by Terri Reed
“Sorry. I’m hovering.” He frowned, clearly befuddled by his own behavior.
She captured his hand and gave a gentle squeeze. “It’s all right. I’m sure it was scary. I’m grateful for Dakota or I’d have kept eating the salad.”
“He’s a hero.”
She turned her focus to the dog in question. He sat next to the couch with his nose resting on her knee. “You’re a good boy, Dakota.”
His tail wagged.
“He must have smelled the hemlock in the dressing,” she said.
“A good thing, too. His sensitive nose saved your life.”
She’d seen dogs turn away from tainted food before, that wasn’t something that needed to be trained into a dog. She was glad that Dakota was watching out for her welfare.
The house phone rang. Westley brought her the cordless handset. She glanced at the caller ID and sighed inwardly when she saw it was Dr. Flintman, the base therapist. No doubt he’d heard about her trip to the ER. “Hello.”
“Felicity,” the doctor’s deep, kind voice boomed in her ear. She held the phone slightly away from her. “You haven’t been in to see me.”
She smiled wryly. “No. I’ve been a bit busy.”
“I’ve heard. Very traumatic. How are you coping? Are you still having nightmares?”
She could honestly say she hadn’t had one for the past few nights. First, because she’d felt safe with Westley downstairs, and then, of course, last night was spent in the hospital. “I’m doing okay. I haven’t had a nightmare in a few days.”
“Hmm. You really should come in to the office. I have some medication I think will help to keep you doing okay.”
“Like I said before, I’d rather not take anything. If things get bad again, I’ll call.”
“Well, I can’t make you, but I’m here if you need me.” The doctor hung up.
Felicity placed the handset on the end table and met Westley’s curious gaze. He’d taken a seat in her father’s recliner. It was nice to see him sitting there. Her father wouldn’t have minded.
“Nightmares?” Westley asked.
She’d been worried that Westley would find out about her visits to the base therapist. Now, though, she had no choice but to tell him the truth and hope he wouldn’t think differently of her. “After I found my father, I started having really bad dreams. I sought help with Dr. Flintman.”
“Ah. Good for you.”
The approval in his eyes pleased her, and she felt relieved. “It helped a bit to talk about it. He offered to prescribe some medication that he thought I’d benefit from but I’m holding off taking it.”
“I understand. But if things get bad—”
“I’ll reconsider,” she said.
“Okay.” He leaned back. “Lieutenant General Hall said you are to rest today and we’ll get back to work tomorrow.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
“No.”
Tender empathy crowded her chest. “I think we could both use the rest.” She rubbed Dakota’s head. “We’ve got an alarm right here.” She could tell Westley wanted to protest. “Please.”
He nodded. “I won’t be any good if I’m asleep on my feet.” He pulled the lever that elevated his feet and reclined the chair back. He cocked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to rest, too?”
She did chuckle then. “Yes, I will.”
She stretched out on the couch and turned on her side to face him. After a moment, she closed her eyes, sure she wouldn’t fall asleep with him so close by.
But it was two hours later when a pounding noise woke her up. Her eyes popped open in time to see Westley vault from the recliner, his hand on his sidearm. He blinked several times as if getting his bearing.
Sitting up, she said, “Someone is at the front door.”
He strode across the living room and pulled open the door. Tech Sergeant Linc Colson stood there.
“The captain asked me to swing by and check on you two,” Linc stated.
Westley stepped aside so he could enter. “We were resting.”
Linc came all the way into the living room. “It’s good to see you’re doing well,” he said to Felicity.
“Thanks.” Deciding this would be a good time to freshen up, she stood up. “I’m going upstairs.”
Westley hurried to her side as she headed to the staircase. She leveled him with a pointed look. “I don’t need you hovering.”
He raised his hands. “My bad.”
She couldn’t resist touching a hand to his chest. “You’re a good man, Westley James.”
His blue eyes darkened with something that made her pulse skip. She jerked her hand back and fled upstairs before she gave in to the dangerous urge to kiss him.
* * *
It took all of Westley’s self-control not to chase her upstairs and tug her into his arms and kiss her. He’d seen the yearning on her pretty face and felt the answering longing deep inside of himself. If they’d been alone...
Wow. He was in so much trouble.
Kissing Felicity would be...amazing. Not to mention reckless.
And knowing that she’d felt it, too, sent joy soaring through him. He quickly wrestled the wayward attraction into a far corner where it wouldn’t see the light of day again. Or at least where he could pretend it didn’t exist.
He had to keep his head and his heart on the path before him. Logically, he understood his emotions were heightened from nearly losing her. They were both running on intensified feelings that had no place in their world.
Linc’s rumbling laughter tightened Westley’s shoulder muscles. A flush of embarrassment heated his face. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so... He wasn’t even sure what the term for it was. Vulnerable? Out of control?
Calming his racing emotions, he turned to face his friend. “What are you chuckling about?”
“You.” He gestured to the stairs with his chin. “And her.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Westley walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of tap water. He drank it as though he’d been stranded in the desert. The cool liquid helped to center his thoughts. His job was to protect Felicity, not pant after her like a lovesick teen. “Help me throw out every scrap of food in the house. I don’t know what else might have been tampered with and I won’t take any chances with her life.”
“Why don’t we have the crime-scene techs test everything?”
“It will be more expedient to just clear out the cupboards and fridge, then start over with sealed goods.”
“Why would Boyd Sullivan put poison in her food?” Linc shook his head. “It doesn’t fit.”
Westley contemplated telling Linc about Agent Monroe’s murder. Not that he didn’t trust his friend, but Westley decided it would be best to keep that information in a close circle. Less chance to tip off the murderer that way.
“Do you think you two should even stay here?” Linc asked.
“I don’t know if she’ll leave.” Westley spread his hands. “Besides, where would we go?” It occurred to him he’d automatically included himself. But for now they were a package deal. Until the threat to her life was neutralized, he wasn’t leaving her side.
“There’s base housing near the command center.”
“I’ll talk to her about it.” He tossed a box of cereal into the garbage can. “How is the investigation coming? I assume Sullivan hasn’t been found or I’d have heard.”
“Unfortunately, we’re no closer to catching him than we were yesterday. But we do have a lead.”
That comment raised the hair at his nape. “What do you mean?”
“Someone is revealing information about the investigation to an anonymous blogger. Information that we haven’t made public and weren’t intending to.”
“That sounds dangerous.” Westley thought for a moment. “
Could it be one of the base reporters? They’ve been sniffing around, asking questions, showing up everywhere.”
Linc shrugged. “Maybe. Whoever the person is revealed that Zoe Sullivan visited her half brother just two weeks before his escape. Very few people knew that bit of info. Now the base is speculating she’s helping her brother.”
“Do you think she is?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m keeping an eye on her. She’s cagey. Something’s definitely up with her. Frankly, I don’t trust anyone related by blood or friendship to Boyd Sullivan.”
“I don’t blame you there,” Westley said. “Although innocent until proven guilty.”
“Right.” Linc checked his watch. “Hey, I have to go. Zoe’s teaching a class and it ends soon. We can’t have her walking around base unattended.”
“Be careful,” Westley told him.
Felicity stepped into the kitchen, blocking Linc’s path, and looked at Westley. “What are you two doing?”
Westley paused with a bag of spaghetti hovering over the garbage can. She looked so pretty wearing jeans and a long-sleeve button-down top in a kelly green that deepened the color of her eyes. She’d twisted her hair at the back of her head, exposing the creamy column of her neck. But it was her eyes that caught his attention, eyes that sparked a warning he was beginning to know—and appreciate—well.
“Getting rid of any more potential hazards to your health,” he stated and dropped the spaghetti into the garbage.
“I guess that’s the best thing to do.” She reached up to finger the key hanging around her neck.
Linc peered closer at the key. “You ride?”
“Ride what?” she asked.
He pointed at the key dangling from the chain. “That’s a key to a BMW 2-series motorcycle. Vintage. Probably late sixties.”
“Are you sure?” Westley exchanged a glance with Felicity. The hit-and-run her father had been investigating involved a motorcycle. Could they have the key to the one that hit the pedestrian? Literally the key to a big chunk of the mystery?
“Yes.” Linc shrugged. “I like motorcycles. Do you have the bike? It would be worth some money. A collector’s item.”
She tucked the key inside her blouse. “No. Just a memento.”
“Ah. Well, I’m outta here.” He shook Westley’s hand. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“We will.” Westley walked him to the living room door. “Thanks, man.”
As soon as the door closed behind Linc, Felicity said, “Did you hear that?” Anticipation echoed in her tone.
“Let’s not get too hopeful,” he said. “Even if that is the key to the motorcycle that your father was investigating, we still have no clue where it could be stashed.”
“True. We need to get back out there,” she said.
“Tomorrow is soon enough.”
She nodded. “You’re right. You know, I’ve been thinking. We never did search the attic. Maybe Dad’s files are there.”
“Are you up for it?”
“I am. The rest helped.”
“Let’s do it.” Abandoning the kitchen, they rushed upstairs, stopping beneath the attic access door with a step stool she’d retrieved from her father’s room.
Placing it under the hatch in the ceiling, he climbed up and lifted the door. Grasping the lip, he pulled himself up then reached down to lift her through the opening. The unfinished space ran the length of the house. Rafters provided support for the pitched roof. And stacked boxes provided many places where her father could have hidden his files.
“Most of this is my mom’s stuff,” Felicity said. “After the divorce, Dad put everything she’d left behind up here.”
“Is this going to be painful for you?” Westley asked. He knew the agony of having to deal with the remains of a parent’s things. After his father had gone to prison, his mother had tasked him with the job of packing away his dad’s things. Westley had refused, which had earned him a beating, ironically with one of his father’s belts. Despite the lashing, he hadn’t touched his father’s belongings.
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “It will be harder to pack up my dad’s things.”
His gut clenched. “Yes, it will.” He’d admired and envied the love between Felicity and her father.
She lifted the flaps of a box to rummage inside. “Was it hard for you to deal with your father’s possessions?”
“Hardly,” he said. He moved a box closer to her to look through. He didn’t feel comfortable searching through her mother’s stuff. He doubted they’d find anything up here. All the boxes had layers of undisturbed dust.
“Will you tell me what happened to him?”
He really didn’t want to. Dredging up the past wouldn’t serve any purpose. But maybe if he told her, then he wouldn’t have to worry about her falling for him. Once she knew the type of gene pool he came from, she’d want to keep far away from him.
“My father was a murderer.”
NINE
She couldn’t have heard him right. A murderer? Unease slid down Felicity’s spine. She inhaled the musty odor of the attic, taking in some dust, and coughed. Catching her breath, she asked, “What happened?”
He sat on a trunk and dropped his head into his hands. There was a long moment of silence. She waited, hoping he would let down his walls and fully open up. He couldn’t leave her hanging with such a shocking revelation.
“It was my fault.”
His despondent tone broke her heart. She absorbed the blow. “Help me understand.”
He lifted his gaze to meet hers. Torment swirled in the blue depths of his eyes. “I was ten when it happened.”
So young.
“We were in a busy restaurant,” he continued, his gaze dropping to his boots. “My feet were big. Too big. I was awkward, gangly even.”
She couldn’t imagine him clumsy and self-conscious. When Westley ran alongside the dogs during training he was nimble, but his six-foot frame contained the same sort of coiled power the dogs had. Unlike Felicity, who had cornered the market on gawkiness.
“I tripped over my feet, knocking a man’s drink into his lap. He said something harsh to me and my dad took exception.” Westley let out a mirthless laugh, a sound she didn’t understand.
“They got in a fight. Dad punched the guy hard, he went down and hit his head on the metal foot of the table and died.”
Her stomach knotted. What a horrible incident for a child to witness.
“My dad had a long rap sheet for assault and battery so the judge gave him a ten-year sentence for first-degree manslaughter. He died when I was seventeen.”
Stunned, she reached out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, stopping her from touching him. “No reason for you to be sorry. He was a hothead who couldn’t control his anger. It landed him in prison, where there were bigger, angrier men. I’m just surprised it took so long before someone beat him to a pulp.”
The breath left her lungs. His callous words echoed with an underpinning of unfathomable pain. She’d had no idea Westley had a traumatic past. And she had no words of comfort to offer. The urge to wrap her arms around him and hold on tight gripped her, but doing so wasn’t a good idea for either of them. They had to maintain a professional demeanor if they hoped to work together at the training center in the future. A future where, God willing, the Red Rose Killer was once again behind bars and her father’s murderer would be brought to justice.
Despite her warning, she moved closer to sit beside him and put a hand on his strong shoulder, now bowed with undeserved guilt. He made a distressed sound, as if her offer of comfort hurt him. Her hand floated to her lap.
A thought intruded as she recalled his earlier reaction to remembering the event that led to his father’s incarceration and a cold sweat broke out over her skin. “Was you
r father violent with you? With your mother?”
He stood and paced away. “He was rough. On both of us.”
Her heart contracted painfully in her chest with empathy and sorrow. Was that why Westley was so self-contained and unwilling to show emotion? The man had rarely smiled in the six months she’d been under his command. Not for her lack of trying. She’d assumed all this time he was displeased to have her in the training center. Could it be his attitude was more of a shield he hid behind rather than a reflection of his feelings for her?
She’d have to process this at another time. Right now, with him looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here, she sought to ease the hurt stirring within him. “You can’t blame yourself for something that was out of your control. You were a child. They were grown men who made the choice to fight.”
“Logically, I know that, but that doesn’t stop my mother from blaming me. It’s why she left. Why I was sent to live in foster care.”
The injustice of it all made her so sad and angry that she couldn’t ignore her emotions. Professional demeanor could take a flying leap. She went to him and put her arms around his waist. He tensed, holding himself ramrod-straight, his stiff arms at his sides. Frustration pulsed through her. He’d offered her comfort when she’d needed it, yet refused to take it from her.
“Westley,” she said, her tone half plea, half censure.
The tension suddenly drained from him and he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her closer. She laid her cheek against his chest. His aftershave—spicy, woodsy and masculine—teased her senses. His heart thudded in time to her own.
His strong arms made her feel safe, cherished even. It was a feeling she could get used to if she allowed herself. She should step back, break the contact before her emotions got too tangled up with him. But she had no willpower. Nor the desire to step away.
He used the crook of his finger to lift her chin and draw her gaze to his. The tenderness in his eyes made her breath hitch, but it was the flare of attraction she saw in them that sent her pulse skyrocketing.
He dipped his head but halted inches from her lips, giving her the choice.
