by Julie Miller
Progress.
“So what about that job?” he asked. “I don’t know much about antiques, but I’ve worked with furniture—repairing and refinishing it. And I’ve done yard work and construction since I was a kid if you need help winterizing the place.”
That blue eye squinted with doubt. “You’re taking a sabbatical from yardwork and construction?”
“I have a reference. Virgil Logan.” He’d tried to keep his partner as far removed from his off-the-clock investigation as possible. If anything about this quest for vengeance went south, Sam’s career would be toast. But Virg would be free and clear of any wrongdoing. But surely his old buddy would be willing to say something nice about the cabinets he’d helped him install in his new kitchen last year. “I’ll give you a number and you can call him.”
Was that slight hitch in her shoulders a pensive sigh? Would a bit more gentle persistence wear her down?
“The clerk—Ralphie—said you lived alone out here.” With his hands still in the air, he angled his head to the right and left. “It looks like you’ve got plenty of work. I think you need a few muscles to tackle some of these jobs. Unloading that furniture, regravelling the driveway. I tinker around with mechanics, too. I might be able to get that old steam engine tractor I saw out front running again. If you’ve got the parts.”
She took her left hand off the gun and motioned him to be silent. “Fine. I have no doubt you can do the job. It’s just…”
Sam lowered his hands to his sides. She was going to have to learn to trust him sometime. “It’s just you’re one woman, living out here on your own. And I’m a big, scary man. A stranger, to boot.”
His understanding of her fears seemed to suck the argument right out of her. She was almost shaking as she lowered the gun once more and reached down to stroke the dog’s head. “Yeah,” she finally agreed on a soft, wistful sigh. “I have to stay safe.”
He respected the admission of fear. Jessica Taylor’s honesty would work in his favor. An admission of truth from him might be the first step toward earning her trust. He let just enough of the pain and guilt that riddled him seep into his expression. He kept the rest locked down tightly inside the prison of his heart.
“I, uh, lost someone very close to me earlier this year. My baby sister. We were all that was left of my family so we were pretty tight.” He inhaled a steadying breath that wasn’t all for show. “I took a leave of absence from my desk job, and I’ve been working on other things to try to get past it.”
“I’m sorry.” She sounded genuinely moved by his bare-boned version of the truth.
Sam looked up at her, and for a long, foolish moment out of time, lost himself in a sea of azure compassion. For that one brief instant, his world wasn’t such a lonely place. He wasn’t such a driven man. And his heart…
His heart almost felt something. Something hopeful.
Sam blinked and shook his head, looking away. Hell. What was that all about? The only thing that was going to make him feel better, the only thing that was going to make the pain go away, was to get the bastard who’d desecrated and snuffed the life out of the sweetest thing God had ever seen fit to put in his world. He’d swallow his pride, trade his life, whatever it took to put a bullet through that freak’s head or watch him die by lethal injection.
“So, Miss Taylor…” There was more harsh than gentle in his voice now, and the light that he’d seen in her pretty blue eyes had vanished. “I need the job. I have no intention of harming you or putting the moves on you or any other damn thing that might get me into trouble.” He curled his fingers into tight fists. “I just need to get my hands on something and work it out of my system.”
“You need to forget.”
“Yeah.” But he never would.
To his surprise, she lowered the barrel of her shotgun and removed the ammunition. As she stuffed the unused slugs into her pocket, she looked toward the smaller log structure just east of the house. “There’s an apartment over the garage you can use if you need a place to stay. Since you’re on foot, I imagine it’d be more convenient.”
Whoa. Sam shifted inside his dusty brown work boots. What just happened here? When had he missed the transition from Backwoods Annie to this efficient, articulate professional woman? “You’re giving me the job?”
“I’ll call your Virgil Logan in the morning to double-check you’re who you say you are. If it pans out, you’re hired for a month. But I have a few rules.” She stepped back toward the double doors that led into the cabin. “You’re to come into the main house by invitation only. I’ll fix or provide three meals a day. You can eat on the porch as long as the weather holds, or up in your room. That apartment is small, but the mattress is new. It’ll hold a big guy like you. There’s a coffeemaker and small fridge for snacks or cold drinks. I don’t tolerate drunks, though.”
Sam reached down and slung his pack over his shoulder. Now that he’d broken the ice, he was getting somewhere. Had her attacker been drunk? Had Kerry’s? He’d have Jessica Taylor sized up and spilling her secrets in half the time she’d offered him. “I haven’t been on a binge since college, and that’s been a few years,” he reassured her.
“No guests, no parties—”
“I don’t know anyone here.”
“And no surprises. You give me one reason to doubt your story, and I’ll call the sheriff and my brothers. Three of them are K.C.P.D. cops, and my cousin is captain of his precinct. You don’t know overprotective until you’ve met them. Anything happens to me and they will track you down.”
So why hadn’t they tracked down her rapist and put him behind bars yet? Maybe they weren’t as good as she thought. Maybe he was better.
“Are we clear on the rules?” she demanded, drawing his thoughts back to his first need—establishing his cover. He’d clue himself in to whatever the Taylors had found out about their sister’s attack later.
“Crystal clear.”
She hesitated a moment longer, as if having doubts about her decision. “Did your sister really die?”
Damn. Blindsided. He hadn’t seen that one coming. He couldn’t look at her. Not right away. Not until he got that instant image of Kerry’s chopped black hair, and the bruises and cuts that mangled her porcelain skin out of his head. With a sharp curse on a sharper burst of pent-up air, he slammed that door shut in his mind. “Yeah.”
That was all she needed to hear?
“I’ll get the key.” Before she opened the screened door and went inside, she paused. “Harry, stay.”
After she disappeared inside, the hairy, black, monster mutt positioned himself squarely in front of the door, clearly reminding Sam of the stay-out-of-the-house rule.
Sam braced a hand on his hip and leaned in. “You and I are going to have to find a way to get along, big guy.” If he wanted any chance to snoop through Jessica’s things or get close to the woman herself, Sam would have to get the dog’s permission. Or he’d have to find some way to get the furry guard beast out of the way. “Can I tempt you with a big, juicy steak?”
Jessica felt sorry for him. She thought she was helping him through the grieving process by giving him the job and a place to stay.
His lie must have been a tangible scent in the air. Because the damn dog glared at Sam, as if it knew he was going to take advantage of his mistress’s foolish heart.
Chapter Two
Walnut Avenue Tenement Hotel—Las Vegas, Nevada
“Die, bitch.”
He pulled the belt tighter and tighter around her neck, loving the invigorating strain that burned through the muscles of his forearms and biceps and chest. Sweat beaded on his skin. He was the man. The world was his to control.
The voiceless words that formed at her cracked, swollen lips stopped as a dying sound gurgled up from her throat.
“What are you saying, honey? Is that too tight?” He loved the power. At the slightest nod of her head he loosened the tourniquet. “There. Is that better?”
Her breas
ts thrust up as she sucked in a deep gulp of air, but he was more intent on her face. Her lips sputtered one word. And he waited patiently for her to repeat herself. “Why?”
Not please? Not sorry? Why?
Damn her!
He jerked back on the belt, pinning his thighs around her hips as he sat on top of her. She thrashed beneath him, her struggles only adding to her pain and his delight as she tore her milky white skin against the bindings at her wrists and ankles.
He was almost giddy with the gluttonous rush of energy that pulsed through him. He was masterful. Thorough. He towered over her with his strength. “You don’t have so much to say now, do you?”
He looked down on her as her eyes wept, beseeched, went blank, then closed.
“That’s it?” he crooned in a soft voice, exhaling a dissatisfied breath of air. She should have protested more. At the very least, asked for his mercy. But this one had been too shocked, too damn full of herself to even scream properly. Disappointing. His entire body deflated as the energy that had jazzed him to yet another high dissipated.
He slipped off her quietly, not wanting to disturb her imitation of slumber. He rolled up the stocking mask that had covered his face and dropped it into his bag. He hadn’t worried so much about hiding his identity as he’d enjoyed the symbolism of it all. He was man at his most base, his most powerful.
And he’d been triumphant.
A glance at his watch on the nightstand told him he had only a few hours before his flight. There wasn’t much time to savor his victory. But he couldn’t just leave.
He picked up his black jeans off the floor beside the bed where he’d stripped, and reached into the front pocket. He pulled out a pocketknife with a polished, inlaid ebony handle. It was a thing of beauty, a true find for his collection. He opened it up and tested its weight, appreciating the feel of it in his hand.
Padding across the threadbare carpet, he reached out and lifted a long, silky lock of her dark hair between his thumb and forefinger. Sawing delicately back and forth, he cut the lock from her scalp and lifted the fragrant strands to his nose. Beneath the odors of sweat and fear and that dusty mattress, he smelled the tangy scent of the woman herself.
It would be an appropriate souvenir of their night together.
“Unfortunately, I have to be leaving,” he whispered to her. He didn’t bother with meaningless platitudes. She’d served her purpose. There would be no next time for them. “Thank you.”
He stuffed the hair and knife into his pocket and went into the tiny bathroom. He chased the roaches from the shower and quickly cleaned himself. In a matter of minutes he was dressed and packed and ready to depart.
But he wasn’t done yet.
She’d learned her lesson. She didn’t deserve to be found trussed up like a turkey.
Sparing her a few precious moments of his time, he went to the bed and untied her. He pulled her legs together and crossed them at the ankles. Then he freed her bruised wrists and laid them neatly atop her naked belly. He pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed and covered her up, tucking the cover around her, tenderly putting her to bed.
This one wouldn’t cause him any more trouble. But that other one…that other one…
A fistful of that familiar rage tightened in his chest and made him forget for a moment his triumph here tonight. “I was in control tonight,” he reminded himself. Not this dead bitch. “I was in control.”
The anger left him almost as quickly as it had come. He pressed a hand to his chest and expelled a weary sigh. Her time would come. The one who got away—the one who could spoil it all—her time was coming. Sooner than she’d ever expect.
He smiled, feeling rational and benevolent and in control once more.
“Goodbye, love.”
He leaned over the bed and kissed her gently on her cool cheek. Then he disappeared into the night.
“SHERIFF HANCOCK, this is a surprise.” Jessica peeled off her gloves and dropped them onto the worktable beside the rusted toy wagon she’d been cleaning.
“Mornin’, Jessie.” Curtis Hancock slipped his broad-brimmed hat over his salt-and-pepper hair before climbing out of the white official county cruiser. “Fine September day, isn’t it?”
Jessica didn’t answer. She rarely judged her days by the quality of the weather anymore.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and whistled for Harry who was sunning himself at the far end of the porch. “Harry, come.” Shaking off his snooze, the big dog stretched and trotted over as soon as she gave him a stern look. She rewarded his instant obedience with a “Good boy” and a vigorous scratching along his chest and muzzle. “Harry, heel.”
Together, they walked down to the gravel parking lot while the sheriff adjusted his holster and utility belt around the waistband of his dark-brown uniform. Short and on the stocky side, thanks to his wife’s Southern-style cooking, Curtis Hancock was every inch the proper, old-fashioned gentleman. Maybe that, and the fact he was closer to her father’s age than her own, made her relax enough to smile. “Can I help you with something?”
The sheriff tipped his hat in a polite greeting. “Just making some rounds. I like to check on my favorite people in the county when I can.” He leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “I let my deputies check on the ones I don’t like.”
He straightened with a wink and Jessica laughed on cue. “I’m flattered.” She thumbed over her shoulder toward the cabin. “I still have some coffee in the pot. Would you like a cup?”
“No, thanks.” He rested both hands near the buckle of his belt, assuming a casual stance. But his dark, darting eyes surveyed her place with a thorough curiosity. “I’m having lunch with Trudy Kent in half an hour. We’re going over security for that big soirée she’s throwing tomorrow night.”
“Security? For a dinner party?” Gertrude Wallace Kensington Kent was one of Missouri’s wealthiest widows and liked to do things in a big way. But as the older woman’s neighbor, she’d also learned that Trudy did them with grace and style. “That doesn’t sound like her.”
“Half the county’s invited. It’ll be more like a political rally, I imagine. She and her son, Charles, are determined that the city not buy up any more property to build a highway or new industrial complex. The Kents have lived in this part of the county since before the Civil War. They intend to keep a pristine countryside.”
She nodded. Trudy Kent had a standing offer to buy Jessica’s adjoining property if she ever decided to sell. “And the business owners who are looking to expand or turn a tidy profit on land sales aren’t thrilled with Trudy’s plan. Are you really expecting trouble?”
“I just like to be prepared so I can control the situation should anything come up.” His gaze lit and narrowed at a distant point beyond Jessica’s shoulder. “Are you going to the party?”
His question was perfunctory and polite, but she could tell he was more interested in what he was watching than in her answer. She slowly turned to look over her shoulder, already guessing what had caught his eye.
Sam O’Rourke.
“I hired him yesterday.” She answered his unspoken question first. “There’s a lot I need to get done. Derek Phillips is busy after school with sports and farm responsibilities so he can’t put in the hours he did over the summer.”
Sheriff Hancock nodded. “Looks like a good worker.”
The big man with the shaggy black hair and granite eyes was pushing a gravel-filled wheelbarrow from the barn to her driveway. Perspiration from honest work glistened on his golden skin, making dark patches on his black T-shirt at the center of his chest and the small of his back. His biceps and triceps corded with the effort as he negotiated the heavy load across the bumpy terrain. Though she knew he’d shaved this morning, the navy bandanna tied around his forehead gave him a dangerous, street-tough look.
It was all unnerving somehow, having Sam O’Rourke around the place. “He’s doing fine so far.” She tried to focus on conversing with the sheriff. “
At the rate he’s going, he’ll have the driveway, the parking lot and the road up into the woods regravelled by the end of the week.”
Though Sam hadn’t spoken to her beyond proposing a list of tasks, asking about tools and thanking her for breakfast, she hadn’t once forgotten he was there. She made a point of knowing where he was at all times.
But her vigilance wasn’t solely due to commonsense safety and a lingering distrust of the man. With her eye for detail, she couldn’t help noticing how his faded jeans hugged his lean hips and the solid trunks of his thighs. Sam O’Rourke was big. She was five-eight, and he towered over her by a good eight inches. He was in shape. His stomach was flat and his arms were corded like a man who worked out. And he was sexy. Not handsome. Not by any conventional definition of the word. Everything about his features was too strong, too angular—all set in stone without a smile or laugh line to soften them.
But he was undeniably compelling. A testament to honed strength and raw masculinity.
Jessica watched him fill three holes until he glanced her way and caught her staring. She quickly looked down, busying her attention with scratching Harry beneath his ears and praying the edginess that suddenly suffused her body didn’t show.
But she doubted Sheriff Hancock was seeing the same details about Sam that she was. Her cheeks heated at the realization. She hadn’t noticed a man’s looks in months. Only to size up whether or not he was a threat to her, and to try to decide if he was the one. She couldn’t remember the last time her body had buzzed with this long-forgotten awareness of a man.
Not since Alex. And her attraction for him had dimmed the moment he’d introduced his wife at that museum fund-raiser. That had been during that same fateful trip to Chicago. Her sexual appetite had soured that night in the face of his arrogant deceit. Later, it had been destroyed by something much, much worse.
