by Mallory Kane
“You’d been married for three years by her age.”
“That’s right.” Holly nodded, unsettled by the extent of his knowledge. “And widowed within three more. But Debi’s young, and I think she’s afraid I’m going to go away.”
Did the idea that Holly had impulsively married a stranger frighten her sister? Holly would have sworn she’d seen a flash of tears in the brown eyes so much like her own.
Jack studied her. “Pretty insightful. So what she said doesn’t bother you?”
The tension of the past hours and days bubbled to the surface. “Sure it bothers me. But she’s just lashing out because she’s scared. I’m the big sister. It’s my job to take care of her. And I do not want her involved with this.” Now her own eyes were filling with tears. She blinked them away, along with memories of Debi’s little hand squeezing hers as they cowered in the grim church sanctuary with the twin caskets of their parents looming over them. Eleven-year-old Holly had comforted her baby sister, but she’d wished desperately for someone strong enough to hold her hand and make her feel safe.
As if he’d heard her unspoken wish, Jack reached out, but stopped just short of touching her arm. “So, do you spend a lot of your time taking care of people?”
“What do you mean? Did Uncle Virgil tell you that?” She stepped away from the promise of his touch. She’d only known him a few hours. It disturbed her that she already knew the feel of his lips and the strength of his arms. Knew them and wanted to feel them again.
“It’s obvious. Your fear that he’s too stressed. Your relationship with your sister, your immediate concern about my shoulder.”
Holly looked at the stranger who had been thrust into her life. He was too close, too big, too perceptive. He wasn’t as muscular as Brad had been, nor as tall as Danny’s six feet two inches, but he filled up her kitchen with his broad shoulders and his chameleon-like eyes, which seemed to be able to pierce through all her defenses, down to the heart of her.
She plunged a stack of dirty dishes into the soapy water, wishing she could wash away the past and all the heartache that had brought her to this point.
“You can put your stuff in the guest room,” she said dismissively. “Second door down the hall on the left. The bathroom is the first door.”
Jack didn’t move. She felt his eyes boring into her back.
“Why did you get married right out of high school?” he asked, his voice gentle and low.
The question startled her. She rinsed a plate as she tried to think how to answer. She didn’t want to talk about why she’d gotten married so young. “I thought you knew everything about me.”
“I didn’t say I knew everything. I said you’d be surprised what all I know.”
Holly slung soap and water off her fingers. “So, since we’re married, shouldn’t I know all about you, too?”
He held her gaze for a beat. “This is about you, not me,” he said. “I’m just the bait. You’re the key. You didn’t answer my question.”
The bait. A thrill of apprehension ran through her. She got the feeling his questions were going to become a lot more personal and probing before he was done. “First of all, it wasn’t right out of high school. We’d been in college a year. Besides, haven’t you heard? All southern girls marry their high school sweetheart and have bunches of babies—” Her voice cracked.
“Were you happy?”
The three words struck her right in the middle of her chest.
“Happy?” She forced a small laugh. When had she thought of her own happiness? “Sure, I guess I was happy. I was in love. I was free.” She gripped a soapy plate so hard she was surprised it didn’t break.
“Free? That’s an interesting take on marriage.”
“I just meant I was on my own. Away from my aunt and uncle. Away from my sister. Away—” She stopped. Away from the endless weddings and funerals and baby showers that make up the social life of a small southern town, away from Aunt Bode’s implying that she’d given up her freedom to take in Holly and Debi, away from the constant struggle to hold on to the little bit of control that made her feel safe.
“That sounds awful, doesn’t it? Wanting to be away from my family? But I loved the idea of having someone to take care of me, instead of being the one everyone depended on.”
“But then Brad died.”
A place deep inside her began to hurt. She realized that as dynamic and handsome as Brad had been, all she remembered now was him lying pale and still in that mahogany coffin. She sent Special Agent Jack O’Hara a sidelong look. “That’s right. He died and I was left alone. I had to come back home and—” And what? Become strong, dependable Holly again? The one who had all the answers, who took care of all the problems? Who never asked for help but always gave it?
“Who might have wanted Brad out of the way? How many hearts did you break when you married him?”
“Hearts?” She laughed shortly. “Me? None. Brad was Maze’s big football hero. Everybody loved him. Nobody hated Brad.”
“This isn’t about hating Brad. It’s about wanting you.”
She shuddered. “Who would want me badly enough to—? It doesn’t make any sense. How can Brad’s accident six years ago be connected to Ralph’s disappearance last year and Danny’s allergic reaction?” She hugged herself, wishing she could encase herself in a cocoon of innocence, and not have to face the reality of her situation, the reason Jack was here.
“You’re looking at the events through the veil of time and grief. I’m looking at them without prejudice, without feelings getting in the way.” His words were dispassionate, but his tone was still gentle. She longed to wrap herself in that low, dark voice and never be afraid of anything again, but she knew that wasn’t possible.
“You want me to believe they’re dead because of me.”
“Not because of you. You’re as innocent as they were. You’re the target of a stalker who must be stopped before he kills again.”
Holly met Jack’s cold gaze. Could he stop the killer? Or would he end up as the fourth victim?
He grabbed his bags. At the kitchen door, he paused. “You know, Holly, I’m not going to go away.”
His words slashed all the way through to her innermost self, revealing the fear that was branded on her soul.
“Well, if you don’t, you’ll be the first.”
“Then, I’ll be the first.” He headed down the hall.
Holly watched his retreating back. His shoulders looked no less broad from behind, and his hair curled where it lay over the collar of his jacket. She let her eyes drift downward to the slight bulge of the gun at his waist, and a chill slid up her spine.
The nightmare was real, as was the danger. There was a killer out there, and Jack O’Hara was here to catch him. Holly prayed that he could.
Holly picked up the last two plates Debi had left, and set them down in the water. At least some things never changed. She was still cleaning up after her baby sister.
The ring on her finger felt strange as she scrubbed the dishes. She looked at it. It gleamed and sparkled, lending its light to the bubbles that played around her fingers. The pad of her thumb rubbed across the smooth metal. She and this stranger were married in every legal sense. How long would they have to keep up this pretense? What would they say to each other, in public and in private?
She dried her hands, careful not to let the ring slip off. It was loose. She’d have to get it sized. She sank down in a chair and splayed her fingers on the clean white surface of the kitchen table.
Get it sized? What was she thinking? This was temporary. It wouldn’t be on her finger long enough to matter.
She looked out the window at the quiet little street where she lived and felt exposed. Nausea burned the back of her throat as she considered that someone might have been watching her, following her for years. Even though Jack had assured her it wasn’t her fault that the stalker had chosen her as his obsession, Holly felt a horrifying responsibility for everything that had ha
ppened.
A car drove by her window, and suddenly, Holly wanted the blinds closed for the first time since she’d lived in the house. She jumped up and reached for the cord. The blinds were as old as the house, so the cord was frayed and tended to stick.
She tugged and wriggled it, but nothing happened.
“Here, let me.” Jack’s dark voice was close behind her.
She jumped. She hadn’t heard him come in.
“They’re old,” she said inanely, as he reached around her to free the snagged cord.
Suddenly he froze. He was standing right behind her, his clothes brushing hers, his arm reaching over her shoulder, his breath lifting strands of her hair. It was an incredibly awkward and intimate position.
And he wasn’t moving. Holly couldn’t move either. The clean soapy smell of him wafted across her nostrils. The just-showered warmth of his body seeped through her clothes, through her skin. He was closer to her than any man had been for a long, long time, stirring yearnings inside her that she’d almost forgotten were there.
Finally he backed up and lowered his arm carefully, rubbing his shoulder.
She faced him. “Your shoulder’s bothering you.”
“It’s tightening up,” he muttered. “I haven’t been able to work out the last couple of days to keep it loose.”
“Why don’t you let me massage it a little and show you a couple of stretches to help ease the discomfort?” She could deal with a stiff shoulder more easily than with the feel of his hard body against hers.
“I know the exercises. It’s fine.”
Holly found herself struggling not to smile. Was he actually anxious to get away from her? “Okay, Agent Macho. But with those muscles all tied up in knots you won’t sleep a wink.”
He shot her a venomous glare. “That’s Special Agent Macho. And I’ll manage.”
Her smile widened as he retreated another few steps. So, he had a sense of humor. She took her first good look at him since he’d come back into the room. After his shower he’d pulled on a pair of exercise pants and a clean T-shirt, and he was barefoot.
Her smile faded. He looked stunningly sexy. His lanky frame was not as bulky as the jacket and jeans had made it appear. Her gaze slid down his body, past his tight, hard abs and muscled thighs to his feet. They were long, bony, masculine feet. Sexy feet. She swallowed.
“So, would you like coffee? Or some wine?” she croaked.
Jack was relieved that she’d stopped trying to touch him. His jaw hurt from clenching as he fought to control his body’s reaction to her. He’d already made a mental note to close the blinds, so he’d been only too happy to help her. A stalking victim shouldn’t give the stalker anything to feed his obsession, not even a glimpse inside her house.
But he shouldn’t have reached around her. First his damn shoulder had caught, then, before he knew it, her firm round backside was pressing against him, and his body was reacting, immediately and strongly.
In a sense it was gratifying. For the first time since he’d been shot, he’d reacted to a woman. But to be sexually attracted to Holly Frasier was inappropriate. She was his assignment, his responsibility. He had hard-and-fast rules about that. He never got emotionally attached to the victim or their family. Emotions impaired judgment, slowed reaction time, blurred goals.
He really needed some rest, and some distance from her.
“Jack? Coffee?”
He blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. Coffee would be great.”
“Okay. As soon as I finish loading the dishwasher.”
She worked quickly and efficiently, rinsing dishes and placing them, just so, in the rack.
“Didn’t you just wash those dishes?”
“Some of them had been sitting for days.”
“But you just scrubbed them, so why put them in the dishwasher?”
She sent him a sidelong glance. “Because it’s my house.”
He smiled to himself and leaned against the counter, watching her. He told himself he needed to know her, inside and out, in order to protect her.
As he’d noticed on the plane, she was in excellent physical condition. Her arms and shoulders were delicately muscled. Her tummy was flat and firm below gently rounded breasts. He already knew she had a great backside—he’d felt it, and the fitted black slacks she wore confirmed it. If the trend continued, her thighs and calves would be just as shapely and firm.
His body tightened again. He wiped a hand over his evening stubble and, with great effort, pulled his gaze away from her body.
Control, Ice Man.
His gaze was caught by a flashing red light on her telephone. “You have phone messages.”
She looked up and sighed. “I thought Debi was going to check them for me.”
“Check them now.”
She shot him a look that plainly said she didn’t like him telling her what to do in her own house, but she pressed the button.
“Holly, it’s Bob. I know you’re not coming back until Sunday night, but could we meet for lunch on Thursday? I really need to talk to you.”
“Who’s Bob?” Jack asked, his interest piqued, but Holly just deleted the message and went on to the next.
It was a telemarketer. She deleted the message.
“Holly, it’s Bob again. Maybe we could get together Wednesday instead. Have lunch at Benson’s Restaurant. Please call me as soon as you get back.”
She pressed Delete. That was the last one.
“Who is Bob and what’s that about lunch?”
“He teaches at the high school. We have lunch together every couple of weeks. Bob has a lot of issues and he says I’m a good listener.”
Jack rubbed his neck in frustration. “Issues. What kind of issues?”
“You know, problems with his mother, problems with…dating. Stuff like that.”
“You didn’t put him on your list.”
“I’ve never gone out with him.”
“Then, what do you call those lunches?”
“Lunches.” She sent him a challenging glare.
“See, this is what I was talking about. You may think they’re just lunches, but this guy sounds pretty desperate. Maybe he, like Sheffield, thinks you two have a relationship.”
Holly opened her mouth to protest, but Jack shook his head. “Now, is there anyone else you’ve neglected to mention?”
She frowned and lifted her chin a fraction of an inch. “No, or maybe I should say, not that I can recall right now.”
Jack ignored her sarcasm. He knew it was difficult for victims to understand the depth of obsession that could lead to stalkings. She’d given him every name she could think of. He’d already known he’d have to dig for some of them.
“What’s Bob’s full name?”
“Robert Winger. Jack, he’s very shy. What are you going to do?”
“Add his name to the list you gave me. I’m having a background check run on each of them.” He’d call Decker first thing in the morning and add Winger’s name.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten in hours. “I don’t suppose you have anything to eat, do you?”
“Old popcorn,” she said dryly as she filled the coffeepot. “I’ve been gone for two weeks and Debi never cooks. It’s remotely possible there’s bread for toast.”
He flexed his shoulder and neck. He hadn’t managed to cadge more than three hours of sleep in the past twenty-four. “Want me to see what I can find?”
“Sure, but don’t get your hopes up. You’ll probably take your life in your hands opening the refrigerator.”
He stepped behind the counter into the small space of her kitchen. She’d taken off her shoes, and he noticed that she wasn’t as tall as he’d thought. Her head came up to his chin, she was not that much taller than the women he usually dated. But there was a strength, an assurance in the way she carried herself that made her seem larger than she was.
He considered his thoughts as he opened her refrigerator and peered inside. The words
his brain had conjured to describe her were not words he normally associated with women. Still, they fit her, and intrigued him.
Her refrigerator held the usual staples of a person who lived alone, plus the obvious signs of a messy houseguest. Besides the basic condiments and soft drinks and bottled water, there were stained Chinese takeout boxes, a half-eaten pizza and packets of soy sauce strewn over the shelves.
Grabbing a package of single-wrapped American cheese and a squeeze-bottle of margarine, he nudged the door closed with his hip. He’d have preferred an imported sharp cheddar and real butter. It was obvious he’d be doing the grocery shopping while he was here.
“Where’s that bread?”
Holly was staring into a cabinet. She closed it and opened another one. “Hmm?”
“Bread.”
“Oh. Left side of the freezer, toward the back. There should be half a loaf.”
He found the package of sliced sourdough bread exactly where she had said it would be. Within a few minutes he had produced two plates of spiced, melted cheese over toast triangles.
“Here we go. Pour the coffee.” He took the plates to the table and sat down.
Holly still seemed distracted when she sat. Then she looked at the plate for the first time. “What is this?”
“Welsh rarebit.” Jack stuck a forkful into his mouth.
“Well, I’m impressed. Not only can you cook, you can make something out of nothing.”
He shrugged. “I like to eat and I’ve lived alone for a long time.”
She nodded absently as she pushed back from the table and went over to peer inside the dishwasher she’d just finished loading. Then she propped her fists on her hips and frowned as her gaze swept the kitchen.
Jack eyed her. “What’s wrong?”
“You didn’t hear broken glass rattling in that garbage bag you put out, did you?”
“Nope. Why? D’you lose something?”
Holly came back and sat down, her eyes troubled. “I can’t find my favorite cup. It was the last piece I had of my mother’s good china. I hope Debi didn’t break it and hide the evidence.”
