Nowhere to Hide

by Terry Odell

  “That’s what Randy said. He knew I was a good cop. But I couldn’t. I failed.” She was shivering. “Hold me?”

  “I’m putting you to bed. You’ve had enough for one night. And you’re soaked again.” He tucked an arm around her waist, practically carrying her to the bedroom, and set her on the bed the way he had before. She clutched at him, wouldn’t let go.

  “Don’t leave.” She was raw, exposed and trembling. That she’d opened herself to him made him ache all the more.

  “Let me get you another shirt. I’m not going anywhere.” She didn’t resist when he pulled the wet shirt over her head. Forcing himself to ignore the automatic reaction to her lush breasts, he helped her into an oversized jersey. She didn’t protest when he slid her damp sweats off. Didn’t say anything when he stripped down to his briefs and climbed into bed beside her. “I’m not going anywhere. You get some sleep.”

  He lay on his back and she pillowed her head on his chest. Only when she turned on her side, her breathing slow and even, did he allow himself to sleep.

  *****

  Graham awoke to find Colleen snuggled up against his back. Her knee was between his thighs, her arm around his waist. Below his waist, actually. A little too low. He took her hand in his and pressed it against his chest, tried to work her leg free. She stirred, inched closer, sighing softly. She pulled her hips away, wrenched her hand back, and it brushed against his erection.

  She gasped. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean … I was dreaming … I don’t—”

  He shifted to face her. The clock read two a.m. “Shh. No harm, no foul. I’m flattered. At least, I hope it was me you were dreaming about.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “You’re warm. No fever, though.” He moved his lips lower, to her eyelids, her cheeks.

  A tiny corner of his brain told him to stop, to make sure she wasn’t merely scared and vulnerable. It needed to be him she wanted, not physical release.

  Damn it, what was wrong with physical release? He needed it, she needed it, and it was the way he was used to having sex. Why was she so different?

  As if in response, she lifted her mouth to his, kissed him hard and deep, and he ran his hands along her back, pulled her tight against him. Slid his hands under her shirt, felt the smooth, warmth of her skin. He moved his hands from her back to her front, stroking her neck, her collarbone. His fingertips grazed the tops of her breasts, and they were as smooth and firm as he imagined. He rolled his thumb over her nipple, already a taut peak. His fingers traced down to her belly, skimmed over her panties to her thigh, falling into the dimple of a scar. She inhaled sharply and jerked her leg away. “Not there.”

  It hit him like a brick wall. “Sweet Jesus, you were shot, weren’t you?”

  Her silence was his answer.

  “It’s over.” He held her hand. “Tell me.”

  Her hair brushed his face as she shook her head.

  “Tell me. It’s okay.”

  “I don’t remember much.” She had her face buried in his chest now. “Loud noises. I didn’t feel anything until I saw the blood. Lots of blood. Then it hurt like hell, and the room started to spin, and I got off the shot at the kid. Woke up in the hospital. Nicked the femoral artery.”

  His insides jolted. She could have died. Then he remembered the way she’d moved in the gym. “It seems to have healed.”

  “Pretty much.”

  He scooted himself up to a sitting position against the headboard. “Come here. Talk to me.” He’d left the lights on in the living room when he brought Colleen to bed and the faint illumination through the open bedroom door let him see enough to catch a smile flicker across her face.

  “You sure have a thing about talking.”

  He relaxed a little. She sounded calm, almost teasing.

  “Must be the Irish in me.” She moved so she sat next to him and he put his arm around her shoulders. “But keeping things inside doesn’t do anything, except maybe give you an ulcer.”

  “Maybe. But …”

  How could he comfort her? “Tell you what. You ask me a question. Anything. No holds barred.”

  She hesitated. “How many women have you videotaped at the gym? Wait. That wasn’t fair. It’s none of my business.”

  “I said no holds barred. And the answer is none. There’s no tape in the machine—the staff monitors the gym to make sure the kids don’t get into too much trouble when they’re playing basketball. For the record, you are the first woman I’ve brought there.” He felt her relax. “Look, I’m not a monk. But I brought you there because you needed an outlet. I cared. I still care. I won’t make a move unless you ask. You have my word.”

  “I almost asked before.”

  “I know.” He could see she had her head tucked, avoiding his eyes. He saw her lift her head and stare straight ahead. Although he couldn’t see her blush, he knew it was there. “Colleen. Look at me.” When her eyes met his, he took her hand and placed it on his groin above the covers, let her feel his hardness. “You do this to me. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  She kept her gaze steady, locked on his. “Nobody’s ever made me feel quite like this. I’m not sure how to deal with it.”

  “I could say the same thing about you.” And then something clicked and the words escaped before he could control them. “You don’t mean you’re a—you’ve never—?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “No, I don’t mean that.”

  Her answer stopped him. To be the first, with her, would be something special. Yet he’d always been with experienced women. Knew how to handle himself with them.

  She continued, her voice tiny. “Not exactly, anyway.”

  Not exactly? Visions of rape, of abuse, raced through his mind. All the easy words deserted him.

  She stared at some point across the room. “I was fifteen. My brothers had started being protective of me, watching everything I did, intimidating guys who came around and I guess I resented it. Got defiant. Started experimenting—sneaking cigarettes, beer, stuff like that. One afternoon I let Ricky Ferguson—he was seventeen—take me to the storage shed in his backyard and … that was that. Afterward, I felt so guilty—Catholic school, you know—I figured I might not burn in Hell if I waited for the perfect guy.

  “Then I joined the force, and life was all about the job. We were close, but brother-sister close. Dating each other seemed incestuous. At work, I was one of the guys, and it felt okay. And civilian guys—they seemed put off by my job.” She gave a hollow laugh. “Or they wanted to talk about my carrying a gun. I didn’t care. They didn’t seem to be the rest-of-your-life types. And after Ricky’s two minute performance, I wondered what the fuss was about. Then, after the shooting, everything changed, and maybe I want to find out.” She took a deep breath and looked at him. “So that’s my life in a nutshell.”

  He exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. If anyone had ever told him he’d be sitting in bed at two in the morning with a sexually inexperienced ex-cop suffering from what had to be post-traumatic stress, he’d have laughed out loud. But here he was, accepting the baggage she was sharing and wanting to make everything right for her.

  “Coconut shell, maybe,” he said. “That’s a lot.” He heard the first sounds of raindrops on the roof. Not the fierce pounding of a summer storm, rather, a steady background noise. “Guess the front’s coming through. I like the sound of rain when I can be inside.”

  “It sounds so loud here. In Oregon it rained all the time, but it was usually quiet. More of a mist.”

  “San Francisco had some of that weather, too. Mostly fog, though.” He laughed. “Listen to us. We’re talking about the weather.”

  She looked at him, then turned away again, but not before he saw the flash of pain cross her face and a single tear fall down her cheek.

  He held her tighter. “What just happened?”

  “You kind of opened everything up. Some of it’s still raw.” Her voice quavered.

  “It’s okay
. Don’t keep it bottled up. Let go.” He could see her struggle for control.

  “When I went to pick you up this afternoon and did the freak-out thing? I haven’t been able to admit it, even to myself. But I know why I quit. It wasn’t exactly what I said before.”

  He squeezed her hand. “It won’t leave this room.”

  “Part of it was the way I sensed everyone was looking at me. But Randy was right. You too. It would have passed. But I couldn’t go back to work. I tried. Three months after the shooting, two weeks at a desk, and I was still scared shitless. All day, every day. As soon as I got into the uniform. I could hardly eat, couldn’t sleep. I kept blaming it on everyone else.”

  “You did what you had to do, Colleen. It’s the job.”

  “Well, when push came to shove, I’m not sure I was cut out for the job. Being able to kill someone. You know the drill. If you draw your weapon, be prepared to use it. If you have to fire, shoot to kill. I saw a kid about to throw his life away, and I couldn’t do it.” She gave a quiet snort. “Actually I got him exactly where I aimed—his arm.”

  “His gun wasn’t pointed at you. It sounds to me like you made a good decision.”

  “But I’m not sure I would have been able to go for the kill shot even if it had been pointed at me. A scared cop who doesn’t want to fire her weapon isn’t exactly what the force needs. They knew my shooting scores. Hell, I outshot most of them. Woman or not, after the incident, they couldn’t trust me to cover their asses.”

  His stomach knotted at the thought of her suffering. “Doesn’t Pine Hills have counseling?”

  “Yes, of course. I tried. Maybe it would have helped—eventually. But I couldn’t open up—not enough. Meanwhile, I was falling deeper and deeper into hell, so I took a disability pension and ran.” She sniffed. “That’s it. Colleen McDonald, first class coward. Cops can’t be cowards. I failed.” She was crying again, gentle sobs this time and he took her in his arms and rocked her.

  “Cruin, cruin, mo chridhe,” he murmured.

  The tears slowed and she wiped her face with the back of her hand. “What were you saying?”

  “Something my grandmother used to say when I’d cry. Kind of, ‘Be calm, darling.’“

  She leaned against him, and he stroked her back, feeling the pounding of her heart die down. “Graham?” she whispered.

  His heart stuttered when she called him Graham. He thought it always would. “What?”

  “If you want to, I won’t say no.”

  It took a minute before he could breathe. “Colleen.” Damn it, he was going to end up hurting her no matter what he did. “I can’t ask. And I won’t take. Not tonight.” He felt a hot tear on his chest. “It’s not the time.”

  She pulled away, wiped the back of her hands against her face. “Of course. You’re right. I was silly to think you’d—” Her voice cracked.

  His heart felt like someone had ripped it in two. “I’ll go sleep on the couch.”

  “No!”

  He heard the fear. He took her hands in his. “Whatever you like.”

  “You like James Bond?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Colleen stretched her cramped legs and felt another body. Memories of last night flooded her. The television was off, and Harrigan—she couldn’t think of him as Graham now—was asleep on the couch next to her. In the pre-dawn darkness, she picked up the pillow and crept back to her bedroom, trying to forget how humiliated she felt. First, she’d done a total meltdown, and then, when she’d offered herself to Graham, he’d turned her down. As if she wasn’t good enough. Eventually, exhaustion overcame humiliation.

  Sounds in the bathroom woke her. Squinting against the daylight, she glanced at the clock. Seven-fifteen. She stared at the ceiling, trying to sort through the confusion in her mind. Nervousness, fear, embarrassment, relief, warmth—it seemed as if every possible emotion was zipping through her head like a swarm of bees. Five minutes later, Harrigan emerged from the bathroom, barefoot and shirtless, towel-drying his hair.

  “Good morning,” he said with a smile.

  How could he be smiling? And what the hell could he think of her after last night? She still hadn’t figured out what she was thinking.

  “Morning,” she muttered.

  “How about I make us some breakfast? Pancakes all right?”

  Breakfast. Good idea. Normal, something everyone did. “I don’t have any pancake mix. Just eggs, cereal and bagels.”

  He grinned. “You insult me. To think I need a mix to make pancakes. I’m sure I can manage.”

  As soon as he left the room, she dashed to the bathroom and locked the door. She leaned on the sink, staring into the mirror. God, what a mess. No wonder he wasn’t interested.

  But why did it hurt? Why was she so damn confused? If he hadn’t refused her, how would she be feeling now? Stupid, spoiled, taken advantage of?

  In the shower, she scrubbed her skin raw and pretended the soap in her eyes was causing her tears. McDonalds didn’t cry. Unless they were with Harrigans, he’d said. Were the waterworks going to flow all the time now?

  “Breakfast is ready,” came his voice from outside the bathroom door.

  “Be right there.” She dried off and hurried to her room to pull on jeans and a shirt. If she’d learned one thing growing up, it was never be late to the table.

  She smelled the coffee as soon as she hit the living room. Pulling her wet hair into a ponytail, she crossed to the kitchen where he waited, the top buttons of his shirt undone and his sleeves rolled up. He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her with a smile that still managed to melt her insides. Damn him. She inhaled the aroma, feeling it clear the last vestiges of sleep from her brain. “Mmm. Thanks.” She took a sip, and a few demons left.

  Relax. Act like you have breakfast with a man every day. Play it cool.

  He gestured toward the table. “Sit.”

  She slid into a chair and watched as he brought a platter of pancakes from the oven and served her before filling his own plate. A glass of orange juice waited at each place.

  “You don’t have baking powder,” he said. “Had to do some finagling with baking soda, vinegar and honey, but I think they’ll be okay.”

  He might as well have been speaking Chinese. He set a measuring cup of some amber liquid on the counter between them and sat next to her.

  “Syrup? I don’t remember buying syrup.”

  “It’s melted butter and honey. Should work.”

  She poured some over her pancakes and forked up a mouthful. He was watching her, the way he had the night before. She rolled the pancakes around her mouth, savoring the flavors. “Banana. And cinnamon. Right?”

  “Too easy. You don’t have much on hand. One day I’m taking you shopping and we’ll get you a pantry we can work with.”

  One day. We. Like this wasn’t going to be the end of it. He had her totally off balance. “If things I cook will taste this good, I might take you up on that.”

  “Any time. Now eat before it gets cold.”

  By the time they’d finished eating and cleaned up, it was close to nine. She went to dry her hair and when she came back to the living room, Graham, his shirt buttoned, his briefcase sitting by the door, was on the couch, bent over, tying his shoes. Despite a belly full of pancakes, the thought of Graham leaving created an empty feeling inside.

  He’s Harrigan, not Graham. “Guess you should go to work.” Stay. It’s Saturday. “Thanks for breakfast.” And everything else.

  He snapped his head up at the shrill ringing of his cell phone. He put a hand on her thigh and smiled. She felt that thrill again, but he probably had no clue he was confusing the hell out of her. She studied his face as he took the call. Definitely Harrigan.

  “Yes, I understand.” Disappointment. Then his eyes popped wide open. “What? You’re sure? Can you get me a copy of the report?” A grin. He clicked off the phone and dropped it on the couch cushion. “You’re not going to believe this. They got an ID on the
whale guy.”

  “Jeffrey?”

  “Nope. Frank Townsend.”

  “The University of Florida grad student?”

  “Guess he never made it to wherever he was supposed to be going.”

  “And you think this is part of your case? Tell me again why he’s a link to Jeffrey.” Too much had happened the last few days and loose ends were unraveling faster than she could keep track of them.

  “I’m not a hundred per cent sure he is. But—” He clasped her hands. “I do have him connected to Jeffrey and Stuart Gravely, apparently not too long before he disappeared. It’s not my case, not yet. But I’ll bet Schaeffer will make sure we’re in the loop. Townsend’s truck was at the airport down here, so I’m guessing we can work together with St. Johns and probably the Gainesville cops, too.”

  “Think out loud. Maybe I can help.”

  He didn’t answer right way. Her pancakes sat leaden in her stomach. Hadn’t they been through this last night?

  After a moment, he met her gaze. “What if Jeffrey had something to do with Townsend’s death? You think he’s running away? Hiding?”

  He’d been thinking. Not shutting her out. She tried to clear her brain. “Jeffrey kills Townsend, dumps his body in an animal pit and drives his car to the airport. Then disappears, telling everyone he’s in Alabama.”

  “Sounds crazy when you put it like that.” He stood and paced the room. “But he’s counting on the body not being discovered. Only a whale shows up, and they dig out the pit. Burying a whale isn’t something that would cross his mind when he picked the site.”

  “But why would Jeffrey kill Townsend?”

  “That’s the million dollar question.” He resumed his pacing. “Look, I need to call Schaeffer, see if he thinks we have enough to connect Jeffrey to Townsend and maybe get a warrant or two. Once we start poking in Jeffrey’s files, we might find the connection.”