Silent Guardian

by Mallory Kane

  He steeled himself against the feeling that he should be nicer to her. Nice wasn't going to keep her from doing something stupid. Nice wouldn't keep her safe.

  He'd had enough. Time to stop dancing around the truth. "I know who you are."

  Her back stiffened. "Do you?"

  "Yes, I do. And I know that there's a firing range about four miles from your brand-new apartment complex. So why did you come all the way out here to Cheatham County—three times that distance, to stand in a firing lane and stare at your empty gun?"

  She shrugged, but her effort to appear nonchalant failed. "I heard about your range—"

  He cut her off. "No, you didn't. I don't advertise. I don't give lessons."

  "But you are open to the public."

  "Unfortunately." His accountant had recommended that he make the range available to the public. He couldn't afford to maintain the house just on his pension and his teaching salary. "But this range is primarily for my personal use and for the use of the Nashville P.D."

  She shrugged. "Well, your day manager, Frank, took my money quickly enough and assigned me a firing lane. You let me know if I'm taking up valuable space that your police buddies could be using." She started to turn back to the range, but he caught her arm.

  "You came here because of me, didn't you?" He glared at her.

  Resa swallowed and tried to look innocent. She hadn't realized it herself at first. She'd convinced herself that she needed her days free for designing, sewing and client fittings.

  She'd made friends with Frank, and through their conversations she'd found out that Archer spent his mornings at Tennessee State University where he taught two graduate courses in Criminal Justice. Then he drove to Vanderbilt Medical Center for two hours a day of physical therapy on his hand.

  It had taken her a few days to admit to herself that she'd changed to evenings so she could see him.

  All those thoughts rushed through her head in the few seconds while Archer took a deep breath.

  "Don't give me that wide-eyed look," he said. "If you think I'm going to help you because we've both been affected by the Lock Rapist, you can get that out of your head right now."

  "Affected?" She stared at him. "Mr. Archer, people are affected by a sad movie or an unexpected compliment."

  Archer felt pinned by her dark-green eyes. "What do you want me to say? That he ripped our lives to shreds?" The words rasped in his throat. "Okay, I'll give you that."

  She glanced down at his right hand, which was aching with the effort to hold on to her arm. When she looked back up, he saw that same soft, dark flicker in her eyes that he'd seen before. He jerked his hand away.

  "You haven't told me why you came here. Why me?"

  "If you know who I am, then you know why I'm here." She wrapped her arms around herself and looked at a point beyond his shoulder. "My sister left her husband in June of last year. She'd had enough of his drinking and violence. She came to stay with me to—as she put it—absorb some of my strength." She laughed shortly. "If she only knew."

  He waited.

  "Anyhow, she was doing really well. By December, she'd decided to file for divorce. But—"

  "But she was attacked."

  She nodded, looking down. Her fingertips whitened as she tightened her grip on her arms. "It destroyed her. She was never strong—" Resa raised her gaze to his. "She depended on me to keep her safe. And I didn't."

  Pain sliced through Archer's chest. She depended on me. How many times had he thought the same thing? Resa's sister sounded a lot like his wife. Fragile. Fearful. She'd depended on him to protect her. And he'd failed.

  He and Resa were more alike than he'd realized. And he hated it. He didn't want to be like her. He sure as hell didn't want to know how she felt, or recognize how badly she hurt.

  Resolutely, he pushed his own pain and regret back where it belonged, in the lockbox where he kept his heart. "So what now? You're going to become a one-woman vigilante force and go after the guy the Nashville P.D. hasn't been able to catch in three years?"

  Her face turned bright pink, but she lifted her chin and met his gaze. "I want to learn how to protect myself."

  Archer felt something break inside him. He tried to ignore it, but it was too late. The box around his heart had developed a crack, and compassion was leaking out and taunting him with his failure.

  He hadn't been able to save his wife. Hadn't been able to stop the attacks. Could he leave Resa alone to face the monster who'd destroyed both their lives? He knew he couldn't.

  "Put your ear protectors on," he said. He dug in his jeans' pocket for a pair of earplugs and stuck them in his ears. "Can you hear me?"

  She nodded. "Barely."

  "Good. Pick up the gun."

  Her head turned toward him. "You're going to teach me? I thought you said—"

  He shrugged. "I'd have a mess to clean up if you blew off your toe, or someone else's."

  He heard a quiet huff. It almost made him smile.

  She picked up the Glock 19 9mm. It was a compact gun, ideal for carrying as a concealed weapon.

  "First thing—every time you pick up your weapon, check to see if it's loaded." His voice cracked. Self-loathing blanketed him. He knew better than to leave his gun loaded. Knew better than to leave it in plain view on his dresser. But it was too late now.

  "It's loaded," Resa said. "I loaded it a little while ago. For the first time."

  "Check it. Check it every single time. Do you know how to eject the magazine?"

  She pressed the release and the magazine dropped into her left hand.

  "Now inspect it. Make sure the rounds are straight and ready to feed."

  "What if I'm being attacked or carjacked? I can't tell the guy 'Hang on while I check my weapon.'"

  "This is basic maintenance. You check it twice a day. And once a week, you clean it, whether you've fired it or not."

  She glanced at the top of the magazine and ran her thumb across the bullets. She had sixteen rounds. Archer would bet money she wouldn't get a single shot off if she were in a desperate situation. "Good. Slap the magazine back into place."

  She followed his instructions, her hands shaking a little.

  "It's okay. You're doing great," he murmured. "Now, rest your right hand in your left palm."

  She complied clumsily. "I don't know about this. It feels awkward. Can you show me how?"

  He grimaced. He could, but it would be hard, in more ways than one. Even after spending months in physical therapy, and doing strengthening reps on his own, he still had trouble grasping anything heavier than a wine bottle. His buddies on the force, with the exception of Clint, didn't know how bad the damage to his hand was.

  But there was a second problem. It had been months since he'd talked to anyone other than Frank or Clint or his students. He'd had his basement enlarged into an indoor range so he could practice shooting. But after Natalie's funeral and his surgeries, the cavernous below-ground range appealed to his need to hide out and lick his wounds. He'd forgotten how to talk to people.

  So, whether he tried to shoot the gun himself or got close enough to her to show her how, he'd be revealing his weakness to her. He weighed his two options and decided he'd rather touch her than the gun. He was too proud and stubborn to risk dropping it in front of her.

  He took a step forward and reached around her, which placed her back and bottom firmly against him. She stiffened slightly. To his surprise his body stirred to life.

  He hadn't felt anything in so long. Not lust, or curiosity, or even much pain. After Natalie had shot him and killed herself, he'd cut off the last of his emotions.

  The idea that he could react to a woman's body dismayed him. It felt like a betrayal of his wife. He swallowed.

  Even though his arms were longer than Resa's, the tiny cubicle made it difficult to move away from the warm firmness of her body. Not to mention that his nose was practically buried in her hair. It was soft and smooth, and smelled like summer, like melons and s
unshine.

  He clenched his jaw and concentrated on showing her how to hold the squarish, chunky little Glock.

  He pressed the grip against her right palm. "Wrap your thumb and these three fingers around the handle, and your index finger on the trigger."

  Then he showed her how to rest her right hand in the palm of her left. Her hands were cold. He could feel her trembling. Was it because she was afraid of the gun? Or of him?

  "There. That's how you should hold a gun. No one-handed gunslinging. No ridiculous sideways shots like you see in movies. Hold it gently but firmly in both hands." He bent his head toward her ear. "And relax. You're too stiff."

  Okay, that was close. He let go of her and leaned against the bulletproof wall. He sighed, hoping to expel the scent of her hair from his nostrils. He forced himself to concentrate on her hands. She was the first woman he'd even looked at since his wife had died. And he wasn't happy about it.

  "Now line the sights up with your right eye," he ordered gruffly. "No, don't close the left one. Keep them both open. Aim for his chest."

  She uttered a little moan and the barrel wavered.

  "Come on, Resa. You said you wanted to protect yourself. Well, this is how you do it. If you're going to handle a gun, you've got to master it. You're in charge. You—not the gun. Now grip it like I showed you."

  Her shoulders squared and her chin rose. Her fingers tightened around the gun.

  "Look at the target. That's a dangerous man."

  "The Lock Rapist," she whispered.

  "If you had to, could you shoot him?" He saw her throat move as she swallowed.

  "Resa," he snapped. "Could you shoot him?"

  "Yes." Her voice was shaky. "I think so."

  "Because if you don't know you could pull the trigger, we'll stop right now. If you aren't ready to defend yourself with deadly force, you'll just end up putting yourself in more danger."

  She took a deep breath and a round bit of creamy flesh swelled above the low neckline of her top.

  "I can do it." This time her voice was stronger.

  "Good." He forced his attention back to the gun.

  "Now, when I say so, squeeze the trigger smoothly. Don't jerk, don't hesitate. Just squeeze."

  She raised the gun a bit and sighted down it as she took another long breath.

  Archer breathed with her, unable to take his eyes off her strong, delicately rounded arms. He watched, fascinated, as her index finger tightened on the trigger, just like he'd told her.

  The gun went off.

  Resa had expected the gun to kick, but it still surprised her.

  "Oh!" Her heart pounded. Her fingers tingled with reaction from the gun's report.

  Archer stood behind and to the left of her, so close she could feel his breaths on her neck. So close she could smell his clean, citrus scent.

  "That was good. Very smooth."

  "Smooth? Really? I thought I was going to drop it. I'm not sure I could do it again. I didn't expect the trigger to be that hard to pull." Her voice was as shaky as the rest of her.

  "Glocks don't have a safety. You can adjust the trigger sensitivity but I wouldn't recommend it."

  She took off the headphones and let them rest around her neck. Leaning forward, she squinted at the target. "How do you think I did?"

  "On your first shot? There's a small chance you hit the target."

  His voice sounded amused, but when she glanced up there was no trace of a smile on his hard, classically molded face. Instead, he frowned and turned his attention to the recall button. Was he embarrassed by his joke? Or by the fact that he'd been lured into small talk? His cheeks seemed pinker than they had been.

  The target swayed in the breeze it created as it floated toward them. She didn't see a hole.

  "I missed the whole thing." Her ears burned with chagrin.

  The target came to a stop in front of the counter.

  "No, you didn't. Look right there." Archer pointed at the lower left of the silhouette. "You got him in the kidneys."

  "I was aiming for his heart," she said harshly. The silhouette was the rapist, and right then she wanted him to die for what he'd done to her sister.

  Archer's black eyelashes floated down and back up, and he sent her a searching look. Then he nodded.

  "Shoot again. This time get off three shots as fast as you can." He sent the target back downrange.

  She fired, then she put the gun down as if it had burned her. "That's all." She held out her hands, splaying the fingers. "I'm too shaky, and I closed my eyes on the last shot."

  He took her hands in his and turned them palm up. "You might want to wear gloves for a while—driving gloves so your fingers aren't covered, until your skin toughens up." He touched a red place on her palm. "You could get blisters."

  His warm hands bothered her. She didn't like the way his touch made her feel—cared for, protected. She knew from long experience that she couldn't trust that feeling. She'd never been able to depend on others to take care of her. Her mother had worked two jobs and juggled a string of boyfriends. With teaching during the day and waitressing at night, she'd never had time for Resa and her sister, so Resa had raised Celia. And of course it was Resa that Celia had come to when she left her deadbeat jerk of a husband.

  She pulled her hands away from Archer's touch.

  "So what's your plan, Resa?"

  His question caught her off guard. "My plan? Oh, you mean for the gun?" She swallowed and prepared to lie. "After what happened to my sister, I just think I'll feel better knowing I have protection."

  "You're not fooling me, you know."

  She took off the headphones and set them on the shelf, then picked up the gun and ejected the magazine. "Fooling you? I'm not trying to fool you."

  "You saw him."

  The blunt words shocked her. She dropped the magazine to the countertop. "I saw—I saw someone. I have no idea if it was him or not. How could I know?"

  "You're the only witness they have, other than the victims. And they all swear he threw something over their faces so they couldn't see anything. They could be lying—out of fear, maybe, but so far we haven't been able to crack them."

  "I knew Celia couldn't give a description. But none of the others could, either?"

  He shook his head. "They were all attacked in the dark. All asleep. None of them heard anything before he covered their faces. So you're the only person who can possibly identify him. And he saw you."

  Again, his words, uttered in that low, deep voice, ripped through her like a bullet. "He turned and looked at me. He had on a hooded jacket. His face was shadowed. I couldn't see anything but his eyes, and I'm not completely sure that I saw them. I felt them."

  She shuddered and took a step toward him. She had to get out of the tiny cubicle. It suddenly felt too small, too hot. "Excuse me."

  Archer didn't move. "Not yet." He put a hand on either wall. With his height and his broad shoulders, he loomed over her. The fact that he was so much bigger and stronger than her and was blocking her way should have alarmed her, but oddly she felt safe, protected.

  "Do you know the person who's following you?"

  "Following me? How—" Her throat closed up. She hadn't told anyone except the police detective about the dark sedan. It took her a moment to get her voice back. "How do you know that?"

  "I saw a car pull out behind you last night."

  "You did?" A small shred of hope dangled in front of her like a carrot. Maybe if he thought she was in danger, he would help her after all. "You were watching?"

  "This house is on a hill. I could see the moon glinting off a metal surface. Then after you turned, it moved. It wasn't somebody you know?"

  She shook her head. "It's him. I can feel it. It's like he's toying with me. If I slow down, he slows down with me. If I try to maneuver under a streetlight so I can see the make of his car or get a glimpse of the front plate, he hangs back or turns." She shuddered. "Last night he followed me all the way to my apartment complex.
"

  Archer pinned her with his glare. "You knew he was behind you and you led him to your apartment?"

  "I live in a gated community."

  He cursed. "That only works if you're behind the gate."

  "The gatehouse is well-lit. He turned away when I pulled up to the gate. What else could I have done?"

  "You could have turned around and come back here. You could have called the police." He massaged his right palm.

  "Right. I called Detective Banes last week. Fat lot of good it did."

  "So now the Lock Rapist knows where you live."

  She nodded miserably.

  "Okay. Get out your cell phone. I want to give you my number and get yours."

  She retrieved her cell phone from her purse and entered his number.

  "Now. You should move—immediately. And hire a security service."

  "I just moved there. It was the only gated complex in Nashville that I could afford, and I can barely pay the rent now. There's no way I can move again. And I'd never manage to pay a private security firm." She managed a small smile. "So it looks like I'm on my own. Now can I leave?"

  His brow furrowed and he studied her with those dark eyes. She stepped forward, violating his comfort zone and her own. She felt heat radiating from him through the barriers of their clothes. It had to be her imagination.

  He lowered his arms and stood aside, giving her a free path out of the lane.

  "I'll follow you home tonight."

  She turned to look at him. "What? No. I can't let you do that. I'm fine—besides..."

  He watched her expectantly.

  She swallowed. "You're going to think I'm crazy."

  A tight smile lit his face. "I doubt it. Hell, most days I feel like I'm going nuts myself."

  "I think he only follows me on Tuesday. But then I've only noticed him twice, so that's hardly a representative sample."

  "No, but it could be significant. The attacks have occurred in a regular pattern too. June and December, with one exception." Bitterness edged his voice.

  She considered his words. "My sister's attack was this past December. When exactly were the others?"

  "December two years ago, then the next June, then December again—" he paused for an instant"—then February, June, and your sister this past December."