If I Loved You

by Kress, Alyssa

  Though how could anything help?

  Pattie clasped her hands together in her lap. The whole thing was still so hard to fathom. Bree. Bree, with whom she'd had countless meetings and telephone calls. Bree, with whom she'd sat alone in that empty office. Bree, the comically manly newspaper editor she'd known for five months. Bree had murdered Savannah.

  Apparently Bree'd believed the Rattler was her last chance. So when Savannah had declared she was closing the newspaper, Bree had freaked out. Dangerously freaked out.

  After killing Savannah, Bree had then done her best to confuse and overwhelm Pattie, who'd been overwhelmed enough by inheriting a two-year-old tornado. When Pattie had decided on her own to keep the newspaper going—ironically believing it could help her catch Savannah's killer—Bree must have thought she'd succeeded in keeping her career alive.

  Either that, or she'd simply been waiting, expecting Pattie to drop the ax, and ready to make her move before that happened.

  Pattie suppressed a groan. At Starbucks just this afternoon she'd hesitated when Bree had asked her if she was thinking of shutting down the newspaper.

  Looked like that had been a fatal hesitation.

  She wanted to crawl out of her own skin. It was bad enough she'd caused her own demise here, but she'd managed to drag Zane into this web, too. And Tristan? What was going to happen to him after his only remaining relative died? Just when he'd opened up enough again to trust? Pattie's throat started to close. She couldn't let this happen to Tristan.

  Though she hadn't a clue, she had to do something. It was up to her. It was always up to her.

  Wasn't it?

  "This exit ought to work." Zane switched on the car's blinker. "All right with you?" Seemingly calm and in control—completely unlike Pattie—he addressed the question back toward Bree.

  Out the window, Pattie saw a strip mall sitting amid fields of nondescript industrial buildings. The largest sign of the mall read, "Juan Vallejo Market." The sign's neon illuminated a scribble of graffiti on dingy stucco.

  Grunting, Bree said, "Fine."

  Pattie glanced toward Zane. He sure had jumped on her idea of having to go the bathroom. Did that mean he had a plan?

  Then it hit her. Was she stupid? She was sitting next to Zane. Zane, the hero. Zane, the knight in shining armor. Of course he had a plan.

  A shaft of hope bounced around in her panic like a flashlight in a darkened room. She wasn't alone here. She was with Zane.

  He slowed as the exit ramp ended at a stop sign. Pattie's heart started to pump. If ever there were a time to take up Zane on all his hero business, it would have to be now.

  But could she do it? Could she give up control and simply trust him?

  Driving calmly, Zane took a right and proceeded toward the strip mall.

  Pattie's heart was going so fast she could barely breathe. Trust Zane. Damn, the idea was scary...almost as scary as the gun pointed at her.

  On the other hand, if anyone could get them out of this, it had to be Zane.

  Pattie concentrated on breathing. Trust Zane, trust Zane. Earlier this evening she'd concluded she'd never be able to trust him.

  But now it seemed her life would depend on being able to do exactly that.

  ~~~

  Zane wished there were more cars in the lot fronting the strip mall that hosted the market, a nail parlor, and a laundromat. He wished there was a single person walking around outside the buildings. But apparently nobody in the area was interested at the moment in buying food, getting fancy nails, or washing their clothes.

  "You get out first, loverboy," Bree growled. "Then me, then Pattie."

  Bree was thinking too hard. She was calculating strategy as fast as Zane was. And she was smart enough to keep the Colt pointed at Pattie.

  In a minute they were all outside the Jeep Cherokee. A car or two zoomed by on the wide street, but nobody looked out to notice a few people standing in a dimly lit parking lot, one of them with her hand inside an oversized purse.

  "Okay, this is how we're going to do it," Bree commanded. "Loverboy goes first, followed by Girlfriend, with me in the back." She indicated her hand inside the purse. "My muzzle's pointed at Girlfriend," she told Zane.

  He gave the witch a calm look even as adrenaline poured through him like high-powered octane. The pros and cons of various courses of action zipped through his head. Should he do this outside, or take a chance on a better venue inside the store? Was it better to have space and the big outdoors, or the possibility of help inside? The biggest unknown of all, though, was that element he so badly needed: Pattie's cooperation.

  "Let's go," Bree barked.

  With his back prickling, Zane started toward the door of the market. It was a heavy glass door plastered with an advertisement for a special on chorizo.

  Inside, Zane thought. That would be better than outside. There could be people, a telephone. Hell, maybe even a video camera. As he pushed open the door, every cell in his body vibrated with the need to save Pattie.

  It was dim inside, a concession to a lack of air conditioning. The smell of over-ripe melons went along with a general congestion. It looked as if a store twice its size had been packed between the walls. Merchandise was piled to the ceiling, creating narrow aisles like canyons.

  Not a soul was in sight. Even if there were other people shopping in the store, they wouldn't have been able to see Bree's party around the towers of cracker boxes and paper towels.

  Zane should have made his move in the parking lot.

  "Go down the aisle with the soap." Bree's rough voice wavered at the edges. Did she sense danger where Zane saw obstacles? "The bathroom is probably at the back," Bree muttered.

  The aisle with the soap was narrow and deserted. Bottles of colored dishwashing liquid and boxes of detergent led the way toward a forest of mops and brooms.

  "You're not really going to make me go in a room with all three of us together," Pattie protested. "Jeez, I doubt I even could. Besides, it'll look weird."

  "You let me worry about that," Zane heard Bree reply. "Go."

  Steady on the outside, inwardly Zane pulsed. Maybe they'd need a key to get into the bathroom and would have to interact with an employee. Unfortunately, he couldn't count on that convenient situation. He needed to do something—soon—before they reached the bathroom door.

  But even more than that, he needed Pattie to let him do it, to let him take whatever opportunity presented itself.

  He needed her to let him save her.

  "Go," Bree snapped.

  Zane started down the aisle. He was bristlingly aware of everything around him: the change in aroma from melon to Ajax, the slide beneath his feet from detergent particles. As he neared the end of the aisle, a movement above had him glancing upward.

  There was a mirror fastened to the ceiling, the sort of thing that prevented shopping carts from crashing into each other at corners. In the fish-eye view of the mirror, Zane could see their line marching down the aisle—himself, then Pattie, followed by Bree with her hand in her purse.

  Then, as Zane gazed into the mirror, Pattie looked up too. In the mirror, their eyes met.

  Love for her flooded Zane. But, dammit, he needed her to trust him.

  Not knowing what to expect, hoping against hope, Zane tilted his head a fraction of an inch. He needed Pattie to move to one side, out of the way.

  To Zane's amazement, she got it. Not only did she get it, she responded. Even as Zane watched in the mirror above, Pattie hurled herself to one side, out of the aisle and into a stack of brooms. Suddenly Pattie was out of his way, giving him clear access to Bree.

  Time seemed to freeze. In that frozen moment, Zane's heart expanded to the size of the sun. In that moment, he realized the world. Pattie believed in him. Pattie trusted him. With her life.

  The realization gave him astonishing power. Zane whirled with one arm extended, as if Colt 45s didn't exist. He knocked Bree into the precariously stacked boxes of Tide.

  Squ
awking, Bree folded like a hinge. A shot rang out. White, flower-smelling dust rose into the air.

  "I'm fine!" Pattie called.

  God, did the woman understand him, or what? She knew he needed the information she was all right so he could proceed without distraction.

  Confident now, Zane threw himself on top of Bree. They both slid in the slippery detergent dust as voices began shouting in Spanish. Above it all, an alarm started to wail.

  We must have set off the smoke alarm. Zane smiled. A marvelous emotion spread from his chest outward even as he grappled with the struggling, middle-aged woman beneath him.

  Pattie trusted him.

  "Call the police," Zane heard Pattie say. She spoke over an hysterical flow of Spanish coming from at least two different voices.

  With Bree finally subdued beneath him, Zane spat out detergent and glanced over his shoulder. Pattie had dug Bree's cell phone from her purse and was punching in numbers, herself. Shifting from one foot to the other, she handed the phone to a short, red-faced man, one of the sources of excited Spanish. "Just tell them to come," Pattie begged him.

  Her gaze was distressed as she met Zane's eyes.

  Love for her swelled past the knock he'd taken to a knee, the blow Bree had landed on his chin, and the taste of detergent stinging his nose.

  He hadn't thought he could love Pattie one iota more until she apologized, shifting weight again. "Believe it or not, I really do have to go to the bathroom."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Truly desperate, Pattie managed to slip away to use the facilities—after first crouching beside Zane to make sure he hadn't been shot. Her heart had been pounding so hard she'd thought it was going to thump right out of her chest. Bree had shot at him. Shot at him!

  On the other hand, when you had to go, you had to go. There was no obvious blood on Zane and he was grinning at her—a strange, but healthy-looking grin, so Pattie rushed off. Just as she was returning from the bathroom, three black-and-whites wailed into the parking lot.

  The police took one look at the tableau—Zane on top of Bree, the two Mexican owners shouting, and Pattie rushing into the room—and decided to take everybody in to the station to sort things out, Mexican owners included.

  At the police station, separated from Zane, Pattie used the phone call they allowed her to reach Cassie. After telling Zane's sister what had happened, Pattie asked her to have Michael send over one of his hotshot lawyer friends.

  A lawyer was a necessity. Bree claimed Pattie and Zane had been the ones to kidnap her. Her allegation was ridiculous, of course, and it didn't take Michael's lawyer long to convince the authorities that neither Pattie nor Zane had any motivation to do this. Furthermore, the gun was registered in Bree's name.

  But wading through the paperwork took a while, and then Pattie's story inspired interest in Bree's possible connection to Savannah's 'accidental overdose' and the questioning dragged on.

  If the situation had been slightly different, Pattie would have enjoyed the opportunity—finally—to expand on the true nature of her sister's untimely demise. It would have been pure satisfaction to hear others—people with authority—agree that Savannah had not overdosed herself.

  But Pattie really wanted to see Zane. She wanted to reassure herself that he was unharmed. Heck, she just wanted to be with him.

  Finally, around midnight they released her. A female police officer escorted her down an empty hall to a dimly-lit lobby.

  Past the police officer, Pattie could see Zane already standing in the lobby. His arms were crossed over his chest and his short hair was scattered in different directions. Maybe he'd found the long questioning exasperating, for his aspect was pugnacious and disgruntled. It was possible, however, he'd found some reason to be upset with Pattie, for his dark scowl didn't lift when he saw her coming.

  His black expression didn't bother Pattie. Impressed forever in her mind was the sight of him flying through the air, putting himself between her and a Colt 45. This man loved her. She could trust him with her body and her heart.

  She had no problem believing that now.

  The police officer turned on her heel. Pattie assumed the officer went back down the hall, but she didn't check. All she had eyes for was the man standing in front of her, his gray-green gaze searching her face darkly.

  "I'm fine," she told him, as if anything in his expression indicated the slightest interest in her state of being. "Totally okay, not a scratch on me." Grinning, she spread her arms. "Not even charged with a crime." Still grinning, she lowered her arms. "How are you?"

  Zane didn't return her smile. Deliberately, he stepped forward. Without changing his expression, he put a palm on either side of her face. "I'm fine," he said hoarsely. Then he drew her toward him and kissed her.

  Pattie closed her eyes. It was a kiss of utter sweetness. She could taste his love, his tender caring—everything. That wonderful kiss lasted a good, long while.

  When he finally pulled his lips away, she released a satisfied breath. "I think you love me," she declared.

  A slow smile spread over his previously grim face. "Do you, now?"

  She leaned against him, her own smile wide enough to hurt. "Uh huh. Are you happy with me?" It still wasn't easy to ask such a presumptuous question, but she could. She felt inordinately proud of herself.

  He pressed a kiss against her forehead. "Incredibly happy."

  She placed a finger on his chin. A light layer of stubble scratched her. "I love you, too, you know." A rush of joy suffused her at being able to admit this. It was like riding a fast rollercoaster, a risk and a thrill.

  Zane's eyes warmed. "That's nice to know."

  She smoothed her palm against his cheek. "I thought you'd like it." Later she'd tell him what a hero he'd been. She'd gush mightily over his quick thinking and brave acts. She had a pretty good idea he'd like that too. But first... "Take me somewhere," she demanded.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Where do you want to go?"

  Pattie smiled. "Home."

  He seemed to hold his breath.

  "Specifically, geographically, for tonight," she explained, "your place."

  Judging by the heat that rose in Zane's eyes, she'd guessed his preference correctly.

  "Incidentally, your place is where Tristan is," Pattie went on. "Or at least where we can pick him up in the morning."

  "Right." Zane's smile was distinctly sexual. "No sense waking up the kid in the middle of the night just to bring him back to your apartment."

  "No sense at all." The look in his eyes created a disproportionate effect on Pattie's knees. It had been a long while since she'd enjoyed Zane's company in bed. Meanwhile, through the window of the lobby behind Zane she could see a pair of headlights approach. It was the only car she'd seen at this hour of the night. Which reminded her...

  "There's only one problem." She sighed with equal parts desire and frustration. "We have no way to get to this lovely paradise of yours." Outside, the headlights slowed to a stop.

  Zane chuckled. "I thought you'd learned to trust me."

  Pattie's eyebrows shot up. "You have a way to get home?"

  Zane was smiling with such supreme satisfaction, Pattie would have felt annoyed if she didn't love him so much—and want to get home with him almost as badly. "I strongly suspect that car belongs to my brother-in-law, Jim. I told Cassie to send him."

  Pattie laughed. "Poor Cassie. Your sister has been kept mighty busy tonight."

  Zane's smile twitched. "Payback for a busybody."

  Pattie would have liked him to explain this mysterious statement, but Zane kissed her again, a real humdinger of a kiss, delivering a message that went far beyond sweet tenderness. With his lips on hers, Pattie felt herself spinning into a warm maelstrom of urgency. She had no idea how long she swirled down that whirlpool before the sound of Jim loudly clearing his throat finally had Zane raising his head.

  Jim wore a grin that went from ear to ear. "You can tell me the whole story later. For right
now, I can see you two need a room."

  EPILOGUE

  "Oh, look. There's an article about the trial in this morning's paper." Sitting in the breakfast nook of their new house in Santa Monica, Pattie lifted the city section of the newspaper and gave it a shake. "You want to hear?"

  Zane stood by the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee. "Sure, go ahead." Of course, they both already knew the result of the trial, having attended the reading of the verdict in court the day before.

  Giving the paper another shake to straighten it, Pattie read, "'Following a five-week trial, Bree McGovern, once editor of the Hollywood Rattler, was convicted of the murder of Savannah Bowen, publisher of the newspaper and a former movie actress. McGovern claimed she did not attend the party where Bowen ingested a fatal overdose of morphine, but numerous witnesses placed her at the scene and a toxicology analysis of McGovern's apartment and car showed significant traces of morphine.

  "'Members of the jury said the critical evidence, however, was provided by Norman Debbert, fan of the late Savannah Bowen, who produced an ornamental locket Bowen used for her migraine medication. The locket was found to contain further traces of morphine and also McGovern's fingerprints. Debbert found the locket stored in the back of the newspaper's West Hollywood office.'"

  "Poor Norman." Zane sighed. "He finally found his locket, but it got confiscated as evidence."

  "Norman was okay with it, as long as it convicted Savannah's killer." Pattie set down the newspaper. "To think Bree had that locket of Savannah's the whole time. No wonder she got wigged out when Norman started hounding her about it."

  Zane glided toward the table. "Norman's looking good."

  Pattie glanced at the photo in the paper, which showed a triumphant Norman walking out of the courtroom, stylishly clad in suit and tie. "Once he went back on his bipolar medication he straightened right up."

  Zane shifted the newspaper to regard the photo more closely. "I'm impressed he managed to get a grant from that philanthropic foundation—what was it called?—to run the Hollywood Rattler."