Silent Guardian

by Mallory Kane

  Resa stood. Apprehension masked the weariness that had weighed her down earlier. Something had happened. Something significant. More certain than the vague note she'd received.

  She'd known Archer only a week, but that was long enough to know how much he valued his privacy. How desperately he wanted to bury himself in that basement firing range of his and never come out.

  There was only one reason he'd give all that up. Only one reason he'd even consider taking on the responsibility for keeping her safe.

  He thought he had the chance to catch the man who'd destroyed his life.

  "It is the Lock Rapist, isn't it?" She caught his arm again. "You've confirmed it."

  He looked down at her fingers, then raised his gaze to hers. "Yes. You're not the only one who got a note."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There was a note in my mailbox when I got back from following you home."

  "You got a note, too?"

  Archer nodded.

  "Well, what did it say?"

  His gaze faltered. "Basically, just that he wants me to release these notes to the media."

  "Good. That's easy enough."

  Archer didn't look up. His fingers worried a corner of the note.

  "Archer?" she said. 'There's something more, isn't there? What is it? What else does he say in your note?"

  Archer folded the note, but before he could cram it into his pocket, Resa caught his arm. "I want to know what it says. I have a right to know."

  He flipped the piece of paper open and handed it to her. She read it out loud.

  '"Detective Archer. You're not as smart as you think you are. I'm looking forward to Theresa Wade. Think she'll be as good as her sister was? Or your wife? I'm pleased to be working with you again. If you release these two notes to the media, I might give you a break.' Looking forward to—me." Her fingers went to her mouth. "He is after me. Because he thinks I can identify him?"

  "And I think he's using you to get to me."

  "And you're planning to use me as bait to catch him."

  Chapter Four

  Archer stared at Resa as her words rang in his ears. Was that what he was doing? Using her to exact his revenge? He didn't think so. But hearing her say it— thrown at him as an accusation—he felt a tiny, niggling doubt creep in. He thrust it aside.

  "No," he said evenly. "I would never place another person's life in jeopardy just to get revenge."

  She pinned him with those dark-green eyes. "Maybe not just, but if it happened to be a side effect, can you honestly say you'd decline the opportunity?"

  "Now you're arguing semantics. Would I go after the Lock Rapist if I had the chance? Absolutely. Is that my sole reason for wanting to protect you? Absolutely not."

  Resa made a face. "I hate it when people ask questions and answer them themselves."

  Archer gave her a wry smile. "Okay, truce. I'll stop asking and answering annoying questions if you'll stop painting me as a bloodthirsty vigilante."

  Her mouth turned up in a sheepish grin. "Fine. You've got a deal."

  "Now, are we straight? You're going home with me until Clint has the staff to set you up in a safe house?"

  Resa took a step toward him, pushing her way past the boundary of his personal space. "On one condition. You teach me to shoot."

  He arched an eyebrow at her. "Seriously? You still plan to keep that gun?"

  "I do, and I'd be a poor gun owner if I didn't learn everything about my weapon, wouldn't I?"

  She was determined. He'd seen that from the beginning. And now, after hearing her admit that he was the first person she'd thought of when she was in fear for her life, he had no choice.

  He was bound to protect her.

  "Ms. Wade?" Clint stepped up behind her and touched her elbow.

  She turned her head toward the detective but didn't break eye contact with Archer.

  "You'll need to come to the station to make a statement."

  "Of course." She turned to look at Clint. "What's the address?"

  Archer slid his hand along the small of her back. "Clint, can't she do the statement in the morning? She's nearly asleep on her feet."

  His friend eyed him narrowly. Archer could practically hear his thoughts. Is there something going on between Archer and Resa ? Just what kind of instructing is he doing inside his sprawling Victorian house ?

  He flattened his lips and sent Clint a disgusted look. "Nothing's going to change between now and tomorrow morning."

  Clint gave an elaborate shrug. "Get her there by nine."

  "Will do." He turned to Resa, but Clint stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  "Geoff, I need to talk to you a minute."

  Resa nodded as Archer followed Clint across the room. "What's the big secret, Clint? I thought we were done here."

  "Geoff, I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to take Resa with you."

  "Why not? You've already made it clear you can't spare anyone to protect her."

  "I'm just concerned about your—"

  "My what? My mental state? My ability to protect her? We've been over that already."

  "No. You're obviously still blaming yourself for everything that's happened. You've got to get over it. Cutting off the media circus surrounding the Lock Rapist was the right thing to do. It should have forced him into the open, trying to garner more attention."

  "Yeah. Well, it did." Bitterness scratched his throat. He'd forced him into the open, all right. The monster had veered from his pattern and gone after Natalie.

  A crime scene investigator approached. "We're done, Detective."

  "Good. Thanks." Clint looked around the room. "Okay, everybody. We're done here. Gather up your stuff and let's get back to the station. I want evidence reports and theories first thing in the morning." He spoke to Archer again. "I'll see you and Resa in the morning."

  Archer gave him a curt nod. "I want to hear about the fingerprint evidence, and anything else they find here. Don't shut me out of the investigation again, Clint. I need all the information I can get to protect her."

  Resa stood near the front door waiting for Archer to finish talking with Clint. Despite her half-hearted efforts not to eavesdrop, she'd heard nearly every word Archer had said, and most of what Detective Banes said.

  So now she knew why Archer had agreed to take her home with him. He felt he'd screwed up the investigation by cutting off the media attention surrounding the Lock Rapist. He thought his wife's death was his fault, and so were the two attacks since then—including her sister's.

  So she had her choice of what to believe—revenge or guilt. Whatever his reason, Geoffrey Archer was going to dog her footsteps until the Lock Rapist was caught or until Detective Banes could provide police protection for her.

  Archer's hand touched the small of her back again—warm and reassuring. "Ready to go? My car's right out front."

  "Oh, no," she countered, raising a hand to stop him right there. "I'm not going to be stuck out there with no means of transportation. I'll take my own car."

  His hand slid around her waist from the back and his head bent until his mouth was near her ear. "Do you understand that your life may be in danger?"

  His preemptive tone irritated her. "I understand that perfectly. What you don't seem to understand is that I've taken care of myself all my life, as well as raising my sister, and I see no reason to change now. Despite what you and Detective Banes think, I am capable of being cautious. But I can tell you right now there's no way I'm going to be stuck miles from town with no car. I have a job. I can't afford to take time off. If I don't finish and deliver the outfits on time, not only will I lose those clients, I'll be branded as unreliable. And the music business is a small town. I'd never sell another design."

  He looked down his nose at her. "I could have sworn you told me you understood how serious this is."

  "I do understand. And the idea that someone wants to hurt me is terrifying. But I can't put my life on hold—"

  He held up both
hands in a gesture of surrender. "Let's ignore for the moment that protective custody is the very definition of putting your life on hold— long enough to avoid being killed. Look, just drop it. It's way too late to argue about it tonight. Take your car. We'll sort out where you will and won't go tomorrow."

  Resa took a long cleansing breath and felt the tightness in her neck and shoulders relax minutely. She knew she hadn't won, but at least he'd called a truce for tonight.

  "Thank you. Now will you help me load my sewing machine and supplies into my car?"

  Judging by his scowl, he already regretted taking on the responsibility of guarding her.

  Early the next morning Archer sat in his desk chair with his forearms resting on his knees. His right hand gripped a spring-resistance hand and finger exerciser. It was configured like trumpet keys. He squeezed, concentrating on pressing with equal pressure on all four finger keys. Of course, his fingers didn't cooperate.

  He clenched his teeth, staring at his index finger as if he could force it to work right by sheer will. The tendons that had been shredded by the bullet were shortened. Straightening all four fingers was almost impossible, and placing any significant strain on his index finger sent pain surging through it. Pain that radiated up his thumb and wrist, caused by the tiny nerve endings that had been torn.

  He squeezed harder. His hand cramped. The exercise grip clattered to the floor. He blurted out a curse and stood and kicked it across the room. It slammed against the opposite wall.

  Then he remembered he wasn't alone. Resa was upstairs.

  He glanced through his office door at the stairs that led to the first floor. He'd closed the door at the top, which cut off most noise from the basement.

  Still, knowing she was under his roof made him feel exposed and vulnerable. He rubbed his freshly shaven cheeks and chin. What the hell had he been thinking, bringing her here?

  He couldn't protect anyone. Hell, he could barely function. For the past fifteen months he'd existed on little more than coffee and guilt. He'd had only one goal, one reason to look forward to each day. The possibility that he could one day confront the Lock Rapist and force him to look down the barrel of the gun that would kill him.

  But now, out of some misguided notion of making up for not stopping the rapist, he'd taken on the responsibility for the welfare of another human being. He'd promised Resa Wade things he couldn't deliver—safety and protection.

  He flexed the fingers of his right hand, watching the white scars stretch and pull. Then he held up his left hand—strong and whole. He still had an hour or so until he had to wake Resa.

  The least he could do was continue to train his left hand to take over for his ruined right one. He opened the top left drawer of his desk and took out his SIG 9mm and a box of cartridges. Then he walked over to the firing lane he used for his practice sessions.

  Grimly, he ejected the magazine and loaded it. Then he slapped it back into place.

  Wrapping his left hand around the grip, he raised the gun one-handed and fired—again and again and again.

  When Resa opened her eyes, for an instant she didn't know where she was. The light fell across her bed in the wrong direction. The bed itself felt different.

  She lay still for a moment. Something else was different, too. Something inside her. The fear and guilt that had weighted her down ever since her sister's attack had lessened. And the reason took the shape of strong broad shoulders and piercing eyes.

  Archer. She sat up and looked around. She was in Archer's house. In his bed—well, one of his beds. His car had ridden her tail all the way out to his house; he'd grabbed her sewing supplies and dressmaker's form out of her trunk and deposited them in this second-floor bedroom in record time. Then he'd pointed out the adjoining bath, told her the bed linens were clean, promised to wake her at eight, and disappeared.

  She chuckled under her breath. It was almost comical, how determined he'd been to get away from her. She pushed back the covers and got up. Glancing at her watch, she was surprised to see that it was barely after seven. Six hours' sleep, and she felt refreshed. She yawned and stretched. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually started the morning feeling rested.

  She was glad for the extra hour to get ready. After a leisurely shower, she pulled her hair back in a ponytail and dressed in a body-skimming linen dress and sandals. A little eye makeup and a dab of foundation and she was ready to go.

  Looking at her sewing machine, she calculated the amount of time she needed to finish the outfits for the awards ceremony. As she'd expected, time was going to be tight.

  With a last glance in the mirror over the old dresser, she stepped out into the hall. There was one other bedroom on this floor—Archer's room. As she headed for the stairs, she glanced in through its open door. There were no lights on and the draperies were closed.

  A shirt was draped over a desk chair. The bedcovers had been hastily smoothed, and the bathroom door was ajar. He was up—it looked as if he'd been up for hours.

  She descended the stairs and went looking for the kitchen. It was at the back of the house, through the living room and dining room.

  Archer wasn't there. Resa glanced at the empty coffeepot, debating whether she should make coffee. Quickly deciding that he might resent her feeling that much at home, she circled through a laundry room and out into a wide hall that led back to the foyer.

  This area she knew. She'd come in through the heavy hardwood front door every evening for the past two weeks. Next to the polished wood staircase that led to the second floor was the door to the firing range.

  She pushed it open. The stairwell was dark, but a weak light shone beyond the foot of the stairs. Archer was probably downstairs in his office.

  She considered turning around and going back to the kitchen, or even sneaking upstairs and pretending to have just finished dressing. She wasn't ready to confront him—not on his own turf. She decided to go back up to the kitchen and wait for him.

  As she stepped backward to close the door, she heard a muffled crack—the distinctive sound of a handgun being fired in a cubicle. Then she heard the gun hit the concrete floor.

  She hurried down the stairs. Archer's office was empty. She walked down the long bank of lanes in the direction from which the sounds had come.

  As she approached lane ten, she saw his shadow. He was bending down to retrieve something. The shadow straightened, and she heard a litany of colorful and inventive curses.

  She stepped around the corner of the cubicle in time to see him place a large 9mm gun in his right hand, much as he'd done for her the other night. He supported his right hand with his left, and held it aimed at the target.

  But something was wrong. The more tightly he gripped the gun's barrel, the more his hand shook. But still he tried. He stretched his fingers, then gripped the handle again.

  His hand jerked, and the gun slipped. He caught it in his left hand before it hit the counter. A quiet groan escaped his lips.

  Resa gasped. She'd had no idea how bad the injury to his hand was.

  Archer froze.

  She waited for him to turn around, pin her with his dark stare, and make some biting comment about her sneaking up on him.

  But he didn't move. His back was stiff and tight. She could hear his rapid breathing.

  She couldn't take her eyes off him. His hair that just missed brushing his collar and the sharp, tense line of his jaw made his neck look vulnerable.

  She wanted to smooth a tendril that had waved the wrong way. As soon as she acknowledged her desire, it morphed into an obsession. Her hand rose.

  "Get out of here."

  His voice was a growl so low, so controlled, that she barely heard it, and yet its tone chilled her.

  "Archer, I'm sorry, I—"

  "Get out," he snapped without turning around.

  She backed away and turned and ran up the stairs, not stopping until she got to the kitchen. For a few seconds she stood there in the dark, hugging herself.r />
  How did he do it? How did anyone exercise that much control over his emotions? She knew his wife's death had been horrifying and devastating. She'd seen newspaper and TV accounts of how he'd walked in on her just as she was raising the gun to her temple. When he'd tried to stop her she'd turned the gun on him.

  He'd caught a bullet in his right hand, and his wife had killed herself.

  Resa closed her eyes and shook her head as waves of anguish squeezed her heart. He had experienced what she feared would happen to her sister. Celia had been on the verge of suicide more than once since her attack. Resa already carried a huge burden of guilt and regret because Celia was attacked while she was living with her. She couldn't imagine how she would go on if Celia committed suicide.

  Not only had Archer had to live with his wife's suicide, he had to live with a damaged hand, a destroyed career and the knowledge that his wife had wanted to die so badly that she'd been willing to kill him rather than allow him to stop her. Wrenching grief tore through her at what he'd been through.

  She put her hands to her cheeks and tried to stop the distressing thoughts.

  A glance at the kitchen clock told her that they needed to leave soon if they were going to be at the police station by nine.

  She ran cool water over her wrists and touched her temples with her wet fingers, working to compose herself. Then she forced herself to think about inane things, like making coffee.

  She finally found the coffee grounds, coffee filters and mugs. It took her a few minutes, but by the time the coffee was made, she'd calmed down.

  She'd poured herself a mug, sweetened it and sat down at the huge, scarred kitchen table when Archer appeared in the doorway.

  She looked up, mildly surprised by his appearance. She'd never paid attention to his clothes, but now she did. He wore impeccably tailored dress pants and a hunter-green shirt with a patterned tie. With his broad shoulders, lean belly and long, strong legs, he could have been a GQ model.

  His face, though, shocked her. She'd expected him to be furious, or coldly silent after she'd witnessed his failure with his gun. But he looked haggard, as if he hadn't slept a wink. His hair was damp from the shower, and he'd shaved, but the razor hadn't removed the lines around his mouth or the faint blue circles under his eyes.