by Sharon Sala
Wilson sighed with relief. They were home. Now all he had to do was get her into bed. He picked her up, eyed the layout of the rooms, then headed for the hallway to the left. The first door he came to was closed, but the second one on the right was ajar. He toed it open, grunting with satisfaction when he saw a bed.
Cat began to rouse as he laid her down, and when she recognized her surroundings, began unzipping her pants, clearly forgetting she wasn’t alone.
Wilson didn’t know whether to help her or get the hell out of the room before she got naked, but the decision was taken out of his hands when she tried to get up, staggered and almost fell.
“Here,” he said, and guided her back to the bed. “Sit down and let me help.”
She didn’t bother to argue when her boots came off, and when he pulled her sweater off over her head, she lifted her arms like a baby.
“Oh, God,” she moaned. “Am I going to die?”
He started to smile, but she’d already faced that question twice in her life and survived, so he supposed, from her standpoint, it was a fair question.
“You’re not going to die. You’re just sick, but I don’t think it’s food poisoning, because you have a hell of a fever.”
He opened the closet and took a flannel nightgown off a hook as Cat motioned toward the bathroom.
“Pills in the medicine cabinet.”
“I’ll get them in a minute,” he said, and then pulled the nightgown over her head, letting it fall loosely down to her waist. “Can you get the rest of your clothes off by yourself?”
Cat looked down, confused by the nightgown bunched around her lap.
“What clothes?”
“Never mind,” he said gently. “I’ll help.”
He slid his hands beneath the gown, undid the clasp on her bra and then pulled it off without touching her. As soon as he had it off, he held out the sleeves of the gown.
“Slide your arms inside,” he said.
She did as he asked, then fell backwards onto the bed with a groan. Her voice was so weak Wilson barely heard her whisper.
“Oh Lord, oh Lord…make this go away.”
Wilson felt sorry for her. Being this helpless was probably twice as difficult to accept for a woman as strong and independent as Cat Dupree.
“Scoot up a little,” he said, and then maneuvered Cat’s head onto her pillow. As soon as he had the covers down and her settled in the middle of the bed, he pulled the hem of the nightgown down, then reached up beneath it and pulled off her jeans and panties.
“Hey,” Cat murmured, and took another helpless swing at him when she felt the panties coming off.
“It’s all right. You’re still decent,” Wilson said as he dodged the blow and quickly pulled the covers over her.
She exhaled on a shaky sigh as he tucked her in.
She was trembling and feverish. It worried him that he hadn’t taken her to the hospital. What if she was desperately ill and he was only making it worse?
He didn’t know what to do next, then remembered the pills she’d mentioned. He ran into the bathroom, got a bottle of pain and fever relief tablets and a glass of water, then hurried back. Once she’d downed the pills, he got a wet washcloth, folded it lengthwise and laid it across her forehead.
Cat sighed. “Feels good.”
He breathed a little easier as she closed her eyes, and while he was watching, she fell asleep.
Wilson sat at her bedside until he was confident that her breathing had evened out. When she finally broke into a faint sweat, he knew the fever had broken and the pills were working.
He thought about calling a cab and going home, but he was afraid that when the pills wore off, her fever would come back and she would be in worse shape than before. Sometime after midnight, he decided he wasn’t going anywhere until he was sure she could cope and began to make himself at home.
He kicked off his shoes in the living room and hung his coat on a tree in the hall. After a quick look into her bedroom to assure himself she was all right, he went to the kitchen and began digging through the refrigerator for something to eat.
To his surprise, there was plenty of food, mostly leftovers, but still intact. Nothing looked moldy or on the verge of turning green, which wasn’t always the case in his own kitchen. He shuffled through the drawers and cabinets until he found what he needed, then dished up some food onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. While he was waiting, he gathered her mail and newspapers, which had accumulated under the slot in the door, and brought them to the kitchen. He tossed everything on the counter, ignoring the fact that several envelopes fell across her answering machine. He did, however, notice the red blinking light, which reminded him to check his own messages. Later, as he was eating, he decided to check his calls.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and listened to the messages, none of which were pressing. When he finished eating, he rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then went back to check on her.
She had twisted and turned from the fever, until one side of her nightgown was rolled up above her waist and the covers were off. He couldn’t help but notice the length of her legs and the slender curve of her hip. And, while he wasn’t going to mess with her gown and take the chance of waking her up, he could pull the covers back over her.
It wasn’t until he bent down to grab the blankets that he saw the small tattoo on her hip.
His eyes widened. He looked at her profile. Even asleep, she appeared daunting. But this little tattoo was proof that there might be a softer side to Catherine Dupree.
The tattoo was a butterfly—and it was pink.
Who would ever have believed that Cat Dupree would be the kind of woman to have a girly thing like that?
Barbed wire? Yes.
A skull and crossbones? Sure.
A snake with fangs exposed? Plausible.
But a tattoo of a small pink butterfly on her butt? Priceless.
Still grinning, he straightened the covers and left her alone. Another facet of this woman had been revealed. It was definitely something to consider, which set him to wondering what else she might be concealing.
As she slept, he prowled. It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, but no one had ever called him a gentleman. He was curious about her and, despite his better judgment, a little intrigued. It wasn’t until he got to her office and saw the boxes stacked against one wall, saw that they were filled with the same things that adorned the walls and the top of her desk, that he got a slow chill.
Every page was of a different man—all criminals with rap sheets—all with varying numbers of tattoos. It was then that he remembered what Flannery had told him—that she and her father had been killed by a tattooed man. The case had long since gone cold, but she, obviously, had not given up the hunt.
Wind was whipping the branches of the lilac bush against Catherine’s window. The sound was familiar, and it barely registered as she turned over and pulled the covers a little closer beneath her chin.
In seventeen days school would be out for Christmas vacation, and she could hardly wait. Daddy had promised to take her to New Mexico to go skiing. It would be their first trip to a skiing resort, but hopefully not their last.
Suddenly the sound of breaking glass filtered through her dreams of hot chocolate, roaring fires at the ski lodge and flying down the slopes so fast that she would outrun the sound of her own laughter.
She opened her eyes, then rolled over and sat up just as a loud thud sounded in the hallway.
“What the—”
It was her daddy’s voice, but it was cut short by the thud. She jumped out of bed and bolted toward the door. What if Daddy had fallen and hurt himself? They couldn’t go skiing if Daddy was hurt.
When she ran out into the hallway, she saw her father crumpled on the floor.
“Daddy! Daddy!” she screamed, and was running toward him when someone came out of the bathroom and grabbed her around the waist.
She started to sc
ream as she fought, kicking and swinging her arms in an effort to get free. Then she heard a rough, ugly voice cursing in her ear and someone telling her to shut up. She answered by kicking backward and knew that she’d hurt the assailant when he suddenly shrieked with pain.
“Bitch!” he screamed.
Catherine saw the glitter of lamplight on metal; then she saw the hand and arm swinging toward her, like an extension of the knife that was going to end her life.
At that moment her father got up from the floor, staggering toward them and cursing the man who held her, begging him to turn her loose.
Suddenly she was falling.
At first she felt no pain, but within seconds of hitting the floor, the coppery scent of blood was in her nose and her throat was on fire. She grabbed at her neck, thinking she’d been burned, only to find her hands covered in blood.
She looked up just as the assailant grabbed her father and began stabbing him repeatedly in the chest.
She tried to scream, but when she inhaled, she choked.
Her father fell lifelessly to the floor as the assailant jumped over him and ran to the front door. Catherine watched him disappear into the night as she waited to die.
Over and over, she struggled to breathe, then finally, blessedly, everything went dark.
Cat sat straight up in bed, choking and coughing and grabbing her throat, certain that her hands would come away covered in blood. Instead, all she felt was the hard ridge of scar, followed by the certainty that, although she was in her bedroom, she was not alone.
She rolled toward the bedside table, pulling a handgun from the drawer as she turned on the lamp.
Wilson had been dozing in a small, overstuffed chair, but the sudden brightness, coupled with the fact that he was now staring down the barrel of a gun, was better than any alarm clock he’d ever owned.
“Don’t shoot,” he said quickly. “It’s me, Wilson McKay.”
Cat was breathing hard and shaking as she leaned back against the headboard and let the gun fall in her lap.
“What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?”
He frowned as he eyed the gun lying in her lap.
“Put that thing away,” he muttered, waiting for her to do as he’d asked. When the gun was back in the drawer, he answered. “You nearly passed out in the parking lot of the police department. Good Samaritan that I am, I brought you home, then held you in the parking lot while you threw up on my shoes.”
“Oh Lord,” Cat muttered, but Wilson seemed bothered that she’d pulled a gun on him and wouldn’t stop talking. If he only knew how badly her head was pounding, he would shut the hell up. Trouble was, she couldn’t focus enough to tell him.
“Your neighbors in 6E helped me get you inside the apartment. I put you to bed and gave you some pills—which have obviously broken your fever, because you’re back to your normal bitchy self.”
Cat fell back against the pillows, staring at him in disbelief.
Wilson’s tirade ended as quickly as it had begun. He took a deep breath then stood, walked to the bed and felt her forehead. It was damp, but cooler. The fever was gone.
“Do you need anything?” he asked. “Water? Something for pain?”
She shook her head no, then groaned when the motion made her feel as if the bed was spinning.
“Are you going to be sick to your stomach again?”
“No.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Water?” Her voice sounded weak.
“Not a problem,” he said and took the glass from the table and filled it with cool, fresh water, then carried it back to her bed.
He steadied her as she sipped it, then watched her give in to weakness as she fell back onto the pillow with a thump.
“I feel like shit. What happened?”
Wilson eyed the dark circles beneath her eyes and then laid the back of his hand against her forehead just to make sure the fever had abated.
“I’d guess you picked up some kind of flu bug.”
Cat closed her eyes.
“Not a bug. Nothing that small could possibly be causing this much agony.”
Wilson grinned. Her sense of humor was unexpected. He watched her hand go to her throat, then trace the scar on her neck. His grin died as he remembered how abruptly she’d awakened.
“Did you have a bad dream?” he asked.
He heard her snort. At least it sounded like a snort, but he’d never heard a woman really snort before. It was somewhat surprising, as was most everything else about Catherine Dupree.
“Are there any other kinds?” she asked.
He frowned.
She scrubbed her hands across her face in an effort to wipe away the memory. When she lowered her hands, he realized she was staring straight at him.
“Sorry about the gun. Sometimes my dreams get mixed up with reality.”
“Remind me never to sleep with you,” he said, and when her mouth dropped open, he realized what he’d said. “Well…that’s not exactly what I meant. I just meant that I need to be the one sleeping on this side of the bed, so that when you go for the gun, you have to crawl over me to do it.”
Cat’s cheeks burned.
“Not in this lifetime,” she muttered.
He grinned again, then winked.
“I think you’re well enough to be left on your own now.” He stood up, then dug in his pants pocket and pulled out the little silver charm. “Hold out your hand,”
Cat did so, palm upward. When she saw the glint of silver as he dropped the charm into her hand, her vision blurred.
“I’ve been carrying it with me for days,” he said.
A muscle jerked at the side of Cat’s mouth.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see this again,” she said, and then closed it within her fist.
“I can see it means a lot to you. Glad I found it.”
Cat looked up at him, shivering slightly as she realized it was the first time a man had ever been in her bedroom. Not that she was a virgin. Far from it. But she’d never allowed anyone into the world that was hers alone. Now here he was, mopping up her puke and wiping her brow as if she were nothing but some helpless baby.
“I owe you,” she said.
He grinned again. “Yeah, I know.”
His grin was aggravating. She glared.
“Lock the front door behind you when you leave.”
“No problem. I just need to call a cab first.”
She frowned again. “Where is your car?”
“Back in the precinct parking lot.”
“Then how did you get here?”
“We got here in your car. The keys are in the drawer there.” He pointed to the small table beside her bed. “You’re welcome, and I’ll be seeing you soon, so get well, okay?”
“Uh…yes, but—”
Wilson put his hand on the drawer where she kept the gun, then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
“I would much rather have kissed your lips, but I was afraid you might be catching. However, on second thought…” He readjusted his aim and brushed his mouth across her lips. “It can’t really matter.”
Cat was ill-prepared for Wilson’s onslaught. She pulled back in anger.
“Get your pushy ass out of my bedroom.”
He straightened up, then shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at her without speaking.
“You heard me,” she said. “If I owe you something, I’ll pay up in money, not with my ass.”
Wilson glared back. “I didn’t hear anyone mention your ass except you, and just for the record, it’s too damn skinny for my liking.”
He walked to the door, then turned around, as if memorizing the way she looked with her hair tumbling down about her face and her eyes glittering with anger. Finally he shook his head, as much at himself as at her.
“Call me if you need me. I left my card by the phone.”
Before she could gather her wits enough to speak, he was gone.
&nbs
p; Six
By morning Cat was lucid enough to remember that Wilson McKay had spent the night in her apartment and that Mimi was still missing. There was a knot of pure fear in the pit of her stomach. No matter what anyone said—no matter how logical they made Mimi’s disappearance seem—she knew her friend was gone. She would never hear her voice again.
Still feeling miserable from whatever she’d caught, she ignored her frustration and anger with Detective Flannery and gave him a call.
Flannery had been at work all of fifteen minutes and was stirring sugar in his coffee when his phone rang.
“Homicide—Flannery.”
“Detective, this is Cat Dupree.”
Flannery resisted the urge to duck as he reached for a pad of paper and wrote down her name.
“Yes, ma’am, how can I help you?”
Cat frowned. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her, and she wasn’t going to apologize for her outburst.
“I’m calling to ask if you’ve discovered anything regarding the disappearance of my friend Marsha Benton.”
Flannery frowned. So the woman was still missing. That was news to him.
“Miss Dupree, I told you when you were here that, at this point, this isn’t a case for Homicide.”
Cat closed her eyes.
Flannery didn’t defend his stance. He just kept talking.
“I will tell you that I made a couple of calls. A call to Presley Machines verified your belief she’d been fired, and there was no answer at her apartment. I did this purely on my own. It’s not an active case and won’t be unless there’s further reason to investigate. I’m sorry. Again, if you’re still convinced there’s been foul play, you need to file a Missing—”
Cat hung up while he was still talking.
When Flannery heard the click and realized she’d disconnected, he cursed beneath his breath. He didn’t like being accused of shirking his duties, because he took them very seriously. But he didn’t know how to deal with someone as single-minded and hard-headed as Cat Dupree. There were ways to proceed with a situation, and she was ignoring them all.
