Man of My Dreams

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  Chapter Six

  SAM was leaving the victim’s hospital room when his cell phone bleated. He answered it, then said “Hold on” while a scowling nurse told him to turn it off or take it outside.

  “Sorry.” He headed toward the elevators, noting the signs that told him not to use a cell phone inside the hospital, something he’d already known and just hadn’t thought about as he’d rushed in here. When the doors slid closed on him, he brought the phone up to his ear again. “Yeah?”

  “Sam. It’s Megan. There’s, um . . . there’s someone outside my house.”

  He blinked twice, his brain quickly processing her words, weighing the fear in her voice, and spitting out an interpretation he didn’t much like, and a rush of panic so overblown it bore further analysis. But later. “Where?”

  “He’s standing across the street. Just standing there . . . looking toward my house.”

  The elevator stopped and Sam stepped out of it, striding rapidly toward the exit doors and through them into the parking lot as he spoke. “Are your doors locked, Megan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You double-checked, all of them?”

  “Yes, I did that. Windows too.”

  “Good girl.” He hit the lock release button on his car, got in, and started the engine. “I don’t suppose you’re getting any flashes? As to who this guy is or what he’s doing out there?”

  “No flashes. Just a gut feeling. It’s him, Sam. It’s the killer, I know it is.”

  He pressed the accelerator to the floor, speeding out of the parking lot. “I’m on my way, hon. Five minutes, tops. I’m gonna click over and call nine-one-one, but I’ll come right back on with you. All right?”

  “I . . . guess so.”

  “Just for a second, I promise.”

  “I’m scared, Sam.”

  “I know. Jesus, I know. I’m coming for you.”

  He ran a red light while he manipulated the phone, hitting the flash key, getting a fresh dial tone and dialing 911. He hit the flash key again to bring Megan back into the call as he took a corner so fast the car rocked to one side. “I’m back, Meg.”

  The dispatcher’s line was ringing, and in a moment he heard, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “Hold on,” he said. “Megan? Are you still there?”

  No answer.

  “Shit. Dispatcher, this is Detective Sam Sheridan with the Pinedale P.D., badge number seven eighty-five. I have a prowler—possible murder suspect—possible witness in danger—five-one-three Sycamore Street and I need immediate assistance.”

  “I’ll send cars right out, Detective. Can you stay on the line?”

  “No, I need the line open.”

  “All right then. I have officers en route.”

  She disconnected, but the line remained open. His call to Megan was still connected. “Meg?” Still no answer. His throat burned, and so did his eyes. He told himself he would be just as worried no matter who had been on the other end of that phone call, but he knew damn well it wasn’t true.

  There was something about Megan Rose. It felt as if she had sunk roots into his flesh, roots that had burrowed deep and twined themselves around his bones. He didn’t get this way about women. In fact, he’d made a conscious decision not to. Not ever. It wasn’t part of his emotional makeup and never would be. So then what the hell was this?

  “Megan, for the love of God, answer me,” he whispered.

  Then there was the distinct sound of her phone hanging up. It shattered the silence on that line like a gunshot, and Sam’s last ounce of composure with it. He slammed the accelerator to the floor, his heart pounding in his throat. God, he’d had no idea how much that redhead had gotten under his skin, until this very moment. It made no sense for One-Night Sam to feel this way about a woman he barely knew. And yet, he did. And there wasn’t much point in fighting it.

  MEGAN dropped the telephone when she heard rattling at her back door, then the sound of breaking glass. She was already racing for her front door when the heavy footfalls came from her kitchen toward her. Her hands shaking, she flipped locks, yanked the door open, and bolted outside into the night. She ran, damp grass and then cold pavement hitting her bare feet, cold air filling her lungs.

  A car came speeding toward her, its lights blinding her, tires squealing as it skidded to a stop. There was one moment of sheer panic before she stepped out of the headlights’ glare, blinked, and recognized the vehicle as Sam’s Mustang. And by then he was out of it, running toward her. His arms came around her powerfully and instantly. He held her hard against him, his grip ferocious, his heart pounding wildly beneath her head, one hand in her hair. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  She nodded against his chest, amazed at the power of his fear for her. Amazed at how odd it felt to have someone care this much, and at the way her own arms locked around his waist in return. As if there were something between them—as if they were important to each other. As if they had been for a very long time.

  “He’s in the house, Sam.” She didn’t want to say it. She would rather have just stayed there in his arms until everything was all right again.

  Gently, he pried her arms from around him, turned to face the house, and lifted the gun he had in his hand. God, she hadn’t even seen in there. “Get in my car,” he told her. “Lock the doors. Pull it off the road.”

  “Sam, I—”

  “Do it now, Meg.” He softened the harshness of the command with a tender look, a quick touch, his hand cupping her head briefly as his eyes compelled her to obey.

  She drew a shaky breath, nodded, and got into his car, then sat there watching in panic as Sam moved toward her house, the gun leading him. This wasn’t right. She was supposed to save this man, according to her recurring dreams. Not send him walking into what might be his death.

  Sam went inside, and she swore part of her went with him. Belatedly, she put his car into gear and pulled it off the road. But she had no intention of staying safe inside it while he risked his life. Swallowing her fear, she opened the car door, got out, took a few tentative steps along the sidewalk toward her home. “Sam?”

  No reply. She moved closer, turning now up the walk to her front door. Behind her, sirens wailed and lights flashed as police cars came screaming up her road. Doors slammed, but she kept moving forward, shaking. “Sam?”

  A hand fell on her shoulder, stopping her. “Ms. Rose? You all right?”

  She nodded. “Sam—Officer Sheridan, he’s in the house. There was someone in there.”

  The cop turned, waving to others who were apparently awaiting his orders. He pointed to two and swung his hand in an arc, pointing toward the back of her house, then he pointed to another and nodded to the front door. “Sheridan’s inside. Possible intruder as well,” he said, his voice low but firm as the men moved past him to carry out their orders.

  Before they got far, though, Sam was coming out the front door, his gun holstered once more. When she saw him, Megan’s breath rushed out of her, and her muscles went soft.

  “Forget it,” he said. “Whoever he was, he’s long gone.” His eyes found Megan’s, held them as he came to her. She barely restrained herself from wrapping her arms around him, she was so relieved to see him safe. It wouldn’t look good, not in front of the other cops, she knew that. But Sam did embrace her, when he joined her there. He touched her with his eyes, with his serious but reassuring smile, with how close he stood, and his hand on her shoulder telling her it would all be okay.

  “Chief,” he said, nodding to the older man.

  “What’s the story, Sam?”

  “Chief Skinner, this is Megan Rose. She was a witness to the assault in the park tonight. An hour later she called in to say there was a prowler outside her house. Apparently, he broke in before we got here.”

  The police chief glanced at Megan, and she at him, now that she could tear her eyes from her own front door, and from Sam’s. The chief was an attractive man, perhaps fifty-something
, lean, strong, with neatly cropped black hair that was graying at the temples, and friendly brown eyes. She knew that he knew who she was—the crackpot psychic he suspected of God only knew what.

  “You were inside at the time?” the chief asked her. His concern seemed genuine.

  She nodded.

  “That must have been terrifying for you.”

  “It was. I heard someone trying to get in the back door. Glass breaking. Footsteps. I ran out the front.”

  He nodded, looking again at Sam.

  Sam said, “Glass was busted out of the back door. Looks like he reached through and unlocked it, walked right in. We’ll want to dust it for prints.”

  “Terry, get that scene secured,” the chief said, sending one of the officers scurrying to obey. “I’m sorry you’ve been through so much today, ma’am,” he went on, focusing again on Megan. “Did you get a look at the man, when you saw him outside your house?”

  “No. It was too dark. He was just a shape. White sneakers, jeans.” She shook her head, belatedly skimming ground level, noting all the shiny black shoes running this way and that way.

  “And what about the one in the park? Could you identify him?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No, I didn’t get a look at him. But apparently, he got a pretty good look at me.”

  “You have reason to believe it was the same man?”

  Megan lifted her eyes, shifting her gaze to Sam’s, then back to the chief’s. “I don’t have a reason to believe it,” she said slowly. “But I believe it anyway.”

  The chief frowned. “Why? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  She lowered her head, trying to come up with an answer that would sound logical.

  Then he nodded knowingly. “It’s that ESP thing again, huh?” His face bore that same look of blatant disbelief she’d seen so often as a child, in her father’s eyes. Though his words were kind, and his expression tried to be, she knew that deep down he believed she was a fraud.

  He did remember her name, though. She almost wished he didn’t. She wished she had never made that phone call the other night. “It’s nothing psychic,” she said. “It’s just a gut feeling. That’s all.”

  The chief nodded as if he understood. “Is there somewhere else you can stay tonight, Ms. Rose?”

  “Sure. I can go to a hotel for the night.”

  “You do that, then. You’ll be safer, more comfortable, and besides, we’ll need access to the house for the next couple of hours. Sam, why don’t you take her inside to pack up a few things?”

  “I can manage—” she began. But she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to get more than two feet from Sam’s side right now, and frankly, the thought of spending the night alone in a strange, impersonal hotel room didn’t appeal in the least.

  Sam shook his head, and slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll go with you. We don’t want you accidentally tromping on evidence, after all.”

  She let him guide her toward the front door of her house, belatedly turning back to the chief. “It was nice meeting you, Chief Skinner,” she said, holding out a hand.

  He had a notepad in one hand, and a cell phone in the other, but he gave her a nod, attempted a sympathetic smile, then moved toward his officers.

  “Come on, Meg.” Sam led her into the house, straight to her bedroom. He stood just inside the bedroom door, looking around. “Do you think he came in here at all?”

  “I don’t think he had time,” she said. “Nothing’s out of place. He was coming through the kitchen, maybe made it almost into the living room by the time I got out and ran. And then you were there. I imagine he went right back out when he heard your car.”

  “Thank God the hospital’s only five minutes away.”

  “The hospital is fifteen minutes away, Sam.” She tipped her head up to look at him.

  “Yeah, well . . . I’m trained in high-speed techniques.”

  “You were worried about me.”

  “I was freaking petrified.”

  She smiled just a little. “Thanks for that.”

  He shrugged, averting his eyes. She decided to let it go for now, but God, it did her good to know he felt the power of this . . . thing between them as clearly as she did. She tugged an overnight bag from a shelf in her closet, tossed it onto the bed, then went to her dresser to open drawers. She pulled things out almost at random, her attention not on the job as she tucked items into the bag. In the end she didn’t even know what she’d packed. She was too busy analyzing what was happening between her and Sam, wondering what her dreams had been telling her all this time, speculating on the killer’s reasons for coming after her tonight.

  “You need anything from the bathroom? Toothbrush, makeup?”

  She nodded vaguely, realizing she had gone still with her hands buried in her top drawer. She shook herself, then went into the bathroom off her bedroom and gathered more items. “What do you think he wanted?” she asked.

  Sam stood in the bedroom still, beyond her range of vision. “We don’t even know for sure it was him.”

  “Of course we do. Your Chief Skinner does too. At least, he didn’t disagree.”

  She heard Sam sigh.

  “He seems nice, Chief Skinner. Even if he doesn’t believe I’m for real.”

  “He’s a decent guy. Taught me everything I know about being a cop.”

  She frowned, coming out of the bathroom with her hands full of things from her counter. Hairbrush, makeup, deodorant, toothbrush. She stood in the doorway, where she could see him. “I would have thought your dad would have done that.”

  He looked at her sharply. “You know about my father?”

  She shrugged, moving to the bed to drop her collection into her overnight case. “I got curious. Did a little Internet research on you tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you earlier, I got the feeling you were being less than honest with me about something. I thought maybe I could find a clue what.”

  He sighed. “And I told you I’ve got nothing to hide from you, Megan. My father was killed in the line of duty. I was only a kid at the time.”

  She nodded slowly, bent over her bag to zip it up. “What happened to him?”

  “Liquor store robbery. He and his partner showed up before the perps got out of the store. One took the back door, one the front. Bad guys decided to shoot their way out the back. Dad chose the wrong door.”

  She felt the heartache in his words, the loss. It still hurt. “I’m sorry.”

  “Skinner opened fire, got them both. Too late, though. Dad was already down.”

  “Skinner? The chief was your father’s partner?”

  He nodded. “It hit him as hard as it did the rest of us, I think. He took us under his wing after that. I think he felt like it should have been him, instead of Dad. He didn’t have a wife or kids.”

  “Survivor’s guilt,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guess so. He was there for us after that. Kind of stepped in, took care of things my father would have. My grandmother resented it, I think, him stepping into her son’s place. But the rest of us were awfully glad to have him around.”

  “God, it must have been awful for your mother. How many kids did she have?”

  “Three. My two sisters and me. And my grandmother, to boot.” He moved to the bed, picked up her bag. “You ready?”

  “I can’t find Percy.”

  He frowned.

  “My cat.” She looked in all Percy’s usual hiding places—under the bed, in the bathtub, in the closet—all the while wondering if she wanted to pry further than she had into Sam’s personal history, and decided she might as well. “Your grandfather died in the line of duty too, the paper said.”

  He frowned at her. “You really have been snooping, haven’t you?”

  “The article mentioned it.”

  “Yeah, he died on duty too. Car wreck. Anything else you want to know, Megan?”

  “Quite a lot, actually.”

&
nbsp; He watched her face, waiting, his own seeming clouded or angry or something.

  “But not now.” Did he seem a bit relieved by that? Hard to be sure. “The Windsor’s right in town, ten minutes from here. I can get a room there. I’m sure they aren’t booked this time of year.” She looked around, but there was still no sign of Percy. “There’s plenty of food and water here. I guess he’ll be all right.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine. But you’re not going to the Windsor.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. I want you someplace safe, someplace this guy wouldn’t think to look for you, just in case your hunch is right.”

  She blinked. “And what place would that be?” she asked.

  He sighed. “Mine. I’m taking you home with me, Megan. And I don’t want to hear any arguments, okay?”

  “I’m not going to give you any.” He looked at her, brows raised. “Arguments, I mean.” Hell, that didn’t come out right either. “You know what I mean.”

  “I know.” He actually smiled a little, and it lightened the somber mood brought on by what had happened tonight, and by her morbid, probing questions. “And I’m going to pry into your past to pay you back for prying into mine. Come on.”

  Chapter Seven

  “DID you get to see the girl from the park at the hospital tonight?” Megan asked, probably to change the subject.

  He glanced at her as he drove, decided to let the matter of her snooping go, for now. Hell, he had all night. “Yeah. Her name’s Linda Keller. I didn’t get much out of her, though. She didn’t get a look at the guy, and was still too shaken up to give me anything helpful.”

  She swallowed hard. “Maybe . . . I could see her.”

  He blinked, looking at her face, her eyes. Still worried about trying to help, even after all she’d been through tonight. “I don’t know if you noticed this, Megan, but being involved in this might very well have put you at risk.”

  “If I could talk to her, touch her hand again, I might be able to get something.”

  “You did that once. All it got you was knocked on your ass and feeling her pain. Not to mention a visit from the suspect.”