by Cait London
“I can have Leon, our mechanic, come over and check her out,” Trina offered.
“That would be great, and I’d like to be here when he does.”
“Honey, Leon knows what he’s doing. He just doesn’t have Kyle’s magic touch.”
The memory of the attack three years ago kept Rachel awake for hours, and back then, Mallory had helped her recover with reassurances. You’ll be okay, kiddo. You moved into a security building with a doorman. I promise you that this won’t happen again.
How can you be so certain? Rachel had cried, shattered by the attack.
Yeah, well. I just know things. It isn’t going to happen again. You have to believe that….
The bedroom Rachel shared with Jada was too quiet, the echo dying away into the night’s shadows….
“I owe you, Mallory, and you had no right to die before I paid you back. I am so angry with you—” Rachel punched her pillow into shape and forced herself to relax and gradually sleep came…and so did the nightmare of being held down—she awoke with a cry on her lips, stifling it to prevent her mother and sister from hearing. “I love you, Mallory. Don’t leave me,” she whispered shakily, and listened for the answer that Mallory had given years ago.
I love you, too, kiddo. Go to sleep now—I’ll be around. I’m always around, and nothing is going to happen to you again, I promise….
“That should have been locked.”
In the predawn light, the streetlights provided a backlight to Rachel’s silhouette, casting it upon Nine Balls huge windows, the old glass yielding an imperfect, rippled reflection. Rachel slipped Nine Balls’ key into her tote bag and gripped the heavy brass handle of the front door. She tested the door again, and it opened easily. “I locked this last night.”
Inside the dim recesses of the billiards parlor, a dim slice of light came from the opened office door. “And I turned that off last night.”
Rachel eased open Nine Balls’ big heavy front door and stepped inside. She placed Harry’s carrier on the floor and stood still, listening…. The building was too quiet, seeming to wait for her; she’d had that same sense last night, as if the rooms were silently waiting for her. As if Mallory was waiting for her….
“This isn’t funny, Mallory,” Rachel whispered, as she bent to open Harry’s carrier.
Harry streaked under a pool table. He didn’t like Nine Balls yesterday, and from the looks of it, he wasn’t going to like it today. In fact, Harry hadn’t liked anything or anyone, except Jada, since they’d arrived three days ago. “Coward.”
Taking a deep breath, Rachel slowly walked toward the office. “I might as well start taking care of my property right now. I can’t run to the police at the first sign of problems. And I was pretty upset last night, just maybe I didn’t lock up as I should have….”
If someone had unlocked the front door, they’d used a key. “It’s four-thirty in the morning now, and that means they had over five hours to come in here. Maybe. Or maybe I’m just stressed and tired and thinking of Mallory too much. On the other hand, if she’d passed keys around to her midnight callers, I’m getting new locks.”
She placed the flat of her hand on the office door and it creaked as she pushed it open.
Everything looked the same—Mallory’s handwritten ledgers stacked at one corner of the desk, the one Rachel had been feeding into her laptop’s spreadsheet lay beside it; her place marked by an envelope. But the stamp of the opened envelope, an electric bill, had been showing. The envelope was still inside the ledger, but now the stamp was hidden. Rachel had purposely left it in that position because the bill was dated and payment was overdue—she’d planned to give that priority.
Rachel sought to reassure herself. The envelope could have slipped down. She was probably just tired last night and hadn’t turned off the light or locked the door. It had been closed and off, but the yellow note pad she’d placed beside the laptop had been moved to the top of the bank statements. Rachel sat down, opened the laptop, turned it on, and waited for it to come to life.
She keyed to where she had been working on spreadsheets. Rachel sat back in the chair and stared at the screen that yielded nothing. In a flurry, she opened her other programs, looking for evidence of someone prowling. Everything seemed untouched.
Except that yellow pad wasn’t where she’d left it, placed on the left side of the laptop, when she’d left it on the right. That small telling thing caused the hair on her nape to lift. “I can’t prove anything, Harry, but I’d say someone’s been through this desk—I worked on that drawer with files, sorting them yesterday, and they were all level, not at different heights.”
Harry came to rub around her legs and she lifted him onto her lap. His claws dug into her jeans, a reward for the petting she was giving him. “Very interesting, Harry. I think we have a prowler. And he used a key. There was an empty envelope in Mallory’s desk yesterday—I pitched it—but she’d written ‘Keys for Kyle’—Mmm. Why Mr. Scanlon, apparently you have keys. What were you looking for?”
The trash basket looked different, the crumpled yellow paper beneath the others when she’d tossed them on top before leaving.
Tucking Harry under her arm, Rachel carried him up the narrow stairway to Mallory’s barren apartment. The heavy maroon damask drapes had been burned with the rest and the windows let squares of dawn onto the gleaming varnished floor. An antique sewing rocker that Trina had given Mallory, a family heirloom that Mallory had loved, had been moved slightly, making way for someone to leave by the apartment door.
Rachel slowly walked to the bedroom, and noted the mirrored closet door had been closed.
It was empty now, but the can of air freshener she’d used, placed in front of the closet on the floor was now inside the closet. One glance at the cedar board told her that Mallory’s hiding place was still safe.
Rachel smiled grimly. She’d taken very good care of Mallory’s scrapbook and personal effects. “Looking for something, Kyle?”
When she came down the stairs, Harry thump-thumped down after her. “Speaking of the devil,” she murmured as she discovered the man playing pool….
Kyle Scanlon’s tall body leaned over the nine-foot tournament table, poised at the “head rail” for a shot at the triangular shape configuration of the eight-ball game. His stroke was smooth, hitting the cue ball. It hit the one ball, breaking the “rack” perfectly. Two solid-colored balls rolled into pockets. He straightened, glanced at her, and moved into pocket another solid-colored ball.
Rachel leaned against the wall and watched Pup and Harry go through their growling, hissing thing before Pup dropped his jowls to his paws and settled for staring at Harry, who was beneath an eight-foot table, rubbing against the legs. Then Harry rolled over on his back, confidently teasing the dog, and Pup growled softly.
“Stay.” At Kyle’s order, the dog gave a disgruntled “whoof” and settled for staring at the cat.
Kyle’s silvery and deep shadowed eyes studied Rachel. In a black T-shirt with a torn pocket and greasy worn jeans and battered work boots, he looked as if he hadn’t slept. His jaw was dark with stubble, his hair mussed.
“Having fun?” she asked.
“I thought you were open for business. The door was unlocked, and I’ve paid for a full year.” He methodically circled the table, finishing off the solid-colored balls.
“Yes, well. Anyone could come in then, right? Say a prowler? Someone looking for something? Someone with a key who could come and go as they wished?”
“If you say so.” He shrugged and placed his left hand on the table, using his thumb as a bridge for the shaft, his right “back hand” with a perfect grip on the butt, his forearm in a 90-degree angle to the cue. A striped ball banked on a rail and rolled into an opposite pocket.
When he placed his left hand on the table again, Rachel noted the raw places on his knuckles. “Been in a fight?”
She circled him to get a look at his right hand, and there was a long scratch on it. Kyle gl
anced at her and there was a dark bruise on his cheekbone; the whites of his eyes had a distinct bloodshot appearance.
“Nope.” He moved around the table, angling for a shot that took the five and six balls into opposite pockets. “What makes you think so?”
“Your knuckles are skinned. That looks like a bruise on your cheek. And your eyes say you’ve been drinking. You smell like smoke and oil.”
“Why, I didn’t know that you cared. You smell really good, by the way. I like that getup—tight jeans and T-shirt, flip-flops, no makeup, your hair in a ponytail. You look cute and sexy, just as you did when you were doing charity car washes during college vacations. I used to come to those things, just to see you bend over. Then, if I was lucky, your shirt would get wet and—well, you’ve filled out more since then.”
Rachel remembered his “nipple” remark on the night of Mallory’s funeral. She fought the blush rising up her cheeks and faced him squarely. She refused to be embarrassed by him. “That happens. No need to elaborate.”
Kyle smiled easily as he bent into the next shot and finished the striped balls before he spoke. “Always ready to believe the worst, huh, Rachel? Like maybe I was in a bare-knuckle fight, or worked someone over because they didn’t pay up? Something low and back-alley type that you’d expect from me?”
She had long suspected that Kyle enjoyed fostering her notions that he moved in the underworld and crime, and he definitely enjoyed stirring her temper. He pointed his cue tip to a pocket, then leaned down to angle for the shot, stretching out that long lean body. A smooth powerful stroke and the eight ball rolled into the designated pocket.
He picked up the chalk and rubbed it over the cue’s tip. “Care to play?”
“I’m busy. What were you looking for here, last night?”
He frowned slightly, carefully placed the square of chalk onto the table’s rim, and looked squarely at her. “I wasn’t here.”
“Sure…I don’t believe you. I locked up when I left and the door was unlocked this morning. You look like you’ve been on an all-nighter, and there was an envelope in Mallory’s desk drawer marked ‘Kyle’s key,’ but there’s no key in it.”
He took his time walking to the cue rack and replacing the one he had used. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“Not with you.” She watched him walk toward her. “I want that key and your promise that you won’t prowl around here at night. It’s business hours only.”
He was too close now, forcing her to look up as she backed against the wall. As he braced his body inches from hers, Kyle’s hand flattened beside her head. His eyes followed his finger as it smoothed a tendril behind her ear, then strolled down to where the dimple hid in her cheek. Then those blue eyes locked with hers. “What are you going to do, refund my year payment? People would ask why, wouldn’t they? You’d have a hard time explaining that, wouldn’t you? And I did not, repeat, did not come in here last night.”
He was too close and that old fear moved in to twist her gut—“Back off, Scanlon.”
Kyle was lazily studying her lips. “Mallory gave me a key…. You can call me at any time, honey.”
His eyes moved up to hers and he frowned, that lazy sensual look replaced by an intent concerned one. “You’re shivering and you’ve just gone pale. What’s wrong?”
“You…you’re too close. I…” Rachel couldn’t tell him about the rape, about the panic that tightened around her now, that caused her to go ice-cold.
His expression was fierce and hard, his voice low and primitive. “What happened to you, Rachel?”
Her lips moved, but she couldn’t speak, her throat tightened by the old fear that always came when men came too close. Her heart raced as her trembling hands tightened into fists at her side—“Step back,” she whispered breathlessly and thrust out her hands to protect herself.
The palm of one hand hit the torn cloth over his flat stomach and he tensed, scowling down at her.
“Your hand is ice-cold, Rachel.” Kyle studied her for several thundering heartbeats and then pushed away, backing several feet from where she stood. “I know fear when I see it. Your eyes are huge now, filling with me, and that isn’t how I would ever want a woman to look at me…any woman. I may want to push you, Rachel. Hell, I really enjoy seeing you light up, because I know that you’re not all smooth cream and manners. I like to see the lid come off and all that passion come out.”
He ran his hand across his chest. “But I wasn’t here last night. I wouldn’t try to spook you. I like coming straight at you too much, watching your reaction. Do you really think someone was in here last night?”
Rachel crumpled onto a bench, her arms folded around herself as she forced the familiar panic away. She believed him; Kyle had always enjoyed a head-on confrontation, watching her react to him. “Yes, I do. Someone rummaged through the desk, tapped into my computer, and moved around upstairs.”
Kyle’s expression hardened, the lines bracketing his mouth deepened. “Someone is looking for something.”
She understood perfectly: Mallory had affairs with married men, and someone might have been looking for evidence linking them to her…. “I know what Mallory was, but she was still my sister and I loved her.”
She explained briefly how she’d been so careful to lock Nine Balls, downstairs and upstairs, and Kyle asked, “What do you think they were after? It wasn’t cash. Mallory never kept cash here. She made a final deposit the day she died.”
“How do you know that?”
“She trusted me with her money. I always took it to the bank and brought back the deposit slip. I knew something was wrong then, but she wasn’t talking.”
“Did she—did she ask you that day to mail a letter addressed to me from out of town?”
Kyle shook his head. “No. Why?”
“Someone did. Mom and Jada said Mallory had given up driving…. I got it on the day of the funeral. She mentioned you.”
Rachel watched his reaction intently, but Kyle’s sadness appeared genuine. “She would. She was thoughtful.”
“I don’t know why someone would want to come in here at night. There’s nothing here. But don’t you tell my mother or Jada. I do not want them to be worried.” There’s nothing here except her scrapbook, the things that were precious to her.
“Oh, you don’t? Now you’re starting to sound like Mallory, only she always included you in her don’t-worry-them list.”
“What do you mean? We were terribly worried about her. These last two years—”
“I know. The year after she came home from visiting you, she was fighting something, but she lost—she just gave up,” he murmured grimly. Kyle walked out the door, opened the Hummer’s door, and returned with a thermos bottle. A slice of morning sunlight cut through the opened door as he sat beside her on the bench and poured steaming hot coffee into the plastic cup, handing it to her. “Drink.”
Harry left the safety of the pool table and hurried to the bench, leaping up beside Kyle. The tomcat purred loudly, rubbing against the man, and instantly Pup was on his three paws, hurrying to growl at the cat. “Down,” Kyle ordered quietly and the boxer plopped his bottom down, but showed his teeth at the cat.
Harry lay down, his front paws on Kyle’s thigh. When Kyle petted him, he leaned into that big hand and purred louder. Pup whined softly, inching closer.
“I do not want your dog to drool on me,” Rachel stated as she eyed Pup.
Kyle reached to ease the dog away, to the side where Harry was lying on the bench. Pup stuck his muzzle in the cat’s face, then as if disgusted, walked out the open door.
The coffee was bitter and the memories of Mallory too strong, causing Rachel to shudder slightly. She couldn’t believe she was sitting next to Kyle, actually drinking from a cup that he had probably used. Intimacy and sharing something Kyle’s disturbing lips had touched weren’t on her list of planned activities…nor was letting him see the fear that had stalked her for three years since her attack. “Okay, yo
u can go now. You’ve probably seen that there’s nothing personal here that might interest you.”
He shrugged lightly. “Maybe it interested someone else. You wouldn’t like the men she entertained, and they’re certain to be around, wanting to come upstairs. Do what you have to do and sell this place. You weren’t cut out to be a small-town girl anyway.”
“I promised Mallory that I would do my best to take care of something she loved. I’m going to insure that it isn’t turned into the tavern atmosphere she didn’t want. I’m not leaving, Kyle. I’m moving in upstairs and I’m running this place.”
Kyle stared at Rachel; her chin was lifted defiantly, her eyes narrowed at him. He’d seen that look before, admired it, but now he didn’t trust where her stubbornness could lead her. “You mean it, don’t you?”
“I do. I promised Mallory that—”
His throat tightened with fear; Mallory had lived a hard life, and Rachel knew nothing of the details—the abortions, the beatings. He’d been frustrated, angry with Mallory, because she wouldn’t listen, and now the same thing was happening all over again—but not if he had anything to do with it…. “She’s dead, Rachel. You don’t owe her anything. Do what you have to do and settle down to raise kids, join a bridge club or something.”
“I…owe…her. And I loved her. So I’m moving in upstairs and running this place,” she repeated.
Kyle’s curse boiled out of him, then he said, “Hell bound and determined to do whatever you want, regardless of the danger. You were always like that—a crusader against all odds. It doesn’t look like you’ve changed, but this place cost Mallory, and it could cost you, too.”
She smiled tightly. “And you think your opinion matters, do you? Someone like you who’s been out drinking and fighting in a bar all night?”
He thought about the hard drive to that Idaho farm house, his hours at welding the stock car’s frame, lowering a new engine into the speed demon, and working with a too-tight timing chain that had scraped his knuckles. He’d been too tired before he even began the long drive home, because he couldn’t wait to see Rachel again. You sick, son of a bitch, he labeled himself grimly. Rachel Everly had looked down that pretty nose at him for years—and maybe he wanted that, because he knew he wasn’t what she needed. “If you say so, honey,” he drawled, watching her.
