Standing in the Shadows m&f-2

by Shannon McKenna

  That was better than chewing on the two possibilities available to her: Mom had done it and didn't remember doing it, or Mom hadn't done it. Which meant that someone else had.

  She wasn't sure which notion terrified her more.

  She shouldn't leave Mom at a time like this, but she couldn't afford not to go to Silver Fork. They needed that money so badly. Her mind ran over the problem the way the vacuum cleaner was running over the rug. Each time she thought she was done, she heard another little ting. Always more of them, hidden in the deep pile carpet like tiny, cruel teeth awaiting unwary bare feet.

  Barbara ran a sink full of hot, soapy water, and was washing the dishes when Erin came back in from emptying the garbage. It was bad enough to have admitted to those hallucinations, or whatever they were, but to have her daughter think she was so far gone as to smash family heirlooms… that was unthinkable. Heaven knew, if she were to smash a Riggs family heirloom, she would damn well remember doing it.

  Erin leaned against the porch doorway. Barbara's heart ached at the pinched, anxious look in her daughter's face.

  "Thought I'd get to work on this mess," she said awkwardly.

  Erin looked relieved. "Great idea."

  "I'll just load up this dishwasher and set it running. Maybe we can nuke a couple of Budget Gourmets. Have you eaten?"

  "I should get home. I have to pack for my trip tomorrow. Let's put one in for you." Erin peered into the freezer. "Swiss steak and chicken teriyaki are your choices, Mom."

  Barbara's stomach lurched unpleasantly at the thought of food. "Leave them for now, hon. I'll have one later. What's this trip of yours?"

  "I'm going to the coast. Another consulting job for Mueller."

  "Oh, that's lovely! You see? Cream always rises to the top, no matter what happens. You're going to do just fine, sweetie."

  "We all will, Mom," Erin said. "But you've got to stay on top of your mail, and we've got to work out a plan for paying the bills. And you've, uh, got to cool it with the Vicodin. You need to be more alert. If… if somebody is coming into the house."

  Barbara nodded, and tried to smile. "Of course."

  "I'll help as much as I can, but I can't do it alone." Erin's voice shook.

  "Yes, I know," Barbara hastened to say. "I'm sorry I scared you, baby. I'll pull myself together, and we'll all be fine. You'll see."

  "Cindy, too. Maybe we could set up a meeting with the scholarship committee, convince them to give her another chance. She can't just quit school. I'll call her tonight."

  "Yes. You do that. She looks up to you," Barbara encouraged. "I appreciate your help, hon. I really do."

  Erin pulled on her jacket and hesitated, gazing at her mother with big, worried eyes. "Are you sure you're going to be OK, Mom?"

  "More than sure," Barbara assured her. "You go and get packed. Have a good trip. Call when you get there, OK?"

  "I can't," Erin said. "Your phone's cut off."

  Barbara flinched. "Oh, God. Well, don't worry about it, hon. I'll take care of it right away."

  "I'll do it when I get back, Mom," Erin offered. "I don't mind."

  "Don't worry. Run along and get ready. You have to be at your best tomorrow," Barbara urged.

  Erin gave her a tight, lingering hug and a kiss, and left.

  Barbara peered out the window and watched Erin run down the sidewalk, light-footed and graceful. She turned the corner and was lost to sight.

  Barbara straightened up and looked around with a new sense of purpose. She twitched the crocheted throw on the loveseat back into place and rearranged the pictures on the mantel. She gathered up the mail and rifled through the envelopes with a semblance of her old efficiency, shaking her head at all the past due notices.

  It was time to stop moping and working herself into a state. Making her little girl worry herself sick. For heaven's sake.

  She stared at the TV with hostile eyes, and finally knelt down, plugged in the power strip, reattached the cables, and pushed it back to its place against the wall. She took the remote in her trembling hand and held it out in front of her like a weapon, challenging the blank screen. The mail crumpled against her chest in her shaking hand.

  Enough foolishness. What she had seen was the result of too many sedatives. And it would be nice to watch the evening news.

  She turned it on.

  Gleaming, naked bodies, grunts and moans… the film flickered, but the images were horribly clear. Her husband. His mistress. She stabbed at the remote. The TV did not respond. She stabbed at the off button on the TV itself. Nothing. The thing was possessed.

  She knocked the appliance onto the floor, but the bodies kept on grunting and heaving, lewd and bestial. Cackling, demonic laughter echoed in her head. She lunged for the fire iron by the fireplace and smashed it down against the screen. It sparked and popped, spraying glass all over the carpet. The demon TV was finally silenced.

  Barbara Riggs stared at the fire iron protruding from the TV's shattered belly. She lifted her hands to her face. Envelopes fluttered down around her like snow, forgotten.

  She sank to her knees. A high-pitched mewling sound was coming from her mouth. Shards of glass ground themselves into her knees. She barely felt them. Her heart pounded. Her lungs wouldn't take in air. She was coming apart. Shaking to pieces.

  The terror filled her mind like black smoke, bearing her under.

  Chapter Three

  The car pulled to a stop beside Erin. She jumped and cowered back against the ivy-covered stone wall until she heard Connor's voice coming out of the dark interior of the vehicle. "It's just me."

  Relief, anger, and excitement all mixed and fizzed in her belly. She brushed herself off and groped for her dignity. "You scared me!"

  "Yeah, I noticed. Pretty spooked, aren't you?"

  She could think of no reply to such an obvious statement, so she just started walking again.

  The car followed her slowly. "Come on, Erin," he cajoled. "I'll give you a ride home. You're safe with me. Get in."

  She glanced down at her watch. The next bus wouldn't pass for twenty minutes. "It makes me nervous to be followed around," she snapped.

  "That's tough. It makes me nervous to see you alone on the street at night," he replied. "Get in."

  She got in. The window whirred shut, the locks snapped down, and she was alone in a car with Connor McCloud. The fierce barbarian warrior who had played a starring role in her sexual fantasies for years.

  "You need a full-time bodyguard until Novak's back in custody," he said sharply. "You can't wander around by yourself. It's not safe."

  "A bodyguard?" She snorted in derision. "On my budget? I can barely afford to feed my cat."

  "I'm not asking for pay."

  "You? " She stiffened. "Good God, Connor, you can't—"

  "Put your seatbelt on, Erin."

  Her stiff, chilly fingers struggled with the belt. "I don't want a bodyguard," she said nervously. "I particularly don't want you for a bodyguard. Nothing personal, but I don't want to have anything to do with the Cave. I don't want to see Dad's ex-colleagues ever again."

  "I'm not with the Cave anymore," he said. "Haven't been for months. They don't think you need protection. I do. This is my idea, and I'll take responsibility for it."

  "Oh. Uh…" She searched desperately for words. "I, um, really appreciate the thought, Connor, but—"

  "You don't take me seriously," he said. His voice was sharp with frustration. He flipped on his turn signal, and turned onto her street.

  "Novak is probably busy plotting to take over the world by now," Erin said. "I'm sure he has better things to do than bother with the likes of me. And how do you know where I live, anyway?"

  "Phone book."

  "That's not possible. I'm not in the book yet."

  He slanted her a wry glance. "You're in the database, Erin, even if you're not in the book. Anyone could find you." He parked in front of the decaying façade of the Kinsdale Arms and killed the engine. "This place is grim.
What happened to your apartment on Queen Anne?"

  Another surprise. "How did you know about—"

  "Ed bragged about you when you got that hotshot job at the museum and moved into your own place," he said. "We all knew."

  She winced at his mention of her father, and stared down at her lap. "This place is cheaper," she said simply. "Thanks for the ride."

  His car door slammed, and he followed her into the lobby. "I'll walk you up to your apartment."

  "That's not necessary, thank you," she told him.

  Her words were futile. He fell into step behind her as she started up the staircase. She had no idea how to deal with him. He was so stubborn and determined, and she didn't want to be rude to him.

  Six flights took forever, with his huge, quiet presence behind her. She stopped in front of her door. "Good night," she said pointedly.

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared down at her with unnerving intensity. "Erin. I really didn't want you to get hurt."

  "I'm all right," she whispered. It was a lie, but she couldn't resist the impulse to comfort him. She'd always been a hopeless softie. She found herself staring at the hollows under his cheekbones. The sensual shape of his lips, bracketed by harsh lines. It had been so long since she'd seen his gorgeous, radiant grin.

  The words flew out of her mouth. "Do you, um, want to come in?"

  "Yeah," he said.

  Her stomach did a terrified back flip. She unlocked her door.

  He followed her into her apartment. She flipped on the floor lamp she'd found at a rummage sale years ago, with a wicker laundry basket she had rigged for the lampshade. It cast a strange pattern of warm, reddish slices of light and shadow around the cramped room.

  "It's not much," she said hesitantly. "I had to sell most of my stuff. Here, let me move this pile of books. Sit down. I can make you some coffee, or tea, if you'd like. I'm afraid I haven't got much to offer in the way of food. A can of tuna and some toast, maybe. Or cereal."

  "I'm not hungry, thanks. Coffee would be fine." He wandered around, studying her pictures, scanning the titles of the books piled against the wall with evident fascination. Edna jumped down from her favorite perch on the bookshelf and stalked over to investigate him.

  Connor crouched down to pet her cat, and Erin hung up her jacket and put the kettle on. His eloquent silence unleashed too much dangerous speculation in her mind. She turned around.

  The chitchat she'd been rehearsing froze in her throat. The raw force of his gaze sent a shock wave of feminine awareness through her. He was staring at her body, measuring her with intense interest. She felt naked in her jeans and T-shirt. "You're thinner," he observed.

  Her instinct was to back away, but the sink was already pressed against her back. The room was terribly small with him in it. "I, uh, haven't had much of an appetite, the past few months," she said.

  "Tell me about it," he murmured.

  Edna arched and purred beneath his hand, which was very odd. Edna was a nervous, traumatized ex-alley cat. She'd never let anyone but Erin touch her, and now look at her, flinging herself onto her back. Writhing with pleasure beneath Connor's long, stroking fingers.

  Erin wrenched her gaze away from the unsettling spectacle. "This has been the one time in my life I've managed to lose weight without trying," she babbled. "And I'm too stressed out to enjoy it."

  "Why did you ever try? Your body is gorgeous."

  His tone was not flattering or flirtatious, just a flat request for information. "Well, I, uh… I've always been a little too—"

  "Perfect." He rose to his feet with sinuous grace, still studying her body. "You've always been perfect, Erin. You don't need to lose weight. You never did. Try not to lose any more."

  She was completely flustered. "Ah… OK."

  A sweet, brief smile transformed his lean face as he sat down in the chair she'd cleared for him. Edna promptly leaped into his lap.

  Erin scooped coffee into the filter with trembling hands. Busy, busy, busy—

  "Erin, can I ask you something personal?"

  Her skin prickled at his tone. "That depends on the question."

  "Last fall. At Crystal Mountain. That guy, Georg. Tell me the truth. Did you go to bed with him?"

  She froze into agonized stillness, keeping her back to him. "Why does it matter to you?" Her voice was small and tight.

  "It just does."

  His question brought all the burning shame rushing back. She turned, and lifted her chin. "If I say yes, that means you'll lose all respect for me, right?" She flung the words at him.

  "No," he said quietly. "It means that when I hunt him down and start beating him to death, this time I'll finish the job."

  The kettle began to warble. She couldn't respond to it. She was paralyzed by the bleak intensity of his eyes. The warble rose to a shriek.

  Connor jerked his chin toward it.

  Erin grabbed the kettle with shaking hands. "I think you'd better leave," she said. "Right now."

  Her voice sounded tight, breathless. Not authoritative at all.

  Connor's gaze did not waver. "You promised me coffee."

  His face was implacable. He would leave when it suited him, and not before. And she had no one but herself to blame for inviting him in.

  Connor placed Edna gently on the ground. He got up and wandered over to her desk, studying the photos and cards pinned to the corkboard. The travel itinerary and the printed-out Mueller e-mail lay on the desk in plain view. He picked them up and examined them. "Going someplace?"

  "Just a work thing."

  He frowned. "Didn't you say you lost your job?"

  "I work for myself now. I've started my own consulting business."

  "And you're getting by?" His gaze swept the tiny, wretched room.

  "I'm not supporting myself with my business yet," she said stiffly. "I'm temping to make ends meet. But I have high hopes."

  He held the e-mail up to the light and read it.

  "Excuse me, Connor, but those are my private papers, and I did not invite you to look at them."

  He ignored her, his gaze fixed on the page. "So Claude is delighted to meet with you at last, huh?" he said softly. "Who is this Claude?"

  "None of your business. Put those down. Now."

  He glanced up, and took in the steaming mug in her hand. His eyes went right back to the e-mail. "I take it black," he said absently.

  "Put those papers down, Connor." She tried to make her voice steely and commanding. It just sounded scared.

  "So old Claude feels like he knows you already. Isn't that sweet." He laid the papers on her desk, and walked to the table, staring at her with narrowed eyes. "So, this Claude. You've never met him?"

  She set his coffee down in front of him. "He's a client of mine. Not that it's any of your business."

  "Art appraisal?"

  "Authentication," she corrected. "Mr. Mueller recently developed an interest in Iron Age Celtic artifacts, which are my specialty."

  He sipped his coffee, frowning. "How recently?"

  "I've never discussed that with him," she said. "It's not—"

  "What do you know about this guy, Erin?"

  She bristled at the challenge in his voice. "Everything I need to know. He treats me like a professional. He pays well, and on time."

  "But you've never met him?" His eyes probed her, merciless.

  "I've met members of his administrative staff," she said. "He runs a charitable foundation called the Quicksilver Fund."

  "So why haven't you met him yet?" he persisted. "Because he's always had other pressing engagements," she retorted. "He's a busy man."

  "Is he now," Connor said. "Isn't that interesting." Coffee sloshed over the table as she slammed down her mug. "What the hell are you insinuating, Connor?"

  "Do you know anyone personally who has met this guy?" She pressed her lips together. "I know people whose arts organizations have received grants from him. That's enough for me."

  "No, it's not enou
gh. You can't go on this trip, Erin." She jerked onto her feet, jarring the table painfully with her thigh. "The hell I can't! I am hanging on by my fingernails, Connor. That client is the best thing that's happened to me in the last six months! I will not jeopardize my business just because you are paranoid!"

  "Erin, Novak is out there somewhere," Connor said. "I've been hunting him for years. I know his smell, and I'm smelling it now. He lives to fuck people up. You're Ed Riggs's daughter. You were in his sights. He won't forget you. Count on it." Erin sank down into her chair. "Mueller can't possibly have anything to do with Novak," she said coldly. "Novak has been in a high-security prison ever since he was released from the hospital. Mueller started hiring me four months ago. We made plans to meet on two other occasions. Once in San Diego and once in Santa Fe."

  "But he never showed up?"

  She lifted her chin. "He had unexpected business."

  "I just bet he did," Connor said. "I need to check this guy out."

  "Don't you dare!" she flared. "Don't even think about messing with the last good thing I've got going. Everything else in my life has gone straight to hell. Don't you think you've done enough?"

  Connor's mouth tightened to a grim line. He put down his cup, stood up, and headed for the door. His limp was just a barely perceptible, hitching stiffness in his leg. And it still broke her heart.

  "Connor," she said. "Wait."

  He pushed the door open, and waited, motionless.

  "I'm sorry I said that." She got up and took a step toward him. "I know it's not your fault. It's been… a really awful time."

  "Yeah." He turned and looked at her. "I know what you mean."

  It was true. He did know how bad it was. She saw it in his eyes. He'd been betrayed and set up to die. He'd lost his partner, Jesse. He'd lost months of his life in a coma, suffered the shattered leg, the burns.

  Connor had lost far more than she in this awful business.

  An impulse from deep inside kept her feet moving until she stood right in front of him. His scent was a mix of soap and tobacco, resiny and sweet. Pine, wood smoke, and rainstorms. She stared straight up into his face, like she'd always wanted to do, and breathed him in. She drank in all the details: the sheen of beard stubble glinting metallic gold in the light from the corridor outside. The shadows beneath his brilliant eyes, the sharp line of his jutting cheekbones. How was it possible for a mouth to be so stern, and yet so sensual?