When she puckered her brow in thought, Lange sensed they might get off-track again. Steering her back on subject, he asked, “The professor. How old is he? Has he ever shown any interest in you romantically?”
Ashli squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. “He’s probably late 30's, early 40's. He asked me out a few times, but I never really went. Well, once I did have dinner with him.”
“Either you went or you didn’t,” he pointed out.
“I went,” she conceded. “There was really no graceful way to avoid it. But I didn’t have a good time, and I really didn’t consider it a date.”
“Did he kiss you goodnight?” he asked dryly.
“He tried.”
“Then it was a date. Be sure you include as much information as possible on your list. What he teaches, what he drives, that sort of thing.” He reached for his wine glass but found it empty. Ashli was up instantly, fetching the bottle from the table to pour them both another glass. “That still leaves the apartment across the hall. Tell me about that tenant.”
“Todd and Katelyn Evans. Cover-story power couple, probably mid-to-late 40's, both career oriented. She travels quite a bit and is seldom home. Todd travels some, too, but not nearly as much. He’s in real estate, the legal side, I think.”
“Happily married, would you say?”
“I suppose. I’ve never really given it any thought.” She shrugged, taking a sip of wine. Growing thoughtful, she tucked her legs beneath her. “But I will say it has to be hard, both working demanding schedules like that, and with her always gone. You would need a strong marriage to withstand that, don’t you think?”
“I’m hardly an expert on marriage.” The words sounded strangled, squeaking past his heart.
“Have you ever been married, Mr. Sterling?” she asked curiously.
Thoughts of Lauren, along with the wine, made him feel light-headed. He rudely ignored her question, asking one of his own as he struggled to keep the conversation professional. “Has Mr. Evans ever shown any romantic interest in you?”
“No, of course not.”
“You said something about group activities?”
“Sometimes we have get-togethers. In the summer we might barbeque, or watch outdoor movies, or have potluck down on the back veranda. A couple of times a year I make a big cake and we have a communal birthday party. It’s especially nice for Mr. Parnell and the Harrises.”
“The birthday parties were your idea?” he guessed.
Hearing the skepticism in his voice, she couldn’t help but go on the defensive. “I suppose. The first one was a surprise for Mr. Parnell. Everyone seemed to enjoy it so much, we decided to make it a tradition.”
“So who has ownership to the balcony joining your space?” He was jumping topics so fast her head spun.
“Jason Madison.”
Lange eyed her for a long moment, until she grew uncomfortable and squirmed. “What, Mr. Sterling?”
“I thought it was Lange,” he murmured. “And I was just thinking of how your tone changes when you talk about Mr. Madison. You had nothing but glowing things to say about everyone else in the house, but very little to say about him. Why is that?”
In her best imitation of a Southern belle, Ashli batted her lashes from overly-innocent eyes. “As I was always told growing up, ‘sugah, if you can’t say somethin’ nice about somebody, just don’t say nothin’ at all’.”
Her honeyed drawl melted over him like warm molasses. His breath stalled in his chest as he recalled that flash of pink silk. . . He struggled to keep his face stoic, camouflaging the ridiculous and immediate response of his traitorous body. He had to think of her in a professional manner only.
“So you dislike Mr. Madison?” he managed to ask in a reasonably flat voice.
“‘Dislike’ is a rather strong word,” she hedged. “But no, he’s not my favorite person.”
Lange practically growled. This time his frustration was aimed at her. She refused to believe anyone she knew could be evil. She refused to say anything unkind about anyone. She refused to believe in her own beauty, or that any man could be obsessed with her. The woman was a freaking saint. A delusional one, at that.
“Get me the list, Miss Wilson,” he ground out.
“I thought it was Ashli,” she replied smartly. “How soon do you want it?”
“This morning would have been nice.”
A background check would have been nice, too, he reminded himself. Maybe if he had done his homework, he wouldn’t be sitting here now, wondering what he had gotten himself into. Aloud, he added, “I’ll need names, addresses and phone numbers if you’ve got them, and brief descriptions of your relationship with each of them.”
“Between my cell phone and my address book, I can get all of that for you right now, if you’d like.”
“I’d like.”
As she left the room, her back stiff with resolve to be just as tough as he was, Lange leaned back against the tapestry sofa and sighed. He was so dog tired. He wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep for two days, or six hours, whichever came first. Maybe while she was upstairs, he could catch a few winks . . .
CHAPTER FOUR
“I’ve got that list for . . .” Ashli stopped in mid-sentence as she came down the stairs and found the man sound asleep on her sofa.
He was sprawled over the antique frame, one leg resting on the floor, the other dangling from an arm rest. His hand was flung across his face, shielding his eyes from the overhead light, leaving only his sensual mouth exposed. Relaxed in sleep, his jaw seemed less severely set, his tight mouth more generous. As Ashli ventured closer, she saw his chest rise and fall in the steady rhythm of sleep, and something within her softened. He looked so vulnerable as he slept, so peaceful, nothing like the hard, cynical ex-cop she had seen before. It would be a shame to wake him.
She tiptoed over to the built-in bookcases and pulled a quilt from her collection. Carrying it back to the couch, she very carefully eased it down, covering the scuffed cowboy boot dangling from the arm rest. She pulled the quilt up slowly, covering his incredibly long legs and the lean, flat belly where his other hand rested. Light as a feather, she eased the cover up onto his chest, noting the width of his shoulders and the muscles visible beneath the clinging knit of his shirt. Drawing the cover up to his chin and carefully releasing it, she gazed at his handsome face for a moment, wondering if his mustache tickled when he kissed. Her eyes studied his lips, full and smooth and parted in relaxed slumber. What would those lips feel like on hers? Would he be as masterful with kisses as he looked?
Shocked at her own thoughts, Ashli jumped back, stepping against the coffee table in her haste to move away before she did something stupid, like actually kiss him. When he started slightly and mumbled an incoherent protest, she held her breath in dread that he might wake up.
What would she say to him if he did awaken? That he looked so lost and vulnerable, like a small boy alone in the world, that she could not bear to wake him?
That he was so handsome he stole her breath away, that just watching him sleep was a treat within itself?
That she was afraid she would embarrass him if she woke him twice in one day, especially since this time it was her couch he was sleeping on?
Or what if she just admitted that he made her feel safe? Despite her brave words of not believing she knew her stalker, she was petrified at the mere prospect. Could she really be so close to someone so sinister and not even know it? That thought was almost as frightening as the thought of being stalked.
Tiptoeing away, Ashli turned off the lights and secured the door. She paused when she got to the top of the stairs. There wasn’t even a door she could lock between them. Was she taking too big of a risk?
After the slightest hesitation, she went to bed, and slept the best she had in weeks.
***
Lange awoke to the first hint of morning light filtering through the wooden shutters. This was not his bed. It wasn’t Diane’s, or else
she would be sleeping here beside him. And it definitely was not the cold leather couch in his office.
As he lifted his head and looked around his shadowy surroundings in confusion, his nose brushed against the cover. There in the pieced patches of fabric he could smell the trapped scent of sunshine freshness, and suddenly he knew exactly where he was, for it held her scent. Ashli’s.
Lange fell back onto the couch and stared up at the high ceiling, wondering if yesterday had been a dream or if the woman with the white blonde hair was for real. Could anyone really be so beautiful and domestic and so ridiculously sexy, all at the same time?
As the new day hovered in the shadows of early dawn, a strange feeling passed through the darkness of his heart. Certain that he was absolutely alone in the shadows with his thoughts, Lange allowed himself to steal a few moments of pleasure simply by thinking of her.
She was so beautiful. Beautiful and zany and apparently quite intelligent, despite his first impression of her. He had never known a woman quite like her, a successful businesswoman who was independent yet somehow still so . . . domestic. She was the epitome of a true Southern lady, with her gracious ways and her warm hospitality. She made him think of home and evenings by the fire. She made him think of his grandmother. She almost made him forget about Lauren.
Lange threw the quilt aside as he swung his feet to the floor. And then it dawned on him . . . she had covered him with a quilt!
His forehead creased in a scowl. She was babying him, treating him like some lost little boy who had wandered in out of the rain and fallen asleep on her sofa. She had fed him and pampered him and then covered him up in a blanket, one she had probably made herself. It was the same thing his grandmother would have done, and somehow her thoughtfulness made him angry.
Made him angry because somewhere, deep beneath the hardened shell of his heart and his gruff exterior, the thoughtful deed touched some starving part of him, the part that still needed a home to return to and the loving arms of a woman to hold him. It had nothing to do with sex; it had everything to do with need.
Though he had sworn to never care again, he could already feel the stirring around his heart, a feeling that both hurt and felt good, all at the same time. He couldn’t remember the last time he looked at a woman and felt that swell of emotion.
Angry to have confronted such confusing emotions he thought long buried, Lange jumped to his feet and started for the door. He had to get out of here, and he had to get out fast. He had known the lady for less than twenty-four hours, and already she had stirred up feelings dormant for over five years.
No one had to tell him that getting involved with Ashli Wilson was nothing but trouble.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lange bypassed his apartment and drove straight to the office. The sooner he could start this case, the sooner he could find the culprit and the sooner he could wash his hands of one Miss Ashli Wilson.
Early morning traffic was just getting started as he drove downtown. His mind was already whirling with details he needed to check, and leads he needed to follow through on. Squinting from the glare of the morning sun on his windshield, he searched the dashboard for sunglasses but came up empty-handed. Trying to avoid the reflection bouncing off the shiny side of the metro bus beside him, Lange sped up, only to have the light turn red and force him to a halt.
As he waited for the light to change back to green, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and glanced at the bus beside him, trying to think of anything but a certain blond haired beauty who kept invading his thoughts. Good Lord, he had to get a grip. Apparently he could conjure her image up, simply by thinking of her. He could swear that was her face beside him.
But sure enough, there it was, Ashli Wilson’s face plastered across the bus, larger than life but every bit as beautiful. She was smiling that megawatt smile of hers, holding a whisk in her hand and wearing a bright yellow apron. Dumbfounded, he just stared at the image, even as it began to roll away. An irate driver blasted their horn behind him, startling him out of his stupor.
“Oh, hell, no!” he muttered. With a jerk of the wheel and another angry horn blast, Lange whipped his pick-up truck around in the middle of traffic and headed back toward Daisy House. Ashli Wilson had some explaining to do.
He made it back to the house in record time. Jabbing an angry finger at her buzzer, he repeated the action until she answered groggily, “Yes? Who’s there?”
“Lange Sterling. Open the damn door, Ashli!” he ground out.
He took the steps two at a time, not pausing to admire the grand structure this time. As he pounded on her door, a blond man in a three-piece suit came from the front apartment, a scowl on his face. He looked as if he was about to speak, when Ashli opened the door.
“Did you forget something?” she asked, her voice still husky with sleep. Her hair was tousled, and she clutched a terry cloth robe together over her pajamas.
If he thought she was beautiful before, it was nothing compared to how she looked now, fresh from bed. God, he wished it was his bed she was crawling out of. The thought staggered him, almost as much as the raw surge of desire that flared through him.
Ashli glanced over his shoulder, to the man in the hallway. It was minuscule, but Lange saw the change that came over her face, and the way her body stiffened. The man, obviously Jason Madison, responded with a smirk and a weighted glance between the two of them.
Ignoring him, Ashli took hold of Lange’s shirt and literally pulled him into the apartment. She made a distasteful sound as she firmly shut the door on her now-frowning neighbor.
“Did you forget something?” she asked again, heading toward the kitchen.
“No, but obviously you did!” His anger returning, Lange refused to be swayed by the sight of her, barefooted in the kitchen. “Why the hell did I see your face splashed across a metro bus? This changes everything! Did you think that wasn’t an important little detail to share with me?”
“I can’t think without my coffee,” she muttered, selecting a pod for her single cup brewer and punching a cup size small enough to insure a strong cup of coffee. “What are you even talking about?”
“I’m talking about your face, plastered all over the side of a bus, for Christ’s sake! Why didn’t you tell me you advertised on the side of a freaking bus?”
“I know, I know, it’s atrocious, isn’t it?” she groaned. “Do you have any idea how I feel, seeing my face all over the place, like a hundred times bigger than what I see in the mirror? And the way they had me wear my hair. It’s all Mitch’s fault, you know,” she grumbled, wrapping both hands around her mug and blowing on the steaming liquid. “It was his idea to begin with. His and his photographer girlfriend’s.”
The first question out of his mouth was not the one he should have asked, but it slipped out before he could stop it. “So Greenway has a girlfriend?”
Ashli rolled her eyes. She took a fortifying sip of coffee before answering. “How many times do I have to tell you, we’re just friends. Yes, he has a girlfriend. No, we’re not involved. We’re colleagues. He’s my producer, actually.”
“Producer? Why the hell do you need a producer?”
“For my television show?” She sounded as if he knew what she was talking about.
“Your WHAT?”
Ashli sighed, putting a hand to her forehead. It was barely daylight outside, and already she had a splitting headache, thanks in large part to the man standing in her kitchen, yelling at her. She motioned to the coffee maker on the counter and said, “Help yourself to coffee. Hang on, let me get a little in my bloodstream.”
He waited impatiently while she gulped down several sips of what had to be scalding coffee. He scowled as he made himself a cup, back to berating himself for having not done a background check to begin with. No wonder the only search he had time to conduct kept throwing out a television celebrity.
“Start talking,” he said, whirling back toward her with renewed ire. Damn, he hated surprises.
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“Mitch produces the cooking show I host on the local cable channel, Ashli’s Kitchen.”
“Damn it, Ashli, you have a television show and you’re just now telling me? How the hell did that not come up before?” he thundered.
“You never asked. All you asked about was my love life, sad little story that it is.” She reached past him to hand over his cup and to start brewing her second one.
Lange took a deep steadying breath. As much as he would like to blame her, he knew he had no one to blame but himself. He should have done a background check. He should have been more concerned with following his own strict protocol, and less concerned with Doris Day voices. He had never let personal feelings get in the way of his professionalism before, so what was different this time? What in the hell was the matter with him? Even without the background check, he should have been asking more pertinent questions, ones important to the case.
“Miss Sterling,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. It came out stern and irritated.
“Ashli.”
“Miss Sterling.” He needed to steer them back onto strictly professional terms, which was difficult to do, given she was standing there in her nightclothes, looking utterly adorable. There was nothing sexy about the flannel pajama pants and terry cloth robe that she wore, but there was something incredibly hot about her uncombed hair and her bare toes. “Miss Sterling,” he repeated, keeping his voice sharp, “I need to know about this television show. How many viewers does it reach, how often does it air, where is the market exactly?”
“Local markets, every Thursday at four, not all that many viewers.” She answered the questions in reverse order as she reached for her coffee. “This is only our second season, so it’s not like we have a huge following strung out over the country. I’m hardly Rachel Ray.”
“But you do realize this changes everything. We just went from a relatively small pool of suspects to an entire ocean!”
He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not Page 4
