Guarding Laura

by Susan Vaughan

  Gingerly, she pulled herself up on the railing. It fell away and clattered to the floor. Sensing the presence of something overhead, she reached up. When her fingers brushed dangling wires, an eerie twang echoed through the darkness.

  So that was it. The piano had wedged itself upside down at an angle—effectively blocking the stairwell.

  Shoving her down the steep stairs and crushing her beneath the piano, as heavy as a sarcophagus, had been her attacker’s intent. He would have succeeded except for the stairwell’s narrowness.

  Horror clawed through her as acid-tasting nausea swam in her throat. She bent over to clear her head, bracing her hands on her aching knees. Pain throbbed in her right knee. It would quickly incapacitate her.

  She could be trapped in the basement. A new rush of panic sent her heart racing.

  Holding her breath, she listened for noises above her. Nothing. Not even the groan of a board. Did he leave, believing her to be dead?

  Doubtful. A professional would want to make sure. Damn you, Alexei Markos!

  Her best chance was to escape through the lobby. Feeling her way, she proceeded down the hall. Ironic that the area Cole had warned her to avoid alone would be her escape route.

  When only moments later, she bumped into the lobby exit, Laura stopped for a breath and to listen again.

  A creaking. Someone stepping on a squeaky board or just the sounds of an old building settling? Was he listening, too?

  Maybe he’d left through the stage door. He might not know about the lower-level egress to the lobby. If he waited outside, she hadn’t a chance with her battered knee, puffy and swelling painfully in the tight denim.

  She couldn’t run across the open parking lot or through the woods. She couldn’t move fast at all. Unless…

  A millimeter at a time, she opened the door. No one.

  Biting her lip, Laura stepped out and approached the Harley, dozing on its kickstand in the exit light’s red glow. She groped beneath a leather flap on the seat padding. If Cole hadn’t changed his habits, she had a chance.

  She whispered, “Easy, boy. Are you like the cowboy’s loyal horse that won’t let anyone else ride him? Your owner won’t mind, I promise.”

  Stomach clenched with anxiety but heart triumphant when she felt what she’d searched for, she extracted the key. Quietly, delicately, she loosened the catches on the double doors so all she had to do was push her way through.

  After releasing the kickstand, she straddled the bike. At least it wasn’t as monstrous as his old one.

  If she could only remember how to drive the thing.

  Feet pounded across the stage. He’d heard her.

  Don’t listen, she told herself, her heart drumming and her fingers shaking. Think! Like an incantation, she began a recital of the basics.

  Gear shift on the left footrest.

  Front brake lever on the right handle.

  Clutch on the left.

  A thump told her he’d jumped from the stage.

  The bike had an ignition button. Thank God. Her increasing stiffness wouldn’t let her manage a kick-start.

  Praying that she’d remembered ten-year-old lessons and that the gas tank wasn’t empty, she turned the key and pressed the button.

  Charging footsteps up the aisle. Closer. He was nearly at the end of the aisle.

  As the engine rumbled to life, heavy feet reached the lobby doors behind her.

  Now or never. She let off the clutch and twisted the hand grip. With a wild whoop and an accelerating roar from the bike, Laura burst through the double doors. She rolled down the handicap ramp and sped into the moonlit night and freedom.

  Ah. She remembered why they called Harley-Davidson motorcycles rolling thunder.

  As Cole approached the cabin door, headlights and a distinctive engine roar emerged from the footpath. The light swerved like a drunken locomotive. He stepped behind the tree.

  The motorcyclist wobbled to a halt, doused the headlight and killed the engine.

  At the sight of the golden silk and the pale oval of her face, Cole’s jaw dropped. “What the hell?”

  “Thank God it’s you,” Laura said, her voice quavery with emotion. “How do you work this kickstand?”

  He toed the offending prop and helped her to dismount. When she weaved on unsteady legs, he grasped her arms to pull her close. He gently touched her bloodied cheek. “What—”

  “You can have your horse back now, cowboy. He saved my life.” And she crumpled in his arms.

  Cole scooped up her limp form and jogged to the cabin door. Cursing when he tried the door, he set her down and fished in his pocket for the key she’d given him.

  “Wait. I’ve got a key in my jeans,” she said, leaning weakly against the door frame.

  “Dammit, the one time we need to get inside fast. How bad did he hurt you?” He snatched the key with a trembling hand. Atavistic rage detonated a wildfire in him. He’d empty his 9mm into the bastard. Or rip his freaking head off.

  At last inside, he laid her on the bed and stripped off her jeans. Wincing as he examined her rapidly swelling knee, he said, in what he hoped was a calm tone, “Tell me about it, Laura. Just what were you doing out alone this time of night? And where the hell is Vanessa? Didn’t she—”

  Laura’s molten eyes snapped sparks at him. “Don’t you yell at— Ouch, my cheek!” She accepted the cool washcloth he handed her and dabbed it on the lacerated cheek. “Vanessa walked me home, as requested. She even checked the cabin. Then she left. For all she knew, I was tucked in safely for the night. Except for your note. That I quickly learned wasn’t your note.”

  “Laura!” he sputtered, in the tone that had once intimidated an entire Marine platoon.

  Closing her eyes, she lay back on the pillows.

  Knowing he’d have to wait until she had enough strength to talk, he fetched a plastic bag of ice cubes from the kitchen. He kept his hands gentle as he placed the makeshift ice pack on her knee and wrapped a towel around it.

  Damn! Why hadn’t he let the others roll up the bad guy? Then he wouldn’t have this grinding fear and guilt in his gut.

  Sitting on the bed beside her, he resisted the urge to skim his hand up her thigh to the wisp of purple visible below her sweatshirt. She needed TLC, not seduction.

  “Thank you.” She managed a lopsided smile as she began her story.

  Cole listened intently, his gaze on her wounded cheek, while she explained about a note. A note ostensibly from him. Cold fury clutched his heart and curled his hands into fists when she described the attack in the theater and her escape.

  “There’s the note, on the table where I left it.”

  Barely glancing at the printed words, he exploded with oaths that widened Laura’s exhaustion-smudged eyes. “I shouldn’t have gone! I should’ve let Byrne and Isaacs take care of that piece of crap. Janus has just been biding his time, waiting until I left you unprotected.” And he’d want to know why in hell Grant Snow never spotted the guy.

  She frowned. “It looks that way. But maybe I’m just delirious.” She rubbed one hand over her eyes. “Where did you go tonight? What happened?”

  He didn’t want her to worry about the boys’ involvement, but Zach would probably bring it up if he didn’t. “Zach and Butch wanted to help catch the guy who switched your boat.”

  Eyes widening, she sat up. “Those little boys. Oh, my God, what did they do? Are they all right?”

  He pressed her back into the pillows. Just the feel of her shoulders beneath his palms reassured him. “They’re fine. They did the right thing. Told me about a mysterious Mr. Blow-Dry. Said he was spying on you with binoculars.”

  “So you and the other men went to check him out. Judging from my misadventure tonight, Mr. Blow-Dry isn’t Janus. Or there are two killers after me.”

  “He’s not a killer. But he is our local burglar. His cabin had all sorts of toys he’d liberated. Including Zach’s camera. He’d used the binoculars to see who was away from their ca
bins. Byrne and I delivered him to the Alderport PD.”

  “But Zach and Butch are safe. They didn’t talk to him.”

  “No, Zach came to me, as he’d promised.”

  Her shoulders quaked with a shudder. “So how—”

  “No more discussion. You need rest, not conversation. Dr. Stratton insists.”

  She flopped back down, the touch of humor apparently convincing her. Trying not to irritate her injuries, he helped her don the baggy T-shirt and boxers she slept in. Not what he’d fantasized, but on her as sexy as a negligee.

  After locking up and dousing the lights, he stripped off his clothing and lay down beside her. He wasn’t returning to the lumpy couch, and she didn’t complain about his presence. Wouldn’t have done her any good.

  “Cole, hold me,” Laura said, scooting closer to him.

  It warmed him throughout that she wanted his comfort, but he feared hurting her. Sliding one arm around her shoulders, he gathered her close, carefully so he didn’t touch her wounded cheek or knee. Her delicate skin was cold, her body trembling. The aftermath of a terrible ordeal. Shock.

  If he ever got his hands on the son of a bitch—

  “One little question.”

  “All right.” In spite of the fear squeezing his chest and the anger at himself for leaving her, he couldn’t help smiling into her fragrant hair. The woman had incredible courage. She was weary and hurting, but still curious and fighting.

  “How did he know you were gone? I didn’t know until you called. And how did he know to disable the phone?”

  He kissed her temple. “Too many questions for someone as wasted as you. We’ll sort through it in the morning.”

  If he knew the answer to her questions, he could lay his hands on the killer. A killer close enough to know Cole had left that night. A killer who was getting closer to accomplishing his job.

  And there was one piece of news he’d keep to himself. Laura had been through enough. When Cole’s contact officer had finally called, he’d reported that they’d lost Markos again. The importer had vanished.

  When Cole awoke the next morning, Laura had already left the bed.

  How could she even think about going out alone after the beating last night? The woman didn’t know when to quit.

  He flung off the light blanket and was about to hit the floor when he heard water running in the bathroom. Swinging his legs back up, he lay on the pillows to wait for her.

  Last night had been so hectic and she too upset and shocked to think clearly. But today he’d have to do damage control. Explain more to her. And to Stan.

  He would let Stan think he’d driven the Harley out earlier and that kids had wrecked the old piano. Announcing this new attack on Laura would mean having to call in the cops for more than vandalism. He couldn’t risk exposing the ATSA team and blowing the trap, so they would keep mum. But it grated on him not to let Stan know the truth and not to hustle Laura somewhere safer.

  A moment later, Laura came out to stand in the bedroom doorway, wearing only her boxers and her bruises. Varying shades of purple blotched the golden tan of her silken-skinned thighs and calves. Daring but so vulnerable, too much so, she made him feel he needed a sword and shield to defend her.

  Heat pooled in his groin. Lust mingled with satisfaction that she’d had few lovers over the years. She’d confessed a deep freeze ever since their disastrous weekend. That he’d been the one to reawaken her passion fed his ego with triumphant possessiveness.

  The violet and purple on her legs, arms and back told the tale of her tumble down the stairs. She wasn’t flaunting herself, but neither was she hiding her near nakedness. She’d stopped concealing the scars on her neck, at least from him. Shell-pink nipples pouted at him, making his mouth water for a taste. A teasing smile tilting her full lips, she attempted a limping pirouette for him. Her full, high breasts swayed seductively with the movement.

  “I was checking out my war wounds. So what do you think?” she said. “Will these rainbow hues catch on fashion-wise?”

  “I hope not, babe.” Cole held out his arms, and she eased down with him on the rumpled sheets. Semiprone against the pillows, he helped her to lie half across him, one leg thrown over his and her head on his shoulder, her breasts pillowed against his side. “How do you feel?”

  Threading her index finger through his chest hair, she said, “Remember the Road Runner cartoon? Last night I felt like Wile E. Coyote, as though I’d been pounded with hammers, then flattened by a paving machine. I ache, but I’m reinflating.”

  He ran his palm over her sleek, silver-gold hair, sexy and disheveled from sleep. Smudges beneath her slumberous dark-syrup eyes spoke of her pain, but the gold flecks in them held a glint that had been missing last night. A tough cookie, she was more resilient than the cartoon coyote.

  “Tell me what you found out last night. I know you got up after you thought I was asleep.” Her fingers grew still on his skin, her gaze alight with intensity. Her hands were cool, but electric tingles spread from their touch.

  The new attack fired her anger like the boat sinking. She latched on to the hunt like a hound on a scent. In this case not a hunt for a fox, but a skunk.

  Hating this sordid business that threatened her, he gave a grunt of disgust. “Not much to tell. The phone cord wasn’t cut, just unplugged outside.”

  “And who did you call?”

  He grinned and smoothed a hand down the one shoulder with no bruises. She’d washed her face and smelled of soap and her apple lotion. In spite of her bruises, she felt supple and warm in his arms. Feeling her softness increased his hardness.

  “You don’t miss much, do you? I let the others know what happened. Mixed communications last night put Isaacs in Blow-Dry’s cabin standing guard until the local cops could take over instead of watching over you. Byrne was with me. Snow did his usual walk-around about nine-thirty and saw nobody.”

  “Interesting that Butch and Zach noticed this Mr. Blow-Dry and your men didn’t.”

  “Apparently our friendly neighborhood thief put on a good bird-watching act. Snow talked to the guy a few times and thought he was clean. He even threw off suspicion by reporting a portable CD-player missing.”

  “You weren’t too hard on Vanessa, I hope.”

  “Not me. When I told her, she nearly choked. She was ready to go out and hunt Janus then and there.”

  “She shouldn’t feel guilty. Everything seemed safe when she left.” She sat up, facing him, one leg bent beneath her, the other with the swollen knee stretched out before her.

  “I told her that. And I’ll give you a communicator with a panic button so you can reach me no matter what.” She should’ve been able to call for help. Hell, she wouldn’t have needed help if Isaacs had done his job or Ward had stayed. But Cole couldn’t blame the lapse on them. He was in charge. “In fact, two-way communicators for everyone are in order.”

  He wished Laura would throw something over herself. No, he didn’t. But she was too tempting, sitting there so open, her world-class legs within reach, her loose boxers giving him a peek at the thatch of golden curls.

  Did she have any idea what she did to him? She would soon because his reaction was becoming acutely visible. He reminded himself she was injured.

  Naked and on top of the covers, he had little means to hide his reaction to her. He raised one knee in partial concealment and tried to continue. “I saw young Burt Elwell—” he couldn’t help inflecting the name with disdain “—driving to Alderport for the fireworks.”

  Laura shrugged. “I doubt his involvement in this anyway. And we know he’s not the thief.” She tugged her hair behind her ears. The action lifted her breasts and drew his gaze.

  He nearly groaned. “Protecting the little twerp?”

  She batted her eyelashes at him. “Jealous, cowboy?”

  Jealous? If that was the name for this tangle of fury and fear and frustration wrenching his gut. Hell, yes, he was jealous, murderously so of any other man who’d e
ver touched her. He felt like breaking faces.

  Straining for control, he schooled his features into detachment. “You do remember that someone—Markos’s hit man—has tried to kill you? More than once? And he’ll try again?”

  “Right. But it’s not Burt.”

  He plucked up her hand from the bed and brought it to his lips. Her fingers were slender, soft and delicate. Even the tennis calluses felt feminine. “Maybe now you’ll let me take you to a safe house. We still have nothing concrete to ID this damned killer, and I want you to have more protection.”

  She shook her head vehemently, flinging a golden curtain around her head. “That piano almost made dust out of me. Part of the cellar floor, anyway. No, I won’t go to a safe house. I’m making my stand here.”

  Arms folded to plump her breasts, she appeared ready to duke it out if he disagreed. She’d win because he couldn’t take his eyes off her body.

  His fingers kneaded the sheets instead of reaching for her. “Providing you can still stand.”

  “I’m better now. See, the swelling’s down on my knee.”

  He nodded, dragging his gaze down her slim, athletic torso, along her tender thigh, to the still puffy knee. “The ice packs helped.”

  “Cole, I know what would make me feel even better.” Her throaty voice dropped to a heated honey-dripping tone that set his heart to whacking his ribs. She bent closer so that the hard peaks of her nipples tickled the sensitive skin on his torso. When her pink tongue moistened the hollow at the base of his throat, he shuddered.

  Her tantalizing caresses were stiffening him like the wrought-iron bedposts, but sex might chafe her injuries. He could wait. He wasn’t some horny kid. Or maybe he was.

  A groan escaped his lips. “Another ice pack?”

  She chuckled, a husky sound that doubled his aching need to nearly bursting. “No, but ice might decrease a certain other swelling. Interesting—that swelling looks hard, not puffy like my knee….”