After thirty seconds, he pressed the bell again.
Still no response.
That was odd, since lights on both floors were lit.
After a full minute passed, Dev retraced his steps down the path, left through the iron gate, and slid in beside her once she released the locks.
“It seems Mr. Hamilton isn’t in the mood for company.” He rested his hands on the wheel, the light from the street lamp casting the twin crevices in his brow into sharp relief.
“Maybe he just leaves a lot of lights on for security when he isn’t home.”
“He’s home. Or someone is. I could hear a muffled sound, like a heavy pot dropping on the floor, after the doorbell rang the first time.”
“If his wife is there alone, she might not open the door for strangers. As you pointed out, it’s not the best neighborhood.”
“That’s possible. But he hasn’t returned my calls, either. I’ll run some background on him tonight when I get home and have Nikki dig deeper tomorrow.” He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.
While Laura was glad Dev was thorough, odds were the man would be of little use to them. There was probably a valid reason he hadn’t returned calls or answered the door—one that had nothing to do with Darcy.
To make matters worse, the other leads were drying up too. As Dev had told her on the drive down, Rachel hadn’t heard from Darcy. Neither had Brianna in New York. He’d also recommended they pull surveillance from the Gateway Station after tonight. That meant Hamilton was their last hope—and he didn’t appear to be panning out.
Her spirits nose-dived, and the view of the snowy street in front of her blurred as moisture clouded her vision. She groped in her pocket for a tissue but came up empty.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” But the tremor in her response to Dev’s quiet question belied her assurance.
“Don’t give up.”
A tear spilled out of one eye and started to track down her cheek. She dug deeper in her pocket and remained silent, not trusting her traitorous voice.
“There are usually a few napkins from fast-food places in the glove compartment.” He took one hand off the wheel and released the catch for her.
So much for hiding her sudden display of emotion.
She leaned forward, reached in—and yanked her hand back with a startled exclamation.
“What’s wrong?” His tone sharpened as he pressed on the brake.
“There’s something soft and . . . sticky . . . in there.” She leaned toward the storage compartment again, keeping her hand a safe distance away from her body. “It looks like . . . a piece of cake?” Hard to tell now, since she’d mashed whatever it was and a napkin covered part of it. But when she lifted her fingers to her nose and took a sniff, she got an unmistakable whiff of sugar—as in icing.
“Oh. I forgot all about that. Sorry. I stuck it in there so it wouldn’t roll around on the backseat and get all over the upholstery.” Dev fumbled in his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. “It’s clean.”
She took it and wiped the gooey residue off her fingers. “You keep cake in your glove compartment?”
“Not usually.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “They brought me a cake at work today for my birthday, and I was taking a piece home.”
“Today’s your birthday?” She stared at his profile in the darkness.
“Yeah.”
“And you spent it chasing a lead on my case?”
“I often end up working on my birthday. It’s not an issue.”
“My mom wouldn’t have agreed with you. I can still hear her saying, ‘Laura, most days in life are ordinary. When special ones roll around, celebrate and make happy memories to carry you through the dull days.’” She finished wiping off her fingers, wadded the handkerchief into a small ball, and stuffed it in her pocket for later laundering. “That’s one of the few things we agreed on. I’ll always remember the elaborate cakes and clowns and ponies and face painters she used to round up for my birthdays.”
“I think I’ve outgrown that kind of stuff.” She could hear the smile in his voice.
“There are other ways to celebrate—and I feel bad I kept you from enjoying any of them.”
After a slight hesitation, he responded. “How bad?”
“What do you mean?”
“Bad enough to join me for dinner so I don’t have to eat alone on my birthday?”
He was asking her to dinner?
“Unless you already ate.” He tacked on the caveat as she grappled with the surprising invitation.
“No.” There was no hesitation in her response.
“Then how about it? I won’t keep you out late. I have more work to do later on Hamilton. And it would make my mom happy too. When I talked to her earlier, she wasn’t pleased about my birthday plans. She’ll be glad to know I didn’t end up eating a frozen dinner and a piece of leftover cake.”
It would make my mom happy too.
That last little three-letter word perked up her spirits.
“Since I smashed the cake in question, it’s the least I can do.”
“True.” His smile was caught for an instant in the glow of a streetlight before it disappeared in the shadows. “But I get a real birthday dinner in return, so you’re actually doing me a favor.”
She gave his strong profile a quick inspection as she braced herself while he turned onto the highway entrance ramp. He thought she’d done him a favor?
No way.
When it came to sharing dinner, she was definitely the one on the receiving end.
Darcy gripped the back of the upholstered chair in front of her, fingers clenching the velour fabric as the key rattled in the lock. Mark had said he’d be here at six. It was now quarter past, and with every minute that had ticked by after the hour, her tension had mounted.
Would he be in a good mood or a bad mood tonight?
She cast another quick glance around the room. Everything was in its place. She’d eaten all her food. Done her two miles on the treadmill. Followed all the rules.
But maybe that wasn’t enough to keep you safe if you were dealing with a crazy person.
He pushed through the door, a long garment bag draped over his arm. “Hello, Darcy. Did you have a nice day?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” He checked the odometer on the treadmill. Gave the room a scan. Noted the laundry she’d bundled up, per his instructions. Looked in the refrigerator. “You’ve done well—and admirable behavior should be rewarded. I have a surprise for you.”
He crossed to the closet and hung the bag on the clothes rod. Smiling at her, he pulled down the zipper and carefully removed the garment inside.
It was a . . . wedding dress?
She stared at the satin and lace confection as he turned toward her and let the fabric of the skirt float down to sweep over the carpet in a graceful arc.
“Do you like it?”
Tightening her grip on the back of the chair, she tried to keep breathing. “It’s very pretty.”
“It is, isn’t it?” He straightened a fold in the skirt. “I’ve had it a long time, just waiting for the right person to come along. I think she has at last.” He fingered the lace at the neckline. “How would you like to wear this?”
A wave of revulsion shuddered through her as panic clawed at her throat. “I’m only s-sixteen.”
“Almost seventeen, according to your driver’s license. And eighteen is the magic age. A year isn’t that long to wait. It will give us time to get to know one another better.”
The breath whooshed out of her lungs.
He was going to keep her locked in this basement prison for a year?
“I wanted you to have something to look forward to. That’s why I showed you this. You have great promise. I never let Angela or Denise see it.”
Angela and Denise?
Her gaze flicked in the direction of the freezers on the other side of the basement.
There must
be two more girls over there.
Girls who’d made a mistake—and paid for it with their life.
Just as she would.
Because the truth was, no matter how hard she tried, the longer she stayed down here, the greater the probability she’d run afoul of his rules and end up like her predecessors.
She had to figure out some way to outmaneuver him and get out of this place ASAP!
“Would you like to touch it?”
His question drew her back to the moment. Yes or no—which was the right answer?
“I don’t want to get it dirty.” Her words came out in a whisper.
“Admirable. So wash your hands first.” He gestured toward the bathroom.
She followed his instructions, lathering up, taking her time with the process, as he always did. When she rejoined him, he indicated the sleeve. “You can touch that.”
Keeping as much distance between them as possible, she gingerly fingered the lace at the edge of the cuff.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.” Amazing how easy it was to lie once your survival instincts took over.
“I thought you would. Someday soon I might let you try it on.” As he zipped the dress into the bag, she edged back to her defensive position behind the chair. “Now I’ll go get your dinner. It’s just your leftovers from last night, but if you eat them all, I’ll make fresh salmon tomorrow. How does that sound?”
She gritted her teeth, trying not to barf. “Fine.”
He opened the door and exited. She waited as long as she dared once it clicked shut, in case he was watching her through the peephole.
Then she raced to the bathroom and lost her lunch.
“Would you like some dessert?” Dev indicated the menu the waiter had deposited as he’d cleared their plates. He hoped Laura would say yes; even though it was past eight and he’d promised to get her home early, this had been the nicest evening he’d spent in a very long while. It would be better yet if he could extend it another half hour.
Laura took a sip of her coffee and gave him a quick smile. “What about the cake in your glove compartment?”
He perused the menu. “The apple tart sounds better—and it won’t be squashed.”
“True.” She studied the offerings. “I’ve always been a sucker for chocolate mousse.”
“Sold.” He signaled to the waiter.
She cradled her cup in her hands and looked around the intimate French-country-themed restaurant from the tucked-in-the-corner table he’d requested. “I’m surprised I’ve never heard of this place.”
“It’s more a local spot, but it has a big following.”
“I can see that—and I’m not surprised. The food is great. Do you come here often?”
“No.” Quiet, intimate spots like this were designed for more serious, in-depth, let’s-get-to-know-each-other conversations, and he’d had no interest in setting that kind of tone with any of his dates—until now.
But that was a tidbit he did not intend to share.
She added another splash of cream to her coffee. “I’m honored, then. And I’m glad you introduced me to it.”
So was he—another fact he intended to keep to himself.
The waiter returned, and once he’d given their dessert orders, Dev settled back in his chair, coffee in hand. Since the moment they’d met, Laura had been taut as a bowstring with worry, and the dark circles under her eyes told him she’d clocked little sleep during the past week.
Tonight, though, the rigid line of her shoulders had eased and her lips had softened a fraction.
He didn’t flatter himself the change was due to his company, much as he wished it was. More likely it was the soothing ambiance of the restaurant, the lighthearted conversation he’d initiated, and a decent meal . . . not that she’d eaten all of it.
“You seem deep in thought.” She regarded him over the flickering candle that rested in the middle of the linen-covered café table.
He refocused. “I was just thinking how some people eat when they’re stressed; my guess is you do the opposite.”
“Guilty as charged. Stress may not be healthy for my heart, but it benefits my waistline.”
“As if you need to worry.” Too personal, Devlin. Watch it.
“Thanks, but trust me, I do watch my weight. Those unforgiving fencing outfits give me an excellent incentive to stay in shape.”
An image of her in white, form-fitting fencing gear, saber in hand, appeared in his mind—and elevated his pulse.
He quashed it at once . . . or tried to.
“So what about you? Do you eat or fast when you’re stressed?” She took a sip of her coffee, watching him over the rim of the cup. The waiter appeared with their desserts, giving him a few seconds to frame a response that was vague but truthful. “Usually stress doesn’t affect my appetite one way or the other.”
Unfortunately, Laura homed in on the vague part as she spooned up a bite of her mousse. “Implying there are exceptions?”
Oh yeah.
He looked down at his dessert. The warmth from the apple pastry was melting the scoop of vanilla bean ice cream, and he edged it away. But he couldn’t move it far enough, and the ice cream continued to thaw.
Kind of like his heart did when he was around Laura.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft, her expression apologetic, as she reached over to touch the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean to pry. Forgive me?”
In the glow of the candlelight, her blue eyes reminded him of the summer skies of his Minnesota youth—clear and vast, filled with wonder and welcome and possibilities. They called to him, seeming to offer release and freedom, just as those endless heavens once had.
All at once he was transported back to his seventeenth summer, to the day he and a buddy had forked out a chunk of their hard-earned summer-job money to go hang gliding. They’d wanted to soar above the world, leave all its cares behind. And the feeling of exhilaration and freedom had been everything he’d expected. Even though his parents had later gotten wind of his escapade and grounded him for a month, he’d never regretted taking that risk.
Did he have the courage to do the same now?
As he debated that question, distress etched Laura’s features, and the tension that had dissipated during dinner crept back into her posture.
Time for damage control.
“There’s nothing to forgive.” The words came out stiffer than he intended, and she dropped her gaze.
He poked his fork into a piece of tart, swirled it in the melted ice cream, and put it in his mouth. But his taste buds had shut down, just as they had five and a half years ago during the darkest period of his life, when he’d lost twenty pounds in ten weeks.
No longer hungry, he set the fork down and picked up his coffee instead.
Laura set her spoon down too.
Great. Now he’d ruined what up till a minute ago had been an enjoyable evening.
He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I think it’s my turn to apologize. I didn’t mean to cast a pall over the evening. Your question just brought back some unpleasant memories.”
“I gathered that.” With a fingertip, she traced the trail from a bead of condensation down the side of her water glass. “It goes back to that comment you made the night we had the pizza, doesn’t it? About how people often upend their life because of a romance gone bad.”
He swallowed past the lump that rose in his throat. “Yeah.”
“I should have remembered that and not pressed. But if . . .” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Look, I don’t want to sound pushy or invade your turf. But if you ever need a sounding board, I’ve been told I’m a decent listener—not by Darcy, but by others.” She flashed him the barest hint of a smile.
He tried to respond in kind. Couldn’t get his lips to cooperate. “You have enough on your plate without listening to my tale of woe.”
A beat of silence passed as she appraised him. “I’m not sure if that’s a brush-off
or if you’re just being thoughtful, but if it’s the latter, there’s still room on my plate. You’ve listened to my angst over the past few days, and I’d be happy to return the favor. You could think of it as a birthday present, if you like.”
His breath jammed in his throat, the same way it had the day he’d stood at the edge of the cliff, preparing to put his trust in the flimsy gliding rig attached to his body while he jumped into an abyss. There had been danger then. A risk to his physical safety.
And there was danger now too—except this leap would put his heart at risk.
That was even scarier.
The waiter stopped beside their table, pitcher of water in hand. “Is there anything else you need?”
Laura laid her napkin on the table beside her barely touched dessert. “You could point me to the ladies’ room.”
“Straight back, past the kitchen, on your left.”
“Thanks.” She rose as the waiter moved off, giving him a smile that seemed forced. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
He stood too, but she didn’t wait for a response.
As she wove through the tables, he slowly sat again. The ladies’ room was a ruse. She’d sensed his indecision, picked up on his turbulent emotions, and was giving him space to work things out in his mind. He also knew she’d let him take the lead on the conversation after she returned, giving him the choice to accept her offer or simply change the subject.
The lady was one class act.
As for those empathetic eyes . . . they sucked him in, undermining his resolve to refrain from burdening her with his problems while she was in the midst of her own. How odd was that, when no one else—not his family, not his buddies, not the counselor he’d met with for a while after the incident—had managed to persuade him to spill his guts? Yet Laura had won his trust without even trying.
It had to be due to the potent chemistry thing going on between them. Despite their short acquaintance, he felt linked to her in a way he never had with anyone else—including Cat. He’d lay odds Laura felt it too. And because of it, he had a feeling she could be the catalyst that would help him let go of the past and move on . . . a task that had taken on a much higher priority since she’d entered his life—for reasons he wasn’t ready to examine.
Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel Page 18
