She blew out a shaky breath. “I can’t lie to you. He’s not the Husband of the Year, by any stretch of the imagination. He’s dangerous. Worse, he’s patient. He’ll bide his time and most likely strike when she least expects it.”
He opened his eyes and walked around to the front of the car and slid into the driver’s seat. “Don’t you guys have it on record where he is?”
“I have an address for him and, as far as we know, he’s still there. The problem is, I have no reason to talk to him. He’s been a good boy since his release. If I contact him out of the blue, it will alert him to something going on with Angela. If by some miracle he hasn’t seen her picture, when he gets a phone call from me, it will have the same effect as waking up a sleeping and very rabid dog.”
“So, it all comes down to what Angela does or doesn’t want.”
“Exactly.”
Doubts and what-if scenarios started up on a cycle in Chris’s head. As soon as he approached Angela, he started on a path he wouldn’t be able to turn away from. He’d avoided getting involved, avoided trouble in any shape or form before Cat’s call to look after their mum because his decisions were so often wrong.
His dead father and the heartache Chris caused him with his perpetual apathy, his easy “come what may” attitude and temporary job positions confirmed that. Then there was his absence when Cat and his mum needed him most. Memories burned and nausea rose bitter in his throat.
Time and again he’d been told he was a waste of space. What was the use in trying to prove people wrong? He’d liked being alone once and he’d come to the Cove determined to be that way again. Kind of.
Yet, hadn’t he unconsciously come to stay where Cat and his mum were? Melinda’s face filled his mind’s eye and merged with Angela’s. He inwardly cursed. The truth was, he didn’t want a solitary life anymore. He’d finally grown up and appreciated the importance of family, friends, trust and reliability. What he didn’t want was this new overbearing need to protect everyone. And that was exactly what was happening to him. He was so afraid of not being there when he was needed, he now found himself wanting to protect a complete stranger. A beautiful stranger with eyes the color of melted chocolate that were only marred because of a deep glaze of panic he knew he could make disappear...if only she’d give him a chance.
Suck it up, man. You’re in it. And in it deep.
“Chris? You still there?”
Cat’s voice cut through his reverie and he blinked. “Still here.”
“So? Are you going to see her? Try to get her to talk to you?”
He gripped the steering wheel. “She doesn’t want me involved. I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to say to her.”
“You at least have to try. Please. My best friend’s death will haunt me for as long as I live. I can do something to help Angela like I couldn’t Sarah.” Her voice cracked. “This is serious. Spouses don’t rat on spouses as a matter of course, and they certainly have to be pushed to their limit to get them locked up.”
Chris drew in a long breath. “Tell me what that bastard did to her. Surely it’s better I hear it from you than her.”
“I can’t tell you. Just do this for me, will you? Do it for you. Do it for Sarah. Do it for Angela.”
Guilt, obligation and Angela’s beautiful brown eyes bore down on Chris’s conscience. His chest ached from the weight of right and wrong. He blew out a defeated breath and slid his BlackBerry from his jacket pocket. He turned to the notes. “What’s the address?”
Her released breath echoed down the line. “You won’t regret this. Promise.”
His mouth twitched at the smile in her voice. “Address, Cat. Before I change my mind.”
“Eighty-four Seymore Heights. It’s one of twenty or thirty houses that back onto a great view of Cowdon Beach. She’s rented it for the entire time she’s been here. My guess is she’s happy in Templeton. I’d prefer she left, but if this is what she wants, let’s help her keep ahold of what she has.”
He keyed in the address. “Listen. I’ve stocked up on some groceries. I’ll take them back to your place and then head up there. I’ll ring you as soon as I know anything. And Cat? Do not phone me in the meantime.”
“But—”
“No. I mean it. This isn’t what Angela wants and now you’ve started the ball rolling, God only knows how I’ll get her to talk to me. Having you call midflow isn’t going to help.”
“I’m not sorry for doing this. When you talk to her, remember we’re butting in for the right reasons. I’m a cop and a woman. This is the right thing to do. Trust me.”
Hoping to God she was right, Chris nodded. “I’ll call you later.”
Angela’s sweet full mouth and confident but gentle demeanor seeped inside him once more as Chris turned the ignition. Worse, the inch-long scar on her cheek that he hadn’t thought about or considered before now shone prominent and significant. His gut tightened along with his grip on the steering wheel as he drove from the store parking lot and out onto the main road.
Had the bastard done that to her? Had he put that permanent reminder of him on her face? A place that she couldn’t avoid seeing every morning when she cleaned her teeth or brushed her hair? Anger simmered like a flickering fire inside him, burning and scalding.
Melinda’s infidelity had rocked his soul, caused the worst kind of hurt he’d ever experienced. The cuts were deep and the thin film of scar tissue covering them fragile. He didn’t know if he had the strength to deal with Angela’s plight, but he had to try.
No matter how angry he’d been with Melinda’s confession of a seven-month affair with a coworker, not for a single second did he consider raising his hand to her. Not once. If Angela was running scared for testifying against her husband, whatever he’d done to her was serious and it was going to be hard for him to hear the details.
As Cat had said, it was rare that a spouse testified against a spouse. Their morals had to be exemplary, their integrity even more so—unless, of course, they wanted that spouse behind bars for their own survival.
Chris pressed down on the accelerator. The sooner he spoke to Angela, the better.
* * *
ANGELA FISTED HER hands on her hips. Her living room was immaculate; not even a cushion was out of place. Her gaze darted to the kitchen. Spotless. Every surface wiped down, everything put away. There was nothing else for her nervous hands to do. Even the bathrooms sparkled like they were featured in a damn decorating magazine.
She looked at her watch. Somehow she’d managed to busy herself with “must do” chores for three hours since her phone call to Eloise.
It was nearing five-thirty and now she needed to start thinking about making dinner. She strolled into the kitchen, guilt bearing down on her. She’d ended her phone call with Ellie debating whether or not to call the police. Deep inside, she knew it was the responsible thing to do but the fear of handing over control to them made her feel sick. No one could understand how she felt other than someone who’d experienced what Robert put her through. Control was all she had to build on. If she sacrificed that...
Opening a cupboard, she extracted a pan and set it on the stove.
Her gaze lingered on her BlackBerry on the coffee table and her stomach knotted. Once the police were involved again, the decisions about her life would become theirs, not hers.
She tilted her chin. By the time she’d prepared and eaten a Spanish omelet, DI Garrett would’ve finished her shift. Angela could just as easily ring her in the morning. She pressed Play on her iPod. The blast of a dance hit from ten years ago muffled the words coward, runaway and liar that scolded over and over in her conscience. She hummed along to the music and tried in vain to fight the fear of impending nightfall.
Her heart hammered and her head throbbed. She’d slept peacefully for over a year but now feared the nig
httime terrors would start again. Her head was full of them already and the sun was still high in the sky outside her kitchen window. She turned and opened the fridge. Outrageously, Robert’s face was in the curve of the red pepper she took from the crisper and on the lid of the egg box as she slid it from the shelf. His laughter echoed in the hum of the compressor.
She slammed the refrigerator shut and glanced behind her toward the front door. It was locked and bolted. She’d checked it four times already but still she put down the pepper and eggs and went to check it again. Her nerves were stretched to breaking. She rattled the bolt and chain. Everything was secure.
She drew in a deep breath. Things were different now. Eloise knew about the self-defense classes but not that Angela was now a brown belt in karate and owned a gun. If Robert came back, she was ready for him. There was nothing to fear. If he came after her, she’d shoot him dead before he had a chance to so much as raise his hand to her.
The silhouette of a man approaching showed through the frosted glass.
Angela flinched. “Oh, God.” Her breath caught like barbed wire and her heart hammered as a strangled whine rose in her throat. She slapped her hand to her mouth to trap it and slowly edged backward.
He reached the door and rang the bell. The peal shot through the house and her body jangled with nerves. She spun around and fled to the kitchen. With shaking hands, she reached for the biggest of the six knives in a block on the counter. She slid it out and the blade glinted in the sunlight streaming through the window. She tightened her jaw and looked first to her BlackBerry...and then to the bureau where she kept her gun.
If she moved into the living room, he’d see her shadow pass the door.
The doorbell rang a second time.
Angela clasped the knife tighter. She had to do something. She would not stand there waiting for the fist, the foot...the penis to take her under and strip her dignity as they had before. Robert would not take over her life again. She was a different person now. A person who had a life she’d protect with every breath in her body.
Lowering to her hands and knees, she crawled along the floor toward the door and sat down with her back to the wall beside it. Closing her eyes, she willed her racing heart to slow and her mind to focus. From where she sat, she could tip her head up and at least see the profile of who stood on her porch.
Silently, counting to three, Angela exhaled her held breath, opened her eyes and looked up.
Whoever was there had gone.
Panic coursed through her rather than relief and her hands turned clammy. Had he gone around back? Was that door locked? Yes. Yes, she’d locked it. She stared across the room, her body paralyzed. He could be anywhere. She should have yanked open the door and shot him where he stood. The knife shook in her hand. Why had she picked up a knife? She should have made a dash for her gun.
She looked up again. Nothing. She slowly crawled into the living room. The knife clunked across the hardwood floor each time she put down her hand. She reached the coffee table and replaced the knife with her BlackBerry. Her finger hovered above the nine.
Call the police. Call the police.
She glanced toward the door and pushed to her feet. No. She would not relinquish control for a shadow lingering at the damn door. She pushed her phone into her back pocket, pulled back her shoulders and marched to the bureau. With hands shaking, she slid the hidden key from a side panel in the drawer and unlocked the steel box housing her gun. Breathing through pursed lips, she lifted the pistol from its foam casing. Its weight felt welcome in her hand. She closed her steadying fingers around the grip and released the safety catch.
The sharp knock on the window shot her heart into her throat and she spun around, aiming the gun straight at him. Her finger hovered over the trigger.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“HOLY SHIT.” CHRIS FROZE.
Angela stood at the far end of the room but he didn’t need to get his eyes tested to know she held a gun pointed right at him.
Their gazes locked. Seconds ticked by.
His heart pounded as the reality of what he’d walked into flooded his brain. The woman had a gun. She lived alone and knew her ex-husband wanted her dead. No matter what his protestations to Cat over the past twenty-four hours, his intention to leave Angela alone dissolved into a puddle on the wooden planks beneath his feet.
She closed her eyes and lowered the gun. He waited. Damn, she could’ve shot him clean through the glass.
Another moment passed before she opened her eyes and slowly placed the gun on the coffee table in front of her. Chris released his held breath as she came toward the door. The clank and rattle of a bolt and chain being slid back sounded on the other side. It swung open and he raised his hands in surrender.
“Only me. Don’t shoot.”
A small smile twitched her lips, but her eyes shone with unshed tears.
He smiled as his heart kicked. She looked so damn vulnerable. So damn beautiful, but God only knew what was going on inside her to see him standing there. Relief? Fear? Shock? The urge to take her in his arms as he had on the clubhouse roof smashed into his chest like a demolition ball. He resisted. He nodded toward the living room behind her.
“Can I come in?” His heart settled into a pace closer to normal. The shock of looking down the barrel of a gun could do things to a guy’s mentality. He felt a deep and silent shift inside him. Questions stormed and scenarios formed. What did it take for a woman to get to the stage she kept a gun in her house? What the hell had her ex done to her?
For better or worse, he would not be leaving her alone that night.
“Sure.” She stood back from the door.
He slipped past her and stared at the gun lying on the table. The locks shunted back into place behind him. He turned and slipped his hands into the front pockets of his jeans to stop the still lingering urge to hold her. “Did you think I was him?”
She nodded and crossed her arms. “Yes. Sorry about...”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Pointing a gun at me and damn near giving me a heart attack? No problem.”
She didn’t laugh as he’d hoped but instead brushed past him into the living room.
Chris followed, his steps careful. Her shoulders were up around her earlobes, her gait shaky. He said nothing as she picked up the gun and put it back in a drawer of an oak bureau at the far end of the room. A 1980s rock ballad filled the room. Its harsh, intense beat bounced from the walls, filling what would have undoubtedly been an awkward silence.
She faced him and pushed her hand into her hair. “I’ll turn it off.”
She walked into the kitchen and jabbed her finger at the iPod. The house fell into the exact silence he’d imagined. Chris stared at her turned back, trying to think of something to say but no words formed on his tongue or in his brain. How did he bring up the subject of her coming to the police station with him? What would he do if she refused?
She could clearly use a gun and was a darn sight more prepared for her ex-husband’s return than either he or Cat realized. The likelihood was Angela wouldn’t want their help. Her entire demeanor screamed of a woman used to making her own decisions.
“Coffee?” She moved to the kettle and flicked it on without waiting for his answer.
He swallowed. “Great.”
“Why don’t you go outside? I’ll bring it to you.”
“Right.” He looked to his left and saw closed French doors.
“Here. Take these. The doors are locked.”
She came toward him, a key hanging from a small bunch of others held between her thumb and index finger. He reached out and covered her hand with his. He winked. “It was only me...okay?”
Her huge eyes sparkled with unshed tears. She nodded and gave a wobbly smile. “I’m glad.”
She pulled her hand from his, leavin
g the keys, and returned to the kitchen.
Chris’s heart beat hard against his rib cage, his stomach tight. I’m glad. Her words echoed in his head. He stood immobile as she pulled mugs from a cupboard. Lord, what he wouldn’t give to press his lips to her hair and tell her everything would be all right.
He turned and walked to the French doors before he did something unbelievably stupid. Unlocking the doors, he pushed them wide-open. The salty evening air hit his senses and Chris breathed deep. He walked to a small wooden table and sat in one of the four chairs. The evening was warm and the beach beyond still busy with families and couples strolling hand in hand or playing in the shallow waves. The tide edged its way in. He grimaced at the irony. Was the tide coming in too fast? Was Angela’s ex-husband already in Templeton? He silently berated Cat for not telling him more. He’d never felt so ill prepared to talk to someone in his life.
Angela’s feet sounded on the decking.
She took the seat opposite him. “I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee. I assumed black, one sugar.”
He met her gaze and quirked an eyebrow. “You psychic or something?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I’m right?”
“Absolutely.” He picked up the steaming mug.
Her cheeks colored. “I’m guessing your sister told you where I live.”
The air around them stilled, the only sounds coming from the beach. Their gazes locked as he looked at her above the rim of his mug. It hovered at his lips. Chris took a slow mouthful and the rich, smooth coffee eased his arid throat.
“Yes.”
After a moment, she broke eye contact and stared into the depths of her mug. “There’s no need to involve the police yet, Chris. If at all.”
“You’re in danger. You can’t ignore that.”
She lifted her chin. Her gaze was steely. “I’m not the type to take risks. I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Nobody knows Robert better than me.”
“That’s his name? Robert?”
A Man Like Him Page 8
