by Vella Day
“It’s not that big of a deal, but I have another decorating job.” When she told him the name of her client, she had a feeling he’d be unhappy, given the man’s connection to Harmon’s former firm, but she wanted to share everything with him.
“That’s fantastic. Was it a referral from Mrs. Goddard?”
“It was.” She loved that he acted so pleased. “His name is Mr. Samuels. He knows Mrs. Goddard because he worked for her husband.”
His lips thinned. “Really? Did you know this before you took the job?” His words came out tight, though he didn’t seem angry.
“No. It wasn’t until I was in the middle of the job that he mentioned his connection to Ardton Investments. He asked about some of the books and papers Mr. Goddard had in his office and wanted to know if I’d tossed them.”
Trent fiddled with his napkin, looking as if he was trying to figure out what to say. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him the file cabinets were already empty and to ask Mrs. Goddard what she might have done with the contents.”
His fingers relaxed and he let go of the knife he was holding. Her answer must have pleased him. “Was he nice?” he asked.
That was an odd question, and since Mr. Samuels still worked at the firm, she bet Trent had interviewed him. “What was your take on him?”
“I asked you first.” His tone sharpened, and she imagined this was how he sounded when he interrogated a witness.
Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood to play around. “He was very easy-going. As soon as I walked into his living room, it was clear that he needed a decorating intervention as nothing in his house matched. He asked me to redo his master bedroom, and I could see why. It was a nearly empty shell of a room with no personality. If he ever brought a woman there, she’d run.”
His shoulders sagged. “I’m glad to hear it, but you know what I’m going to ask of you next.”
He sounded too much like her dad. “Yes. Keep my eyes open for anything strange and be careful.”
“So he’s divorced?”
“Yes.” Most likely Trent knew that.
“He’s old enough to be your father, you know.”
His implication shocked her. “Are you kidding me? He’s a client.”
“Who conveniently has you redecorating his master bedroom and just might be looking for the next Mrs. Samuels.” His jaw was so tight she feared it might break.
A bit of anger speared her, but then humor edged its way in. “Trent Lawson, I’m ashamed of you. Trust me when I say I only have eyes for you.” She probably should have kept her intense interest to herself, but Trent had to know how much she liked him. The tension on his face evaporated, but she couldn’t judge his level of relief.
“I’ve met John Samuels and he’s a good-looking man.”
All she could do was shake her head. “So are you. Remember, I’m a professional. Now can we talk about something else?” Here she thought he’d say the man might have been involved with Mr. Goddard’s murder, and all Trent was worried about was a man nearly her dad’s age putting the moves on her.
Before he could answer, the waiter came by with the champagne and two glasses. He poured their drinks then slid the bottle into a bucket of ice. As soon as their server left, Trent lifted his glass and she followed suit.
“Here’s to a successful opening of your store and to many more clients to come,” he said as he tapped his glass to hers. All remnants of the Mr. Samuels’ conversation seemed to have been forgotten, pleasing her to no end.
“I’ll make a toast, too. May your case end soon.”
“Here, here.”
As she lifted the glass to her lips, the bubbles tickled Charlotte’s nose, and she giggled. While they’d eaten out together before, she considered this their first real date, and she wanted to enjoy it the best she could. “So tell me about your most exciting case.”
“I already did. The whole incident with your father and the terrorists was one that will forever be burned in my brain. We had to use every resource at our disposal to find out who was behind the potential attack, and we identified them with only a day to spare.”
She was pleased that her dad was involved in something that affected so many people. “Do you think you’ll always be a detective?”
His chin tucked in. “As opposed to what? A private investigator?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. You ever see yourself being in charge of an entire unit, like Dan Hartwick, or do you want to pound the pavement searching for clues?”
“The latter. I enjoy the mystery of it all. I inherited much of my drive from my dad, though I don’t aspire to be like him.”
That didn’t bode well for him wanting a family, but she wouldn’t be discouraged. The waiter stopped back and after they placed their order, Charlotte decided to relax and not dig too deep into Trent’s psyche. He’d already explained that his life growing up hadn’t been easy, so there was no use unearthing more pain. “What’s your fondest memory with your brother?”
“I can see this is twenty questions night.”
She laughed. “You afraid?”
“Hell no.”
She smiled. “You should be.”
He glanced at the ceiling and said nothing for a moment. “I think my favorite memory with my brother was when he taught me how to ride my bike. Harm was really patient and didn’t make fun when I kept falling off.”
Harm? Cute nickname. “I can remember when my dad helped me learn, too. He wasn’t home very often, but one time after he’d finished a job, he bought me a pink bicycle. He made me wear a helmet, which I didn’t like, but when I fell off, I was glad I had it. I remember thinking Dad was pretty smart.” She leaned back against the seat. “It was one of the happiest days of my life.”
Trent polished off his glass of champagne and poured a second one. “I’m pleased you had some nice memories of him.”
“Me, too, though I was angry with Dad after he left. I’d like to think I’ve grown up since then. I know Dad did what he thought was right, and I can appreciate that now. He says he regrets a lot of things in his life, and we’re working toward a better relationship.”
“I believe all relationships are a work in progress.” He tossed back his glass as if that was yet another touchy subject.
Not wanting the dinner to be a downer, she changed the topic to one dear to her heart—decorating. “If you could have your ideal home, what would it look like?”
His eyes widened. “I haven’t a clue. I’m never home long enough to worry about it. What I have now suits me fine, even if it is a bit bland.”
With the right decorations, his place could be cozy, even for two. Fortunately, the food arrived, giving her time to come up with another topic. “How often do you think I need to practice shooting in order to become proficient?” She figured he’d like to talk about weapons.
“I don’t see why you need to improve. It’s not like you’re a police officer or anything, but if you’re asking on a theoretical basis, I’d have to say about three times a week in the beginning.”
“Good to know.”
Besides impressing Trent, she wanted to be proficient mostly because she liked having the control and power.
They chatted a bit about Harmon, and then talked about a few of his other cases. About halfway through their meal, the rain came down in earnest, making their corner retreat all the cozier. Twenty minutes later, the storm passed, and the sky cleared.
Trent picked up the umbrella. “Told you this was my good luck charm. Are you ready?”
“Yes. There’s nothing worse than being cold and wet.” She was anxious to return home and finish some last minute preparations for her opening. For once, she wasn’t going to let her inner desires rule and ask Trent in.
He paid the check and escorted her outside. Just as they stepped into the alley he stopped. “Fuck.”
A lake had formed the length of the alley. “That’s not good.”
He handed her the umbrell
a. “No, it’s not. Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll head around back and pick you up in front. You’ll ruin your shoes if you walk in the water.”
She had dressed in her good boots, and they probably would be damaged. “What about you?”
He lifted his booted foot. “These have been through mud and rain and survived. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be back in a moment.”
With the umbrella in hand she headed back around the corner and leaned against the front wall. She had thoroughly enjoyed being with Trent tonight, and while the conversation had started out a bit uneasy, once they found a safe topic, an easy rhythm developed between them.
As she was thinking about how he’d ordered champagne, popping sounds floated toward her. At first, she thought she was imagining the opening of the bottle, but then the noise registered. They were gunshots reverberating down the alley, coming from the back, and every one of her senses shot to alert. All she could think of was that Trent had been shot.
Her muscles froze for a moment before she was able to move. Heart pounding, she dropped the umbrella, stuck her hand in her purse, and retrieved her gun. Not caring that she was about to ruin her shoes, she raced through the near lake-like alley, all the while keeping her eye out for on any movement coming from the parking lot area. Her throat nearly closed and a tight band squeezed her chest, making it hard to breathe. She prayed Trent would emerge from the back any second and say he’d shot some wild animal about to attack a small child. That was a stupid thought, but fear had blocked all logic.
As much as she wanted to call his name, keeping her presence hidden for as long as possible would be best for both of them.
She was about ten feet from the back parking lot when a large hooded figure charged around the corner. As he came toward her, she pressed her back against the wall, hoping the darkness would hide her from view, but the dim bulb on the wall across from her cast too much light. Indecision swamped her. Run or stay put? Her muscles screamed for her to run, but she’d never escape the large man.
He closed the gap between them and her stomach cramped. Her breath lodged in her throat as images from the last time she’d been shot at entered her brain—from the loud report to the shattered car window.
Then the scant light reflected off the gun in his hand. Oh, no.
Shoot him.
What if he hadn’t harmed Trent but was running from the person who had? He was wearing a ski mask, but it was cold, so it made some sense.
No sooner had she dismissed the thought of him being evil, than he was upon her. Before she could move out of his way, he slammed an elbow into her face and an ache the size of the lake exploded. The force caused her head to smash against the wall, adding a wrenching pain to vibrate through her. Shock took over as time stood still. Having no say in how her body reacted, she slowly slid to the ground, losing her focus.
Shoot him. This man is evil.
As if on autopilot, she lifted the gun, and pulled the trigger just like Trent had shown her. Before Charlotte could see if she’d hit her target, she blacked out.
Chapter Twenty-One
Just as Trent kicked the dirt from the heel of his boot on the rocker panel of his Jeep, he spotted something in his peripheral vision. His first thought was that Charlotte had followed him down the alley since it was something she would do. As he turned to check who or what it was, all he noticed was the barrel of a gun pointing straight at him, and his cop instincts clicked in. He reached across his body for his weapon, only to realize he wasn’t carrying. Shit.
Trent ducked a split second before a bullet skidded across the top of his Jeep, whizzing and pinging over his head. The shot that followed failed to do any personal damage, but adrenaline still rushed through him. He dove into the car and reached across to his glove compartment. He wrenched it open, withdrew his spare, and clicked off the safety.
Footsteps sounded across the lot, and Trent slid back out of the car, keeping just below the window. As the man headed away from him and toward the alley, all Trent could think of was that the shooter was running toward the front where Charlotte was standing, and fear jacked up his heartbeat. Acting on instinct, Trent took aim and fired, but when the man didn’t falter, he figured he’d missed. Damn.
The assailant then disappeared around the corner. Faster than Trent had ever moved before, he sprinted after the man, his gun aimed at the retreating figure’s back. As he chased him down the water-filled alley, Trent was so focused on catching the shooter that he barely caught sight of the darkened lump near the ground. Had it not been for the moan, he might never have looked down.
It was a person, and Trent’s mind fractured. He tried to watch which way the man turned when he reached the street, and at the same time check on the injured person. As he stepped toward the prone figure, the light from the wall shown on her face, and all thoughts of capturing his attacker flew out of his mind.
It was Charlotte. Trent dropped to his knees and the cold water seeped up his leg, but he barely noticed the discomfort. “Charlotte?”
Not knowing if she was seriously injured, he didn’t want to move her, yet he couldn’t leave her for long sitting in the cold.
She lifted a hand and placed it on her bloody cheek then scooted back toward the wall. “Don’t hurt me.”
Fuck. “Charlotte, it’s me, Trent. Are you okay?” That was a stupid question as clearly she wasn’t. Only then did he recall hearing another gunshot after the man sped down the alley. “Are you shot?”
His throat nearly clogged awaiting her answer. Even after he’d been hit in the leg chasing the terrorists, he hadn’t been this scared.
“Trent?” Thank God his presence registered. Her voice sounded a lot stronger, and she wasn’t crying in pain, which gave him hope.
Trent wanted nothing more than to hold her, but he needed to be cautious. “Yes, it’s me. Can I help you up?”
“You’re okay! I heard shots.” Her voice sounded far away.
“I’m fine. What about you?”
“He hit me.” She nearly choked out the words.
Heavy dread instantly filled him. “Where are you hurt?” Trent pulled out his phone and called 911. She clearly needed help regardless of the extent of her injuries.
“In the face.”
She had a small cut on her cheek, but from the size, it didn’t come from a bullet. The dispatcher answered and asked him the nature of the emergency. Trent relayed his location and that a woman had been injured, possibly shot. They assured him they’d be there as quickly as they could.
Keeping an eye on the alley, he blocked Charlotte’s body from view. Who the fuck was trying to kill him? He wanted to question Charlotte why she was even in the alley, but now wasn’t the time. He had to make certain she remained safe until help arrived.
When she pressed her hands against the wall and tried to stand, Trent rushed to her side. With one arm around her waist, he slowly lifted her up and then gathered her against his chest. “Where are you hurt?
She rubbed the back of her head. “I heard the shots and I ran down the alley. This man in a ski mask charged me.”
Her evasive answer worried him. “Charlotte. Look at me.” She turned her head to face him and winced. “Where exactly are you hurt?” he asked for the third time, but damn it, he needed to know.
“I told you. He smashed my face with his elbow and then I hit my head against the wall.”
No, she hadn’t said that. “Tell me what happened.” Reconstructing the order of events might take her mind off her injuries.
“After I hit the wall, my vision blurred and my knees just crumbled. As I was slowly falling, I got off a shot, but I don’t think I hit him.”
A kaleidoscope of emotions spun through him, one of which was anger, but he tamped that down. “I heard that shot.” He was relieved Charlotte had been the aggressor and not the other way around. “Did you black out?”
“I think so. Yeah.”
Damn. That meant she had a concussion. “The amb
ulance should be here soon.” No sooner had he said the words than a siren sounded. Trent gently lifted her into his arms and sloshed through the water toward the front. Lights glared down the alley as the vehicle turned in, forcing Trent to move to the side.
“I can stand,” she said.
Even with a concussion, Charlotte was Miss Independent. “I know you can, but I like holding you.”
The ambulance stopped twenty feet in front of them, and then the passenger side whipped open along with the back door. A minute later, two paramedics came toward them pushing a gurney. As they neared, the light from the building shone on Stone Benson’s face, but Trent couldn’t identify the other man.
“Trent,” Stone said. “Want to tell me what happened?”
Trent placed Charlotte on the gurney.
She lifted her forearm. “He wasn’t there. I was.” She gave a brief description of the man hitting her. Clearly, Charlotte Hart was a force to be reckoned with.
After she told him what she remembered, Trent stepped back to let the two experts do their job. As they moved their hands up and down her body, they asked her a series of questions about her injuries. They then rolled her to the ambulance.
Once she was securely inside, Stone faced him. “We’ll have the doctors check her out. She has a concussion and possibly a broken cheek.”
His heart tripped. “I’ll follow you to the hospital,” Trent said.
Stone placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “She’ll be okay.”
He could only hope.
The drive to the hospital seemed to take forever. Trent kept replaying the series of events, trying to decide where things had gone wrong. He’d told Charlotte to stay put, and yet she hadn’t listened, and that worried him. His ego should be boosted that she was willing to charge into the unknown to save him, but sometimes she just didn’t think. He was the cop, damn it, not her.
Aw hell, it wasn’t really her fault. If he hadn’t asked her to dinner in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. This incident only confirmed that her being with him could put her in danger at any time.
