Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2)

by Vaughan, Susan

  “He got away. Came in the alley door. Broke the lock,” he said. “Did you see him?”

  “It was too dark.” Her forehead crimped as she closed the door behind him. “Thank God you came. I couldn’t cry out. You were the last person I called, so I pushed Redial.”

  “Smart move.”

  She clutched his arm and tugged him inside, into the light. “You’re bleeding.”

  He felt like he’d stuck his head in a drill press, but his vision was clear. “It’s not bad. A glancing blow. No concussion.”

  She slipped the dead bolt into place. Her warm-honey skin was ashen. Her shoulders trembled. Crimson smeared her throat and stained her shirt and sweater.

  His stomach clenched at the thought of what might’ve happened if he hadn’t gotten here in time. He shouldn’t have involved her. His pressure on her led the scumsucker right to her. “Damn, he cut you. You’re bleeding too.”

  “He had a knife. He—” She touched a finger to her throat. Losing more color in her face, she crumpled.

  Cort curved his arm around her waist to support her. She was slim, with soft curves, and her hair smelled like a summer rain. Awareness surged into him.

  Bad timing.

  His gaze took in the apartment—living room with lights blazing, bar to a kitchen, hallway that must lead to the bathroom and bedroom. “It doesn’t look deep but we have to stop the bleeding. Bathroom back this way?”

  She nodded. “Past the kitchen. I don’t mean to go all woozy on you. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

  “You’re in shock. No surprise.” He guided her into a bathroom the size of a cupboard. He made her sit on the commode lid.

  “And you’re all right? With a head blow?”

  He smiled at her spunky retort. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Hard head.”

  “Runs in the family.” He handed her a washcloth from the towel rack. She pressed it against the cut while he rummaged in the medicine chest for bandages and antiseptic.

  She looked so fragile sitting there, trembling, leaning against the sink in her bloody blouse. He wanted to carry her away and keep her safe from muggers.

  Even if he could, this intruder was no garden-variety city mugger. That was for damn sure. “Did you recognize the guy? Has he bothered you before about the ring?”

  “The first I heard about the ring was from you tonight and I never got a look at the mugger. All I can tell you was he was big.” She eyed him up and down. “Bigger than you. And so strong I could barely move. I couldn’t breathe when he mashed me against the door.”

  If he’d walked her to her apartment door, he could’ve prevented her injury. He shouldn’t have involved her but what other choice did he have? And now it was too late. “He was smart, cutting the light, keeping you from seeing him. Don’t think about him now. Try to relax while I clean your wound.”

  He tore off his sopping windbreaker and tossed it into the bathtub. Most women would yell at him for dripping all over her carpet, but her first concern was for his noggin. For a man she didn’t trust and didn’t like. Yet she’d called on him for help.

  After running warm water in the sink, he wet a clean washcloth. He wrung it out and turned carefully, too aware of the intimacy in the tiny bathroom. Scents of feminine soap and shampoo surrounded him, the source of her summer-wildflower scent. Mara sat inches away, beautiful and pale and shivering. He swallowed.

  She looked shaky and her eyes were unfocused. He had no choice. He bent toward her with the wet washcloth.

  “I can stand.” She shrugged out of her sweater. Holding onto the sink for support, she levered to her feet. Tugging down the shirt collar to give him access to her cut, she tipped up her chin. “I’m afraid to look. How bad is it?”

  He stood close enough to her to dance cheek to cheek, close enough to inhale her fragrance. Close enough to see the tiny mole beside her nose.

  Too close for comfort. His comfort.

  His pulse raced and his body thrummed with heat. She seemed perfectly at ease baring her soft skin for him.

  He patted her throat where the blood was drying. Good, his hand was steady. “Bleeding’s stopped. A small puncture wound. You won’t need stitches.”

  “Great. I hate doctors. Hospitals are where people go to die.”

  Like her father. Guilt twisted through him and tightened his mouth. He would help her prove her father innocent if he could. If any of what he wanted to do was possible.

  He cleaned her wound and dabbed on antiseptic ointment. Beneath the shampoo scent was another, more subtle, the female sweetness of her skin. He finished the doctoring with a gauze pad and tape. Done. He couldn’t take much more.

  “That’ll do it,” he said, stepping back the inch the linen cabinet would allow.

  She tilted her head this way and that, inspecting his handiwork in the mirror. When she turned to him, her wide smile lit him inside.

  “Thank you. Now it’s your turn. Have a seat.” She indicated the throne she’d recently vacated and offered him a hand towel. “Dry your hair and I’ll have a look at that bump.”

  He didn’t need nursing, but he couldn’t bring himself to refuse her touch.

  Switching positions meant doing a little close dancing, his hands on her shoulders. Her breasts brushed against his ribs. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades.

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders. Some chicks got a kinky thrill from hooking up with an ex-con, but not a classy female like her. She wasn’t even looking him in the eye. He sat down heavily and rubbed the towel over his hair. He determined to ignore the feel of her gentle fingers on his scalp. Maybe now his head would clear.

  Mara watched him towel his hair and saw the pain in his eyes. He’d taken care of her while his head was pounding. She handed him a paper cup and a bottle of ibuprofen. “You should take a couple of these. No, three.”

  A protest appeared to form on his lips but then he caved and accepted the pills in his palm. He was so big, so potent, so very male, smelling of dampness and fresh-cut wood. She took care not to touch him. But of course she’d have to so she could clean his wound. She busied herself with rinsing the bloody washcloths and running clean water. Her pulse drummed in her ears.

  She considered her bathroom cramped, not intimate. Until now. He wasn’t hovering over her, but he filled the room anyway. She felt his gaze as she tried to calm her breathing.

  Yes, he’d rescued her, maybe saved her life, but she couldn’t forget who he was. He’d served his time, and his record seemed clean, but she couldn’t ignore what her dad had always said. On the surface, what they wanted seemed the same, but it wasn’t. As long as he found the rings, he wouldn’t care who had them. Why should Cort care what she wanted, clearing her father’s name and helping her mother?

  She turned to him with a clean, damp cloth. After the towel drying, his hair spiked up in all directions. Resisting the urge to finger-comb the thick, wavy strands, she dabbed at the growing lump above his left temple. “It’s only a small cut, more of a scrape, but you should put an ice pack on the swelling when I’m finished.”

  “What the hell did that guy hit me with?” Cort muttered. “A brick?”

  “Close.” Smiling, she pulled a curved red shard from his hair and handed it to him. “A clay plant pot. The leaves and dirt are all over the hall floor.”

  “Guess I should be glad I didn’t get a haircut.” He looked up at her sharply. “Cops’re taking a hell of a long time. I thought they’d be here by now.”

  She stepped back and wrung out the washcloth. She motioned to him to hold still while she smeared antiseptic on his cut. “I didn’t call them.”

  A long swallow as he processed what she said. Then finally: “Why not?”

  She draped his dripping jacket over the shower curtain and hustled from the bathroom. She had no choice but to explain—some—but she’d rather talk in the kitchen. “Didn’t you hear him on the phone?”

  “About the Jeweler’s
rings. I heard. So?”

  Temporizing, she searched the freezer compartment. “I have a gel ice pack in here. I use it sometimes after a hard tennis game.”

  She pulled the pack from behind the coffee beans, then grabbed that container too. When she turned around to hand the pack to Cort, she found him close behind her, his gray gaze intense and penetrating.

  She edged away and began measuring coffee beans into the grinder section of her coffeemaker, but her hands still shook. Did she really want caffeine after all? Too bad she had no brandy. Folding her arms, she turned to face him. Might as well jump in before she wimped out and changed her mind.

  He leaned a hip against the bar and held the frozen gel gingerly against his head.

  When he winced, she caught a glimpse of the little boy he’d been. Tousled hair, skinned knees, freckles—

  She squashed the image. That boy grew up with a criminal for a father and became a criminal himself. Tough and hard. Never mind he was studly and sexy and he made her pulse race and all that crap.

  “Why not the cops?” he prodded.

  “Don’t you see? The mugger must be one of the two other accomplices. That means the rings exist. Your father didn’t make it up.”

  “So it seems. Too bad it took you getting cut and me whacked on the head to convince us. But this attack gives me enough to grab the FBI’s interest.”

  Her pulse skipped, and she almost reached for his arm before she hugged herself. “No, no, please. No FBI. Not until you have real proof. I don’t trust them. It was the FBI and the insurance company that persecuted Dad until his heart couldn’t take the pressure.”

  He looked skeptical. “The FBI might catch on. They think I kept quiet because I want the loot. Secrecy will convince them of that for sure. I won’t go back to prison.”

  The ferocity in his last statement startled her. But did he want the jewels? Even if he did, she couldn’t let that stop her. “You and I heard what the intruder said. No one else. Unless your cell phone recorded his voice, no proof exists about anything except that one ring section. The police would say the attacker could be a regular mugger after money or drugs.”

  “I hate to admit it. You’re right. Hell, I’m no detective.” He drove the fingers of his free hand through his hair, then winced.

  “But I am.” When his brows shot up at her admittedly absurd statement, she said, “Well, I do research but I have access to most of the company’s databases. Once we have the names, I can find them. My boss might even offer his cooperation.”

  “You said we. Does that mean you intend to help?”

  She touched a trembling finger to her bandage. Her stomach flip-flopped. She couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “I do want to clear my father’s name. And I can’t thank you enough for tonight. You may have saved my life. I owe you.”

  “I’ve rescued you twice. Hope it doesn’t become a habit.” A grin flashed, sexy and brilliant, then faded just as fast, humor replaced by suspicion. “So I can see the files?”

  “I’ll work with you. I’ll let you see Dad’s files. On one condition.”

  “No FBI.”

  “See, your head’s better already.” She smiled, mental fingers crossed that he’d not change his mind.

  “Yeah, better. Thanks.” He laid the ice pack on the counter. “So when do I get a gander at the files?”

  “They’re in the basement of my sister’s house. I’ll get them tomorrow.”

  “No. We can get them tomorrow.” His tone of voice and the set of his jaw brooked no argument. “I’ll come back in the morning.” He headed for the living room.

  With a start, Mara realized he was leaving. With Cort here, she felt safe. Strange but there it was. Now she’d be alone.

  She followed him. If the intruder came back, her double locks might not be enough to keep him out. A spasm tightened her throat.

  “Wait. Your jacket.” How needy did she sound? Her friend Sandi would tell her to grow a spine.

  He shrugged. “It’s too wet to do me any good. I’ll get it tomorrow.” Finger on the door handle, he turned. “The alley door is useless as security.”

  “I’ll call the landlord. He’s usually quick with repairs. He has certain companies he uses.” Now she was babbling. Shut up, Mara.

  “That won’t help you tonight. Be sure to lock up.”

  She twisted her hands in front of her. “Yes, fine.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze every bit as penetrating and mind-reading as her boss’s. Maybe more. “You don’t look fine. You’re still shaky. Will you be all right?”

  Mara hesitated. Before she could fold and ask him to stay, she forced herself to shrug. “Absolutely. Double locks. I have that dead bolt.” Mr. Devlin would fire her if he knew she didn’t have a security system in place. With all the computer gear and electronic gadgets she had? Geesh. She’d take care of it ASAP.

  His brow furrowed. Eyeing the sofa, he said, “I could crash there.”

  “Wait. You? Stay here? No, out of the question. I’ll be okay.” She stepped forward to herd him closer to the door but he stood his ground.

  “I’m too tired to be a threat. Left Maine at two this morning. Drove through. I can probably find a hotel. But I don’t feel right leaving you. That guy might return.”

  Which was riskier, having this ex-con sleeping on her sofa or lying awake all night listening for the mugger trying to break in? Either way, she wouldn’t sleep.

  Her breath hitched. “My sofa folds out into a bed. You might as well stay.”

  He reached up to rub the lump on the side of his head. “I must’ve been hit harder than I thought. Did the woman who doesn’t trust me just invite me to stay here?”

  “Yield to the inevitable is more like it.” She marched to the hall closet and returned with a pillow and blanket. Sounding resentful was a tough order when relief was her primary reaction. That and a hefty dollop of anxiety. She couldn’t let his protective attitude get to her. He was a dangerous man and she couldn’t forget that. “And don’t think for a minute I trust you.”

  But who was she trying to convince?

  Chapter 5

  Late Saturday morning, Cort steered his Silverado into Mara’s sister’s neighborhood in Dundalk, a suburb of Baltimore.

  He’d spent the night on the sofa-bed trying to adjust his knees and hips so he wouldn’t sink into the mattress fold’s permanent dent. In the morning, he hoofed it to the parking garage to retrieve his truck and his overnight bag. On the way back, he picked up pastries and coffee for them both at one of the Starbucks he passed. Popular place. Two taxis were parked outside while the cabbies ordered their morning joe. Joe for him, too. Colombian, black, and something for her called a venti non-fat, no-whip, no-foam mocha. Fancy name for caffeinated hot chocolate, if you asked him. But it suited her somehow.

  By the time the two of them came out to head to Dundalk, a locksmith was hard at work installing a new lock on the alley door. Impressive results, Cort said, especially on a weekend. A good omen, Mara had said. The woman was way too optimistic. He didn’t believe in omens. He didn’t believe in much.

  Mature maples and oaks lined Dundalk’s street and yards. The rain had moved on. Moisture on the trees’ new leaves glistened in bright sunshine. Late April in Maine, trees were barely budding. 1950’s-era frame and brick houses in the lower middle-class neighborhood, not upscale. Plumbers, shop owners, teachers. Factory workers, if any factories remained. Not unlike the Springfield, Massachusetts, neighborhood he’d lived in with his mom. Leon offered the dough but she wouldn’t let him pay for anything upscale.

  “That house on the left,” Mara said, pointing to a brick ranch-style. “I grew up there. Mom grew flowers and vegetables in raised beds in the backyard. She loved working in the dirt. She lives with her sister in San Francisco now. My aunt’s row house has only a paved patio.”

  He couldn’t promise her that would change so he said nothing as he pulled into the blacktopped drive an
d stopped behind the Subaru sedan in the carport. “You going to be okay with this? You said your sister didn’t sound happy.”

  Mara hoisted a shoulder in a gesture of nonchalance that didn’t fit the tight set of her mouth. “These days Cassie never sounds happy.” On that enigmatic note, she opened the passenger door and slid out of the truck.

  He hoped to hell he didn’t end up in the middle of some family squabble. All he wanted was the files so they could get back to D.C. “Don’t tell her about the rings.”

  “I already told her on the phone.” She gaped at him. “You don’t trust my sister?”

  “The fewer people who know about the rings, the safer we all are.” And no, he didn’t trust her sister. He couldn’t.

  “Come in the side door,” a raspy feminine voice called. He hadn’t noticed anybody seated in the breezeway.

  Mara replied with a casual wave. “This way,” she said to Cort. They headed through the carport past gardening tools and a watering can.

  The aromas of coffee and cigarette smoke enveloped him as he entered the screened-in space. Her sister lounged in an Adirondack chair, a ceramic mug in one hand and a freshly lit cig in the other. The ashtray beside her held three butts.

  With similar features and hair color, the two women were clearly sisters. Cassie was a few years older and a few pounds heavier, same glossy hair but hers was cut chin length. The style gave her a harder look. Her dark eyes held more bitterness than distrust as she openly appraised him.

  Mara made the introductions, and he muttered a greeting.

  Cassie merely nodded. “I made coffee. Help yourselves. It’s in the kitchen.”

  “Where’s Livvie?” Mara asked, looking toward the open kitchen door.

  “At her dad’s for the weekend.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette.

  “Mom would have ten fits if she knew you were puffing away again.” Mara fanned blue fumes away from her face.

  “I don’t smoke in the house.” She inhaled and blew smoke. “Or around Livvie.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant. What is this, a thirty-something version of teenage rebellion?”