“A second is all it would take if someone was watching you, waiting for the right moment.”
“What makes you think they were stolen? I could have dropped them by your car when we left.”
“No, I would have heard them fall. Let me go check the floorboard.” He left her for a moment to search his car. As he walked back up the steps to the front yard, he called, “Nothing.”
“They could have spilled out when we were on 405. When the door was open. My purse might have gotten dumped.”
He leaned over to eye the assortment of odds and ends. “Pretty selective dumping. Besides, you had it zipped.”
“I could have zipped it while I was driving around the lake tonight. I remember looking for a tissue.”
“I still say that if the keys fell out, other things would have, too. Someone’s rifled your purse. Look at all this stuff. And there’s not a scrap inside the car.”
He lifted a wad of tissue and several other pieces of paper as if to use them to prove his point. One of them was a small photograph. He stared at it a moment and then dropped it onto the pile, but not before Mallory glimpsed her daughter’s face. Her hand flew toward the photo. A small cry escaped her before she could bite it back. Emily. Mallory could almost hear her giggle, smell her hair and the curve of her neck where silken curls escaped her braids. Was she alive? Hungry, cold? Not knowing was awful. Funny how clearly she could remember her first smile, her first tooth, her first step. And, oh, how the memories hurt. Like a knife twisting in her guts. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she rocked forward until her chest nearly touched her knees.
Mac sighed and crouched next to Mallory, placing his hand on her hair at the back of her neck. The warmth of his touch was nearly her undoing. Tears burned in her throat, forming a huge lump that suffocated her. Closing her eyes, Mallory clung to what little self-control she had left and conjured a vision of her mother to put some starch back into her spine. Crying in front of a stranger would be the unforgivable sin in Norma Steele’s books. Ladies didn’t make spectacles of themselves, not ever. And her mother was right. How could she help Emily if she was falling apart.
Keeping her head bowed, she straightened her shoulders. “I’m handling this badly. Just, um, give me a second. I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Pretend everything’s fine for another hour? I think you’re handling this better than most people could.”
“No, I’m not.”
Her voice floated up to Mac no louder than a whisper. He studied her bent head and wished he knew what to say to her. There was no shame in tears, after all. But she seemed to think so. Who had done this to her? Beneath his hand, he could feel her shaking, feel the brittle tension in the column of her neck.
“I’m not real good at comforting people, but I’ve got a great shoulder to lend you. Absorbent, anyway.” Mac watched her, feeling inept. Why couldn’t he just say what he meant, that he wouldn’t mind holding her? The words caught at the base of his throat. “I—Mallory, come here.”
She shook her head emphatically. “Crying never solved anything. In my family...” Her voice trailed off.
With a heavy sigh, he cupped her chin and lifted her face. His touch felt sandpapery and warm against Mallory’s skin, so strong and solid that she wanted to lean into it. In the moonlight, his eyes shimmered silver, delving so deeply into hers she felt as if he knew her every thought.
“Crying may not solve anything, but it sure can make you feel better sometimes.”
“How would you know?”
“Experience. When my little brother—” He broke off and shrugged one shoulder. “There have been a few times. Over in Nam. Here. We all have to let go sometimes.” He tightened his grip on her chin. “The point is, you don’t have to pretend with me, okay? There’s no sin in having feelings.”
Drawing away from him, Mallory dragged in a deep breath of air, acutely conscious of his other hand where it still rested against her hair. “It’s just that I feel so helpless, so alone. When something happens to your kids, you expect to have the other parent to share it with. You can lean on each other, you know? I’m so scared. I wish it was me instead of her. If only it was.”
He slid his hand to her shoulder, draping his other arm across his bent knee. He studied the brick pattern of the porch for a long while. “I know I’m a poor substitute for your husband or Keith, but you’re not alone. And if you need that shoulder I offered, I won’t think any less of you for it.”
“I’m afraid that’s not saying a lot.”
He looked up at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you don’t think much of me anyway.”
She felt his thumb rasp along the arm seam of her jacket, saw the corners of his mouth quiver with a repressed smile. “It’s a bad habit, I guess, judging people by their addresses.”
A peculiar awareness electrified the air between them. Not sensual, but powerful just the same, a drawing together, a feeling of having known one another always. It frightened her. They had been thrown together by crazy circumstances, then shaken up for most of the day like the dried seeds in a maraca. There hadn’t been time for the usual proprieties, and now it seemed too late for them. Her emotions were roller coastering out of control. She wanted him to set her world right again, to put his arms around her, to hold her, to stroke her hair, to make everything better. It was stupid, ridiculous, childish, but she wanted it with such an intensity she ached. The fact that he was a complete stranger made that realization pretty scary.
He seemed as uneasy as she with the feelings erupting between them. She was relieved when he broke the building tension by giving her shoulder a pat and standing.
He gazed down the street, his expression thoughtful. “It’s scary to realize how close you came to trouble today. Before I ever got to the hospital, one of Lucetti’s men got near enough to you to go through your purse.”
Until this moment, Mallory hadn’t thought of it that way. She had been in danger and hadn’t even known it. She threw an incredulous glance at the pile of junk from her purse. “I wonder why they wanted my keys? To strip the house? Steal my car?”
“Lucetti isn’t into small-time theft. My guess is, he wanted to get into the house to search for something. Or he thought you might have the key to something he needs opened.”
“Like what?”
“Beats me.” He turned and patted all his pockets. Pausing next to her, he said, “I need my lock picks. Be right back.”
Lock picks? Mallory watched him lope to his car. After rummaging in his trunk for a moment, he returned, carrying a key ring with a number of small tools attached to it. She watched him select and try three picks before he found the right one. Seconds later, she heard the door latch assembly click.
“Do you have any idea how much money we invested in that lock?” she asked.
He smiled and pocketed the key ring. “If it’s any consolation, the average burglar probably couldn’t pick it. It’s a high-quality lock.”
“Which you just opened in a matter of seconds.”
“Dead bolts are a better investment. For night security, I recommend the type that locks from the inside and doesn’t have an outside keyhole.”
She scooped everything back into her purse and stood, not at all sure she was pleased that he was so adept at breaking and entering, or that he knew so much about locks. What kind of man was he? As she walked toward the open door, she realized that it didn’t really matter to her what kind of person he was, not as long as he would help her find Emily. “I don’t suppose I should ask where you learned to do that.”
He stepped back so she could enter. “Probably not.” Pausing behind her, he glanced around the large entry. She sensed a sudden wariness in him. “Come back out to the car a sec. I want to take another look for your keys. I need you to hold the light.” He motioned toward the porch. Once they were outside with the door closed, he whispered, “Another reason just hit me why he might have wanted your keys. To plant bug
s. With your keys, they could get right in without alarming any of your neighbors by picking the lock or breaking the door.”
“Listening devices? In my house?”
“I should have thought of it immediately. If he’s going to hold Em for ransom, he’ll want to be sure you don’t call the cops. The best way to do that would be to listen to everything you say. Which puts us in a spot. We can’t let him know who I am.”
“Why?”
“I’m a professional. He won’t like me being in on this.”
“Then maybe you’d better leave.”
“No way. We’ll just have to be careful.”
“But if he learns who you are, it could endanger Em.”
“And if you do the wrong thing, it could endanger her even more. You need my help, Mallory. There has to be a way.”
“Like what?”
He thought for a moment. “We’ll be lovers.”
“We’ll be what?”
He clamped his hand over her mouth, then slowly lowered it. “Lovers. Say we’ve been seeing each other for six months. Things have gotten cozy. It’d seem natural for me to be here. Keith’s in the hospital, your kid’s been snatched. I’d hang around, stick close, give you moral support. All it’ll take is a little playacting.”
“How much playacting?”
“Enough to be convincing.” He caught her shocked expression and rolled his eyes. “Not that much, for heaven’s sake.”
“It’s not that. It’s just that I’m afraid I can’t do it.”
He pressed his fist against her chin jokingly. “Hey, it’ll be easy. Just don’t call me Mac Phearson. He might recognize the name. Mac or Hey-You, but not Mac Phearson. I’ll do the rest.”
The front door swung open beneath his hand with a loud creak. He preceded her into the entry, the soles of his sneakers grabbing the tile.
For some reason, the thought that there might be monitors in her house was the final blow to her self-control. She began to shake and couldn’t stop. All evening, she had fought off tears and hysteria, telling herself there would be time for that later. Now she realized there wasn’t going to be. Her only sanctuary had been invaded.
Mac must have seen her trembling. He paused and curled his arm around her to draw her against him. Being closer to him helped somehow. The tremors running through her body subsided. She pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder. Soap, cologne, leather and the faint aroma of hot dogs—a nice smell, ordinary and comforting. The steady beat of his heart lulled her fears. His arms were hard and warm. He ran a hand over her hair and she felt his callous palm catch on the strands. He was wonderfully sturdy when nothing else was, and she dreaded the moment when he would move away from her.
“You okay?”
She found the strength to nod. He gave her back a pat and left her again, disappearing into the shadows. Sudden light blinded her. She blinked and tried to focus. With detached curiosity, she watched him move about the hall, running his hands along the door frames. When she realized he was searching for hidden microphones, she began to help, sliding her fingertips under the edge of the table, behind the painting of the Puget Sound, through the dried flowers. They found nothing, but that still didn’t mean there weren’t bugs in a nearby room.
“I really appreciate your staying over,” she said, praying she didn’t sound too stiff and formal. “Good friends make times like this bearable. Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”
She saw a gleam of approval flicker in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, sweetheart.”
They walked the length of the entry into the kitchen, which adjoined a breakfast nook to the left, a formal dining room to the right. Mac hit the light switch as they passed through the doorway. Mallory turned to stare at the rose-and-cream tiles on the counters, at the oak cupboards and trim. Day before yesterday, she had made breakfast in here. Em had stood chattering at her elbow. Now it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Mac motioned toward a chair in the breakfast nook. Then, shrugging out of his jacket, he draped it across the bar. He took quick stock of his surroundings and began to check the kitchen for hidden listening devices. Taking her cue from him, Mallory ignored his signal to sit down and searched the two adjoining rooms. This was her house, after all. She would notice if anything was out of place when he might not.
When she returned to the kitchen, Mac was just stepping through the hall doorway. She guessed that he had been checking the remainder of the first floor. It had been a long while since either of them had spoken. Afraid that the silence might strike an eavesdropper as odd, she said, “It’s amazing how much better I feel knowing you’re staying over for the night.” No sooner had the words passed her lips than Mallory realized she sincerely meant them. Having Mac there was a comfort. “With Keith in the hospital and my folks gone on vacation, I would have been alone.”
“Maybe you can be there for me sometime,” he replied. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
He jabbed a finger toward the ceiling to let her know he was going upstairs. She followed him up, searching the rooms off one hall while he checked the ones off the other.
Nothing. As Mallory slipped silently from Keith’s bedroom into his upstairs study, a deluge of memories swept through her mind, pictures of Keith and Emily together, laughing, playing, filling the rooms with sounds of happiness.
Now, with nothing but silence around her, Mallory could appreciate how truly blessed she had been. Had the refrigerator always hummed so loudly? She could hear it, even from up here. Had the floors always creaked like this when someone was walking? The horrible sense of emptiness inside the house made her feeling of loss all the more acute. She might never again see Keith sweep his granddaughter into his arms, never hear Em’s carefree giggles or see her eyes light up with excitement at the sound of her grandfather’s voice when he came in at night. The list of losses seemed endless.
When they had finished searching the second floor, Mac met her on the landing. Together, they returned to the kitchen. Grabbing a notepad and pen off the bar, he wrote, “Nothing that I could find. As far as I could tell, the house hasn’t been searched, either.”
Mallory lifted her hands to let him know that she hadn’t found anything, either. Then she took the pen from him and wrote, “Maybe they wanted my keys for something else? To open something, perhaps?”
He scanned her response, his frown deepening. Shrugging one shoulder, he motioned for her to sit at the table. He seemed more relaxed as he opened the refrigerator. She sat down and watched him, too heartsick to care what he was doing or why. She even forgot to worry about his gun, despite her fears. Em’s voice rang in her ears. Mommy, will you cut my toast into hearts? With jam on top?
Mac’s voice sliced through Mallory’s memories like a knife through tinfoil. “How do eggs sound? Eggs and toast.”
“I’m not hungry.” She closed her eyes and tried to sort the voices in her head, Em’s, Mac’s, her own. “A drink, maybe.”
“Just because you don’t feel hungry doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat. My cooking may not be up to your usual standards, but it’ll fill your hollow spots.” He located a skillet and placed it on the stove. Flashing her an encouraging smile, he began taking food from the refrigerator. “You’ll be surprised how much better you feel once you’ve eaten. Take it from me. When things like this happen, you make it through one minute at a time. When you can’t do anything else, you fuel up for the next round and rest.”
“I—I really don’t feel like eating.”
“I want you to try, sweetheart.”
Mallory gazed at his broad back, at the crisscrossed leather strap of his shoulder holster. The endearment unnerved her for a moment. Then she decided he must still think it was necessary to keep up the pretense that they were lovers. She watched him move around her kitchen with practiced ease. Clearly he was a man with many talents, as adept at acting and cooking as he was at picking locks and tending scraped legs. He located the silverware drawe
r and pulled out a fork to whip the eggs he had cracked into a bowl. Seconds later, she heard a loud sizzling sound, followed by the methodical scraping of the spatula against the cast-iron pan.
The cooking smells reached her and turned her stomach. She fastened her gaze on the tabletop. In the reflecting light, she could see smudges on the polished surface. Fingerprints. Tiny ones. Everywhere she looked, she saw something to remind her of Emily. She could hear Mac taking plates down, sticking bread in the toaster. Everyday sounds. She wanted to scream at him to stop. She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t even think about eating. Was Em hungry? Had someone fed her yet? It was past her bedtime, and Mallory didn’t know if she even had a blanket.
A ringing sound pealed through the room. Mallory stared at the telephone on the bar, her body frozen. Mac jerked the skillet off the burner. “Answer it,” he urged.
She pushed up from the chair and took a halting step. The phone clamored again, the sound running along her nerve endings, making her skin quiver. “Do you think it’s him?”
“I don’t know. Just answer it.” Mac strode across the floor and seized her elbow to pull her forward. “Just play it by ear.”
By the third ring, Mallory was standing directly in front of the phone. For some reason, it seemed to have taken her much longer than usual to cross the room. She stood there and stared, willing herself to move, so filled with dread of what she might learn that she couldn’t. Mac flipped the panel control on to intercom. She lifted her arm, forcing her fingers to curl around the receiver and lift it. Trembling uncontrollably, she pressed it to her ear. “H-hello?”
There was a long silence. Then a voice crackled over the speaker and filled the room. “Mrs. Christiani? I have your daughter. If you want to see her alive again, listen very carefully.”
Mallory clutched the phone with both hands, like a lifeline. It was her only link to her daughter. “Where’s my little girl? Who are you? What have you done to her? She’s just a baby!” Her voice broke. “Please, don’t hurt her, please—”
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