“Next time. He said there would be a next time,” she said miserably, laying her head on the pillow of his shoulder.
“He won’t be back tonight, I can almost guarantee it. And even if he does, you won’t be alone. I won’t leave you, Ashli.”
“But I can’t pay you to be here, 24 /7.”
“This has nothing to do with money. I swear to you, I won’t let that man lay one finger on you. I won’t let him hurt you. I’ll protect you.”
Ashli chose to believe him, knowing in her heart that there were a hundred reasons why he couldn’t always protect her, even if he truly wanted to. She snuggled against him, absorbing the feel and scent of him, soaking in his strength and his warmth. At least in his arms, she felt safe, she felt protected.
For now it was enough, she decided, as she closed her eyes and forcibly relaxed against him.
***
Three hours later, Lange stretched one long arm out, careful not to wake the sleeping woman in his arms as he consulted the watch strapped to his wrist. She had fallen asleep long ago, nestled close against his side, but he had only dozed on and off for the past hour. Each time, he had awakened to this same wondrous feeling of finding her in his arms, and each time, he had realized how dangerously habit-forming this feeling could become.
He stared down at her now, hating to wake her but knowing he had to move or lose circulation in the entire left side of his body. She looked so peaceful, so beautifully innocent. The thought of anyone harming her was almost more than he could bear.
Lange carefully slid from beneath her, easing her down against the cushions without waking her. He felt his heart tug with emotion, and he had the strongest urge to run. He should go now, before it was too late, before he found himself doing something really stupid, like beginning to care for her.
Hell, who was he kidding? There was no way he could leave her, and that, alone, was proof enough that he already cared. He had spoken the truth tonight, when he vowed to keep her safe. If it were humanly possible, he would never let any harm come to her. No matter what it took, no matter how long it took, he would protect her, even if it meant sacrificing his very heart and soul to do so. He suspected that even if his own life was in danger, he would risk everything to keep her safe.
What was it about his woman that made him feel this way? If it weren’t so impossible, he would think he was falling in love with her. There was little else that could make a man ignore his own survival instincts, in order to spare a woman he hardly knew. But loving her – loving any woman – was out of the question. He had given up on love long ago, and there was no hope of him ever finding it again.
As he pulled the afghan over her, he remembered another woman he had cared enough about to protect with his life. He had covered her so many nights, too, when she had come in late from a stakeout or from pulling a double shift at the police station. Lauren had been the one love of his life, his one chance at happiness. Even though she had refused to marry him, he had been a devoted husband to her.
Lange would never forget the last time he had covered Lauren. He would never forget the heartache of pulling the blanket over her face, over her unseeing eyes, to cover her for the final time. Just the memory made his hand tremble now, as he tucked the afghan firmly under Ashli’s chin. It was because of this heartache, because of Lauren, that he could never love again. When she died, a part of him died, as well, the part of him that could love a woman and share a life with her.
Steeling himself to the memories and the tender feelings that stirred within him as he stared down at the blond beauty, he swore that nothing would happen to Ashli. No matter what it took, he would find a way to keep her safe. He had failed Lauren, but he would find a way to keep Ashli from meeting the same terrible fate as his first love. And somehow, someway, he would find a way to keep himself from caring too deeply about her.
Lange stretched out on the floor beside the couch, as emotionally and mentally drained as he was physically exhausted. Ashli was catching him at a very vulnerable time; that was why he was so drawn to her. How could he defend himself when he was so dog-tired all the time? His defenses were down, his immunity was low, especially to the kind of pampering and caring that she offered, and to the kind of heroic protection that she needed. Hell, the woman had covered him with a quilt, at just the time in his life when he needed someone to tuck him in. And then she turned to him with her huge blue eyes, and she asked him to protect her, to stay with her. No man could resist a plea like that.
Lange deliberately cleared his mind, determined to get a few solid hours of sleep in what was left of the night. He wouldn’t think about love and caring and quilts. He wouldn’t think about women.
Daisies, he thought sleepily. He would dream of daisies.
CHAPTER NINE
She knew Lange was awake, before she even heard him stirring. She could feel his eyes upon her as she moved stealthily around the kitchen, his dark gaze tracing her every move. Finally she turned and bestowed him with one of her smiles of pure sunshine. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” he said, his voice coming out more gruffly than he intended. Hell, let her think he was an old grouch in the mornings; anything so she wouldn’t guess what seeing her first thing in the morning did to him. It brought back lost memories of his grandmother, and how it used to feel to wake up to one of her mouth-watering country breakfasts. It made him feel like he had come home, despite the resolutions he made to himself last night.
“Hope you’re hungry. I made you a huge omelet.” In one fluid movement, she tilted the skillet and slid her creation onto a plate, then presented it before him.
He wanted to protest, to tell her that he rarely ate breakfasts in the mornings, but the tantalizing aroma wafting up from the omelet was too much for any man to resist. He concentrated on the melted cheese and bits of ham that oozed from its center, refusing to acknowledge the feelings of tenderness that oozed from his heart. When was the last time a woman had cooked him breakfast? Diane’s idea of a morning meal was donuts and coffee on the way to the office; Lauren’s hadn’t been much better. Grams, on the other hand, had never let him leave the house without a ‘decent breakfast’ in his belly.
Trying to sidetrack his traitorous mind, Lange stepped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “I’ll get the drinks. O.J. or milk?”
“Juice is fine,” she said, sliding a much smaller omelet onto her own plate.
Both noticed how well they worked together, but neither commented. “I suppose you’ve already had a gallon or so of coffee,” he commented dryly, getting his own cup.
“Working on it,” she agreed with a grin, holding up her mug.
As they sat at the bar and began their meal, complete with fluffy biscuits, Lange told her his plans for the day.
“I’ll check out the flower shop this morning and see if they can remember the man who brought the roses. If I know anything, I’ll stop by the restaurant and tell you.” In no way was it an excuse to see her later in the day.
A wistful expression crossed her face as she confessed on a sigh, “The first time a man brings me flowers in ages, and I can’t even enjoy them.”
“I thought it was old-fashioned to bring a girl flowers,” Lange said, recalling something Lauren and Diane both told him.
“No, a lady always appreciates flowers,” Ashli corrected him.
“And you’re nothing if not a lady, are you?” he murmured, totally mesmerized by the look of shy pride that glimmered in the depths of her blue eyes. He stared at her for a long moment, realizing it was that very quality that set her apart from all the other women he had known, that made him think of his grandmother and home. More than anything else, it was part of what made her so special, part of what made his heart race in such a crazy pattern. It was part of what made her the woman of his dreams.
Dreams are for fools, he reminded himself harshly. You gave up dreaming years ago, when your dream died in your arms. Lady or not, this woman means nothing but tr
ouble.
“L-Lange?” Ashli asked softly, a frown marring her forehead. At first his look was so tender, so worshiping, it stole her breath away. But his eyes were hardening now, even as she watched them, and a mask of indifference fell over his handsome features. Ashli reached out a hand and touched his. “Lange, what’s wrong?”
He jerked away as if her touch was poison. He tore his eyes from hers, unwilling to see the concern written within them, unable to bear the pain he knew he put there. She couldn’t possibly understand the change that came over him, and he couldn’t afford to explain it to her. Let him think he was cold and uncaring, let her think he was mean and fickle. Let her think anything, just never let her know the truth. The truth about how much he already needed her.
“Thanks for the breakfast. I’ve got to go.” He pushed away from the bar and was already halfway to the door before Ashli found her voice.
“But-But you didn’t finish . . .”
He paused at the door to look back at her. She was wearing a dress that was totally uninspired, a pale beige print that hung loosely from its scooped neck and high waist, a dress that hid most of her glorious body in soft folds of material. But with her feet bare and a smudge of flour on her cheek and the morning sunshine streaming in behind her, Lange thought she had never looked more desirable than she did right now. He fought the urge to pull her into his arms and make love to her, right then and there.
Instead, he muttered his reply gruffly as he opened the door. “Lady, I can’t afford to finish anything with you, no matter how delicious it is.”
***
The noon day crowd was thinning out as Ashli brought a tray from the kitchen, piled high with scrumptious desserts. She stopped at the first table and offered the confections with an irresistible smile, leaving two behind as she moved on to the next table. By the time she reached the third table, she could feel his gaze upon her, and she looked up to find her eyes locking with Lange’s.
For a moment as their eyes met and clung, Ashli was reminded of their kiss. Gazing into his dark stare, she felt the warmth and excitement of his lips upon hers. Something about this moody man made her senses come alive and her heart beat to a new rhythm. It did not matter if he held her with his gaze or with his arms; whenever he was near, she felt something she had never experienced before in her life.
When at last Ashli pulled her head down out of the clouds, she remembered why Lange had come by. Hurrying toward him, she asked breathlessly, “Did you find out anything?”, foregoing a normal and polite greeting.
“Can you spare a few minutes?” he asked.
“Let me finish serving these. Care for some coffee and dessert while you wait?”
“Sounds delicious.” He turned his attentions to the tray of delicacies before him.
Ashli rushed through delivering the desserts, not lingering to visit with guests as she normally did. She was eager to find out what Lange had learned at the florist. She grabbed a carafe of coffee and two cups before hurrying to his table.
Lange looked up as she returned, his pudding already half eaten. He wondered why she stopped in front of him and waited before being seated, but his only comment was to raise a dark eyebrow.
With a sigh of frustration, she finally muttered in irritation, “Don’t bother, I’ll get my own chair.”
Lange belatedly realized she was waiting for him to pull her chair out for her, just as she had done that first day he met her. Recalling a time, long ago, when he had practiced such manners, he chided himself for forgetting. Ashli was the kind of woman that deserved such conduct from a man.
“Sorry,” he offered lamely. What was he supposed to do, say that neither of the women he had been involved with in the last five years had appreciated his gentlemanly manners? Should he have to admit he had forgotten how to act around a lady?
“Never mind the chair. Just tell me what you found out.”
“That yesterday was some sort of appreciation day. Secretary or teacher or something like that. But it doesn’t really matter, because basically what it means is that hundreds of people flooded the florists yesterday, taking advantage of the special they had on long stemmed roses.”
“So what you’re telling me is that the florist had so many customers yesterday, they couldn’t possibly remember one man who came in and bought my roses.”
“Very perceptive.” Seeing the frown that appeared on her forehead, Lange reached out to place his hand on hers. “Now get that look off your face. This isn’t the end of the line, you know.”
“But what now, Lange? What in the world will we do now?”
“I’m working on several avenues. They couldn’t trace the call, but I have a buddy down at the police station who’s analyzing the recording from your voice mail. They’re dusting the wax paper from the roses for fingerprints, seeing if we can get a hit off that. I’m checking with local hospitals and clinics, seeing if anyone came in recently with an injured foot or leg, which could explain the limp. We can go through mug shots and descriptions of known criminals, check if any are listed as having a bad leg. They’ll all take a little time, but they’re not hopeless.” He emphasized his last words with a little squeeze of the hand. “Don’t give up. I swear, I’ll find the man who is stalking you.”
Ashli visibly shivered. “I don’t like that word,” she confessed. “It sounds so sinister.”
“We can’t rule out possibilities,” was his only reply. He withdrew his hand and began to eat again, drawing her attention away from her troubles. “This is the best bread pudding I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Thanks. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
“Where would the world of cooking be if it weren’t for grandmothers?” he pondered idly, holding a fork full of pudding up for inspection. “Mine had to be the finest cook in the world.”
“I don’t know about that,” Ashli argued good-naturedly. “Both of my grandmothers were excellent cooks.”
“Mine could make chicken and dumplings out of this world. And homemade yeast rolls. And fried corn, every Sunday. Mmm, I can taste it now,” Lange said, allowing himself a rare stroll down memory lane.
“One of mine was famous for her homemade breads and cobblers and pies, the other for her chocolate cakes and fried chicken and meatloaf. And this bread pudding.”
“I only knew one of my grandmothers. She raised me,” he revealed, caught up in his memories as he continued to stare at the delicacy on his fork.
“Your mother . . . ?” Ashli prodded softly, curious to know but afraid of being nosey.
“....Was just a kid herself, too young to have a kid of her own. She left me with my father, who wasn’t much older and certainly no more mature. My grandmother raised me.” The moment the words were out, he wondered why he had revealed so much of his life to this woman who was little more than a stranger. But one look into her sympathetic blue eyes, and he knew she was no stranger, not to his heart.
“I’m sorry, Lange, I had no idea,” she whispered softly, wanting to reach out and touch him but finding he had constructed the wall again, the wall of indifference and cool aloofness.
“Hey, the past is the past,” he said nonchalantly, pretending it did not matter that neither of his parents had wanted him. “And we were talking about bread pudding, and how good this one is.”
“If you like that, just wait until you taste my berry cobbler,” Ashli said, a twinkle in her eyes as she attempted to lighten the mood. “I’m going this weekend to pick fresh berries, so I can make my other grandmother’s cobbler recipe.”
“Where do you get the berries?”
“From my parents’ farm. They live about an hour away, just outside of Petersburg, and they have blackberries that grow wild all over the place. Dad said there is a bumper crop this year, so I’ll really have my work cut out for me.”
“You’re not going alone, are you?”
“Oh, I’m sure my parents and my brothers will help me.”
“No, I mean driving there
. You aren’t thinking of driving there alone, are you?”
“Well of course I am. I go there by myself all the time. Why shouldn’t I?” But the moment she asked, she knew the answer. The twinkle in her eyes faded, as tears of frustration began to well up.
“You don’t need to travel by yourself,” Lange reminded her as gently as he could.
“But Rachel will be gone on her trip already, and if I don’t go when the berries are ripe, I might as well not go at all.”
“Ask someone else to go with you.”
“I don’t know anyone else to ask. Not without raising my family’s suspicions, that is. They-They don’t know about any of this,” she admitted. “But I guess maybe I could take Mitch. They know him already and wouldn’t think much of his coming. If Brandon’s still in town, we could say it was a segment for the . . .”
“No!” he broke in. “Don’t take Greenway.”
She looked up in surprise. His tone was so adamant, his voice so sharp. Narrowing her eyes, she said, “Don’t tell me you still suspect Mitch! I told you that’s preposterous! And Brandon was a perfect gentleman last night.” She couldn’t help but add, “He even pulled out my chair for me.”
Letting her think he was suspicious of her friends was better than letting her know the truth – that he was insanely jealous at the very thought of her going away for the weekend with another man, much less two.
“I think it would be better if I went with you,” he told her, surprising them both with his announcement. He didn’t know how he planned to explain his outburst, but he certainly hadn’t intended to invite himself to go!
“You?”
“Yes, me,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as her. “Not only could I be there to protect you, but maybe I could find out some useful information. We never discussed the possibility of your stalker being from your hometown. Maybe he’s someone you know from there.”
He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not Page 8
