by Meg Tilly
22
Sarah was doing a deep clean on the oven when Mick blew into the kitchen like an electrical storm lighting up the place with his presence. “Why did you scream like that?” he demanded. “Made me feel like a fucking ogre.”
“I didn’t scream—”
“Damn right you did. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Well, you shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
“Whatever.” The man was in a mood. Again. “Why didn’t you pick up the phone? I was calling all morning.”
“In my list of duties, you never mentioned answering your personal house phone—”
He impatiently waved her words aside. “If you had picked up the damn phone, I wouldn’t have had to drive all the way back to get you. Grab your purse and whatever else is necessary,” he barked. “I need your help at the office.”
“What, right now?”
“Yeah, my secretary, Lois, is . . .” He huffed out a breath, ran his hands through his hair, not for the first time given that it was sticking up every which way. “She’s out of commission for a while. Maybe longer than a while. I need you to step in while the agency finds an appropriate replacement.”
“Okay.” Sarah pushed to her feet and stretched out the ache in her lower back as she plopped the blackened sponge in the bowl of soapy water and pulled off her yellow rubber gloves. “I’ll be ready in ten.”
“Ten? Where’s your purse, Timbuktu?”
Sarah could feel her eyes narrow. She was not in the mood for any of his bullshit. Had spent Sunday freaking out, cutting, dyeing and then redyeing her hair, trying to come up with a new look to keep her safe. Invisible. She hadn’t gotten into bed until after three in the morning, and even then sleep hadn’t come until the night sky started to lighten and the early birds had begun to sing. “Look . . .” It took everything she had to keep her tone civil. “I am willing to come to your office and bail you out in your time of need. But if you think I am going to show up in a professional capacity dressed like this . . . you are sorely mistaken.”
“You look fine.”
“Seriously?”
Mick stopped pacing, raked his gaze down the length of her. She forced herself not to squirm. Yes, she looked like something the cat dragged in. Big deal. His oven had needed cleaning. Besides, her brain worked better when her hands were busy, and she needed to figure out what to do next. A puzzled look crossed Mick’s face, as if he was only now noticing how grimy she was. His gaze rose to her face, continued upward. His eyes widened. “What the hell did you do to your hair?” He said it accusingly, as if her hair were part of his domain.
Sarah crossed her arms so she wouldn’t be tempted to strangle him and lifted her chin. So, perhaps the “midnight brown” hair color had turned hers black. Instead of the various subtle tones shown on the box, the dye had erased all nuance and left her hair looking like mud. Adding insult to injury, the bob cut she’d attempted looked nothing like supermodel Kaia Gerber’s hair. No. Sarah had been unable to cut the hair in an even line. Kept tweaking—aka hacking away—but it just made things worse. Worse and waaay shorter than she had planned. Finally, when her arms were literally shaking with fatigue, she’d laid her scissors down in defeat, crawled into bed, wrapped her arms around Charlie’s warm, furry body, and had a good cry.
So, yes, perhaps her hair looked like a hungry horde of rats had been gnawing on it while she’d slept. That was neither here nor there. A gentleman wouldn’t gawk with the expression of someone who had just been smacked over the head with a baseball bat. “It’s damned hard to cut your own hair.”
“I gather,” he said, the right corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Why’d you dye it?”
“I felt like a change. Stop smirking. I’d like to see you do any better.”
“I wouldn’t.” Now the other side of his mouth was quirking upward as well, and she could see laughter dancing in his eyes. “That’s why I employ a qualified hairdresser.”
“Shut up,” she growled.
Which just unleashed the laughter he’d managed so far to suppress. Watching Mick Talford laugh loosened something that had been locked deep inside. She could feel the low rumble of it rocketing through her. His face was so different in laughter. The unguarded expression made her think of wide-open wheat fields, fresh and full of hope and goodness. Laugh lines she hadn’t noticed before fanned outward from the corners of his eyes. His head was thrown back, exposing the column of his neck. Tan and strong, begging for her to start at the hollow at the base of his neck and caress, lick, nibble her way up to his gorgeous mouth.
She stood there in his kitchen starving for human touch, human connection. Wanting so badly to step closer, press her hands against his warmth as if there were a blizzard outside and his unfettered enjoyment were a roaring fire. Sarah stood there feeling unbearably sad and yet joy filled, too. Spirals of heat and emotion flared upward, warming the tips of her ears, her cheeks, her neck. The heat then shimmied its way downward, dancing through her like droplets of light in a fireworks show to pool in her lower abdomen. Finally, his laughter subsided. He was leaning against the granite countertop for support and was wiping his eyes. “All done?” she inquired oh so politely, as if she were addressing the queen of England instead of this ill-mannered lout whom she so desperately wanted to knock to the floor and have her wicked way with. Apparently, she was losing her touch, because rather than being chastised by her tone, Mick laughed even harder.
“Here.” Still chuckling, he grabbed a pad of paper and scribbled something down, ripped it off, and extended the paper to Sarah. “This is the address of the office. Input it in Google Maps. If you need to grab a quick shower, have at it. I’ll meet you back there. If I’m at a meeting, Paul’s secretary, Harmony, can show you around. And in the future, if the house phone rings and I’m not here, answer it; take a message.”
Sarah stared at the piece of paper in his outstretched hand. “I can’t.” She took a step back. “Sorry.”
“Can’t what?”
“Meet you at your office.”
The lightness the laughter had caused in his face had dissipated. “Okay . . .” he said slowly. “I’m a little confused here.”
“I’m happy to help. Truly. I just . . .”
His eyes narrowed. “You are something else.” His tone wasn’t admiring. It was anything but. “Fine. I’ll pay for your damn gas. Mileage. Figure it out and bill me.”
“It’s not that. My . . .” She inhaled. Huffed it out. “I don’t have access to my car at present.” She kept her gaze firmly fixed on the mirrored sunglasses he’d latched on the neckline of his gray T-shirt. She saw him still. Could feel the intensity of his gaze studying her. “Stop staring at me,” she snapped. She could feel a flush of embarrassed heat suffuse her face as the vivid memory of Saturday roared to the forefront. The cop. The shakes. “It’s not my fault.” She should shut up. She didn’t have to answer to him or to anyone for that matter. She closed her eyes briefly in an attempt to block out the memory of the hours she had spent on the Los Angeles bus system, aimless at first, and then trying to find her way back to Mick’s house. The long arduous walk home along winding canyon roads. Dusty. Uphill, lugging heavy bags of food in the dark. The continuous stream of cars roaring past, the feeling of helplessness and anger, too, running from the law when she had done nothing wrong.
“What happened to it?” His voice cut into her thoughts, yanked her back to his kitchen.
“To what?”
“Your car? Did you sell it? That’s crazy. You can’t get by without a car in LA. Seriously. If you needed money, you should have asked for an advance—”
“It’s in the shop,” she snapped, in an attempt to shut him up. The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. The man was not without eyes. Sooner or later he was bound to notice that her car was still AWOL.
Mick studied h
er face for a moment longer and then took a step back. He leaned his hip against the kitchen counter, all relaxed awareness now, thumbs slung through the front belt loops of his faded jeans. “Okay,” he said. His voice was gentle. If it had been someone else, she might have even described it as kind. “You can ride with me. How much time do you need?”
She blinked at him, still flagellating herself for the stupidity of her gaffe. “Pardon?”
“I’ll drive. How long will it take you to”—he tipped his head toward her and raised an eyebrow inquiringly—“clean up? You said ten minutes?”
“Ten. Fifteen tops.” She took a step toward the hall when his voice stopped her.
“Before it slips my mind again, how would you prefer to be paid? I shouldn’t have paid in cash this week. Laziness on my part, and it’s not fair to you. My mistake, but honestly, I didn’t expect you to last. Anyway, my business manager can either set up automatic deposit into your bank account, or she can cut you a check.”
“I haven’t gotten around to opening a bank account. I’d prefer to be paid in cash.”
“You’ll need to get on that. It’s better if you’re on the payroll, Rachel. Yes, you’d have to pay taxes, but it balances out. You’ll get medical coverage. Also, our company has a very good employer-sponsored retirement plan. We match our employees’ contributions up to three percent of their salary—”
“Thank you, but I want to be paid in cash. If that’s not possible, I’ll need to look for work elsewhere.” His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were activating his X-ray vision. She averted her face so she wouldn’t have to see the suspicion—or worse, pity—in his eyes. It was hard to stomach. Mick probably thought she was so hard up she wanted to cheat the government out of their fair share. Why wouldn’t he, given he also appeared to believe she’d sold her only means of transportation for cash? Although, I wish to God I had. Such idiocy. The cop would have made contact with Kevin by now. Undoubtedly, her ex would be on the next plane out.
“Okay,” Mick was saying. “Cash it is. I’ll leave it at the same place, kitchen counter every Friday.”
God I’m so weary, Sarah thought as she placed a serene smile on her face. “Thank you,” she said as she forced her body to saunter past him as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Pretending the relief that the payroll wrangling hump had been resolved wasn’t making her knees weak. You are in control, she told herself. Cool, calm, and collected. Everything will be fine. However, she must have let her guard down, because as she approached Mick, her senses were still in hyperaware mode. The intensity of his force field reverberated along her skin, caressed the tiny hairs on her arms, on the nape of her neck, as surely as if he had reached out and touched her. But she’d kept moving, brisk efficient steps, into the hall, the foyer, and out the front door.
Once she’d closed the door firmly behind her, she broke into a run. She needed every second in order to take a quick shower, drag a brush through what was left of her hair, and throw on some clean clothes.
* * *
* * *
Ten minutes later, on the nose, Rachel slid into the passenger seat of Mick’s car. He quickly angled his phone away so she couldn’t see the screen, hit the home button, and then slid the phone in his jacket pocket. Didn’t know why he felt guilty. He’d been googling her. So what? Should have done so right off the bat. Hadn’t yet found a match. It was going to be like searching for a needle in a haystack because there appeared to be a shitload of Rachel Joneses in the world. As Rachel’s car door shut, a hint of her scent wafted over the center console to torment him. She smelled like spring, fresh scrubbed, cool water with a hint of honey-milk soap. Her hair was wet and slicked back. The darker color accentuated the milky creaminess of her skin, and the cut highlighted the swanlike length of her neck. Mick noticed a droplet of water quivering in the shallow hollow above her collarbone. She must have missed it in her dash to towel dry and get into clean clothes. And the impulse to reach out and capture that shimmering droplet of water on his fingertip, to taste it, was almost overwhelming. Mick forced his gaze forward, shifted into drive. It wasn’t until they were halfway down Benedict Canyon that he was able to shake off the temporary lust-driven insanity. “Thank you,” he said in the most reasonable of tones. “I appreciate you helping out on such short notice.”
“A thank-you? Oh, my stars.” She smirked. “There, now,” she said, as if addressing a recalcitrant four-year-old. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Mick managed to choke back unexpected laughter. Barely. He glanced over, but Rachel had turned forward again. Her profile reminded him of a cameo brooch he had seen in a pawnshop window as a boy. She was dressed in the same nondescript outfit that she’d arrived on his doorstep wearing: conservative cream-colored blouse, black slacks, and sensible footwear. An outfit designed to keep a person at arm’s length. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the reverse effect on him. Why?
No answers were forthcoming. Although, maybe it wasn’t her wardrobe that was the issue, as her pink robe and pajamas had had a similar effect on him. He turned left onto Coldwater Canyon. When he did a shoulder check to switch into the right-hand lane, he noticed she wasn’t wearing glasses. Must have left them behind in the rush. He cursed softly under his breath.
“What?”
My fault. Shouldn’t have hurried her out the door. “Your glasses.” He kept his voice flat so she wouldn’t think there was any implied criticism.
She blinked, then lifted her chin in that way she had, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. “I’m wearing contacts.”
His bullshit meter pinged again. For a split second, he was tempted to pull to the side of the road, take her face in his hands, look closely at her eyes to see if the telltale clear rims of contacts were visible. He didn’t. Just as it was inappropriate to have lascivious thoughts toward his employee, it was equally against his moral code of ethics to manhandle one. He nodded his acknowledgment, as if he believed her, and kept driving. Turned right onto the 101 East ramp, merged onto the 101 South, stayed left to pick up the 135 East, and still neither of them uttered a word. Unspoken thoughts were thick in the air. Who the hell is she and what is she hiding? Doesn’t have a bank account. Needs to be paid in cash. Something’s fishy about her car, and I’m pretty sure she’s lying about the contacts. The question is why? Is she in trouble? Does she need help? Help. He snorted. Right. Like you’re so good at that. He had to make a conscious effort to loosen his grip on the steering wheel. Her private life is none of your business. You’re getting obsessed, man. You’ve got to let it go. It wasn’t until he had taken the Pass Avenue exit and pulled up next to a cop car that he glanced over and noticed she had unbuckled and slid her body down so it wasn’t visible from the outside that the ping became loud alarm bells clanging in his head.
23
Instead of turning left into the Warner’s lot, Mick swung his vehicle onto a side street. Snagged a parking spot halfway up the block. Rachel had returned to her seat and was playing it cool, as if she hadn’t just been plastered against the floor of his car. Didn’t matter. Enough was enough. Mick parked, switched off his engine, then turned to face her.
Rachel avoided his eyes. She made a show of glancing out the window at the small dusty houses on the residential street, then twisted to peer at the shabby strip mall they had just passed. “Oh,” she said brightly, reaching for the door handle. “We’re here. Funny, it doesn’t look at all like what I pictured . . .” He hit the lock button. Her voice petered out.
“I need answers.”
She stilled. Her head tipped downward as if the weight of it had suddenly become too heavy for her neck to bear. Her eyes closed almost as if she were praying. He could hear her breathing go shallow and shaky.
“I’m not an idiot, Rach. You gonna tell me what’s going on?”
No answer.
“All right. Let’s start with someth
ing simple. What’s your real name, and who are you running from?”
Still no answer. He shifted back in his seat, crossed his arms, and waited. He would wait all day if need be. The tension in the air vibrated on a knife’s edge between them. “You might as well tell me, because we are not leaving this car until you do.”
It was a matter of a split second. Caught him off guard. She moved like some kind of superhero, lunged forward, hit the unlock button, snagged her gray purse from between her feet.
“Rach . . . wait!” He reached for her, but he was too late. She’d already unstrapped, yanked the door open, and had tumbled out.
* * *
* * *
She ran. Knowing it was pointless. Knowing she had nowhere to go. Knowing the walls were closing in fast. And yet she ran. Could hear the thump of his feet gaining on her. And then he was there. His body was like a brick wall, stopped her in her tracks. His arms, like steel, surrounded and encased her. Wouldn’t let go, no matter how violently she fought. And she fought like a cornered animal with nothing left to lose. Striking, clawing any surface she could reach. He managed to capture her hands, but she still had her teeth, could kick. Too close, held too tight to manage a knee to the groin, but it didn’t stop her from trying.
“Rachel . . . Rachel . . . Please.” Through the thick fog of her fear, it dawned on her that there was no malice in his voice, no anger, even though he had to be hurting. He wasn’t fighting back, either. The blows her body had instinctually braced for never landed. “Please, Rachel. I mean you no harm . . .” But it was the gentleness with which he contained her, the kindness in his voice, the concern and worry that caused the fight to drain from her body and left just the tears.
He cradled her into his chest, tucked her head in close. She could hear his breath, ragged, too, his heart thumping hard beneath his shirt. His head bowed over hers, his warm breath on her hair, and she could feel his hand making gentle circles on her back, as if she were a child that needed soothing. The comforting, safe scent of him made her weep all the harder. For all that she’d lost and all she’d never had.
