by Jordan Dane
After carefully peering through a small window in the door, he made sure he wouldn't be walking into a gun and began his work on the lock. The entry gave way without so much as a creak to announce him. Sliding into the kitchen of Raven Mackenzie, he smelled the aroma of her dinner. By the amount of food, she expected company. The thought of getting caught only heightened his exhilaration. But if she walked in on him now, he'd have to kill her. That would spoil all his fun. After all, he had plans for her.
With his gloved hand, he grabbed a wooden spoon and sampled her spaghetti sauce. It tasted homemade, not just a lame facsimile out of a bottle like his men ate.
The flavor piqued his taste buds—and his interest in the woman. Good looks and she cooked. What a waste, considering what he had in mind.
The sound of the shower made his body react. He pictured the woman naked, her skin covered only sparingly by soapsuds. The thought aroused him. With even greater audacity, he skulked down the hallway toward the sound. Blood coursed through his veins at breakneck speed. Passing through a hallway of framed mementos, Logan felt powerful and bold, even in sight of her family's smiling faces. His intrusion made a mockery of it all. Then his eyes were drawn to an old photo of a cop in uniform.
"Fuck you, asshole," he whispered. "You're gonna regret messing up my life." Logan felt certain the man heard his curse, even from the depths of hell. "You and every cop that dares to screw with me."
Over his shoulder, he spied the bathroom door and opened it slightly. So damned easy. Lurking in the shadows, beyond the light, he peered inside. With a gray eye pressed near the opening, he caught the cloudy reflection of her body.
She moved seductively under the water. Dark strands of hair clung to her skin. Curves of flesh wafted in and out of focus with the billowing steam. The tantalizing image made him hard as a rock. Then, a devilish thought took hold.
He knew what he had to do.
Reaching for the shampoo in her shower caddy, she poured the creamy lotion into her hand, then lathered her hair. Tiny bubbles popped in her ears and tickled her skin, muffling the sounds from her bathroom. Suds trailed down her face. She loved the scent and didn't bother to wipe away the lather. Besides, with eyes closed, she could better imagine Christian.
The motion of her hands slowed to a crawl as she slathered frothy shampoo across her face and down her arms. The sensation magnified and focused her thoughts on the man.
She relived the instant she'd frisked him. Once again, her fingertips felt the muscled texture of his belly, entwined in the soft curls of body hair. His warm skin smelled so good. With him leaning against the wall, she had caught only a brief glimpse of the small of his back. But that part of the male anatomy always enticed her hands, beckoning them to play. Her imagination embellished the taut sinews of his back and broad shoulders. She found her breathing escalating. The man was an inspiration. The mental picture spurred her blood until—
An obscure shadow dimmed the bathroom light. Even though soapsuds covered her eyes, she still detected the movement. A dark shape eclipsed the light fixture. The sensation shocked her. This couldn't be happening— not in her home. Every instinct in her body screamed a warning. Her heart seized in panic. Had she only imagined it? Then, a rush of cold air brushed her skin.
Imagination be damned! This was real. Naked, Raven had never felt so vulnerable. She had her gun in the other room. And she couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't alone. In a rush, she doused her head with water and cleared her eyes to a blur. She had to do something—NOW.
Not wanting to waste time rinsing off, she turned off the shower and let the soap creep down her skin. It felt like an unwanted touch, spiraling chills over her body. Squinting back the sting from her eyes, she pulled at the sliding door and fortified herself for a fight. Her cop instincts kicked in. But the steam in her small bathroom had parted like the Red Sea. To her shock, the bathroom door gaped open. Oh, God! She wasn't alone.
CHAPTER 8
An eerie silence mocked her. Maybe she'd imagined the whole thing. Her house was stone-still now. Even its usual creaks and groans were mute. Raven strained to hear anything out of the ordinary. Then the familiar sound of a simmering pot of spaghetti sauce on her stove reminded her. What time was it? For her, time ground to a halt. She found herself praying that Christian would forgo his usual promptness to be early for a change.
Alert to anything, she caught a motion at the corner of her eye. Her jaw dropped at the sight, sucking steamy air down her windpipe. A bloodless pallor—her own reflection stared back through streaks on the mirror. The bastard had left her a message.
You aren't safe—ANYWHERE!
Mickey learned the bard way.
Printed on the fogged glass, his warning ridiculed her. Mickey's killer was in her home, unimpressed with her authority. Naked as she was, she conceded his point. But she couldn't allow herself to be distracted now.
Easing out of the tub, Raven kept her eyes focused on the open door. Every muscle tensed. She waited for a faceless attacker to make his move—prepared for the intruder to rush her while she'd be most vulnerable. Step by step, she inched toward the door. Fear massed into staunch self-preservation. Holding her breath, she listened. But in the pit of her stomach, reality gripped her.
A killer stalked her, violating her home. She wasn't safe. Not anymore.
Raven reached for the robe hanging on the bathroom door. Her hair was soaked, strands stiffened from lingering soapsuds. Water dripped off her body, making the floor slippery. Throwing the garment around her shoulders, she didn't take the time to dry off. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She felt the chill in the air seep through the pores of her dank skin. If she was attacked here, in her condition, only her training and mental toughness would keep her alive. Her mind focused on the location of her weapon, willing it to her hand. She prayed her intruder wasn't armed, or an even worse scenario, that the coward might use her own weapon against her.
With her back to the wall, she crept through the house, dodging floorboards that would give her away. Her eyes darted down the length of the hall as she made her way to the bedroom—and her Glock nine-millimeter.
A faint sound, somewhere deeper within the house, forced her to stop where she stood. Sweeping past her, a draft of cold air made her teeth chatter, her body betraying the pretense of courage. Why was it so cold?
Peering over her shoulder, she used the mirror on her bedroom dresser to improve her chances. No one was behind the door. And with her closet open, just as she'd left it, it would be impossible for someone to hide in her small room.
Quickly, she stepped toward her nightstand and inched open the top drawer, not taking her eye off the doorway. Letting out a sigh of relief, she found her Glock still in its holster. Releasing the safety, she gripped the weapon, its heft steeling her for a confrontation. Now the odds were even.
Time to hunt in earnest.
"Junior? You better be brushing your teeth. I'm coming up for an inspection."
Yolanda Rodriguez raised her voice, calling upstairs. Even with her precocious child out of sight, she knew little Tony would still be playing his Game Boy. The ten-year-old had their nightly ritual down to a science, her warning part of the routine. By the time she got midstair, he'd shoot to the bathroom and conjure up a mouth full of froth for her benefit, practically rubbing the enamel off his teeth. It didn't matter that his little feet sounded like a herd of wild animals dashing down the upstairs hallway. A glint of satisfaction would shine in his dark eyes, like he'd fooled her once again. In those moments, he looked so much like his father.
That glint reminded her. Little Tony had been conceived on a night when she saw that exact look in her husband's eyes. Shaking her head, she continued her chore as a smile fought to break free.
Wiping down the kitchen counter, she made the room sparkle, a far cry from the condition it had been earlier. Make-your-own-chalupa night was a Thursday dinner ritual in the Rodriguez household. And as far as she knew, the fi
rst peanut butter and pineapple chalupa had been invented tonight, under her very roof.
"Celia? Time for bed, mi hija."
Even though her daughter slouched in one of the living room chairs watching a muted television, she still had to raise her voice to get above the music blasting on the young girl's headset. She supposed that flipping through TV channels fast enough produced some semblance of an MTV video. Not having cable, it was Celia's only option. According to her daughter, she was the only one in school not allowed to watch MTV—a social disaster.
"But Mom, Dad is still not home. Can't we wait up for him?"
She couldn't see Celia's face, but she pictured her brow furrowed with eyes rolled toward the ceiling, accompanied by a heavy sigh. Her twelve-year-old daughter was an admitted drama queen who still had a crush on her father. Yolanda understood completely. Even after two years of courtship and fourteen years of marriage, she still carried a torch for her husband.
"Dad's still not home? So what else is new," Yolanda muttered under her breath as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. Raising her voice once again, she answered, "No, honey. You've got school tomorrow. Your father will understand."
Walking over to her daughter, she gently raised the headphones from her ears, then cradled Celia's warm cheeks in her hands. Lowering her lips to the young girl's forehead, she kissed her, saying, "Time for bed, cosa fina."
Leaning back, Celia turned and smiled. Between them, the nickname of "fine thing" in Spanish was just as good as saying—
"Love you, too, Mom."
Turning off the TV by remote, Celia walked toward the stairs. With a devilish grin, she turned and pointed upstairs, silently gesturing for Yolanda's cooperation. It took her only a moment to understand what her daughter wanted.
"You better be done with your teeth, Junior," she called her final warning upstairs.
With a silent chuckle, Celia raised the okay sign and stepped loudly up the flight of steps. A second later, a rumble down the hallway and running water in the sink told them both that Tony Junior was up to his old tricks. But tonight, she and her daughter had won the game. The twinkle would be in Celia's beautiful eyes.
Kids would be kids, she mused with a shake of her head. But then, what was her excuse?
Before she followed her daughter upstairs, she did her routine walk through the house. She'd lock the doors and turn off the lights with one last check of the thermostat. The laughter of her children kept a smile on her face. As usual, she left the front porch light on and a lamp near the front door so Tony would know he was loved—and missed.
But as she dimmed the light in the living room, a motion caught her attention. She'd seen something through the drapery sheers. Yolanda pulled aside the front window curtain and squinted into the night, blocking the dim lighting behind her with cupped hands to shield her eyes.
Again, to the left, near the street. A shadow darted for cover in the hedges of their property. Their property! She gasped. Backlit by a streetlamp, the movement had been abrupt.
On many occasions, the neighbor's cat yowled in the night, an eerie cry. Or the animal rooted around in the garbage, dropping a trash can lid to the ground from time to time. Her heart leapt every time. Over the years, she realized her mind sometimes played tricks whenever Tony wasn't home. Her first reaction was to chastise herself for being foolish, but tonight was different.
Quickly making the sign of the cross, she closed her eyes and prayed she'd been mistaken. But her only answer was the ugly truth. A red laser pierced the night and cut through the blackness like a knife. A hideous Cyclops with a bloody red eye glared directly at her, finding her peeking through the window.
Damn it all! This was no cat.
Racing to the phone near the kitchen counter, she grabbed the receiver to her ear. With trembling fingers, she punched the buttons, dialing 911. All she heard was her quickening breaths. She tried again. Nothing. No dial tone.
The phone was dead.
Her hand tightened on her gun as Raven stepped through her house. With every room she entered, her arms rigidly extended in a two-fisted grip, aiming the weapon into every corner in search of the intruder. Between rooms, she held her Glock with bent elbows as she made her way to the next room. She left the kitchen for last. A glimpse down the hallway revealed the source of the cold air. In the kitchen, the side door off her carport was flung open.
Still, it could be a trap.
The man might be clever enough to open the door, hoping she'd let her guard down. And the outside light was out, no doubt disabled on purpose. As she entered the room, her eyes peered anywhere someone might hide. So far, she was alone.
But more evidence of the intruder was plain to see. Her stovetop had been wrecked, spotted with sauce as if the pot had boiled over. Yet it was obvious what had happened. The man had made a contribution to her recipe.
A framed photo of her father in uniform poked out from the bubbling sauce. It'd been ripped from the wall and thrown into the saucepot, splattering a mess across her white stove. Maybe it had only been a diversion. Stay alert, Mackenzie!
Raven shifted her gaze to the opened doorway. She aimed her weapon into the void. For all she knew, the man stood just outside in the shadows. She wouldn't be able to see his silhouette.
"You'd better be long gone, you son of a bitch!" her voice was stern, so contrary to how she felt.
She slid out the door into the night. On the cement of the carport, her damp feet ached with the cold. In an instant, winter's chill seized her. She gasped, sucking icy air down her throat. Then a vapor steam billowed from her lungs. Keep moving!
In the distance, she heard a droning sound from a television. Her neighbor's house. The sights and sounds of her childhood suburb filled her senses. Even after someone had broken into her home, the rest of the world went on in blissful ignorance.
Damn it! Slowly, she let her guard down.
But just as she lowered her gun, a noise came from the front of her house. Her body tensed again. The sound had been faint. A scuff of a shoe? Racing around the corner, she brushed past an evergreen. Bounding up the step, she reeled her shoulders, trying to aim her gun. But her arms struck something immovable—the dark shape of a man.
A loud pop. Shattered glass.
Cold as she was, pain shot through her joints when the man grabbed her in a viselike grip. He pulled her off the ground. She felt his warm breath against her neck. With elbows pinned to her chest, all she could do was flail her legs, kicking at her attacker.
She shrieked, not from fright, but from anger and frustration. A low, guttural sound. Writhing and twisting, she felt blood rush to her face. Her heels jabbed at the man's legs, striking without mercy. If she hurt him badly enough, he'd drop her. Only a matter of time before she found the sweet spot. With his grunt, she ramped up her assault.
"Damn it! Let me go, you bastard!"
The man had his hand on the barrel of her gun, trying to wrench it free.
"Hey, hey, stop it! Ow!" he protested. "Is this how you greet all your guests?"
Raven stopped. Ob, my God! She knew that voice. The man's hand pried the weapon from her grasp— only after she let him win.
"Christian? I thought—" She didn't bother to finish. Her heartbeat still hammered her eardrums.
He loosened his grip and stepped aside, setting her near the step to the front porch. "Be careful. I dropped the wine bottle. Glass is everywhere." Looking down at the robe and her feet, he asked, "Are you barefoot?"
Ignoring his question, she turned toward him. "Someone broke into my house."
A fleeting and cynical notion took hold, her cop instincts hard to deny. What if Christian had been the one in her house, then conveniently pretended to have just arrived? Her brow furrowed as she gave the idea shape, staring at him in the dark. Yet even with his face in shadow, she heard the concern in his voice.
"Are you okay? He didn't hurt you, did he?" After brushing back her damp hair, he reached for her shoulders. "You're
wet. You must be freezing."
God, how she wanted to believe in Christian. Being right about him meant her trust barometer was fully functional. But even now, she heard Tony's voice in her head, reminding her how dangerous this man was. Raven loved being a cop, but at times, she hated how it'd changed her over the years. Had she grown so jaded that she couldn't trust her own heart?
Before she delved deeper into that thought, he handed her the gun, then scooped her up in his arms, lifting her without effort. Stepping around the corner, he carried her through the kitchen door and slammed it shut with an elbow. With all his fussing, she felt ridiculous. But as she relaxed into his shoulder, smelling his subtle cologne mixed with the leather of his jacket, everything felt right. She'd been on her own for so long, it felt good to be taken care of for a change.
"Bedroom?" he asked.
Still stunned by his bold gesture, all she could do was point down the hall, eyes wide. Then her damned cop brain took charge.
"Christian. Please, I'm fine. You don't have to—"
Before she finished her objection, he'd yanked back the covers of her bed and set her down. She began to thaw the instant he pulled the quilt to her chin, more a reaction to him than the fine insulating capabilities of her comforter. But as he stared down at her, his confident expression melted like the chill from her skin.
Suddenly realizing where he was, he stood abruptly, then shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. Christian's sudden uneasiness surprised her. She fought back a smile. Before now, "cute" was not a word she would've ever associated with Christian Delacorte. But damned if he didn't have the word stamped across his forehead. In blaze orange!
He made her feel safe again. It felt good not to be alone. And by the way he avoided her gaze, she knew he felt awkward with the unexpected intimacy. So, you're human after all, Delacorte!
