d backed off and said she could wait awhile.
The very thought of entering another hospital, of once again being open to that kind of pain and dependency on others, had Terry feeling suddenly warm and sweaty. She shoved aside the covers, glancing toward the open door that faced Luke’s room across the hall. He was in there, she knew, probably in one of his half-asleep states. The man was so in control of himself that he didn’t seem to allow sleep to totally take him under. No matter what hour she got up to use the bathroom, as she passed by and glanced in, she could see his eyes were open and watchful. At the slightest sound, he was instantly in the hallway, gun in hand, a constant reminder of the ever-present danger she faced.
“Do you miss me tonight?” the singer went on. God, yes. She missed so many people. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, a day she always looked forward to. The whole family gathered at Mom and Dad’s, her nephews already excited about Christmas, climbing on her lap and confiding their wish lists. Not this year.
She’d gathered from their spotty conversations that holidays didn’t mean much to Luke. Yet he seemed to sense that this time of year was special to her. So he tried, in his way, to fill the void. Since Sara’s departure, he’d taken over the cooking until she’d insisted she needed more to do. He’d encouraged her, allowed her to plan the meals and cook her favorites, praising her efforts. Yesterday, they’d bought a turkey and all the trimmings for tomorrow’s dinner. She knew he was making the effort strictly for her.
And she wondered why. Surely, his job description didn’t include keeping the little witness well fed and happy during the holidays. Was it simply easier than watching her mope and pine away for all that she was missing? Terry had a gut feeling it was more than that. Maybe he ignored the holidays because he hadn’t grown up with the traditions that had fashioned her life. Maybe he wanted to enjoy the celebration, yet wouldn’t admit to something he’d consider a weakness, even to himself.
Luke Tanner was a hard man to figure. He’d revealed so little about his past that she felt as if she scarcely knew him even though they’d lived under the same roof for weeks now. It was unnatural to be that reticent. Was he hiding some terrible secret? Or had he grown up along with Bob Jones at that boys’ ranch in such a miserable fashion that even discussing that time would sadden him too much? It might be interesting to try to find out. It might relieve the boredom somewhat as well.
Damn, but it’s hot tonight. There goes another quarter, Terry thought as she pulled off the earphones and stood up to remove her sweatpants. Down to only her T-shirt and underpants, she decided that, rules or no rules, she was closing her door. Privacy was something she longed for almost as much as her family. Quietly, she closed the door. She punched up the pillow, put on the earphones, and lay back.
If only she could turn off her mind and invite sleep. Wiggling into a more comfortable position, she concentrated on listening to an old Elton John tune.
She couldn’t have said how long she lay there before the door slammed open, the crashing sound drowning out the low music, the overhead light flipped on, and Luke stood in the doorway, his gun aimed directly at her.
“Oh, my God!” Terry jerked upright, scooting back toward the wall, her eyes wide with fright. “What is it?” Her earphones dangled from her neck while her heart felt as if it might burst within her.
“Are you all right?” His left hand still on the flattened door, Luke’s eyes surveyed the room before he stepped inside.
“Yes. Why? What’s happened?” Odd how the gun she’d used daily for target practice looked much larger and more deadly when it was pointed at her.
“I woke up and saw your door was closed. I knocked—twice—but you didn’t respond.” He lowered the gun, feeling suddenly foolish. “I didn’t know what to think so I…”
“So you came charging in here and scared the holy hell out of me again.” Terry placed her hand over her still thudding heart. “Jesus, Luke. We won’t have to wait for those men to find me. I’m going to die of a heart attack brought on by my protector.”
“Why the hell did you close the door? You know the rules.” His voice was gruff, more from embarrassment than anger.
For the first time, she noticed that he was wearing only blue low-riding briefs. In the harsh overhead light, she could see the broad expanse of his chest and the medal hanging on a chain that he was never without. On his right side she saw what appeared to be a scar. His hips were lean, his legs muscled and strong. The bulge in his briefs drew her attention a shade longer than it should have before she raised her eyes to his.
“I was warm so I stripped down. I closed the door because I… I can’t relax dressed in so little when I know you’re just across the hall.” Her explanation sounded stupid and teenage, even to her own ears. She hugged her knees and dropped her gaze as she felt her face color. The sudden emotional reaction had her trembling again. She closed her eyes, wishing she had better control.
The tension drained from Luke as guilt took over. He’d upset her yet again. He turned off the glaring overhead light and flipped on the bedside lamp. He put the safety back on and set the gun on her nightstand. His first instinct was to comfort, to reassure her, and he didn’t stop to question it. Movin
g to the bed, he sat down and hesitantly touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
The trembling that he’d thought to ease only increased. Slowly she raised her head and opened her eyes. Without her contacts, her eyes were a deep blue and filled with confusion and lingering fear. Luke felt awkward and uncertain as he trailed his fingers down her slender arm. “I always seem to do things that upset you without meaning to.”
Yes, like charging into her room nearly naked and making her starkly aware of his masculinity. The clean male scent of him had her struggling with an arousal she hadn’t felt in months. How could he sit beside her so casually and not notice? She dropped her gaze to her toes and pretended a nonchalance she was far from feeling. “It’s all right. My nerves are on edge, that’s all.”
He wasn’t a man used to explaining or to comforting. He was twelve years older than this fragile woman, and tonight he felt every day of it. Yet he couldn’t seem to look on her as a younger sister, which would have been far more appropriate, or even as a stranger he was guarding. Instead, he saw her as a woman who was making him feel things he wasn’t sure how to handle.
If circumstances were different, he’d pull that woman into his arms and comfort her in a way that would relieve both their tensions. He’d caught Terry looking at him a time or two in a manner that told him she’d not pull away. But she was entrusted to his care, and he had no business violating that trust, no matter how badly he ached to reach out for her.
Abruptly, he stood, turning his back to her. “Get some rest. And leave the door open.” He needed to walk away while he still could. Grabbing his gun, Luke marched to his room.
Terry realized she was still trembling and suddenly cold. Slipping under the covers, she pulled them up close around her. Luke Tanner was a man of icy control, she decided. Apparently he could storm in and view her wearing next to nothing and remain totally unaffected. Awhile back he’d told her she couldn’t look awful if she tried, with or without hair, but that comment had obviously been made to placate her. It was apparent that she held no appeal for him whatsoever, for he’d treated her like a kindly older brother just now.
