Mark was quick, and he grabbed his keys from the bookcase as he walked by, properly dressed and hair neatly combed.
"Where are we going?"
"First of all, you have to swear you won't tell anyone."
"I swear," he whispered as they stepped outside and he closed and locked his apartment door.
Shea bounded down the steps and headed for Mark's familiar beat-up car. When they were inside, Mark slipped the keys into the ignition and turned to her. "Where to?"
"You'll be hearing from my brothers," Shea said softly.
Mark's eyes narrowed. "Again?"
"Whatever they say or do, don't tell them you saw me tonight. Especially don't tell them where you're taking me."
"All right," he said skeptically.
"They bark a lot, but I promise you they don't bite. Usually."
Mark flinched, but agreed, and Shea gave him the name of the street.
After he'd started the engine and was pulling out of the apartment parking lot, she continued, "I'm going to lie low for a couple of days, but stay close to your phone in the evenings. In a day or two I'm going to need you again."
"You got it," he said without hesitation.
She nodded her head and watched the dark, quiet houses go past, then they pulled onto the well lit and surprisingly active Parkway. Where they were headed was not far away, but walking had been out of the question. A lone woman, this time of night, with a packed bag and a well-known face? It just wouldn't do.
In a few minutes Mark pulled off the Parkway and took a side road that led them east into a residential neighborhood. He took the twists and turns at an easy pace, unhurried. And still, with every second that passed, her heart thudded harder.
"Here," she said, deciding at the last minute that it wouldn't be wise for Mark to pull into the cul-de-sac. She had him stop on the small leg of a street that led to the neighborhood where Winkler had been killed. As she threw open the car door, Mark reached across and grabbed her wrist.
"Be careful."
Her heart was really pounding now. "I will."
"And Shea, when you make it to the top, will you take me with you?" He cast her a surprising grin. "I want only to ride your coattails."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
The only problem was, she didn't know what she wanted anymore. Making it to the top of her profession no longer seemed all that important. She still loved her job, she still wanted to work, but she no longer thought a career in television would be enough to keep her happy for the rest of her life. Loving Nick had turned her careful, safe plans upside down and inside out. He had put her aside with a cold glare and a careless goodbye, and still … she couldn't go back.
The cul-de-sac was quiet. Dark, but for the streetlamps that shone onto perfectly manicured lawns and a narrow street. Nick's house, toward the end of the circle, was the only one for sale.
There were a few toys here and there, on the lawns she passed, and a fair number of porch swings, of wooden forts in fenced backyards. She couldn't help but remember what Nick had said about his dream. The house, the kids, the safe life. He'd tried to build it here and the dream had blown up in his face, turning into a full-fledged nightmare.
For a few wonderful, delusional hours, she had made Nick's dream her dream. It had hit her with blinding force, coming out of the blue and surprising her with its clarity. The white house, the swings, the babies. They were such simple desires, and yet … they had power, a power she had not expected to feel.
She tried to see him in the neat house that was for sale, but couldn't. The Nick she knew was hard, desperate, passionate. None of that echoed in the red brick or neatly trimmed boxwoods. In the drawn blinds or the empty window boxes. There was no porch swing, she noticed. Not yet.
Nothing stirred in this deceptively peaceful neighborhood, so she felt confident as she walked through the grass to the empty driveway. Someone here, someone who had been at the barbecue that night, was a killer. A killer who had pinned the crime on Nick and had, until now, gotten away with it. She heard a car and hurried to the side of the house. Someone was coming home quite late, or else someone was lost. You didn't come to Teakwood Court unless you were heading for Teakwood Court. No one passed through here en route to another street.
She hid in the shadows and pressed her shoulder to the brick wall of Nick's house, watching the street to see who passed. The car came closer, humming slowly, advancing without haste or purpose.
Perhaps it really was someone who was lost.
She didn't hear a sound, but suddenly a strong hand clamped over her mouth and an arm circled her waist, so quickly her breath left her. She swung back an elbow that had no effect on her attacker as he pulled her quickly backward. She scraped her feet across the ground and kicked as he dragged her into the backyard and behind the cover of a low bush.
She continued to kick until he whispered in her ear, "Be still."
Knowing that voice, she obeyed, and the arm that held her loosened, the silencing hand fell from her mouth. A split second later a bright beam raked across the side yard where she'd been standing just a moment ago.
"Coppers," Nick whispered, and against all reason Shea smiled.
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
Nick kept a stilling arm around Shea until the police car had turned off Teakwood Court, gone down the short road that led to the next street over, and passed by to the rear. He watched the flash of headlights pass houses and trees, the light flitting in and out and finally disappearing.
Then he spun Shea around and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "What the hell are you doing here?" he whispered harshly.
"The same thing you are, I imagine," she said, her voice as low as his and much calmer.
He hated to admit it to himself, and would never admit it to her, but he was glad to see Shea again. Most of all he was glad to hold her, even in this less than romantic way. She felt good, soft and warm and right in a way he could not begin to explain.
"Isn't this going a bit far for a story?"
She didn't answer, but in the moonlight her eyes accused him. Branded him.
"But then," he added, lowering his head so his lips almost touched her ear as he whispered, "we both know how far the weathergirl will go to further her career."
She was too close to resist. He kissed her earlobe, then the sensitive neck beneath. His mouth lingered on her skin, lips parted as he breathed deep. Like it or not, he was lost in her scent and the taste of her. Everything else faded, until there was nothing but the easy way he leaned into her, the way she responded, with a sigh and a supple yielding.
And then it hit him. When he'd run from Huntsville and the unfair conviction, Shea at first an unwilling hostage and then a partner, he had hidden inside her. Not literally, at first, but … yes, he had definitely done his best to hide inside her. To slip beneath her skin, to shroud himself in something that didn't exist.
She lifted a tender hand to the back of his head, and he took his mouth from her neck. He couldn't hide in her, or with her. It was a foolish notion that could get them both killed.
"Go home," he said coldly, dropping his arms, freeing her to run.
"No."
"This is not a damned story, it's my life," he protested.
"I know that," she whispered, bringing her hand to his face and resting her palm on his cheek. "That's why I'm here."
She dropped her hand and slipped from the cover of the bushes, staying low while she made her way to the back door. He followed her.
This spot, directly before the kitchen door, was shielded on the right by the wooden fence that hid the unsightly garbage can from the neighbors' view, to the left by a thick hedge and to the rear by a densely wooded portion of his backyard. Someone would have to be standing in just the right place to see them here.
Shea dropped down on her haunches, unzipped her bag and reached inside. Quickly finding what she was searching for, she withdrew
a credit card.
"What are you doing?" he whispered.
"Breaking into your house."
Much too expertly, she slipped the credit card between the door and the frame and worked it up. He heard the lock jiggle, Shea's muffled curse when the door didn't open as quickly and easily as she'd expected. Then finally, no more than two minutes later, the lock slipped and she opened the door.
She entered the house and he followed, silently closing and relocking the kitchen door behind them. Shea dropped her bag onto the linoleum floor and sat, her back to the counter so she was out of the moonlight that streamed through the window above the sink. He heard her breathing heavily—from the excitement of almost being caught, he imagined. From the excitement of breaking and entering.
He sat across from her, his back to another set of cabinets. Oddly enough, he felt safe here. Maybe because Shea was here and he wasn't alone anymore. One more thing he didn't dare admit to anyone.
"Where on earth did you learn to do that?"
"Boone taught me," she answered softly. "He thought I should know, in case I ever locked myself out of my apartment."
Nick shifted uncomfortably, his heartbeat ratcheting down as they sat in the quiet darkness. He heard Shea take a deep breath and let it out slowly, heard the shift of her body, the slow zip of her bag as she returned the mangled credit card to its place.
"Do you really think I'm only here for the story?" she asked softly.
"You never lied to me. I knew all along what you wanted." He stared at her tempting profile, tried to see her more clearly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. "The story and your Lone Ranger justice," he added lowly.
She dropped her head back to rest against the counter. "In the beginning that was true. But that was before I got to know you, before I…" She hesitated, shifted uncomfortably on the floor. "Before I started to like you."
"So what does that make me? Tonto?" he snapped. The night, the silence, the emptiness of the house made him keep his voice at a whisper.
He could've sworn he heard her laugh, lightly and reluctantly. "Why is it so hard for you to believe that I just want to help you?"
"Everyone has their own agenda, weathergirl."
She grabbed her bag and shot to her feet, turning her back on him to stalk from the kitchen. She no longer bothered to keep her body low. "Fine," she said as she headed for the front of the house. "If it makes you feel better I'm only here for the story. But the story is to prove you innocent, so what difference does it make?"
"None," he said, following her.
She stood in the foyer, the light breaking through the blinds just bright enough to illuminate her and his living room in shades of gray. His furnishings were still here—most of them, anyway. A long, chocolate leather sofa and matching chairs, a television and stereo, a wildlife picture and an assortment of tables. Lauren had complained that his home was too masculine, and he'd been perfectly willing to let her make the changes she wanted. They'd never gotten that far.
"The cops drive by every hour to an hour and a half," he said to Shea's back. "So far they haven't done anything but shine a light on the property and drive on. Apparently they think I'm heading for Montana," he added sardonically.
Shea twirled and smiled at him. "I thought that was rather brilliant."
"Yeah, until they figure out you were lying."
She shrugged her shoulders. "I'll handle that problem when I have to. Where's the Camaro?"
"I parked it at a grocery store and walked."
"There's not a grocery store for at least three miles."
"That's it," he whispered.
"What if the police show up?" she asked sharply. "What if you have to run?"
He had planned to walk back to the car well before sunup and return to his warehouse hideout during the daylight hours, but now that Shea was here, apparently for the duration, his plans had changed. If she wasn't careful, the weathergirl was gonna find herself in a helluva lot of trouble. She was already in way over her pretty little head.
With a calculating eye he looked her up and down, amazed, still, that she was here. "I'm not running anymore."
* * *
She'd been concerned about Realtors showing the house to potential customers, but Nick informed her that even before the trial they'd had so much trouble with sightseers that they'd removed the lock box from the front door, and only one Realtor was allowed to show the house—the woman who'd listed it for sale. She was an old friend of Norman's and had done her best to keep the curious at bay. Initial interest had died down, and there was little activity. Still, they'd have to keep a lookout for that Realtor friend of Norman's.
Norman and the Realtor had handled everything. They'd left the furnishings and stored Nick's personal belongings, so the house had an odd model-home feel, as if no one had ever lived here. The pictures on the wall were impersonal, the drawers and the medicine cabinet empty.
Shea had slept well, once she'd fallen asleep all alone in the master bedroom. Nick had slept on the floor in the spare bedroom that had been converted into a now sterile office, not once suggesting that they share the only bed in the house, even though it was a king-size monster in a room large enough to accommodate such a piece.
To be safe, she kept her duffel bag packed and made the bed neatly after she left it. If the Realtor came in to show the house, she and Nick would have to get out if they could. Hide if they couldn't.
Unfortunately, she suspected there was no secret servants' stairway in the house Nick had built.
Teeth brushed and hair pulled back into a ponytail, bed made and bag packed, Shea sat on the floor near the bedroom window that overlooked Teakwood Court. She parted the blinds very slightly and looked down on the cul-de-sac as it came to life.
She knew, from the map Nick had drawn her while they'd been hiding in Marion, who lived where. Norman lived next door, in the house just past Nick's. To the left was the smaller, but still quite nice, home of Carter Able and his wife. Beside Norman, at the end of the cul-de-sac, was where Tom Blackstone and his family lived. He and Able had been two of the neighbors to stop by the morning after the murder, making them automatic suspects in Shea's mind. Either of them could've planted the evidence that helped to convict Nick.
Next to the Blackstones' house was the neat and colorful home of Lillian and Vernon Casson, a retired couple. There were flowers everywhere, and the shutters on their white house were painted a welcoming and cheerful yellow.
Then there was the Winkler house, where Polly Winkler still lived. Her husband, Gary, had been killed, bludgeoned and painted green, in the backyard. Why did she stay? Sentimental reasons? From what Shea had learned of Gary Winkler, she couldn't imagine him sparking warm, fond memories of any kind.
Just past the Winklers' was another ranch-style house. The residents of that house had been out of town the night of the ill-fated barbecue, so Shea mentally crossed them off her list.
Neighbors from the other end of the double cul-de-sac had attended the barbecue, but those who had stopped by the next morning, giving them the opportunity to plant the evidence against Nick, all lived on this end. These were her suspects.
She heard Nick come up behind her, but did not take her eyes off the street below. Especially not when a woman stepped out of the house next door. Norman's house. The woman had to be Lauren.
Shea's heart sank. Lauren was gorgeous. Blond and stacked, she had a face that might've been ripped off the statue of a Greek goddess. She could've been a model. Or an anchorwoman.
"Yes, that's her," Nick said softly. "Apparently she's moved in."
"Cozy," Shea muttered as Lauren turned to wave goodbye to someone in the house. Norman, of course.
Across the street an elderly woman exited the Casson house, wide straw hat in place, long baggy pants in spite of the heat that was coming, gardening gloves on her hands. Lauren waved. Mrs. Casson did not wave back. Even from this distance Shea could see the distinct expression of distaste that flitted ac
ross the older woman's face.
"I think you can strike her off your list," Nick said, lowering himself to sit behind Shea.
"Lauren?" she snapped.
"Mrs. Casson."
Shea relaxed.
One by one the residents of the cul-de-sac left their homes on this workday. Some of them waved and even said hello to one another. Others obviously needed another cup of coffee or two to get themselves going.
Norman, she noticed, did not leave.
"Is your lawyer playing hooky or does he sometimes work at home?"
"He has an office there. He usually works at home a couple mornings a week, if he can. Says he gets more done there than at the office."
She nodded, alternately watching Mrs. Casson work in her garden and checking the Burgess house for activity. All was quiet there.
"I'm going to go talk to him," Nick said, rising slowly to his feet.
Shea snapped her head around, noticing that Nick was limping still. "It's too dangerous."
He laughed without turning to look at her. "I'll circle around, so if he by chance sees me coming it won't be from this direction. And when I leave I'll walk back to the grocery store and move the car. If it sits too long someone will call the police to have it towed. They'll trace it to Maude and that will be all she wrote."
"In broad daylight?" Shea shot to her feet.
"I'll be careful, kemo sabe." Again he didn't turn to look at her. As if he didn't want to see her face, as if he was afraid to look at her.
She followed him down the stairs, wincing at the way he limped. What he really needed was a week in bed. He needed to get the weight off that leg, not to be walking three miles to move his car, and then walking who knows how far back.
"Let me move the car," she said.
"Won't the Sinclair wild bunch be out looking for you?" he asked sarcastically.
"Well, yes, but…"
"Then you'd better stay put."
HOT ON HIS TRAIL Page 15
