Imminent Danger

by Carla Cassidy

  Leaning her head beneath the brunt of the spray, she allowed shampoo and thoughts of blindness to drain away. Instead, her mind replayed that moment when her hands had touched Jesse’s chest.

  Heat rushed through her at the memory.

  She wished she’d had an hour to explore the muscled contours and smooth skin, wished her fingers could have taken the time to give her the mental picture that her eyes couldn’t provide.

  Shutting off the water, she pulled the shower curtain open and reached for the towel near the sink, her mind still filled with thoughts of Jesse.

  She pulled her robe back on and left the bathroom. In her room, she quickly dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

  As she brushed her hair, she recognized her vulnerability with Jesse. It would be easy to fall into some sort of demented romantic fantasy where he was concerned. He was her protector, her single contact with the world at large. Where Keller had been cold and impersonal, Jesse exuded a warmth that was appealing.

  However, she couldn’t forget that, to him, she was an assignment. Nothing more. Nothing less. Besides, she thought with a touch of bitterness, what man in his right mind would want to saddle himself with a helpless blind woman? A blind woman who several Templeton cops would love to see dead.

  All the lessons her mother had taught her about independence and self-reliance replayed in her mind—needing a man was a weakness not to be tolerated. She’d lectured over and over again that ultimately a woman could only depend on herself for survival, and depending on a man for anything was the work of a fool.

  Allison ran a hand over her hair, feeling for errant strands. Satisfied that she looked presentable, she left the bedroom, deciding that she’d indulged herself in deep thought for entirely too long, especially considering the fact that she had yet to have a cup of coffee.

  As she entered the kitchen, she drew in a deep breath of the luscious scents that permeated the room. The fragrance of fresh brewed coffee battled with browning sausage and onion. “Something smells wonderful,” she said as she eased into the same chair she’d sat in the night before.

  “I love breakfast. Coffee?” Jesse’s voice came from someplace to the right of her.

  “Please.”

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “No, just black.” She heard the sound of a cup being set in front of her. “Thanks.” She reached out with both hands and wrapped her fingers around a sturdy ceramic mug.

  “The omelets will be ready in just a few minutes,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a baby.” She took a sip of her coffee. “How about you?”

  “I almost always sleep like a baby.”

  She took another drink of her coffee, enjoying the warmth of the sun at her back. “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is. How—how did you know?”

  She smiled as she heard the surprise in his voice. “Don’t worry, I’m not a psychic. There must be a large window near my bed. I could feel the sun shining on me this morning.”

  “It’s a typical gorgeous Mustang day,” he said, and set a plate in front of her.

  She waited until she heard his chair scoot across the tile and knew he was seated across from her at the table. “A typical gorgeous Mustang day,” she repeated with amusement. “You make Mustang sound like Camelot.” She picked up her fork and attempted to cut off a mouthful of the omelet.

  “It’s as close to Camelot as you can get,” he replied. Again an easy amusement lightened his voice, an amusement that was wonderfully attractive. “It only rains after sundown and July and August may not get too hot.”

  Allison laughed in delight. “You know the song,” she said. Who would have thought a sheriff from Montana would know the title song of a Broadway show?

  “My senior year in high school, the drama department put on Camelot. In order to graduate, all seniors had to work on the production in some capacity or another.” He paused a moment, then continued. “I made my debut as a thespian in Camelot.”

  “Really? What role did you play? King Arthur? Lancelot?”

  He laughed. “Nothing quite so illustrious. I was one of the knights of the Round Table who didn’t have a single line of dialogue. I just wore cardboard armor and looked pure and knightly.”

  “It must have been fun,” she said, wistful at the thought of all the high school experiences she’d missed out on. “Our school did plays, but I never got to participate.”

  “Why?”

  She paused a moment to take another bite of the omelet, her thoughts winging backward to her adolescence and teen years. “My sister and I were raised to believe that extracurricular activities were a waste of time. School was for an education to pursue whatever career would be our livelihood. Spare time was used for jobs to save money for college. There was no time for glee club, or football games, or dating or plays.”

  “Sounds pretty dismal,” he said, no censure or judgment in his voice.

  “It was,” she admitted. “Although I understand now what motivated my mother. She was twenty when my father walked out on her—on us. She had two babies less than a year apart in age and no education or job.”

  “Did you ever hear from your father again?” he asked.

  “No. I don’t even remember him. I was only a year old when he left.” She paused a moment to sip her coffee. “Anyway, Mother worked like a demon to support us. At the same time she went to college and got a degree in accounting. By the time Alicia and I were in high school, my mother had a very successful accounting business with four people working for her. But she never forgot those years of struggle, and she was determined we’d never have to go through similar experiences, that both of us would be able to survive without a man.”

  Allison released a slightly bitter laugh. “Thank goodness my mother isn’t alive to see me now. I’m not exactly excelling in the self-sufficiency department.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said, his voice gentle.

  She forced a smile. “You just don’t want to send me to my room for indulging in self-pity.”

  His hand touched hers. It was a light touch, yet held warmth and comfort. There had been little solace in her life for the past month. The hospital staff she’d come in contact with had been efficient, the few law-enforcement officers she’d spoken with had been impersonal and demanding.

  The comfort in Jesse’s touch broke through the self-control she’d fought so hard to maintain and tapped into the grief that had yet to be fully expressed. She grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly.

  “They killed her,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion that ripped at her heart. “They killed my sister and my brother-in-law. They shot them while I was hidden in the closet.”

  Tears burned at her eyes, choked in the back of her throat, but she swallowed against them as the horror of the trauma replayed itself in her mind. “I did nothing to help them. I stayed in the closet and watched John and Alicia die.”

  As she remembered the final gasp of Alicia’s life, recalled her sister’s blood on her face and her chest, she felt Jesse squeeze her hand more tightly.

  The warmth of his touch met up with the coldness of her grief, creating a tumultuous tornado of emotions she could no longer contain.

  Deep sobs tore through her as her heart constricted with a pain so great, she thought she might die from it. It was the grief of loss…and the guilt of survival.

  She had pushed her emotions aside for weeks, focusing on the loss of her sight rather than confront the overwhelming pain of the loss of her family. Now that pain riveted through her like a hot poker stabbing her heart, searing her soul.

  She was vaguely aware of Jesse removing his hand from hers. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was making a spectacle of herself and probably alienating Jesse, but she could no more stop the grief than she could go back and stop the bullets that had ripped her life apart.

  In his years as sheriff, Jesse had faced many things, i
ncluding drunk men with guns, a scared teenage bank robber and a vicious rabid dog, but nothing in his years of experience prepared him for dealing with her tears.

  Helplessly he watched her fall apart, aware that nothing he could say would possibly comfort or touch the deep anguish that obviously pummeled her. His heart ached for her.

  As Cecilia’s sobs grew deeper, more harsh, he stood. Not knowing if he was right or wrong, he touched her shoulder then pulled her out of her chair and into his arms.

  She came to him willingly, as if needing to be held. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hid her face in the center of his chest as she wept uncontrollably.

  Jesse rubbed a hand down her back and tried to ignore how sweet she smelled, the intimacy of her body pressed so tightly against his. “It’s all right. You’re safe now,” he whispered as he patted her back.

  Beneath the comforting press of her breasts against his chest, he could feel the beating of her heart. He continued to soothe her with soft words, at the same time patting her back in a rhythmic cadence that mirrored the pace of her heartbeats.

  Finally her sobs began to ease, but still she clung to him as if he were a lifeline in a sea of tears. Jesse felt her heartbeat slow, returning to a more normal pace. Her weeping halted altogether, but still she remained in the circle of his arms.

  She raised her head, as if to look at him. Her lashes were still damp, long dark spikes that emphasized the beauty of her eyes despite their slight redness. “Thank you,” she whispered with a tremulous smile. “That had been building for a while.”

  “Tears are supposed to be cathartic,” he replied. “You want to talk about it some more?” he asked. He wished she’d move away as he felt himself responding in a decidedly unwanted way. But she remained unmoving, her lower body still pressed against his.

  “In a minute. What I’d like to do right now… I’d like to know what you look like.” She removed her arms from around his neck and instead placed a hand on either side of his face. “I can only see you through touch. Do you mind?”

  Before he could reply, her fingertips moved across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, then across his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, her cool fingers explored the contours of his face, each touch evoking heat inside him.

  “What color are your eyes?” she asked, her breath warm on his face. He realized his heart was now beating a rhythm faster than normal.

  “Blue.”

  She nodded, and continued her exploration of his facial features. Slowly, methodically, her hands continued to work.

  When her fingers danced across his lips, he fought an impulse to open his mouth and kiss her fingertips. He breathed in relief when she moved to his hair.

  “Black,” he said, answering the question before she could verbalize it.

  “Thank you,” she said, and finally stepped back from him. “I’m sorry about ruining your breakfast.”

  “You didn’t ruin anything,” he replied. “I’d already finished my omelet when you got upset. So, you want to talk? You don’t have to,” he added hurriedly. “It’s not imperative that you tell me anything. I understand if you don’t trust me.”

  “Trust you?” She smiled ruefully. “If I can’t trust you, then I’m utterly lost. I’d like you to know what happened. I think maybe I need to talk about it.”

  “Why don’t we go into the living room?” he suggested. In there he could gain enough distance from her that he wouldn’t be able to smell her sweet fragrance. Physical distance would provide emotional distance, and at the moment that’s exactly what he needed.

  In the living room, she sat on the sofa and Jesse sank into the chair facing her. He watched the emotions that played across her face as she rubbed her forehead and prepared to share with him the events that had destroyed life as she knew it.

  “It wasn’t unusual for me to spend the evening with my sister, Alicia, and her husband, John.” She placed her hands in her lap, her fingers laced together. Her knuckles were slightly whitened by the tension that held her unnaturally stiff. “This partic ular night was like a hundred others, except that instead of driving my car to their place, I took a cab.”

  “Why?” he asked with a cop’s curiosity.

  “I was tired and Alicia had told me earlier in the day that she’d bought the makings of strawberry daiquiris and I didn’t want to have to worry about driving home after having a couple of drinks.”

  She frowned and her knuckles appeared to whiten even more as she continued. “If only I’d driven my car. If only my car had been parked out front….” Her voice trailed off.

  “Don’t go there,” Jesse said softly, knowing well how easily self-recriminations could destroy a person.

  She nodded, then continued. “I had been in the house just a few minutes when we heard a car pull up out front. John looked out the window and told me to get in the closet.” Her frown deepened. “Any other time I would have balked at the suggestion, but something in his tone of voice made me obey without question. John and Alicia were police officers, and John often worked undercover, so I thought perhaps he was worried about whoever was there seeing me.”

  She pulled her hands apart and stood, as if finding it impossible to sit still while she told the full story. Jesse leaned forward and pulled the coffee table away from the sofa, giving her room to pace without danger of bumping her knees.

  “Two men came in the front door, and the minute I saw them, I almost stepped out of the closet. The two men were police officers.” She raised a hand to push a strand of hair off her face, and Jesse noticed her hand trembled.

  She paced the space in front of the sofa, the tight jeans displaying her slender legs. “But before I could open the closet door and step out, the two men shot John and Alicia.” Her voice rose slightly and she stopped walking and drew a deep breath, as if to marshal her emotions.

  Jesse realized he was holding his breath. Two cops, murdered by two other cops. No wonder Bob Sanford and Kent Keller had immediately whisked her away. It was an ugly scenario.

  “Apparently I passed out in the closet. When I came to, I was blind and in a hospital room. That’s when I met Bob Sanford, who explained to me that John and Alicia had been working for Internal Affairs and investigating a group of dirty cops.”

  “And apparently the dirty cops learned of IA’s investigation and John and Alicia’s part in it,” Jesse said.

  She nodded. “And now John and Alicia are dead, and the good guys are hoping my sight will return so I can identify the two men who killed them.”

  “Can you identify them?”

  She sank down to the sofa once again. “Oh, yes. Their faces are burned into my mind. Unfortunately, at the moment I’m a blind witness.”

  “And what happens if you never regain your sight?” He could tell the question pained her as she winced.

  She straightened her back. “I refuse to consider that possibility.”

  He heard the strength of conviction in her voice, but he also heard an underlying fear.

  He decided to leave that particular topic alone. “You mentioned a group of dirty cops… Did anyone tell you how many were in the group?”

  “Bob Sanford told me there are eight. The Renegade Eight is what they call themselves. Unfortunately, nobody seems to know exactly who the eight are.” She forced a smile in his direction. “It seems I have a small posse probably seeking my whereabouts and praying for my death.”

  “Don’t worry, little lady, the sheriff of Mustang knows how to handle a posse of desperadoes.” Jesse did his best John Wayne imitation, and was rewarded by her laughter.

  “Performing that kind of a bad imitation would definitely make desperadoes run for the hills,” she said. “We’re a long way from Chicago—that’s where I’m from. Surely nobody could track me all the way here.”

  Jesse frowned. He wasn’t so sure. He knew as well as anyone that cops could be quite resourceful when it came to seeking out information they wanted. Knowing there may be as many as e
ight dirty cops seeking her, definitely was a sobering thought.

  If three people knew where she was, that was two too many. He wouldn’t feel comfortable until he got word that the eight cops had been arrested and put behind bars.

  “Do you want to know my real name?” she asked.

  “No,” Jesse hurriedly replied. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to tell me. I might accidentally call you by that name in front of other people. It’s best that you remain Cecilia Webster to me.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, although he thought he detected disappointment in the single word.

  “What did you do before all this?” he asked, attempting to get her mind off bad guys, killer cops and false identities.

  She smiled, and he saw the tension slowly leaving her. “I’m an interior decorator.”

  He groaned. “I think I’m glad you can’t see this place. It would probably give you nightmares.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” she protested. “What’s your color scheme?”

  “Color scheme?”

  She leaned forward, her features lit with an animation he hadn’t seen before, an animation that transformed her from pretty to something far more powerful. “You know, what’s the dominant color of the room?”

  Jesse shrugged and looked around. “I’ve got a brown-and-orange sofa, beige carpeting, a rose-colored chair. I’m not sure there is a dominant color.”

  “Orange sofa and rose-colored chair?” She looked slightly ill. “You’ve just managed to do what nothing and nobody has done in the past month.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “You almost made me grateful I’m blind.” The animation still shone on her features, and a stir of desire winged through Jesse, both appalling and irritating him. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” she continued. “As soon as I get my sight back and everything is settled, I’ll come back here to Mustang and redecorate your house.”