by Anne Stuart
She was too damn skinny, and his oversize black clothes made her look even more waiflike. He always preferred women with some heft to them. Amy Lee had always complained how fat she was with ten extra pounds on her frame, but he’d liked her that way. There was no way he wanted to touch a skinny little girl.
Except that she wasn’t a little girl; she was twenty-nine years old, and if he believed her, she’d seen as much as he had of blood and pain and misery and death. Only she hadn’t seen it firsthand. She hadn’t ever been able to do a thing about it, to stop it, to avenge it, to make it better. All she’d been able to do was be a helpless witness. Maybe that was even closer to hell than what he’d been through.
“Something’s going on, and they’re not telling me,” Sam said, stretching out on the big bed now that she’d left it, tucking the pillow behind him. He was bone weary, but he wasn’t ready to sleep. Not yet. “They’re sitting on the Derringer case and keeping it tighter than a drum. We call it a need-to-know situation, and no one happens to see a reason why I need to know.”
“Why didn’t you tell them?” She was trying to ram a comb through her long, tangled hair, and she was pulling it.
“Instinct.”
She stopped yanking at her hair to look at him in the dimly lit bedroom. “Instinct?” she echoed.
“Unless you care to go into a trance and find out more, you’re going to have to accept that,” he drawled.
“But . . .”
“I think they already know about Mary Nelson,” he said abruptly.
She turned to him. “Why?”
“Because those bastards have reported Phil’s death as a suicide.”
“Suicide? There’s no way . . .”
“Of course there isn’t. The Denver authorities don’t have the capability or the motive to orchestrate that kind of cover-up. Therefore, while I was pursuing my obscure little lead, other people were after it, too.”
She sat down on the end of the bed, near his feet, her long hair forgotten. He’d never known a woman with hair that long, never touched a woman with hair that long. Never made love to a woman with hair that long. He knew suddenly that he was going to. “What do you think is going on?” she asked.
It was lucky he was equipped with more than a one-track mind. Part of him could think about sleeping with her, another part could be amazed at the very thought, while still another concentrated on the Derringer situation, as they were calling it. “I don’t know. Either Mary Nelson is going to stand in for Shari Derringer, or vice versa, and the Spandau Corporation is smack dab in the middle of it. What I can’t figure out is why they haven’t called me in. There’s no one alive who knows more about Spandau than I do.”
“Maybe they figure you’re still emotionally involved.”
He smiled sourly. “Hell, they know it. They also know I was in Denver, though no one asked a single question. They’re waiting, watching, to see what I’m going to offer.”
“They don’t think you’re involved?”
“They don’t trust anybody, Elizabeth.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I don’t want you leaving here.” He didn’t look at her, couldn’t look at her. “Not for a while, at least. They followed me back here, but I don’t think anyone was watching when we arrived. I don’t know if they even know about your existence, and I think we’d be safer if they didn’t. At least for now.” He yawned, feeling so damn tired.
“Why don’t you sleep?”
“Can’t,” he said, scooting down on the bed. “Too much to do. I’ve got calls to make.”
“You’re too tired.”
“Maybe I’ll just take a little catnap. Wake me in half an hour.”
“Sure,” she said, and he knew she had no intention of doing so. It didn’t matter. He could program himself to wake up at any time he wanted, and he’d simply program himself to wake up in thirty minutes. Or maybe sixty. Maybe he deserved that much.
“I bought you some clothes,” he mumbled sleepily. “And some food.”
“I think I’d rather have the food at this point.”
It was enough to make him open his eyes. “I’ve never known you to care about something as mundane as food,” he observed. “Have you lost your death wish?”
She looked at him, her brown eyes troubled. “Oh, God,” she murmured, clearly horrified. “I have.” And without another word she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Chapter 9
ELIZABETH IGNORED the pile of bags and boxes dumped inside the triple-locked-and-barred front door. She’d been telling the truth when she’d said she was more interested in food than clothes. Sam’s soft cotton sweats were the most comfortable things she’d worn in years, and she was in no hurry to relinquish them for stiff, uncomfortable new clothes. She had no idea what he’d bought for her, but if he was running true to form she’d probably end up with a straitjacket and a chastity belt.
She wasn’t going to think about it. About his contemptuous opinion of her and her dubious talents. She wasn’t going to think about how comfortable she felt in his clothes, her naked skin where his had last rested. She wasn’t going to think about Phil, either. She couldn’t, without crying, and she didn’t want to cry anymore. Her eyelashes were already bleached by the salty tears, and while she’d never been particularly interested in makeup she found she felt the sudden desperate need for mascara. Maybe a little blusher for her pale cheeks? And pale pink lip gloss.
She shook her head at her own foolishness, heading into the tiny kitchen. He’d left the bags of groceries on the spotless counter, and she began unpacking, trying to close off the eerie sense of déjà vu that was washing over her.
She’d expected the six-pack of Beck’s Dark Beer to join the two bottles on the door of the almost empty refrigerator. And the frozen pizzas were no surprise, though she couldn’t imagine how one human being could have such a limitless appetite for pizza. The French Roast coffee beans and heavy cream were more welcome but not surprising, and the thick red steak was enough to make any carnivore drool. Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether she was a carnivore or not—vegetarian living had seemed an easy thing to fall into when she was living alone, but if one was going to partake of flesh, that steak looked worth the fall from grace.
She reached into the bottom of the bag, pulled out a jar of macadamia nuts and let it slip from her fingers.
She was lucky it didn’t smash at her bare feet. The apartment and everything about it was upscale and first class, even if Sam had never bothered to move in in five years, and the kitchen floor was top-of-the-line vinyl with lots of cushioning. The jar bounced, rolled and ended up wedged under the refrigerator door. Elizabeth didn’t go over and pick it up. She couldn’t. Instead she reached for the other bag, warily, as if she expected to find a nest of spiders awaiting her.
All her fears were confirmed. The jar of macadamia nuts hadn’t been a fluke. Along with the Dutch pretzels and beer nuts she could have anticipated were Granny Smith apples, a deli container of Chinese sesame noodles and a couple of ice cream bars. She leaned back against the counter, feeling the cool, hard Formica against her back, clutching it with nerveless fingers. He must have searched her cabinets. That was it. He must have memorized everything she had there. Except that she’d been all out of ice cream bars and hadn’t been able to buy more for weeks. And Granny Smiths were out of season—she was amazed he’d even been able to find them. How in heaven’s name had he managed to come up with her obscure favorite foods?
The possible explanations were all equally unpleasant. It was farfetched but not impossible that they simply happened to share a taste for Chinese noodles and Granny Smith apples. No, that couldn’t be it. No one who ate beer nuts could appreciate the delicate nuances of Granny Smiths.
Another explanation could be that the research he’d done on her had been so exacting that it even cataloged her favorite foods. If her taste for macadamia nuts and ice cream bars had made it into some report on a bureaucrat’s desk, what deeper, da
rker secrets had Sam been privy to? Did he know she’d once pushed Stevie Bishop into a muddy pond when he’d called her a spook? Did he know her aunt and uncle had tried to beat the devil out of her? Did he know she was a virgin?
He probably knew all of those things, particularly the last. She shivered in the warm kitchen. He kept the heat up higher than she was used to, and she found she was glad. She had a hard time getting warm nowadays, and Sam’s bed didn’t come equipped with an electric blanket.
Sam’s bed. He’d sleep through the night, she was sure of it. Where was she expected to sleep? If only she’d thought of it, she might have appealed to his gentlemanly instincts and asked him to sleep on the sofa.
Fat lot of good that would have done her, she thought, picking up the jar of macadamia nuts and opening it, absently popping one into her mouth. Sam Oliver didn’t have a gentlemanly instinct in his body, or if he did, it didn’t extend to her. He probably would have told her to sleep on the couch or share the bed with him.
Why did she think he would have said that? And why did she grow hot, then cold, at the very thought? What in heaven’s name was she doing, thinking about sex, when her only remaining friend had been slaughtered less than twenty-four hours ago? What was she doing thinking about sex at all?
She looked toward the bedroom door. She already knew that he didn’t snore. The walls in her house were paper-thin—she’d heard every deep breath, every time he’d turned over, every rustle and movement. As she was hearing them now.
She moved back to the bedroom door. The sun had set. The heavily curtained windows let in little light, and the room was almost completely dark. Sam lay stretched out on the bed, away from the pillows that she knew he never used. She was surprised he even owned any, considering the sparseness of his possessions. Probably bought them for guests, she thought sourly, not bothering to guess why the thought disturbed her so much.
Well, he could share his pillows and his bed with anyone he pleased. It didn’t matter to her—after all, they were enemies, or at least antagonists, thrown together by their affection for Phil and their involvement in a series of violent deaths. She wanted to get away from him, far away, but she knew perfectly well she couldn’t. At this point he was the only person who could protect her, the only person who would even begin to believe in the things she could see. She couldn’t run, not yet.
She turned away, unwilling to look at him any longer. Part of his problem was that he was too damn good-looking. He was probably used to charming his way into anything, and women must fall for it by the dozens. He hadn’t tried his charm on her, not since the first night when she’d realized he wasn’t a ski bum on his way to Steamboat, and she could appreciate that. She’d prefer honest hostility to phony caring. But what she could have done with, right then, was some genuine caring. Someone to hold her, to frighten away the demons, to keep her safe.
She knew better. No one could save her from her demons—they came unannounced and unwanted, and they came from within. And no one could hold her, certainly not Sam. Another human’s touch merely strengthened her visions. Sam’s most of all. Sam brought the visions into sharp focus, when all she wanted was a fuzzy fade out.
She didn’t know if she could sleep again. She felt restless, edgy, cold. She moved back into the living room, carefully skirting the shopping bags, and headed toward the bank of windows. She peered through the miniblinds into the twilight street below.
She wasn’t used to crowds; she wasn’t used to the city. The street was filled with cars, pedestrians, people hustling, people coming home from work. From her vantage point on the seventh floor they looked normal, innocuous enough, probably just a bunch of bureaucrats with mortgages and kids in braces. Those innocent-looking faces didn’t hide a killer. No one was watching, waiting. Waiting for her.
“Get back from the window.” Sam’s voice was whiplash sharp, and she jumped back, letting the blinds crash against the glass.
“You scared me,” she said accusingly. “I didn’t hear you get up.”
“I told you to stay away from the windows,” he said. He’d stripped off his tie, and his khaki shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His hair was rumpled; he needed a shave, and he should have looked exhausted. Instead he seemed too alert, and the reasons behind that alertness unnerved her.
“Sorry,” she said gracelessly. “I didn’t remember. I’m sorry if I woke you. I thought you’d sleep through the night.”
He didn’t say anything, walking into the living room and sinking onto the sofa as he ran his hands through his hair. “I can’t. A decent night’s sleep is a luxury I can’t afford. Did you sleep today?”
“For hours. I didn’t even dream.”
“Maybe you should.”
For a moment she thought she hadn’t heard him right. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said maybe you should. We aren’t going to find out anything from the Pentagon, that much is for certain, and the Denver police and the newspapers are lying through their teeth. We can sit here and wait till Phil’s killer shows up, or you can do something about it. Time for a trance, swami. Just a little stance, calling forth answers from the spirit world and all that.”
She’d become inured to his mockery. “It doesn’t work that way. I don’t know why you’re even suggesting such a thing. You don’t believe I can see anything. You think I’m a liar.”
“If I thought you were a liar you wouldn’t be here.”
“Where would I be?”
He didn’t answer, and she was just as glad. There was a ruthless streak in Sam Oliver that absolutely terrified her, even though she knew it wasn’t directed at her, at least not right now. She knew he’d seen death, dealt death, without flinching. She wished she could be certain he would never hurt her, but on reflection that was simply a case of wishful thinking. His sense of honor and of what was right was absolute, and anything, anyone, might be sacrificed for it.
He leaned back against the overstuffed white pillows and looked at her. “Let’s just say I’m getting desperate. Anything’s worth a try.”
“Forget it, Colonel Oliver,” she said coldly. “I don’t do parlor tricks.”
She didn’t know where she thought she was going. Maybe to lock herself in the bathroom for a few minutes, away from his unnerving blue gaze. He caught her by the doorway, catching her wrist and spinning her around against him. Again he’d moved so silently, so swiftly, that she hadn’t been aware of his approach, and she stumbled, off balance, against him.
She didn’t know where the panic came from, but it swamped her. She hit out at him, desperate, but he was far too strong. His hands were manacles on her wrists, bruising her as she fought him; his arms were iron bands around her as he yanked her body back against him. “Stop it,” he hissed in her ear, but she was beyond caring, sailing into a terror that knew no peace. There was blood all around them; the harsh, metallic scent of it was in her nostrils, the wet, warm stickiness of it on her hands. She fought the vision, as she fought him, screaming, crying, whispering things she couldn’t hear, until finally he shook her, hard, her head snapping back, her long hair flowing around them both in the dimly lit hallway.
She stopped her struggles abruptly, staring up at him in shock. She ached all over from the imprint of his strong hands on her wrists, the prison of his arms around her, but she knew she’d caused that hurt herself, fighting against him as he tried to keep her from hurting herself, from hurting him. She took a deep, shaky breath, letting it tremble from her body, letting it warm his bare chest in front of her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, staring at his open shirt, at his chest, no longer willing to meet his eyes.
“Better now?” His voice was a low rumble of sound, and she wanted to lean her forehead against that smooth-skinned chest, to shut her eyes and forget. Forget the past, forget the future. For once in her life to live only in the present. To float, dreamless, on that bed, the red dress flowing around them, her hair loose and streaming, his hand running up her thigh, bri
nging the full skirt of the dress with him, sliding higher, higher
“Please let me go,” she said, her muscles tensing.
“No.” He was inexorable, determined, and frightening. “Something happens when I touch you, and I sure as hell know you’re not fainting with desire, lady. What is it that you see? What frightens you?”
“Nothing,” she said, closing her eyes, shaking her head, trying to shake the vision away. His hands tightened on her arm, the tiny pain forcing her eyes open again.
“What do you see?” he demanded, his voice urgent.
She couldn’t fight it, or him, any longer. He knew, damn him. He knew his touch brought the visions into clearer focus. She didn’t know how, or why, but his body was like an amplifier, boosting her power to frightening levels. “A man,” she said, her voice nothing more than a raw whisper as she gave in to the icy currents sweeping around her. “A man with a knife.”
His hands slid up her arms, but she was no longer fighting him. She stayed there, passive, cold, remote. “What does he look like? Is he here?”
“Not here. Someone else is coming. Someone else is coming for us. He’s gone.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where?”
“There’s water. Cold, icy water, snow falling on curved boats,” she murmured, peering through a dense mist. “A big empty house by the water.”
“Damn.” He released her, and the fuzzy picture vanished, like an out-of-focus television being switched off. “I can’t do it.”
She’d fallen back against the wall, dizzy, disoriented and so cold her teeth ached. “Can’t do what?” she managed.
“Can’t fall prey to your circus mumbo jumbo,” he said bitterly. “I don’t trust it, and I feel like a fool, trying to decipher what you’re saying.”
Her eyes focused suddenly. “By all means we wouldn’t want you to feel like a fool,” she shot back. “Your sense of dignity is so much more important than people’s lives.”
