“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Nothing serious. I just twisted my ankle.”
“Damn, that was my fault, wasn’t it. My take-cover routine needs work.”
“Don’t worry about it. At least I’m not dead.”
“Yeah.” He gave her a grim smile. “Yeah, I guess it’s all in the way you look at it. But put your weight on me so you don’t make things any worse.” With that, he wrapped his arm around her waist and helped her hobble up the stairs.
After the front door had closed behind them, she started feeling better. Not much, though. She’d never been shot at before, and it wasn’t something she ever wanted to experience again.
But once they were standing waiting for the elevator, Cole’s arm still firmly around her, she began to calm down considerably. After all, the shooter was probably miles away by now. Of course, if he was, there’d be almost no chance of the police picking him up.
When she voiced that thought, Cole said, “They might find him. I got a quick look at him—saw enough that I was able to give them a description. But let’s wait and talk about things when we get upstairs.”
She nodded. Waiting until she’d recovered a little more was probably a good idea.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he added, glancing down at her as he spoke.
She could feel the warmth of his breath fanning her skin, and the sensation sent a tiny ripple of desire through her. In one way, it took her completely by surprise. Only minutes ago they’d almost been killed, and it seemed bizarre that she was aware of being attracted to any man when she’d barely stopped shaking.
On the other hand, it was Cole who’d rescued her from the line of fire. So why should feeling some-thing positive toward him be even remotely surprising?
After considering that for a moment, she silently admitted she was trying to fool herself. There was a big difference between “something positive” and what she’d just felt.
But she didn’t want to start feeling that way about him. Or to be so aware, this very minute, of the way the heat from his body was mingling with her own body heat. And if she didn’t want to be feeling these things, then she shouldn’t be standing with her body pressed against his.
“My ankle’s starting to feel better,” she said. “I think I’ll be able to walk all right now.”
“Good.”
When he took his arm from around her, she told herself she’d just made a very wise move. She had Brian in her life. She wasn’t in the market for any other man. And she certainly didn’t need any unnecessary complications while she was working with Cole.
She glanced at him and caught him watching her, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. And since that was the last thing she wanted him to know, she mentally scrambled for something to say. Anything, as long as it would make him figure she hadn’t been thinking about him.
“This elevator,” she finally said, gesturing toward its brass door. An elevator might be a pretty inane topic of conversation, but it was the best she could come up with.
“It was once the private elevator to a suite in an elegant old hotel. The people who renovated here bought it when the hotel was being demolished.”
“Aah,” he said, looking as if he wondered why on earth she was telling him the history of an elevator.
Fortunately, before she could say anything even more improbable, the brass door slid open.
“What do people do on moving day?” he asked when he saw how small the interior was.
“Oh, there’s a freight elevator in the back of the building, left over from its warehouse days. And it’s huge.”
Inside the tiny confines of this one, though, there was no choice about standing only inches away from’ Cole. And like it or not, she was feeling very aware of him again.
Telling herself it was something she’d just have to ignore, she tried to do exactly that until they reached her floor.
“Everything look okay?” he said when the door opened and they started down the hall.
The question made her uneasy. “Why wouldn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Standard question. I’m a detective, remember?”
She stopped in front of her door, caught his gaze and held it. Downstairs, he’d suggested waiting to talk about things until they got up here. Now some-thing in his eyes was telling her there were more “things” than she was aware of.
“Let’s get inside where you can take your weight off that ankle.”
“All right,” she said slowly. Until he got around to telling her exactly what was bothering him, she simply wouldn’t let herself wonder about it. Her imagination would probably come up with some pretty horrible possibilities.
“This leads into my office,” she said, inserting the key. “I’d like to have a second door, directly into the apartment area, but the owners won’t go for the idea.”
“Landlords are like that, aren’t they?”
She managed a smile, but she didn’t like this game of pretending nothing was wrong when she knew there was. Opening the door, she flicked on the light—just a little nervously.
When her office looked perfectly normal, she felt a flutter of relief. Then Bogey and Bacall came meowing hungrily in from the apartment, the way they always did when she got home late.
While she bent to stroke them, she kept one eye on Cole. He was glancing around at the gray suede-covered office walls, the Spartan-straight raw-silk drapes, and the enormous Louis XVI bookcase that held both books and her collection of glass paper-weights.
“I’m impressed,” he said, his gaze lingering on her mahogany partners desk.
Forcing another smile, she stood up, wincing when pain shot through her ankle. “Good. An interior designer’s office is an advertisement for her work.”
“And these guys are…?” he asked, gesturing at the cats who were now wrapping themselves around her legs.
“Actually, only Bogey’s a guy. Bacall’s a female. But since they’re both fixed, it probably doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, I’ll bet it matters to a guy named Bogey—fixed or not. He’s got a macho image to live up to.”
“Well, he doesn’t do a very good job of it. He’s a real sweetie.”
She led the way through to the apartment, trying not to limp. But she obviously wasn’t successful, because when she started for the kitchen, Cole said, “Will you just sit down before you make that really bad?”
“As soon as I feed the cats.”
“I’ll feed them. You sit.”
“Well…okay. Thanks. The cans are in the cupboard to the right of the sink. And Bogey’s bowl is the blue one, Bacall’s is the pink.”
Cole shot her a wry glance.
“I know,” she said before he could say anything. “It’s awfully stereotypical, but I wasn’t in a feminist mood the day I bought them.”
“What I was going to say was that I’m still missing information. I don’t know which cat is which.”
“Oh, sorry. The gray one’s Bogey and the rusty one’s—”
“Bacall.” Cole smiled. “I don’t need it entirely spelled out”
“No, of course not. You’re a detective,” she said, surprised to find she was up to saying anything even remotely humorous.
“Very funny,” he muttered, but then he smiled again.
He had, she thought as she headed for the couch, a very engaging smile.
The message light on her answering machine was flashing, so she pressed it while she eased off her shoes, certain she knew who’d called.
She was right.
“Beth,” her mother’s worried voice said, “Mark just left, and I’m terribly concerned about you. Why didn’t you tell me you were having sessions with him? And now you’re going to be traipsing around with a private eye?
“I just…well, I guess, at this stage, there’s no point in saying I don’t think forcing yourself to remember was a good idea. But if you’re feeling even the least bit fragile, I want you to come home and stay a
t the house for a while.
“I’m going to be out tonight—possibly quite late—but you know where the spare key’s hidden. And if you don’t come, be sure to call me in the morning. I want to talk to you about working with this private eye.”
Pushing Rewind, Beth glanced over at Cole.
“She leaves a spare key hidden?” he said. “Doesn’t she know what a bad idea that is?”
“Well, she has a problem with losing her keys. Actually, I do, too. I think it’s genetic.”
“But you don’t have one hidden out in the hall, do you?”
“No, my solution’s to carry an extra set. But my mother figures she’s got a hiding place that nobody would ever find.”
“Which means it’s not under the mat or in the mailbox. But let me guess. Under a rock in the garden?”
Beth smiled. “You got it in one. Still, it would take someone a while to turn over every rock in the garden.”
“There are crooks who leave no stone unturned,” he said dryly.
When that made her smile again, he grinned. “Two smiles in a row? I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead.” With that, he went back to dishing out the cat food.
Watching him across the counter that separated the kitchen from the living area, she was surprised that such a ruggedly masculine man could look so domesticated. “Do you have a cat?” she asked when he looked over again.
“Not anymore. When my marriage broke up, my ex-wife got custody.”
So that was why he lived alone. She was tempted to ask why his marriage had broken up. And about whether there were any children his ex-wife had gotten custody of, as well. But since she intended to keep things strictly business between them, asking anything more about his personal life wouldn’t be a good idea.
When he put the bowls back down on their mat, the cats gave him a couple of grateful meows before digging in.
He headed over to the couch, reaching beneath the back of his jacket as he walked and producing a handgun. “This won’t make you nervous if I put it on the coffee table, will it?’’
She shook her head, although it actually did make her nervous. But in another way it made her feel safer.
“So,” he said, kneeling down. “Let me have a look at that ankle.”
“Oh, no, don’t bother. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Ignoring her words, he gingerly took her foot in his hands.
She swallowed hard. She’d never thought of her foot as an erogenous zone, but when he began moving his fingers slowly over it, she felt a lazy, sensual warmth spreading through her.
“A little swollen,” he murmured. “Does this hurt?” He gently twisted her ankle.
“Only a bit.”
“Good. I think, at worst, it’s a minor sprain. Maybe not even that bad. But if it’s bothering you in the morning, you should put on a tensor bandage. I—” He stopped speaking as the phone began to ring.
“I’ll let the machine pick up,” she said, glancing anxiously over at it.
“If it’s your crank caller, let me pick up.”
They waited, Beth hoping it was her crank. But it was Brian’s voice that finally came on the machine. “Beth, are you there, love?”
She looked at Cole, the strangest feeling in her chest. Then it vanished before she could identify it.
“Excuse me,” she said, forcing her eyes from his. “I’d better take this.”
COLE HAD BEEN TRYING not to listen in on Beth’s conversation, but hadn’t been doing a very good job of it.
So far, he’d gathered her caller’s name was Brian, that he was some kind of troubleshooter for a computer company, and that the company was having major problems out West—which meant that Brian had a suddenly scheduled trip to Vancouver in the morning.
Beth, for her part, was giving him little information. She hadn’t even mentioned the shooting. Mostly, she’d just been making the occasional comment in response to things he said.
“So you don’t know how long you’ll be gone?” she asked.
During the silence following that, Cole focused on one of the paintings. It was done in warm shades of yellow and orange and seemed perfect in the room. Of course, everything seemed perfect in the room.
The two pale rugs that defined the living and dining areas were nubby wool, so thick his shoes sank into them.
The couch and chairs were big and comfortably stuffed, yet elegant. And even though they were contemporary, they looked just right with the antique accents and the big old polished armoire that he assumed concealed a television and CD player and whatever. The dining room furniture was also antique, although he had no idea what style it was.
He also had no idea how all those centuries-old pieces could look as if they’d been made for this modern space, with its clean lines, snowy white walls and skylights.
Somehow, Beth had pulled everything together so the apartment seemed eminently lived-in, yet looked like a picture from a glossy magazine. From what he’d seen so far, she was a first-rate designer.
Looking at her, he found himself wondering if her career was the most important thing in her life. And if that explained why she wasn’t married. But what did it matter to him?
Nothing, he told himself.
“Brian, it’s all right,” she said, breaking the silence. “When you figure out what’s happening, you can let me know.”
Bogey wandered over and began purring at Cole’s feet, so he picked up the little guy and scratched him behind the ear, forcing his thoughts back to that incident in the street.
It might have been just a random shooting, of course, but his gut was telling him it hadn’t been. There were reasons this city was known as Toronto the Good. And one of them was that there weren’t many random shootings.
“Me, too,” Beth said into the phone, so quietly he barely heard the words.
He rubbed the cat under its chin. “Me, too,” as in she’d miss this Brian? Or “me, too,” as in she loved him?
Obviously, she was seriously involved with the guy. Which meant that Mr. Cole Radford had better just forget about those thoughts that had been sneaking around in his head. The ones telling him there were exceptions to every rule—including his one about not mixing business and pleasure.
From here on in, he was going to ignore the fact she was an attractive woman. And ignore the way her scent made him think of a meadow in spring.
He’d also stop noticing that whenever she wasn’t too anxious or frightened, a neat sense of humor surfaced. From here on in, she was a client. Period.
While Brian was saying a prolonged goodbye, Beth kept guiltily thinking she still had time to tell him about what had been happening since she’d last seen him.
But she just didn’t feel it would be a good idea. Given that he hadn’t approved of her trying to re-member Larisa’s murder, learning she had wasn’t going to make him happy. So it was something that would be better discussed in person.
As for her getting shot at…Well, telling him about that would only make him worry while he was away, and he already worried about her too much. It would also give him more ammunition for his ongoing argument that they should be living together.
That, she thought fleetingly, was something she’d have to make a decision about soon. He hadn’t exactly given her an ultimatum, but it was obvious that he’d almost run out of patience.
As if she were sending thought vibes through the phone lines, he said, “So, while I’m away, think some more on what we’ve been talking about, eh? You know how much I worry about you living in that neighborhood alone.”
“I know,” she murmured. But until she was sure she loved him enough to take things a stage further…
‘‘I’ll call you once I see what’s what. You take care while I’m gone, eh?”
“Of course I will. You, too. Bye.”
Hanging up, she looked across the coffee table to where Cole was sitting. “Sorry that took so long.”
“No problem.”
“What about the dec
af? Would you like me to make some?”
He shook his head. “Thanks, but I just want to talk to you for a minute and then I’ll head home.”
“All right,” she said slowly. Finally, they were getting to whatever it was he’d been holding off saying, and his expression told her she wasn’t going to like hearing it.
“Beth, I’m afraid there’s no way of putting this without frightening you, but try not to let it scare you too much.”
“All right,” she said again, mentally bracing for the worst.
“I think we’ve got to assume that guy with the gun was specifically after you.”
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered. Even though she’d already realized that might be the case, hearing Cole say he thought it was made things seem far worse.
“He might not have been, but it would be dangerous as hell for us not to proceed as if he was.”
When she tried to speak, her throat was so dry that she had to swallow a couple of times before she could. “That’s why you asked if everything looked okay when we first got up here, isn’t it,” she said at last. “You think if it was someone trying to kill me, he might try again. And that he might come right into the building to do it.”
Cole pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to the couch. “Look,” he said, sitting down beside her. “When I phoned the police, I left my cell phone number. If they pick up the guy, they’ll call me. Then we’ll know you’ll be safe.”
“They won’t pick him up,” she said, trying to get control of her fear. “On a nice night like this, there must be thousands of men wandering around out there.”
“Not wearing coveralls.”
“Coveralls,” she repeated.
Cole nodded. “Like garage mechanics wear. And he had on a gorilla mask. One of those rubber jobs you pull on over your head.”
She could feel her fear escalating. “A mask. But he’d have taken that off right away, wouldn’t he? As soon as he was out of sight?”
“Probably. Still, a guy wearing coveralls…The police might spot him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the mask? Before now?”
The Missing Hour Page 6
