He reached over her, his shoulder brushing her arm, and opened the glove compartment. He removed a black handgun. “Lock the door after me. And stay here. Do not get out of the truck.”
He climbed out and loped toward the bushes, the gun held loosely by his side. He paused in front of her car, listening, then plunged into the bush and disappeared.
She hit the power lock and the reassuring click echoed loudly in the silence.
Patrick returned five minutes later. As he approached the door, he tucked the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. He swung into the truck, buckled his seat belt and put the SUV into gear.
“What? What did you see?”
“Not a thing. Thought I heard footsteps, but when I got through the foliage, I didn’t see or hear anything.”
Chuck wouldn’t have hung around. Could it be Tim? Had he found her?
He reached over the console to open her hands. She hadn’t realized she’d clenched them into fists.
“Relax, Darcy. It was probably nothing. After the flat tires, we’re both jumpy.”
“Yeah.” Jumpy was good. It had kept her alive for a long time.
* * *
PATRICK GLANCED BEHIND him one more time as he waited for a car to go past on Devon Avenue. Nothing there. But Darcy was still staring over her shoulder.
Her knuckles were white where they gripped the arm rest. “If anyone was hiding back there, he’s long gone,” Patrick said. Why was she wound tighter than a spring? “You think it was someone besides Chuck?”
She faced forward and leaned her head against the seat, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “How many enemies do you think I have?”
“You tell me.”
“Besides Chuck? The old man who yelled at me at Happy Foods last week because I had one too many items in the express checkout line. The librarian who got huffy because I lost a book. A couple of customers, maybe. That’s it, as far as I know.”
“Slashed tires don’t scream ‘huffy librarian.’ Or old guy with a grocery cart.”
“So we’re back to Chuck.”
Or whoever else was making her nervous. Her ex? “You want to tell me about the guy who beat you?”
She stared straight ahead, her face expressionless, her body rigid. She didn’t breathe. Then she slowly turned her head, her eyes dark pools in her white face. “I never said anyone beat me.”
“I’m not judging,” he said.
“Good, because there’s nothing to judge.”
“Glad to hear that.” He turned right onto Devon and felt her tense beside him.
“How did you know to turn right instead of left?” She gripped the door handle as if preparing to leap out of the truck.
“That day we ran together, you said you didn’t go through the underpass. I assumed that meant you lived on the west side of the railroad tracks.”
Some of the tension left her shoulders and her fingers loosened on the door. “Right. Of course. I’d forgotten that conversation.” She glanced at him. “You’re very observant.”
“Comes with the job.”
They bumped across the tracks and stopped at another light. “You want to tell me where you live?”
“Uh. Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “Mayfair. 6330. Turn right three blocks after the light.”
“Near the elementary school, right?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t say anything more, but she slid her hands beneath her thighs and leaned forward a little, as if she was checking out the exterior mirror on her side of the car. Was she always this alert? This watchful?
It would be an exhausting way to live.
A few minutes later he rolled to a stop in front of an older brick Tudor-style house. “This it?”
“Yes. I live on the top floor.”
The blinds were drawn, but a light shone through the shade. There were no lights at all on the first floor.
She unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door. “Thanks for the ride, Patrick. I appreciate it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He opened his door and slid out as she stepped onto a sidewalk that ran along the side of the house. Apparently her entrance was in the back.
Out of view of the street.
“Hold on, Darcy,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll walk you to your door.”
She glanced over her shoulder, already halfway to the house. “That’s not necessary.”
She fumbled in her bag, then pulled out something shiny. A night insect chirped, and whatever she held fell to the sidewalk with a metallic clatter. Keys. She swiped two times before she retrieved them.
She was jittery as all hell.
It took only a few long strides to catch up with her. “Why don’t you give me the keys to your car? I’ll have the mechanic deliver it after he changes the tires.”
When she’d removed the car keys and put them in his hand, he said, “Quiet neighborhood. Real safe.” Up and down the block, dried leaves lay in piles between the street and the sidewalk. Their dusty smell filled the air.
“That’s why I like it.”
In a family neighborhood like this, it would be easy to spot someone who didn’t belong. A stranger hanging around. He wondered if that’s why she chose it. “You been living here long?”
“Since I started working at Mama’s.”
She stepped into the faint light spilling into the backyard and garden, and he saw that wooden decks had been added to the back of the house, similar to the ones on many Chicago two-flats. There were small porches on the first and second floors and stairs wound back and forth between them. Grabbing the railing, she nodded at him. Her jaw was tense and her shoulders hunched. “Thanks again for the ride.”
“I’ll walk you up,” he said, swinging onto the stairs behind her.
She turned. “You don’t have to do that. Seriously. I’m fine.” She nodded at the second-story porch. “There’s no one up there. Safe neighborhood, remember?”
He stood one step below her now. Eye to eye. The wind lifted her hair and its gingery scent drifted over him. Cool moonlight pearled her face. He wanted to cup it in his palm and feel her warmth beneath his hand.
“Are we going to have a staring contest, Darcy? Or something else?” He leaned forward and she made a tiny inhalation. Her pupils darkened and enlarged.
Abruptly she turned around and started walking again. “Suit yourself.”
At the top of the stairs they emerged onto a tiny porch. One folded-up lawn chair was propped against the railing. A large pot beneath the window held a tomato plant in its death throes. One branch was broken and turning brown, pointing toward the window like an arthritic finger.
The kitchen light was on but blinds covered the window above the plant and the one in the door.
“All good,” she said brightly, inserting the key in the lock. “Thanks again for driving me home.” She smiled over her shoulder. “And for telling me about Chuck. You’ll let me know when you find out more, won’t you?”
“Yeah, I will.”
“Good.” She looked past him into the yard, then down at the floor as she turned the key in the lock.
“What?” he said as she froze, automatically reaching behind him for the gun he’d left in his waistband.
She pulled the keys out of the door. “There’s mud on my porch. Footprints. They weren’t there when I left for work.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
WITHOUT THINKING, Patrick wrapped his hand around her upper arm and drew her away from the door. Even through the fleece, he felt the tension in her muscles.
“Do you want to call the police?” After her reaction to the same question earlier, he figured she’d refuse, but it was the smart choice. He’d give a lot to know why she wouldn’t go that rou
te.
“M-maybe it was my landlord,” she said, her teeth chattering.
Patrick squatted on the wooden floor of the deck and studied the prints. They were faint, as if most of the mud had been worn off on two flights of stairs. But there was enough to get a general idea.
“These were most likely made by someone who’s around six feet tall. How tall’s your landlord?”
“Not that tall,” she said.
“Anyone else come up here on a regular basis? Mailman? UPS guy?”
“No. My mailbox is downstairs. Any packages are left there, too.” She was taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly, as if trying to calm herself. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but he suspected that would freak her out even more.
“Okay.” He studied the prints again. They went to the door, turned around and went back down the stairs. He didn’t want to say it, but after the slashed tires, he had to. “Any chance Chuck could have followed you home one night?”
“No,” she said immediately. “I pay attention to that.”
He’d figured she did. But there were other ways of finding out where a person lived. “Where do you park your car?”
“In the garage.”
She pointed to the structure behind the house, and moonlight reflected off a window. Easy enough to find her car.
“I’ll check your house before you go in.”
“You think someone’s inside?” Her voice rose a little.
“No, I don’t.” He took her hand and tugged her down beside him. “See the prints? They lead up to the door, then away. But it would be smart to make sure.”
She clung to his hand tightly as she studied the faint smears of mud. “So if he came up and went back down, it’s probably okay, right? Thanks for offering, though.”
She disentangled her hand from his slowly, letting go finger by finger. Finally, she pressed her palm to his for a long moment, then let her hand drop.
He itched to reach for her again. Instead, he stood up. “I think you’re making a mistake, but it’s your decision.” He patted the gun in the small of his back, the metal warmed by his body. “As you pointed out, I do have a gun.”
She stood as well, staring at him. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? That I’m making a mistake?”
“You told me you could think for yourself.” He wanted like hell to take charge. To tell her he was checking, instead of asking. But she’d probably been in situations where she didn’t have choices or control, so he chose his words carefully. “From my perspective, it makes sense to let me check your house. I’m armed. I know what I’m doing. This is my job. I want to protect you. But I’m not going to force you to do anything. You get to make your own decisions. Even if they’re stupid ones.”
“I know how to protect myself,” she said.
“From someone hiding in there?” He jerked his head toward her apartment. “Waiting for you?”
Her hand tightened on the handle of her bag, and her face paled in the moonlight. “Yes.”
“Like I said, your choice. I’ll wait out here, though, until you’re finished.”
She inserted the key in the door, although it took two tries. She didn’t turn it, though. She stared at him instead, and he wondered what she was thinking.
After a long few moments, she stepped to the side. “I’d like you to do it,” she said. “Please.”
“I’d be happy to.” He slid his gun out of his waistband and turned the key. As he pushed open the door, a huge black cat meowed, then narrowed its eyes when it saw he wasn’t Darcy.
Patrick relaxed a little. If the cat was waiting at the door, there probably wasn’t anyone in the house.
It was easy to check the kitchen—small table, two chairs, old refrigerator and stove. No place for anyone to hide. He moved into the living room. No one under the couch. Closet empty.
No one behind the shower curtain in the bathroom.
Under the bed. Closet empty.
There was no one in the house. No sign that anyone had been here.
He slipped the gun behind his back again and turned slowly, assessing her living space. She had a double bed that she hadn’t made that morning. The dark blue quilt was thrown back, revealing pale pink sheets. Two pillows, but only one slept on. Running shorts and a sports bra at the foot of the bed.
Her dresser was old and battered, with gouges in the wood and places where the varnish had worn off. The drawers looked as if they would stick. The scratched top held a few pairs of earrings and a couple of necklaces, as well as a handful of coins and a small, cheap lamp.
There were no pictures on the wall, no photos on the small night table beside the bed. It looked as impersonal as a motel room.
The bathroom was the same—nothing decorative. Nothing personal.
The living room, too. She had bookshelves that held some paperbacks and a small television. The morning’s Herald Times sat on a beaten-up coffee table, and the couch looked as if it had been rescued from Goodwill. Two tiny end tables held plain lamps.
She’d made no effort to personalize her living space.
He opened the back door and motioned her inside. “Everything is fine in here. Nothing’s been disturbed, no sign of an intruder.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, dropping her purse on one of the two kitchen chairs with a thump. She glanced at him quickly, then fiddled with the teakettle. “You, uh, want some tea or instant coffee?”
He shoved his hand through his hair. “It’s too late to dance around. If you want me to stay until you’re comfortable, I’m happy to do that. If you want me to leave, tell me to get out.”
The kettle clattered against the stove. “Would you rather have a beer?”
“Does that mean you want me to stay? I don’t want to guess, in case I’m wrong.”
Hope and fear battled in her eyes, and he didn’t move as he waited to see which would win. Slowly her shoulders relaxed. She unclenched her fingers.
“Stay,” she said in a rush.
“Happy to.” He pushed away from the wall. “Beer sounds good.”
* * *
DARCY PULLED A BOTTLE out of the refrigerator, opened it and handed it to Patrick. She’d only asked him to stay because she was rattled by the footsteps on the porch. If she was alone, she’d never fall asleep. She’d lie in bed, listening to every creak of the tree outside the living room, every whisper of wind through the badly sealed windows, every barking dog and suddenly silent night insect.
That wasn’t the only reason she’d asked him to stay.
Ignoring the warning voice in her head, she took another beer out of the fridge. “I’m ready to sit down.”
She headed into the living room and perched on one end of the couch. He sat at the opposite end, sinking into the cushions and stretching his legs out in front of him. She remembered how they’d felt against her the other night—solid. Strong. Muscled.
He lifted the beer and took a drink. When he set the bottle down on his thigh, a fleck of foam clung to his lip. He licked it off, and she swallowed.
Maybe this had been a mistake.
“Do you miss your job in Detroit?” she asked, desperate to banish the memory of his mouth against hers.
“Yeah. I left my partner holding the bag on our cases.” He rolled his shoulders, tilted the bottle to his mouth, swallowed. “It’s tough being here, when I’m needed there.”
It felt as if the couch was listing toward Patrick. She planted her feet on the floor to keep from leaning toward him. A momentary weakness had made her ask him to stay. Her worst idea in a long time.
“I think everyone is glad you’re here,” she said.
“Not sure about that. But they’re stuck with me.”
Patrick turned to face her. Memories stirred o
f that night in the kitchen at Mama’s. Her shirt against his. Her mouth against his.
“Why did you ask me to stay, Darcy?”
Their gazes connected, and her heart began pounding. I didn’t want to be alone. I feel safe with you.
I wanted to kiss you again.
“I was a little shaken up.”
“I could see that. How come?”
He was closer, but she hadn’t seen him move. Her skin prickled and her chest tightened. “I thought someone had tried to break in to my apartment. Anyone would be upset.”
“Yeah. But you never ask for help.”
How had he figured that out in a few short weeks? She shrugged. “I wasn’t asking for help. I wanted company for a few minutes, and you looked like you could use a beer.” She wanted more than company.
“That was it? Really?”
“What else could it be?”
He slid closer. “You tell me, Darcy.”
The light from the lamp illuminated the shadow of the bruise on his chin. He was a dangerous man. In so many ways. And she still wanted him.
Apparently, she was a slow learner.
“You know, I’m fine now. I don’t want to keep you.”
“You’re not keeping me from anything.” He lounged on the couch and lifted the beer to his mouth. Her gaze followed, and she watched the muscles in his throat ripple as he drank. She wanted to put her lips there and taste his skin. Feel his pulse race when she touched him.
She realized she was reaching for him, and she dropped her hand onto her lap. “Thank you for checking my apartment. I’ll see you tomorrow, Patrick.”
Before he could answer, Cat strolled in from the kitchen and jumped into her lap. He settled himself, then stared at Patrick.
Patrick’s mouth twitched and he drained the last of the beer. Darcy stroked the cat’s head, and loud purring filled the room.
“Nice cat,” Patrick said. “What’s his name?”
“Uh, it’s Cat.” Her hand must have tightened on Cat’s ear, because he yowled and jumped down.
“Cat? That’s his name?” Patrick sat up straight, frowning.
The Woman He Knows Page 12
