by Julie Miller
“How often do you come home late like this?” he asked, holding the outside door open for her.
“Once or twice a month,” she answered, walking to the trunk of her car. “Depending on how elaborate the wedding is and how late the ceremony or reception runs.”
Pike reached behind the badge on his belt to pull out a KCPD business card with his contact information on it. “Next time you’ve got a car full of stuff to unload by yourself late at night, you call me.”
“I’m perfectly capable of—”
“I’m not talking muscle.” The breeze lifted the distracting swirl of caramel hair again and Pike was reaching for it before he’d even thought the impulse through. He caught the silky twist and wound it around his fingertip, watching twin dots of color warm her cheeks as he tucked it behind her ear. Yeah, maybe his hand lingered a little longer than it should have, but those curls were just as soft as they looked. “I’m talking company. You shouldn’t be alone on the streets or in this parking lot after dark. It’d make my job a lot easier if I knew I didn’t have to worry about one of the locals getting herself into trouble with a serial rapist—or a long-lost father.”
“I’ll try not to be a bother.” She pressed her hand against her ear and the nape of her neck, as though checking to see if the wayward strand he’d touched was still there. Her eyes darkened and she turned away, acting as if his curious touch had somehow upset her.
“That’s not what I meant.”
She hurried to retrieve the small parcel still sitting there, never giving him a chance to apologize.
“I know what you...” The box toppled off the trunk of her car before her fingers ever touched it. It landed flat on the ground, came to a complete rest, then wobbled on the asphalt. The thing rocked back and forth, moving several inches, as though it had sprouted feet and was slinking away. “That’s weird.”
When she went to pick it up, Pike latched onto her arm and pulled her back. “Hold on. Is that box from the wedding?”
“No.” She quickly moved away, hugging an arm around her waist and clutching her collar together at the neck. “My father had it when I came home.”
Pike let her go and squatted down to get a closer look at the package. Loosely taped. Plain brown wrapping. Moving away like a drunken snail. Something was wrong here. “Gift from your dad?”
“He handed it to me. Said he picked it up outside my door. I’m not sure where it came from.”
Pike read Hope’s name and this address scribbled directly onto the brown paper. “You got any friends who are into practical jokes? Maybe it’s full of Mexican jumping beans.”
But Hope wasn’t laughing. “I thought it might be from my brother overseas. He’s in the Marines. But there’s no APO address, country of origin or customs label, either.”
“There’s no cancelation stamp, period. This didn’t come through the mail. If your dad didn’t bring it, then someone left it here.” Pulling his gloves from his hip pocket, Pike rose to his feet. “Let me get Hans out to check it before you open it.”
“That’s not necessary. I...”
But Pike was already heading to his truck. He pulled Hans’s leash from the front seat before opening the back door. “Hey, big guy. Want to go to work?”
The familiar whines of anticipation were as clear as a verbal yes. Pike rubbed his hands around the German shepherd’s jowls and neck, reinforcing their bond and cueing his intention before he clipped the work leash to the harness between Hans’s shoulders. Pike rotated the dog’s collar so his brass badge hung in front of his deep chest. Then he patted the tan fur twice and issued the command to exit the truck.
Jogging at a pace that gave Hans a chance to stretch his muscles, Pike took him in a circle around the perimeter of the parking lot before he tugged on the lead and slowed the dog to put his sensitive black nose to work. “Find it, boy. Such!”
Working in methodical steps along the building’s south brick wall and around Hope’s car, Pike let Hans sniff the ground and vehicle. This was a game for the dog. In addition to his security work, he’d been trained to search for certain particular scents, and once he found one and sat to indicate his discovery, he’d be rewarded with a game of tug-of-war with his favorite toy. If Pike led him straight to the box, Hans might not identify it as anything suspicious because he hadn’t had the chance to track the scent first.
“There he goes.” Hans’s rudderlike tail wagged with excitement as he zeroed in on the trunk of the car. His breathing quickened and his nose stayed down as he picked up the trail of the mysterious package. “Find, it, Hansie,” Pike encouraged, repeating the command in German. “Such!”
His black nose hovered over the package, touched the ground beside it. He whined at a high pitch, then jumped back as the package moved again. Hans was panting heavily now, more worked up with excitement than with the duration of the search.
“What is it, boy?” The dog lifted his dark brown eyes to Pike and sat. “He’s not hitting on it like he does when there are drugs or explosives inside.” The dog’s high-pitched squeal indicated a degree of discomfort or uncertainty. “This is something different. I don’t think it’s anything dangerous or he’d let us know, but I’m damn curious to open it.”
After tossing Hans his toy, and giving him a few seconds of play time to reward him for completing his job, Pike pulled his utility knife from his belt and flipped it open. “I’m going to go ahead and open it. Unless you want to?”
With a cautious hand, Pike slit open the packing tape and peeled off the outer wrapping. As he set the paper aside, he turned his ear to a clicking noise coming from the tottering box. He leaned closer. Not clicking. Chattering. Shuffling, maybe. Oh, man. Was there something alive in there? Forgetting caution and feeling pity for whatever poor creature had been trapped inside, he sliced through the cardboard and pulled open the flap.
“Whoa.” Pike landed on his backside as he jerked away from the bugs tumbling out through the opening in the box. Hans barked at Pike’s surprise as the insects poured out, scurrying across the asphalt, seeking their freedom. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Cockroaches. Crickets. Centipedes. Creepies and crawlies he couldn’t identify. “What sick son of a...?”
He scrambled to his feet and backed toward Hope, positioning himself between her and the swarm of shock and terror. “Don’t come over here. You don’t need to see this... Hope?” Pike spun around, desperate for a glimpse of prim-looking glasses and tied-up hair. “Hope!”
She was gone.
Chapter Three
“Hope? Hope!”
“Get back here, girl! You runnin’ from me?”
Hope bolted the door behind her and scrambled up the stairs, desperate to put some distance between her and that huge, horrible monster.
The bugs were gross, a sick joke—maybe even from her dad. Probably meant to scare her into thinking she needed a man here. Maybe he’d even hoped she’d open the box inside her shop or apartment and then she’d hire him to exterminate every last one of them. Never. A bug she could step on.
But the dog...
“Hope?” The pounding on the door pushed her across the landing, past the double door leading to a loft storage area and straight to the restored antique door to her apartment. She dropped her keys when a thundering bark joined the pounding. “Are you in there? Are you okay?”
Knowing she was acting on blind panic, but feeling just as helpless to stop it, she scooped up the fallen keys and unlocked the door.
“Hope? Answer me!” Wood splintered around the lock below as she pushed open the door and ran straight to her kitchen. “Go, boy! Voran! Hope?”
She yelped when she heard the galloping up the stairs, the long legs running her down. The rapid drumbeat filled up her ears and she could barely catch her breath. She swiped away the foolish tears that stung her eyes and reached for the biggest weapon she could find.
Pulling a carving knife from the butcher block on the counter, Hope swung around into the open d
ining and living area to meet the beast at her front door. A man in black filled up the opening, but he was just the imposing backdrop to the real threat.
Gripping the knife in both hands, Hope prepared to defend herself. Far better than she had done twenty years ago. This time, she was no little girl. This time, she wasn’t weak from starvation. This time, she was armed.
She heard the growl. Saw the rush of movement. Screamed.
“Hans! Platz!”
The charging dog halted as if he’d jerked to the end of an invisible chain and plopped back onto his haunches. He slowly walked his feet forward until he was lying down beside the black military-grade boots of the man in the doorway. Hope didn’t believe that relaxed posture for a moment. The dog was breathing just as hard as she was, and those big, midnight-brown eyes still had her in his sights.
“Miss Lockhart?” The man raised one hand in a placating motion, then stooped down to clip a leash to the harness the dog wore. He dropped his voice to a deep, husky pitch. “Hope?”
Something short-circuited in her brain, cutting off the instinctive fight-or-flight response long enough for her to see what was really happening here. Pushing the falling hair off her face, still breathing deeply and erratically, still holding the knife, Hope blinked Edison Pike Taylor into focus. Clear blue eyes in a rugged, masculine face. Broad shoulders. Black ball cap. KCPD embroidered on the shirt that stretched over a black turtleneck and protective vest. A badge and gun on his belt.
Not her father. Not the damned babysitters. “Get her!”
Hope cringed and looked away from the ugly nightmare that tried to surface.
Pike Taylor slowly straightened, filling up the doorway again. “Why did you run? I turned around and you were gone. I thought you’d been abducted or something—that maybe your dad had come back or...” He took a step toward her and she lifted the knife, gripping it between both hands. He stopped, put up his leather-gloved hand again and drilled her with those startling blue eyes. “Don’t be afraid of me.”
The sharp words, more command than request, pierced the fog of fear that lingered in her brain. “I...I’m not. I don’t think I am.”
“Could have fooled me.” His gaze dropped briefly to the knife she still wielded, and she suddenly realized that with a gun and a guard dog and the sheer size and strength he had over her, she hadn’t stood much chance of defending herself, anyway. But he still didn’t make another move toward her. “Did you see something out there? That van? Was it the bugs? Trust me, they’ve scattered.”
“They’re not especially pleasant, but—”
“Is it me?”
She was the target of Pike Taylor’s piercing blue eyes again. “Not exactly.”
She couldn’t handle the intensity there—the suspicion? The anger? Hope blinked. She blinked again, trying to understand exactly what was happening here. Damn, he was big—more man than had ever been in her apartment before. He’d come by her shop nearly every day for months now—had always tipped his hat and said hello or winked as if they were some kind of friends. And now he was in her apartment, shrinking the wide-open space down to the few feet that separated them.
Why had he touched her hair tonight? And why had she...? Her heart had never raced like that before—not with anything except fear. Why had his fingers tangling into her wayward hair felt like a caress? As if she had the experience to recognize a man’s gentle caress.
Hope shook her head, dispelling the unfamiliar imprint of a man’s warm hand brushing across her cheek and ear. Blue eyes and distracting touches didn’t matter. She couldn’t afford to take her gaze off the black and tan dog. She could smell him now—the heat of his panting breath, the outdoor scents that clung to his thick fur. Hope finally lowered the knife, but only to slide her fingers beneath the sleeves on her right arm and rub at her wrist. The ridges and dots had softened and faded over the years, but she could feel the pain and itch of every scar as if they were new.
“Is it Hans?” At this hushed volume, Pike’s deep voice danced along her fried nerves like a soothing balm.
As embarrassing as her phobia might be to admit, her behavior put her past the point of lying or making a joke about it. Hope nodded. “I’m sorry. I guess I had a panic attack.”
“You think?”
“I haven’t had one for a long time. I usually can control it. But with the running and...and he was tracking so hard, so relentlessly. He’s so strong—all muscle, isn’t he?” She pushed her glasses into place at her temple, then found her fingers sliding beneath the collar of her blouse and loose hair to touch the scar there. She’d lost her big hair clip somewhere, and had probably left a trail of bobby pins on the stairs. Her hair was most likely sticking out in all directions, looking as wild as the pulse beat at the side of her neck felt. “I’m sure it seems irrational to you. I know he’s specially trained, he’s a member of the police force, and that he helps—”
“He’s not going to hurt you.”
“You don’t know that.” She blinked away flashback images of tearing flesh and searing pain. Of a gunshot that jerked through her even now. The final tragedy of two desperate children’s struggle for survival.
“Stay with me, Hope.” Pike stepped forward and Hope retreated.
“I am.” She managed to keep the knife pointed to the floor, although she couldn’t seem to ignore the phantom throb beneath the scars on her wrist. She pulled up a coat sleeve, a jacket sleeve and unbuttoned the cuff of her blouse to massage the skin there. “I will.”
Tall, Blond and Rugged was moving closer again. Hope focused on the black button at the center of Pike’s shirt. She could still hear the dog panting, but she could no longer see him past the width of those shoulders and chest.
“I trust Hans with my life. I trust he’ll do whatever I say. He’s trained to be an extension of me on the job, not a rogue wild animal.” Pike pulled off his cap and rubbed at his short dark gold hair, leaving rumpled spikes in its wake. He dropped his gaze to the leash in his hand and followed it back to the dog lying in the doorway behind him. The dog’s black muzzle lifted up and he tilted his head in some sort of anticipation.
Hope’s fingers tightened around the knife handle.
But Pike raised his hand and the dog settled down again, resting his head on his front legs. When Pike faced Hope again, his narrowed, probing eyes looked straight into hers. “I never had a chance at getting you to trust me, did I. All these months I’ve been patrolling this neighborhood, I’ve been trying to get to know you. Trying to find out if you were stuck-up or just unaware of my efforts.”
Regret followed closely on the heels of her simmering panic, sapping the remainder of Hope’s strength. It was a shy person’s worst nightmare to have her quiet moods and awkward social skills mistaken for arrogance or indifference. It compounded her frustration to discover that the time she needed to process her thoughts, emotions and reactions could be interpreted as a lack of caring. It hurt to know that the fight it took to assert herself sometimes came off as disdain.
“I’ve even been a little ornery about it,” Pike went on. “Making up excuses to come by your shop, demanding that you give me your trust and respect. But you were never going to give me a real chance.”
“I’m not stuck-up,” she whispered, mindlessly massaging the scars again.
“No. You’re terrified. Doesn’t make me feel like much of a cop—or much of a man—to see you look at me like that. I’d like to fix your perception of Hans and me.” He reached out, and for a moment, she thought he intended to disarm her. Instead, he reached past the knife and slowly closed his fingers around her wrist, brushing the warm pad of his thumb across the pale web of scars there. “What happened to you?”
“I...” Gentle though his inquisitive touch might be, Hope jerked her arm away and quickly pulled down her sleeves. What did she tell him? Long version? Short version? Was there any version that didn’t make her sound sad or eccentric or worth anything more than his pity?
; Hans raised his head and woofed a split second before Pike turned his head and Hope heard a whisper of sound from the foot of the stairs. The outside door opened.
No version.
She clutched the knife in both hands again. There were knocks at both the shop and stairwell doors.
“Taylor!” a man shouted from the vestibule downstairs. “Pike! You here?”
“We’re not done with this conversation.” Pike adjusted his ball cap on his head and turned to the door. “I’m here!” he shouted. “Hans. Fuss!” The dog jumped to his feet and fell into step beside him. “Detective Montgomery? Nick? What are you doing here?”
Hope followed them out the door to see man and dog jog around the landing and down to the entryway below.
She heard a second man’s voice now. “We saw your rig out front. Thought maybe you knew something we didn’t.”
“Knew something about what?” Pike asked.
Hope crept to the top of the stairs behind him. “He took someone else, didn’t he? That’s why he was here.”
“The Rose Red Rapist?” At the foot of the stairs, Pike stood taller than either of the two men, one in a gray wool suit and tie, the other wearing jeans and a black leather jacket. The badges they wore identified them as cops, too.
Hope sank onto the top step, still holding the knife. “That was his van I saw, wasn’t it? That was him.”
The shorter of the two detectives pulled back the front of his leather jacket and reached for his gun, his gaze zeroing in on Hope—or, more specifically, on the carving knife she still held in her fist. “Ma’am? I need you to put that down.”
Hope’s breath locked up in her chest and she instinctively recoiled.
Pike put up a hand and warned the dark-haired detective not to unholster his weapon. “It’s okay, Nick. She’s a witness, not a threat. I...” His head tipped down toward Hans. “We...scared her.”
The air gradually eased from her lungs at Pike’s politely vague explanation. She’d pulled a knife and freaked out on him, yet he was still kind enough to defend her. And although she appreciated having that blockade of Pike Taylor’s shoulders between her and the two plainclothes detectives, Hope wisely set the knife down on the floor beside her. She spotted two bobby pins on the next step down and remembered that she probably looked as if she’d been fighting something more than her own fears tonight.
