A second later Radley’s voice came on the line. “Ash? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just...it was the first chance I’ve had. Have you dug up anything on my make-believe bride?”
"Nothing yet. I'll have something for you tomorrow. I've got people on it.” Ash could hear Rad’s footsteps, then a door closed. He was moving into another room to let his ailing wife rest. “How's it going?"
"Damned if I know. She's not...she's not a run-of-the-mill-type woman, Radley."
"In what way?"
Ash sighed hard. "She packs a cannon and rides a Harley, for starters."
"She rides a—listen, Ash, this might be something. I got a look at the police reports today. They put a woman on a motorcycle at the scene of two of the three murders. She showed up when the bodies were found. A gaper, you know."
"Description?" Ash wondered why he felt so disappointed.
"Small woman, large bike, dark helmet with a tinted visor over her face."
Ash swore fluently.
"Maybe you ought to pull out of there, Ash."
"I think I'll stick with her a while."
"If you're sure."
"I am. Let me know when you get the rest of the info, Rad. And I’m really sorry I woke Amelia. How’s she doing, anyway?"
“Still in a cast.” Ash remembers Rad saying his wife had taken a fall and broken her hand several weeks ago. “Still, we have more good days than bad,” he said. “That’s the most we can ask for at this point. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Ash disconnected. Before he mounted the stairs, he took the clip out of Joey’s cannon and replaced the gun in the closet where he’d found it.
Joey knew she was asleep. It wasn't a normal dream; it was lucid. And she knew she didn't want to see it, but she also knew she had to. She might learn something, see something she hadn't seen before. So she didn't struggle against it. Struggling wouldn't make it go away. It would only distract her from paying attention.
There was Ash. He was falling in slow motion, his back hitting the carpeted floor hard, then his head. His eyes were closed. He wasn't getting up. A hand came up in front of her face, then, blocking her view of Ash. The hand seemed to linger before the lens of her vision. It was gloved...a black glove. Buttery-soft kid leather. She could smell it. And there were two small buttons at the wrist. The hand clutched a jeweled dagger, dripping thick red blood.
The vision clouded, faded and began to solidify again in her mind's eye. This time there was only a still form, facedown on the floor. The baggy T-shirt's back was covered in crimson stains. The long, multicolored hair reached into the blood, its ends soaked in it. Near her head, the bloody jeweled dagger rested.
"Caroline!"
Then she felt it, the insidious creeping sensations that were not her own, but echoes of someone else's feelings. Rage, so intense she felt her body shake with it. The shadow of a black soul eclipsed her own for just a moment, and terror held her in an unshakable grip.
Joey sat up in bed, eyes wide in the darkness. She couldn't go on like this! She wouldn't! Tears flooded her eyes, and her throat spasmed. She wished to God she could escape this thing people called a "gift." It was a curse and she didn't want it anymore. Why should she be the only one to know what was going to happen? Why should she be the only person in the world who could prevent her sister's murder? God, she was so afraid she'd fail. What if she failed?
Her bedroom door swung open and Ash filled the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. "Joey? You okay?"
She reached out, flicked on the lamp. "I'm okay. Bad dream."
He came in, approached the bed and finally sat on its edge. He did it all slowly, as if waiting for her to object. She kept quiet
"You don't look okay." He lifted one hand, brushed the tears from her face, then looked at his hand as if it had acted without his consent. "You're shaking all over."
She realized slowly that she couldn't keep him from being killed while she slept. She had to be close enough to prevent it at all times. It meant her sister's life. She had to break the killer's chain—and she had to break it with Ash.
"You screamed...your sister's name, I think. Was the dream about her?"
She bit her lip. It was hard, lying all the time, hiding the things that troubled her the most. "I don't remember." Her throat closed off. "It scared the hell out of me, whatever it was."
She tried to catch the sob before it escaped, but she failed. She heard him swear softly just before he slipped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. "It's okay, Joey. It was just a dream. It's over now."
Her tears dampened his skin. Her cheek was pressed tightly there, and his scent completely invaded her senses, drowning out the memory of that alien presence in her mind. His arms around her were strong and hard and felt as if they could be barriers against the dark invader. She snuggled nearer without quite meaning to. That damned chemical attraction she'd felt before she'd even met him came to life inside her.
"You want me to stay?"
She sniffled, glad he'd offered, so she wouldn't have to ask. She did have to be near him at all times, attraction or no. It had been foolish of her to let her temper make her forget that earlier. What if the killer had struck tonight? Ash could be dead already, and the Slasher on his way to his next victim.
Caroline.
She lifted her head and met his gaze. "I'm not going to have sex with you, Ash."
"I didn't ask, did I? What do you think, that's all I ever think about?"
She felt something then, and it made her frown. Nightmares. God, he had them too, all the time. They’d started a long time ago. That's why he was reacting this way to hers.
That was all. Just that tiny kernel of revelation. Then nothing.
She sighed, shook her head and settled back under the covers. Ash lifted them and slipped in beside her. They both lay on their backs, looking at the ceiling, saying nothing. She wondered if his body was as stiff with tension as hers was.
She had her answer a second later. He swore and rolled onto his side, facing her. "This is ridiculous. Neither one of us bites. Roll over."
She did, facing away from him. A second later she went rigid as his arms came around her from behind and his body snuggled closer to hers. "Relax, Joey. I'm not up to anything. I promise."
She did relax after a moment. Actually, it was cozy lying this way. Incredibly warm and sort of...safe feeling. It was a real shame she had to lie awake and wait for him to fall asleep. It would have been so easy to just curl into his strong embrace and drift off.
But an hour later, when his deep, rhythmic breathing told her he slept, she eased his arms from around her waist and slid carefully to the edge of the bed. Then she paused, listening. His breathing pattern didn't alter. She slipped to the floor and tiptoed out of the room, going down the stairs.
She went to the closet in the living room and took down the gun. She knew by its lack of weight that it was empty. A little chill snaked up her spine.
She could have sworn she'd left the gun loaded. She'd deliberately put it out of reach of her two nieces, but in a spot where she could get to it quickly. So who had taken the clip out?
A tremor worked its way up her spine as she dragged a footstool nearer, climbed onto it and reached farther into the closet, to the shoe box in the back. She removed the shoes and pulled out a box of cartridges and the extra clip. She didn't get down first. She filled the clip right there, while standing on the stool, then slipped it up into the hollow handle of the gun. On unsteady legs, she stepped down and went through the house, rechecking every lock. But they were all still secure. No one had been there.
So who had taken the clip out of her gun? There was only one answer. Ash. And if he'd found the Ruger, then he must have been snooping. And if he was snooping, then he must not trust her. He must suspect something.
She had to be more convincing. She couldn't mess this up. Not when her sister's life—when
Ash's life—depended on it.
Her nerves jangled. Her muscles twitched. She paced the floor for a while, until her pacing took her to the kitchen cabinet where she kept the cigarettes. She’d quit smoking a decade ago, but since these murders and her visions about them, the urge to light up once in a while had become overwhelming. She opened a window to let the smoke out, and tried to clear her mind.
Something was wrong. Something more than just the suspicious mind of the man upstairs, sleeping in her bed. Some darkness loomed too close, reaching out its gnarled, ugly claw. She shivered, took a final drag from the stump of the cigarette and ground it out in an empty tuna can she snatched out of the recycle bin.
Only then did she slip silently up the stairs, the gun at her side. She paused by her side of the bed, glanced once at Ash and frowned. He wasn't in precisely the same position as before. She watched him a moment. His dark lashes rested on his face. A shadow of beard darkened his jaw, giving him a fierce look and making her want to rub her hands over his bristles. His arm was on the outside of the covers, and she could tell easily that his disapproval of weight training applied only to women. She wanted to touch his arm, to feel the iron in those bands of muscle when he tensed beneath her fingers.
This was stupid, this moon-eyed staring at him as he slept. She was a grown woman, not a love-struck teen. But even with the dread embedded in her soul, she felt the attraction. It was impossible to forget it, even for a minute. It had been a little easier when he’d come on like a cave man earlier. But she knew that wasn’t the real Ash, she sensed it. Him coming in here in his shorts because she’d had a bad dream—that was the real Ash. Knowing that made it harder to stay immune to him.
She thought about slipping the gun under her pillow, but was afraid he'd touch it in his sleep. If it hadn't been Ash who had taken her bullets, then he still didn't know about the gun. What on earth would he think if he knew? She decided on the drawer in the nightstand beside the bed. She could reach it quickly and with a minimum of effort. She’d just have to remember to keep the bedroom door locked when the girls were around.
As she closed the drawer, Ash moved. She swung her head around quickly, but his eyes remained closed, his breathing steady. He'd only rolled onto his back, exposing the chest that so disturbed her. It also revealed the ripples of his abdomen. She could see the six-pack beneath his skin even as he lay there, completely relaxed. She had the absurd image of running her hands over him, feeling the hard shape of his muscles, the warmth of his skin against her palms. She almost groaned aloud.
Shaking her head, she gently eased herself into the bed. A second later she was imprisoned by his arm snapping her waist, and one hair-roughened leg covering hers. Rather than struggling free, she opted to relax and go to sleep. She told herself it was so she wouldn't wake him. In truth, his weight was more a comfort than a burden, even if such closeness was more likely to keep her awake than lull her to sleep.
He couldn't rest easy after she'd sneaked away to get the cannon and had returned, tucking it within easy reach. He told himself it was okay, that he'd removed the bullets already. But he couldn't be sure she hadn't reloaded it, because he hadn’t searched the place for bullets yet, and he couldn't be sure she wasn't a lunatic who was planning to shoot him. He figured at least with his arms around her, he'd know if she went for the gun.
Unfortunately this close he could smell the lingering aroma of cigarette smoke that clung to her hair. Radley's words floated into his mind like filmy ghosts. She lights up a cigarette, my friend, you get the hell out...think about those butts with the coral-frost lipstick stains on them....
He tried not to think about those butts, even as he wondered what shade of lipstick she used. Then he asked himself if he was the one who was stark, raving mad. Despite the fact that he had every reason to believe she might roll over at any minute and try to blow his head off, his body was beginning to respond in some very primitive ways to the feel of her.
Beyond the clean, crisp feel of the sheets, he felt the silky texture of the nightgown she wore. Beyond the musky smoke in her hair, he could smell the shampoo she used. Under the weight of his thigh, hers was like silk, and firm, and so shapely he wanted to trace the length of it with his lips.
The image jarred him, and he had to back off a little so she wouldn't feel his response to her tight, rounded backside pressing into his groin.
How could he lust this way after a woman who might be out to kill him? Maybe that head injury had done more damage than he knew.
Eventually, after hours of restlessness and several changes in position that did nothing to ease his discomfort, he must have slept. When he woke she was not in the bed. He couldn't believe it. The rising sun slanted through the window, spilling over the empty pillow where she'd been. He sat up quickly, glanced around the room and found it empty. He yanked the drawer open. The gun sat there like a stern reminder. A quick check and revealed that the damned thing had been reloaded...to the hilt. He slammed the drawer, swearing, threw back the covers and got up just as she stepped in from a door that linked the bedroom directly to a bathroom.
She wore a pair of low slung jeans and a tank top that fit like a second skin. Her hair was a mass of long wet straggles. Water beaded on her neck. His gaze moved lower, to the round breasts beneath the clingy material, to the luscious rise of them visible at the scooping neckline and the droplets that clung there. A rush of blatant, animal lust seared him from the inside out, and he cursed himself for idiocy. Even then, he let his glance sweep down to her denim encased thighs, curving calves and sexy bare feet
He swore yet again, and didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until she said, "Sorry. I tried to be quiet."
"You were." He lifted his gaze, by sheer force, to her eyes, slanting and green and full of mystery. "Leave me any hot water?"
She smiled, and he felt an inexplicable hope that whatever she was doing, she had a good reason. "I left you plenty. And while you're showering, I'll make us some breakfast."
"I thought you couldn't cook."
"I didn't say I couldn't. I said I didn't...much. I can scramble eggs and nuke sausage."
"Well, I can butter toast and mix up frozen orange juice, so we ought to survive." He glanced down at his body, clad only in skivvies. "I don't suppose I have a change of clothes here?"
"No. Sorry. Right after breakfast we'll go over to your place, if you want. Maybe being in your own apartment will sweep some of those cobwebs out of your rafters."
And that was when he noticed the running shoes dangling from one of her hands. "You going out?"
"Coming in, actually." She walked to the closet and tossed the shoes carelessly inside.
He frowned. Dammit, how could he have slept right through her leaving the house? He was lucky he didn’t wake up dead. Why hadn't he heard the car, or the bike? "Where did you—?"
"I run every morning. I hope I didn't bother you when I snuck out."
Snuck out.
"I never even knew you'd left. What time—?"
"A little after five." She smiled softly and her eyes traveled over his face. "You were sleeping like the dead, Ash. I think your body has a little recovering to do yet."
Right. He must have been out cold. And the last time he remembered glancing at the clock's luminous digits, it had been twelve twenty-something. She could have been gone half the night, for all he knew. He had nothing but her word for it.
The entire time he spent in the shower, he kept thinking about the famous scene in Psycho. But nothing happened. He emerged, groped for a towel and smelled the scent of scrambled eggs and sausage wafting up the stairs.
He pulled on his jeans, but didn't snap them closed. The sight of the clothes she'd left discarded on the bathroom floor distracted him. He bent to pick them up. Shiny black spandex leggings with hot pink racing stripes. Little white ankle socks. Her damp towel was still there, too. He stuffed the clothes into the hamper, then opened the medicine cabinet, rubbing one hand over his scruffy face an
d hoping to find a new razor.
There was a tap on the door. He went to it and swung it open.
Joey didn't say a word. Her lips were parted, as if she'd started to speak, but nothing came out. Not even, he thought, a breath. Her wide green gaze moved down his bare chest, pausing for a moment at the slightly gaping fly of his jeans, then jerked upward to his face again.
His ego spiraled upward and he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. "Did you want something?"
She shook her head. "No. I just—the razors. They're in the closet, top shelf. Shaving cream, too. I thought you'd be looking for them."
She wanted something, all right. Her eyes said it all. And why the hell did it give him such a thrill to know a murder suspect was lusting after him?
"Thanks. I was just looking for them." He turned and opened the closet, pulling down the cream. She still stood in the doorway. He glanced at the pink can. "Powder-fresh scent?"
A mischievous smile played with her lips. "It's the best I can do for now."
"It won't be so bad. I like the way you smell."
She cleared her throat and lowered her gaze.
"So how's that breakfast coming? It doesn't smell half bad, either."
Her head flew up again. "My eggs!" She turned and raced down the stairs. He chuckled and turned back to the sink to begin applying the lather to his face.
A few minutes later he heard a phone ring, and then her voice, cussing long and fluently. He stuck his head out the bathroom door. "I think it’s mine,” he said.
"Thank God," she yelled back.
He wiped the last of the lather from his face and ducked into the bedroom to snatch his phone from where he’d left it on the nightstand.
"Ash?" Radley's voice was strained. "We've got another one.”
"When?" Ash tried to keep the turmoil from his voice.
"He was found half an hour ago. Coroner's putting the time of death between two and three this morning with what he has so far. We'll know more later."
Ash swallowed hard. He couldn't be sure of Joey's whereabouts between two and three this morning. He only had her word that she'd left the house around five. He didn't want to ask the next question, but he knew he had to.
Forgotten (Shattered Sisters Book 2) Page 4
