Deadly Attraction

by Misty Evans

  At the arrival of the veterinarian, Will’s gaze went to the ground. He climbed over the fence, wiping his hands on his overalls. “I’ll get some fresh straw.”

  They watched as he hustled out, Lady slowly getting off her haunches and following.

  “He always leaves when I show up,” Dr. Jane murmured to Emma, coming into the stall. Her straight, black hair was pinned back, her face devoid of makeup except for some bright red lipstick. “Did you tell him I bite or something?”

  “He likes you.” Emma watched Second Chance continue to clean the foal. “It scares him. He won’t let himself get close to anyone for fear his bad luck will rub off on them.”

  “He’s close to you.”

  Depends on your definition of close. “I don’t believe in luck, and I certainly don’t believe a person can bring bad luck. We create bad luck because of poor choices. I don’t let him get away with hiding behind his perceived unworthiness.”

  Dr. Jane watched the foal do a wobbly dance around Second Chance. The mother horse stood protectively blocking her baby from Emma and Jane. “You did good tonight, Em. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here faster. My waiting room is swamped with people fleeing the fires with their pets. Many of them can’t take their pets with them, and they’re dropping them off at my place. We’re maxed out.”

  “I have extra dog kennels behind the barn. You’re welcome to use them if you need to.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that. No telling how long it will be before people are able to come back for some of them.”

  Emma stayed while Jane did a quick check of Second Chance and the foal, keeping Second Chance calm. The mare delivered the placenta a few minutes later and Dr. Jane gave Emma the all-clear.

  “Everything looks good,” she declared, closing up her black bag. “What are you going to name her?”

  The foal danced and kicked, enjoying her new legs. The adrenaline was wearing off, but Emma’s happiness wasn’t. A new life to celebrate. Maybe this Christmas would be different. “Hope, I think.”

  “I like it.” Dr. Jane smiled as the two of them left the enclosure. “Fits the season and the horse.”

  Emma walked the vet to her SUV and waved her off. Dr. Jane still had a long night ahead of her. Emma’s wasn’t over yet either.

  Will returned and the two of them finished in the barn and said goodnight. Will headed for the tiny cabin on the far side of the 21-acre farm that he rented from Emma.

  As the two wandered off, Emma heard Will talking to Lady about Hope. She hoped the successful birth of the foal would change Will’s mind about his bad luck.

  The farmhouse was dark, Salt and Pepper, her other two dogs, waiting for her on the porch. She scratched their heads, apologized for making them wait for their dinner, and all three entered through the mudroom. Emma chucked off her dirty boots and stripped down to her underwear.

  Flipping on the kitchen light, she heated water to make a cup of tea. A chill swept over her skin, but she didn’t want to put on her robe or any other clothes while she still smelled like blood, hay, and sweat.

  Her first client appointment tomorrow wasn’t until ten. She’d have plenty of time for her morning chores as well as time to prep for their session. The young girl incarcerated for starting a house fire that had killed her mother had been granted Emma’s special brand of therapy by the state. Horse therapy and psychiatry went hand in hand with many kids, especially juvenile delinquents. Emma couldn’t wait for Danika to see the new foal. The girl had a good heart, she’d just made a poor choice—one that would affect her for the rest of her life.

  While the water heated, Emma fed the Labs and threw her clothes into the washing machine. She’d just put her tea bag in a cup of hot water and started up the stairs to the bathroom when she saw headlights coming through the gate and around the bend in the long lane leading up to her house.

  Dr. Jane must have forgotten something. She couldn’t possibly have gotten to the clinic and returned that fast.

  Emma hustled up the stairs and grabbed her robe, slipping it on, then peeking out the upstairs window that overlooked the drive below.

  It wasn’t Dr. Jane’s vehicle. Emma didn’t recognize the truck or the dark-haired man who unfolded himself from the front seat and scanned the area as if looking for someone.

  For half a second, she wished she’d had Will close the gate at the bottom of the drive.

  Closed and padlocked it, in fact.

  But she didn’t do that anymore since Will worked for her. They never had trouble of any kind and if someone wanted onto her property, there were plenty of unfenced areas along the tree lines and by the creek on the far side to access it.

  The man beside the truck was tall, his long legs filling out faded blue jeans under the outside light. The black shirt he’d thrown over his T-shirt and left unbuttoned did little to hide his muscled arms, broad chest, and tapered waist.

  What she did recognize was the blue police strobe on top of the truck and the way he carried himself across the open ground to her front porch.

  Downstairs, the Labs set off a ruckus.

  The memory of that night flashed through her head. Police, federal agents…blood everywhere. She closed her eyes for a moment and forced it away. Not now.

  But there was no denying it. The man walking up her front stairs meant only one thing…

  Bad luck might just exist, and if it did, it was coming for her.

  Chapter Two

  The woman who answered the door wasn’t at all what Mitch expected.

  Her brown hair was forced into a clip on top of her head, a couple pieces of hay sticking out of it and random strands stuck to her neck. Her face was devoid of makeup and sporting a healthy smear of dirt on her cheek. She clutched the edges of a worn plaid robe close to her neck, her short fingernails showing traces of caked mud. Beneath the hem of the robe stretched sexy bare legs, slender ankles, and Barbie-pink toenails.

  Mitch fought to take his eyes off her shapely calves and bring them back up to her face. “Is Dr. Collins home?”

  The porch light gave her face a subtle yellow glow. He couldn’t be sure about the color of her eyes. They looked brown one moment, then flashed a hint of green the next when she glanced behind him as if she expected the boogeyman to be in the shadows.

  Maybe she did.

  “I’m Dr. Collins. What is this about?”

  “You’re Emma Collins?”

  Those eyes of hers flashed again, but she replied evenly. “Dr. Emma Collins, yes. And you are?”

  Damn. Definitely not what he expected a forensic psychologist to look like. Shouldn’t she be…older? More buttoned-up with a bun and glasses?

  Maybe that was just his librarian fantasy getting in the way.

  Mitch flashed his ID and she examined it. “Agent Mitch Holden. National Intelligence. Currently on loan to the Southern California Violent Crimes Taskforce. May I come in?”

  She was a good six inches shorter than him, and her focus swung upward to his face. “I’m not in the habit of letting strange men into my house, Agent Holden, so no, you may not. Not until you tell me what this is about.”

  Brown. Her eyes were definitely brown with specks of green in them. The specks caught the light like a cat’s eyes.

  Get it together, Holden. Quit analyzing the woman’s eyes and get down to business. “Chris Goodsman escaped a transport out of the Hills today.”

  Her face blanched. “What?”

  She obviously hadn’t heard the news yet. “Victor Dupé asked me to get you to a safe house. He’s been trying to reach you, but with the wildfires and all, landlines have been overloaded and some of the local cell towers aren’t working.”

  The mention of Dupé seemed to wipe away her hesitation about letting a strange man into her house. She stepped back and motioned him in, her pretty eyes once more scanning the shadows over his shoulder.

  Two Labs, one black and one white, rushed Mitch, sniffing and wagging their tails.

  “Hop
e you’re not allergic,” Collins said, closing the door behind her.

  “Nah.” Cold noses met his fingers. They, too, had dirt on their faces and hay in their short coats. “My brother and I always had dogs growing up.”

  Collins snapped her fingers and the Labs retreated, heads down, tails still wagging. They flanked her, one on each side like bodyguards. She absently petted their heads, the V of her robe falling open enough for him to see tan skin and freckles dancing across her collarbone. “How did Chris escape?”

  Chris. Sounded funny for the doctor to refer to the actor—a man she’d labeled a sociopath—by his first name. “The transport van was run off the road. Goodsman escaped, the driver was killed, another guard’s in serious condition. I don’t know all the details, but I’m sure Dupé can fill you in when he meets us at the safe house.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Have you been drinking?”

  Shit. “Not enough to affect my reasoning or judgment skills, Dr. Collins. I assure you, I can keep you safe.”

  Pushing off the door, she headed for the kitchen, a brightly lit room off to his left. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

  Coffee sounded good. The tone in her voice—like she was reprimanding a kid about skipping school or not washing behind his ears—didn’t. “I had two sips of whiskey, that’s all, before I got the call to come protect you.”

  He found himself following her into the kitchen, his gaze drawn to her ass as she reached up to grab a bag of coffee from a rough pine cabinet. “The holidays are hard on all of us,” she said.

  So now she was presuming to know he hated Christmas and the emotional shitstorm it brought on? Yeah, maybe he did feel that way, but it was still annoying that within two minutes, she seemed to see right through him.

  One of the Labs nuzzled his fingertips. Gritting his teeth, Mitch did his usual trick when someone probed into his personal life—turned the tables on them. “How is it hard on you? Your boyfriend dump you right before Christmas or something?”

  She paused in pouring water into the coffee maker, but her face was serene when she glanced over at him. “Touchy subject, I take it?”

  Guilt clawed its way into his chest. Jesus, what was wrong with him, lashing out like that? He was here to get her to a safe house, nothing more. Then it was back to a few last hours of vacation filled with moping and a 12-pack. Mac could keep his scotch. “Yes, actually, it is.”

  She nodded and finished pouring the water, hit the switch. “Sorry. I’m sure this isn’t what you had planned for your Saturday night.”

  It wasn’t what she’d planned either. Once more, he chastised himself for being so defensive over nothing. For being rude. “Look, I appreciate the coffee and the chitchat, but you need to pack a bag so we can get out of here.”

  “I’m going to shower and get dressed.” She walked by him toward the living room and the stairs. “Help yourself to the cookies in the Snoopy jar on the counter.”

  She was halfway up the stairs when she turned back and caught him ogling her ass. That same serene look crossed her features before she motioned at the door. “There’s a shotgun above the door, locked and loaded. Just in case.”

  Huh. Interesting. A handsome Remington rested on hooks over the front door exactly like she claimed. He also noticed for the first time that there wasn’t a Christmas decoration of any kind inside the house.

  No menorah or kinara either.

  Was she atheist or some other religion? Did she simply hate the holidays as much as he did?

  He tipped his head at her. “Good to know.”

  “FYI, I also have a couple of weapons upstairs.”

  Was she warning him or letting him know she didn’t need his protection? Either way, he found it cute. “Do you know how to use them?”

  One of her dainty eyebrows arched. “Better help yourself to that coffee, Agent Holden. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “We really need to get on the road.”

  “If Chris is coming after me, I’d rather not smell like a barn when I have to confront him.”

  She did smell. “You have livestock?”

  “Horses. My practice involves therapy animals. You ride?”

  “Just motorcycles, ma’am.”

  She glanced at his black boots. “A similar type of therapy I’m told. No motorcycle tonight, though, huh?”

  He hadn’t trusted himself on his bike. Too tempting to flee town, just him and his demons, and ride like hell. “Not tonight.”

  “Too bad.”

  She disappeared up the stairs, the Labs on her heels, before he could ask why.

  Agent Holden hadn’t been far off with the boyfriend comment.

  Emma left Salt and Pepper in her bedroom and turned on the water in the shower. She dropped her robe, and touched her flat stomach, feeling the steam envelope her.

  Roland, Emma’s fiancé and college sweetheart, had been ecstatic when he’d found out she was pregnant. They’d been together a total of ten years. Their careers were both going great. They’d dreamed of starting a family and he’d proposed at Thanksgiving. They’d been so happy, so ready for this.

  But along with his proposal came an ultimatum.

  Since her first psychology class in college, she’d known she wanted to be a therapist. Roland had talked her into taking a law class with him and she’d felt the call of the judicial system as well. Combining the two, her path became clear. While Roland changed his degree as fast as he changed his socks, for her, clinical psychology had always been her chosen path with her sights set on being an evaluator and expert witness for criminal trials.

  As a forensic psychologist, she helped the courts evaluate the competency of certain individuals to stand trial, as well as their mental state at the time of the offense.

  Because of her work and the in-depth evaluations she provided, she was asked to sit on teams made up of psychologists, nurses, and care workers to evaluate past offenders being released and deciding on their potential for future criminal activities.

  Eventually, she’d ended up contracting her services to the State of California, evaluating prisoners who were up for parole.

  Chris Goodsman’s trial should have been her defining moment. She knew he was manipulating the jury, the judge, and her fellow psychologist who were all too happy to get in front of the media. It was their defining career moment, too, and no one wanted to be the bad guy who said Chris Goodsman, a world-renowned, beloved actor, was a murderer.

  She’d done it anyway, and her job had gone from being moderately risky to all out dangerous.

  Her previous trial work had often put her in the crosshairs of gang members, drug runners, and even a homegrown terrorist who’d pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity. Emma had easily invalidated that argument and received death threats from the man’s group for months afterward.

  Upon their engagement, Roland had insisted she find a new line of work, to get out of the prison and judicial system and go into private practice. She’d agreed, but insisted on testifying against Chris. She’d already spent six weeks that year evaluating him before Thanksgiving and she’d known without a doubt he’d duped the others. She was the only person standing between him and a light sentence.

  More recently, she’d been the one person standing between him and his early release.

  When she’d testified against him the first time, she’d created a storm of publicity that put her in the spotlight. Goodsman, a media whore like most actors, rallied his fans. He was on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat. People all over the world believed he’d been wrongly accused to begin with, and some openly stated that the woman he’d killed—a woman he supposedly loved—deserved it.

  Chris was found guilty by temporary insanity and had been sent to Aleta Hills for evaluation and treatment. Still, a dozen of his so-called fans had made ugly, vicious threats against Emma. One of them went farther than threats.

  The attack happened in her and Roland’s home in L.A. when Roland was out Christmas shopping fo
r her. She survived, thanks to their security alarm and a Smith & Wesson 38 Special Lite. The baby had survived too.

  But two days later, on Christmas Eve, she’d miscarried.

  The doctors had told her it was a chromosomal abnormality. Roland, however, was sure she’d miscarried due to stress after the attack. He mourned the loss of their child, and every time he looked at Emma, she saw the accusation in his eyes. He blamed her and her job.

  Staring in the foggy mirror, Emma felt the old crater of sorrow opening. It was expected this time of year, but Agent Holden’s words had ripped the scab off, exposing the painful, unhealed wound all over again.

  It took self-restraint to not lash out at his unsolicited comments, but that was her job. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—blame the agent Victor Dupé had sent to help her.

  Two years. Two Christmases past.

  Physician, heal thyself. It was time to move on.

  Goodsman’s parole hearing was scheduled for Christmas Eve. She’d contacted the parole board, insisting parole should be denied, but knowing it wouldn’t be. She’d sent a letter and a packet of her findings from the trial to the governor, in hopes he might overrule them.

  It’s your own fault you’re back in this.

  She couldn’t let Chris Goodsman walk free. Two years in a low-security, country-club jail was hardly recompense for a woman’s life.

  Unwilling to sink further into the muck of her mind, she grabbed a fresh bar of soap from the shelf, unwrapped it, and stepped into the shower, focusing on making quick work of the barn odors and dirt. The light scent of rosemary and orange filled her nostrils as she scrubbed. At least she could wash this mess away.

  The upstairs windows were closed, the blinds drawn. As she dried off and got dressed, the old paranoia snuck up on her. She stopped a couple of times to make sure window locks were secure and there was no movement in the yard, near the barns, or down the lane.

  Everything appeared normal, but the unsettling sense that Chris was out there, free, made her fingers shake. He was without a doubt the most charming monster she’d ever met. What she didn’t understand was why he would make an escape when his parole hearing, and possible freedom, were so close.