by Julie Miller
Charlotte reached for his hand. He stopped.
She’d just dismissed him, just denied wanting to feel anything like a normal man-woman relationship with him. And now she was clinging to his hand.
For a split second, he seemed just as stunned by the impulsive contact as she was. But then, before she could tell herself to let go, he folded his strong fingers around hers and pulled her close behind him, shielding her from an unwanted visitor more effectively than the carved Etruscan bronze had.
Trip’s deep voice took command of the room. “You’ve been dismissed,” he paused to read the name on the gray uniform, “Bud.”
“I’m just trying to do a nice thing here.”
She buried her face between Trip’s shoulder blades, clutching both hands around his. “He called me on that phone.”
“Whoa, I didn’t call anybody. I didn’t use any of your minutes.” Trip was pushing Bud out the door. “I’m just returning what I found.”
“I don’t want it. Take it away.”
“You heard the lady. Wait.” Trip pulled one of the black gloves off his belt. He understood the he Charlotte was talking about. “I’ll take the phone. Now go.”
As Trip wrapped up the cell and closed the door, she could hear Bud whining all the way down the hall. “Thanks for going out of your way, Bud. Just trying to do my job, ma’am. Lousy thanks.”
Trip turned before the voice faded. “When did you get another call from the killer?”
“How did he get that number? It was a brand-new phone.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Charlotte, when?”
“At the cemetery. Just after I got that note. He was laughing at me, at…rattling me. That’s why I panicked.”
Trip swore. “That means he was close enough to watch you. He’s getting off on your distress. Who has that kind of access to you?”
“No one does.” With a jerky shrug, Charlotte pulled her fingers away from the warmth and strength of Trip’s hand. Trying to hug away the chill that shook her from inside and out, she stepped around him and turned the doorknob. “At least, no one does when I’m locked in here. You’d better go, too.”
Every muscle inside Charlotte reached out to the comforting, abundant heat of Trip’s body when he walked up behind her. But her mind wouldn’t give in and move the way her body wanted her to.
“There’s safety in numbers, Charlotte—not isolation. Whatever’s happening isn’t going to stop just because you lock that door.”
“What’s happening is that someone’s trying to drive me crazy. The phone calls, the notes, the loud noises—they’re all things that happened to me when I was kidnapped. I know what they all mean now—the taunting and the terror. If this guy knows everything that happened—if that’s what is waiting for me…”
“Why would someone want to do that to you?”
“I don’t know.” Her shoulders sagged. “But I can’t go through that again. I’m not strong like I used to be. I just can’t do it. Security and predictability in my routine mean everything to me now. Trip?”
Damn, couldn’t the man take a hint? Now he was wandering through her sitting room, peeking into her bedroom and bath. He looked at the artifacts set on nearly every table and desk, checked the books on her floor-to-ceiling shelves, studied pictures on the walls. Charlotte huddled at the door and watched him circle.
“You know, when I was growing up, a lot of people misjudged me because I was already about this big when I started high school. Plus, I wasn’t…the best student on the planet. I didn’t like it when people pointed it out to me.” He stopped in front of her wall of books, stroking the spine of one leather volume and then pointing to one of her degrees she had hanging on the wall. “You must be pretty smart.”
“You’re not a stupid bully, Trip.”
“I said that out loud, huh?” His self-deprecating smile tickled something deep inside her, waking a compassion she wouldn’t have thought a man of Trip’s skills and strength would need or want. His eyes sought hers, and dared to look beneath the surface, from clear across the room. “My point is, people can change. If we’re not who we want to be, we have the power to do something about it. I have dyslexia. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve outgrown some of it as I’ve matured, and retrained my brain on how to read things. But it takes me time, you know, to read books and take tests and fill out forms. I’ve got so much to catch up on that I’m never gonna know everything I want to.”
Charlotte took a step into the room. “How is that like surviving a kidnapping and having every decision you make, every person you meet, colored by that nightmare?”
“I’m guessing you’ve never been called stupid.”
Her heart ached for the young man he’d once been. She couldn’t imagine absorbing such an insult, especially as an adolescent. But surely that was all behind him. He was a grown man now, exuding enough confidence to fill the room. “I imagine it’s a struggle—something you should take pride in for overcoming. Clearly, you’re an intelligent man or you wouldn’t have the job you do. You wouldn’t be able to break down doors with tables or rig up leashes from handcuffs.”
“Thanks. But I didn’t always see myself that way.” Trip strolled back toward the door. “You want to change. You cared about your friend who died and wanted to be there to honor him. You love that mutt of yours to pieces. Your eyes—” he shook his head, as if in wonder “—say everything you think and feel.” He waved his fingers in front of her face. “You’re the one who took my hand.”
He was standing right in front of her now. She answered to the letters emblazoned at the middle of his chest. “I was more afraid of Bud than I was of you. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to be normal again, that I’m ready to make myself a target for some sadistic stalker who seems to know exactly what scares me the most. How am I supposed to fight when I don’t know who or why I’m fighting?”
“All I’m saying is, you can change if you want to. You can be stronger. I’ll protect you all the way until you get there if you say the word. But it won’t be easy. I discovered I didn’t have all my demons licked when I met you in that museum the other night.”
Charlotte tilted her head to find a curiously indulgent smile waiting for her. “What does that mean?”
“In some ways, every time I run into you, it’s like high school all over again. You make me feel like I have to prove something, and I haven’t had to prove anything to anyone for a long time.”
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“Yeah, I do. You still don’t trust me.”
Well, he’d certainly kept his word about one thing. He didn’t lie. So they both had things they wanted to change. Good luck with that. “If we were in high school, I’d be the four-eyed brainiac in college-prep classes and you’d be the resident bad boy in shop or auto mechanics. Our paths would never cross.”
Her smile faded along with his. But then something warm and mischievous colored his eyes. Before she could speculate on the change, he slid his finger and thumb beneath her chin and tipped it up another notch. He caught her startled gasp beneath his lips and pressed his mouth against hers. The kiss was tender, warm, brief.
He paused for a moment, his breath whispering against her skin. Then he tunneled his fingers into the curls at her nape, dipped his head and kissed her again. More firmly this time—a little less gentle, a little more possessive. He caught her bottom lip between both of his and drew his tongue along the curve, triggering a moist arrow of heat that made her fingers latch on to his biceps and her insides go liquid. Her lips pouted out, chasing his, foolishly wanting more, when he pulled away. Trip grinned. “Then I’m glad we’re not in high school.”
She didn’t deserve that grin, wasn’t sure she could even remember the last time a man had kissed her—didn’t think a grown man as sexy and strong as Trip ever had. Charlotte’s brain was spinning with questions, and she felt a little too flustered to speak coherently at the moment.
Fortunately, Trip Jones had no trouble with wor
ds or kisses or flaky plain Janes with a quirk for every day of the week. He scooted her to one side and opened the door. “Lock this behind me. And remember, you haven’t seen the last of me yet. I’ve got your back.”
She pushed the door shut after he stepped into the hallway, then scrambled the code on the keypad to lock it securely. She turned and leaned back against the door, drawing in a weary, thoughtful breath. Could she really conquer her phobias the way Trip had apparently conquered his reading disorder? Could she stand up to a killer who seemed to want to literally scare her to death? Could she ever be normal enough to act on this unexpected bond she was building with Trip?
I’ve got your back.
Charlotte knew that Trip believed that promise.
But could she?
THE MAN RAN HIS FINGERS around the tiny circular dent on the tailgate of the black pickup truck, relying on the steady fall of rain to wash away any prints he might leave behind.
The shot wasn’t terribly accurate if the prankster had been aiming for Charlotte. The scattershot approach was definitely too messy for his tastes. The randomness of firing into a crowd left entirely too much to chance.
He flipped up his collar and walked around the truck that was still steaming from the heat of the engine and counted one, two, at least three or four shots, judging by the shattered glass sitting in a puddle on the driver’s seat. He’d wager the press had gotten some interesting pictures for the evening news, although he doubted if Charlotte would ever see them or the headlines surrounding the day’s events. Jackson Mayweather and all his money would see to that.
So what was the advantage to his unknown and unwanted accomplice’s attempt when his call and missive at the cemetery had already produced the desired results of tearing away at Charlotte Mayweather’s fragile sense of security?
Straightening, he slowly turned 360 degrees, squinting into the rain as if the other man was still out there. Who the hell would shoot at her?
He had his plan carefully mapped out. One step at a time. Take away her safety net of familiar faces and staid routines. Make the phone calls, send the notes. Make her face everything she feared—loud noises, strangers, crowds, drugs, violence, isolation—everything that had been in the papers about her kidnapping. And then he’d add death to her story.
On his terms. In his own good time.
He buried his hands in his pockets and chuckled, the sound swallowed up by the storm. There was something extraordinarily delightful in watching Charlotte screaming like a crazy woman behind the wheel of a truck as she barreled through the gates of her own home.
Crazy was good. Crazy was justice.
But he wanted the satisfaction of showing Miss Brainiac that she was no better than him. Telling him no. Treating him like the hired help. Ignoring the gallantry she didn’t deserve.
She was his to destroy.
No one else’s.
Now to get out of the damn rain and get back to work.
Chapter Seven
Trip cradled the china cup that was far too delicate for his fingers in his open palm, and settled for smelling the coffee he’d been served this morning. A good ten years had passed since he’d been summoned like a rookie being called on the carpet for blowing an arrest. And his morning briefings had never taken place at a swanky, old-money estate where this dining room alone was as big as his entire apartment.
But Captain Cutler had okayed it—had encouraged Trip to answer Jackson Mayweather’s invitation to breakfast, especially if the serial killer who’d targeted Alex Taylor’s fiancée last year was now back in the picture and had set his sights on Charlotte. SWAT Team One had a personal connection to this case. The captain had told Trip that as long as there was a threat to someone the team cared about, then the team itself was at risk. If he had an in to keep tabs on the investigation, then use it. Let Alex hole up with Audrey on twenty-four-hour protection detail while Sergeant Delgado, Randy Murdock and Captain Cutler held down the fort at KCPD headquarters. Trip was here amongst the businessmen and lawyers and Fourth Precinct detectives to represent the interests of the team.
Besides, the scenery here was more interesting than any morning roll call meeting or team briefing. And he wasn’t talking about the suits and ties seated around one end of the long dining room table.
Trip leaned against the oak frame beside a bank of windows and peeked through the sheers into a tiny square of lawn surrounded by a tall fence covered in ivy. It had no gate he could see and was only accessible from an entrance in the back of the house itself. It was separate from the rest of the detailed landscaping on the grounds, nothing but grass and a small patio. And he guessed it served one purpose.
Max, an energetic, one-eared mix of shepherd and terrier, jumped into Charlotte’s arms. The two went down on the slick wet grass and rolled, and she came up laughing.
For one surreal moment, he thought the rare glimpse of sunshine between storm fronts was playing tricks on his eyes. Charlotte Mayweather laughing, unguarded—her mouth open and her toffee-colored curls bouncing around her head—stirred something warm and appreciative in his blood. Made him think of that unexpected urge he’d had to kiss her yesterday—and the even stranger sense of territorial rightness that had flowed through his veins when she’d kissed him back.
Maybe some ancient magic had gotten inside him when she’d cut him with that old sword. Because there was something about all the crazy that was Charlotte Mayweather that kept getting under his skin.
Maybe it was the glimpses of the woman she was meant to be, like the one he saw now, surrounded by fresh air and her precious pooch, that intrigued him. She was wearing bright red rain boots and didn’t seem to care a lick that she had mud and grass stains splashed on her bottom and the elbows of her red-and-gold-striped rugby shirt. Her jeans skimmed over her healthy curves nicely, and other than the funky earrings that glistened like gold Aztec sunbursts, she looked more like an outdoorsy kind of woman than a locked-up recluse—a woman better suited to running with Max in a dog park, traipsing through archaeological ruins or camping out in a tent with him, a campfire and one sleeping bag.
Time out, big guy. One sleeping bag? So when exactly did that idea pop into his head? The woman had forced him to get a tetanus shot, put his truck in the shop and wounded his pride. So why was his body humming with the idea of discovering what other hidden treasures Charlotte possessed?
He had to be honest with himself and admit that the team wasn’t the only reason he’d agreed to come this morning. He still had something to prove to Charlotte, and he wasn’t giving up on getting her to believe that he was one of the good guys until she stopped looking at him with those big gray eyes as though he was part of the nightmares that made her so afraid of the world beyond that fence.
Detective Montgomery set his cup in his saucer and expressed his frustration with Jackson Mayweather’s version of cooperation. “I would have preferred to interview your daughter yesterday at the cemetery, or here after the shooting. Eighteen hours after the event, memories get sketchy, clues disappear and so do my suspects.”
Jackson leaned back in his chair at the head of the table. “If you want to question Charlotte, you’ll do it here, with my lawyer and me present, or not at all.”
Trip tuned back in to the conversation, guessing for a moment that no one had bothered to tell Charlotte about this meeting of the minds that seemed fixated on using her to solve the Rich Girl Killer case. And then he decided that Charlotte was too observant a woman to miss the vehicles lined up in front of her home, and suspected she was out there throwing a tennis ball for Max and muddying up her clothes in an effort to hide from any possible contact with the men in this room.
Including him?
Now there was an irritating thought.
Jackson Mayweather’s svelte blonde wife, Laura, signaled to the attendant waiting by the breakfast buffet to circle the table with the coffeepot again. “You keep talking about Charlotte. What are you doing about protecting my Bailey?
She’s a rich girl, too.”
Jackson reached across the corner of the table and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ve stepped up security here. I’m paying Quinn Gallagher’s security company for a round-the-clock physical presence on the estate.”
“That protects Charlotte—she’s a homebody.”
Trip shook off the attendant’s offer to heat up his full cup of coffee. “She goes to work at the museum, doesn’t she?”
“When it’s closed.” Laura Austin-Mayweather dismissed Trip’s question as easily as she dismissed the servant. Her focus was on whatever her husband had to say. “What about when Bailey has a party to attend? Or is out on a date?”
Jackson patted her hand as he pulled away. “I’ll assign one of the guards to follow her 24/7.”
Trip crossed to the table and set his cup and saucer down. “Are you making the same arrangements for Charlotte?”
With a gesture to an empty chair, Jackson asked him to sit. “That’s why I invited you to this meeting, son. You and I need to have a discussion.”
“I’m listening.” Trip rested one hand on the back of a chair and the other near his badge on his utility belt, opting to stand. He didn’t fault Mrs. Mayweather for worrying about her daughter’s safety, but he had a feeling the psychological and physical attacks on Charlotte were specifically for Charlotte, and that no one else in this family was in any real danger. He had a feeling Jackson Mayweather sensed that as well, but was humoring his wife.
But Spencer Montgomery wasn’t in the mood to humor anybody. He reached inside the pocket of his suit coat. “My job isn’t security. It’s solving these murders. I would think getting a serial killer off the streets would make everyone feel safer. Now if you and your lawyer will allow me to resume my interview? Even secondhand observations might be helpful.” He set a clear plastic evidence bag holding the cell phone Trip had taken off Bud Preston on the table. “Can anyone here tell me how this phone got into Miss Mayweather’s hands? From what I understand, she doesn’t go shopping for such things.”
