Angelo: A Second Chance Navy SEAL Romance

by Carlisle, Lisa

  But that didn’t make sense. Why would he enter her house, move stuff about as if searching for something, and then leave? He wasn’t a stalker. And he had too much pride to come back and grovel for another chance.

  She glanced around for other signs of intrusion. Nothing. Maybe the kittens had in fact been responsible for some mischief before they’d escaped, and Catherine hadn’t noticed it earlier.

  Or someone had been in there.

  Her gut churned. One person came to mind. The same guy who had been bothering her with more personal actions in recent weeks.

  What if he took the cats?

  One thing she’d learned about intuition was that people often sensed when something was wrong, although they couldn’t explain why. A mother would know something wasn’t right with her child. A soldier would sense impending danger in battle. A police officer would sense something bad before responding to a call for a domestic dispute. The brain was fascinating, and she’d devoted her studies and her life to uncovering some of its mysteries. So, she wasn’t going to ignore the warning.

  She brought her phone into the courtyard, just in case an intruder was still inside. She glanced back at the brick townhouse. No, that didn’t make any sense. If he took the kittens, he wouldn’t stick around.

  That was an if.

  Catherine stood still as a statue. What should she do? Call the cops?

  She grunted. They were there last night and had found nothing amiss. She could hear the conversation play out with the police.

  “My cats are missing.”

  “Cats often hide. Did you look for them in closets, basements, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “They might have gotten outside. Have you checked with neighbors?”

  “Yes.”

  “They may come back in a day or two.”

  “But with the recent letters and package…” How was she tying that to her kittens missing, which they’d probably chalk up to a case of curious cats?

  She groaned at how ridiculous she sounded. Who would take her seriously if she said, “My pillows and my pens aren’t lined up the way I like them—and my kittens are missing. Stop all the real work you’re doing and help me find them!”

  Was she being irrational? She couldn’t find her kittens and her mind leapt to a farfetched conclusion. The idea of appearing foolish in front of anyone, even if they were strangers, repelled her and made her muscles taut. She’d rather search for the cats herself, even if it took her all day and night.

  If the cats didn’t return by the time the police stopped by later that day, she’d mention how they were missing and her suspicions that someone had been in her place. She’d present it with rational facts, not hunches.

  In the meantime, Catherine would keep searching for the cats. She couldn’t go to work without knowing they were okay. After texting her boss to let him know she’d be in later, she trekked again through the courtyard, keeping watch for Aurora and Ruby slinking out from under any bushes. A yearning grew to reach out to someone. Someone who had been looking out for her, yet she had turned him away. Someone she would have spent the day with, sailing on the bay, instead of being alone and swallowed the bitter taste of regret.

  She raised the phone with a shaky hand. Damn it. She’d felt so safe around him, and her world was now so unsteady. She took deep breaths and counted to seven before he answered.

  “Angelo, it’s me, Catherine.”

  One. Two. Two seconds went by. Two long seconds of ear-piercing silence. Had she made a mistake by calling him? Would he tell her he had enough of her crap and to leave him alone?

  “Hey, Cate. How are you doing?” His voice sounded neutral, not revealing anything.

  “Fine. Sorry to bother you, but are you busy right now?” She couldn’t tear him from something important, like family time, for something that might make her seem neurotic.

  “Just watching soccer with my dad. Why, what’s up?”

  “Oh.” She clutched the phone more tightly and paced. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

  “You’re not. I’m barely paying attention. I’m surprised to hear from you after—well, you know.”

  His voice comforted her. Something about him made her feel safe and—appreciated. Maybe even cherished. She’d been a fool to push him away. And for what? Her independence or something like that? She wasn’t even sure. All she knew was she wanted him here with her now. She needed him.

  “I know, and I’m so sorry about that. I overreacted and I’ve regretted it ever since.”

  “Cate, are you all right?”

  His concerned tone soothed her frayed edges. She took a deep breath lest she expound all her fears in one rambling, incoherent sentence. “This might sound strange,” she began. “But my cats are missing.” Good, she kept her voice level despite her shakiness. “I’ve looked for them everywhere. I know it sounds crazy, but I think someone might have been in my place.” Her voice had a higher pitch on those last words. So much for keeping her voice steady. She pursed her lips before she added anything else that would make her sound hysterical.

  After hearing Angelo’s voice and revealing her fears, they eased. Maybe she was freaking out over nothing and there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. The kittens might have knocked things askew and then found a way to sneak out. Worry had scrambled her ability to think straight, jumping to the worst conclusions.

  “Have you called the police?” Angelo asked.

  “No. They were here last night and will check back in today, so I figured I’d tell them then. Yesterday, I received a disturbing package at work and talked to them.” Her trembling voice cracked. “I was wondering—I’m hoping—could you please come over here?”

  He didn’t say anything for two seconds. “I’ll be right there, Cate.”

  Catherine hung up the phone, and then did another round searching through the parking lot. She returned to her place. A white envelope peeked out from under her kitchen door. Oh good! Maybe one of the neighbors had found the kittens and left a note.

  She covered her heart and rushed over. When she attempted to pull the corner, it was jammed too tightly. She opened the door and stepped inside. Then she picked up the envelope and closed the door.

  It was her name in his handwriting.

  Shit. Her hands turned clammy and her heart pounded in her chest.

  Should she open it, or wait for Angelo? She guessed she wouldn’t be happy reading the contents of that letter.

  She paced through her living room, counting her steps, and sneaking glances at the out-of-place envelope, a sign that something wasn’t right in her otherwise orderly space. Her mind raced, envisioning countless possibilities for what was written inside.

  Curiosity for their well-being won out. If it mentioned something about them, she had to know. She strode over to the envelope, picked it up, and pulled out the letter with trembling fingers.

  If you call the police, you’ll never see them again.

  At least not alive.

  Catherine dropped the letter as if it were on fire. She almost lost control of her bladder. He’d taken her kittens and threatened to kill them. Her innocent, defenseless kittens. What kind of person did that?

  One kind, in particular. A person who could hurt animals was more likely to hurt people.

  She covered her mouth and backed away from the letter. What could she do?

  Oh, the poor kittens. She crossed her arms across her chest. She pictured their adorable faces with inquisitive eyes. Those two playful, lovable maniacs. What would he do to them if she called the police? Graphic images with blood and knives and water and suffocation tormented her. She forced them away. She wouldn’t let the fear incapacitate her. She had to think clearly. Taking the wrong action to enrage an already unhinged man was dangerous.

  What to do next? She paced through her living room. Angelo was coming. Thank God. He was used to making decisions at critical times. She’d show him the letter. They’d figure something
out together.

  While she sorted out that plan, she ran upstairs to use the bathroom. After searching for the cats that morning, her bladder was ready to burst.

  As she washed her hands, she glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her face was pale and eyes tired beneath her glasses. Her hair wasn’t even brushed. Ugh. She looked like she felt. A wreck.

  Catherine entered her room and put on a clean light blue T-shirt over her black yoga pants. She ran a brush through her hair with more vigor than necessary.

  “Why have you ignored me?” a man spoke.

  Fear clogged her throat. The unexpected and unfamiliar voice shot spiders skittering over her skin.

  She spun around and faced a stranger. A tall, lanky man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties stepped across the threshold. Into her safe space. He had trimmed brown hair and a clean-shaven face and wore jeans and a button-down gray shirt. Like many men on campus. Not how she pictured him. Although she didn’t have a concrete image in her mind, the confused content of his letters led her to believe he’d appear more disheveled.

  “You must be Trent.” She raised her chin to project defiance rather than the fear crawling inside. “Why are you here? And how did you get in?”

  “A pleasure to meet you at last.” He bent forward in a mock bow.

  “What have you done with my cats?” Her voice trembled, but she kept her head high. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her cowering.

  His eyes flickered with an alarming glimmer. “I needed to get your attention. And it worked.” He let out a hearty laugh, but then glared at her. “I’ve warned you to drop the project, but you ignored me.”

  He narrowed his gaze. The eyes of someone dangerous.

  “Worse, you got the cops involved.” He took another step. “So, I had to take a more drastic approach.”

  She stepped back. His demeanor darkened as he walked in, narrowing the distance between them like a predator closing in on prey.

  No way. She clutched the hairbrush more tightly. Fighting with it wasn’t the best option, especially against a man who loomed over her with a face full of menace.

  But what alternative did she have? If she tried to run, she’d have to slip past him and run down the stairs and outside, hoping he wouldn’t catch her.

  Then again, she might not even get by him in the confined space.

  “I don’t like what you’ve been doing.” He took another step toward her, breaching deeper into her bedroom. An odd scent rose from his clothing. Cloves. He must have smoked clove cigarettes.

  “Stay away from me.” She moved back and raised the brush.

  “You shouldn’t have ignored me. Don’t you think I know what I’m talking about?” His expression contorted with pain. “I’ve been suffering from what the government has done to me.” He tapped his temple. “In here. My life has been a twisted, endless hell because of people like you.”

  “I haven’t done anything to you.” She backed to the window. It was now closed, which he must have done. With him approaching, escaping was the better option, but how? Every muscle screamed run.

  “Where are you going?” His voice turned as sugary as soda. “I just want to talk. That’s it. Talk.”

  With his threatening demeanor replaced with a friendly smile, he almost appeared genuine. Like a politician trying to sell a lie.

  “Talk?” Maybe she could buy enough time to get to the door by keeping him talking. She backed along the wall inching toward the door, bumping into a framed photo on the wall. It wobbled but didn’t crash to the ground. She navigated around it. “About what? About why you’re fixating on me, a stranger who has nothing to do with you.”

  “Ah, but you do.” He raised his index finger and pointed. “It’s people like you who screw up people like me.”

  “You’re wrong.” She shook her head in defiance. “My research on memory is to help people, not harm them.”

  He snorted. “You see what you want to see. Believe what you want to believe. It doesn’t change the consequences.”

  What kind of consequences? Her breath rate escalated. Her room never seemed so small and claustrophobic. This man was dangerous.

  She backed away. He strode faster.

  “Stay away from me.” She sprinted to the doorway.

  As soon as she passed the threshold, he grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

  “Let go! Let go!” She punched and kicked at his mass and squirmed to escape.

  He tightened his hold.

  “Help! Help!” she screamed.

  Shit. Would anyone hear her? Fucking insulation. That soundproofing feature that had appealed to her when she was looking for a place now threatened to swallow her in a silent tomb.

  Trent threw her on her bed. “Quiet!”

  He slapped her. The sharpness resounded and she cupped her cheek, now hot. The urge to escape swelled. She jumped off the bed and darted to the doorway again. He clutched around her waist and flung her back onto the bed. He straddled her and grabbed a pillow, forcing it onto her face. She gasped, fighting for air, and she struggled to squirm out from under his mass.

  “I told you I want to talk, but you refuse. Making it more difficult for both of us. If you shout out one more time or try to run, I will suffocate you. It’s too easy. Just like this.” He pressed on her head.

  The instant blackness was followed by a lack of oxygen. She pushed the pillow up. No use. Terror radiated from her spine. She was going to die here. Like this.

  No. No. No.

  She clawed at his arms, his hands, anything.

  He yanked the pillow away. “Bitch. You drew blood.”

  She gulped for air. Never had she appreciated oxygen so much.

  Breathe, breathe, breathe.

  Trent pinned her by the forearms with such force, she cried out.

  “Quiet,” he reminded her. He bent close to her ear. “I don’t care how much it hurts. You try to draw any attention, you die. Consequences, remember?”

  “Okay.” She squeezed back scalding tears.

  He pulled her off the bed and pushed her into the antique rocking chair. Then he sat down on her lap with his back toward her, crushing her. Something rough wrapped around her wrist. No! He was tying her to the chair. A family heirloom became a prop in her prison. He continued with her ankles. She wiggled and kicked. It didn’t prevent him from tying her ankles to the chair, but they weren’t as tight as her wrists and she had at least some movement.

  She struggled to slip out. More punches. More kicks. It was futile. His weight crushed down on her, preventing movement.

  No matter how hard she fought Trent, he overpowered her. One wrist restrained. Then the other.

  She bucked, desperate to escape her restraints. Flight didn’t work. Neither did fight. “Why are you doing this to me!”

  He cocked his head. “Because you’re one of them.”

  “One of who?”

  He paced before her and tapped his head. “You’re leading a project on memory. For the government. I’ve read about you. And then I tried to warn you what you’re doing, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “It’s to help people. The more we know, the better we can help with conditions like Alzheimer’s and—”

  “No. That’s what you tell yourself. They’ll use it to control people. They already have with me!” His expression turned feral and unfixed and his gait evolved into a prowl. “They put something in my brain. And I haven’t been able to remember things right ever since then.”

  She took long, deep breaths. He was tormented by what sounded like delusions, which might be helped by therapy or medication. If he hadn’t broken in and tied her up, she might have felt more sympathy.

  In a calm voice, she said, “I am not someone who you think has harmed you.”

  He scowled. “No!” Spittle dropped from his lips. He clutched his head. “Don’t try to tell me I need help. No more experiments.”

  What experiments? Was any of what he said real, or all a del
usion?

  He faced her again with a leer. “I know you called him, and he’s on the way. Don’t worry, I’m prepared.”

  Dread hit her like a head-on collision.

  “The police will be here any minute,” Catherine cried. Minute was a stretch. They’d check on her at some point—probably when it was too late.

  He laughed. The glimmer of excitement in his eyes shot a fresh quake of tremors throughout her flesh.

  He pulled out a knife and admired it. “Let them come.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Angelo

  Angelo returned to the deck where he’d been relaxing with a beer and watching a soccer match with his father under the morning sunlight.

  “Can I borrow your car?” Angelo struggled to keep his tone steady. The anxiety in Cate’s tone set him on edge.

  His father glanced up. “You missed Italy score.”

  The game could wait. “Dad, did you hear me?”

  “Your brothers took it to the tackle shop.” This time his father kept his eyes on the TV.

  Angelo groaned. “Did Ma take her car?” She’d said she was getting a few things from the farmer’s market.

  “No. She walked.”

  “I need her car.” Urgency rang through his voice.

  “Why so tense?” His father studied Angelo.

  “Cate asked me to come by.”

  “Oh,” his father responded in a knowing tone, as if suddenly understanding it was girl problems. “Check the basket for her keys or the spare set.”

  Angelo ran inside and fumbled with the collection of keys in the seashell-accented basket his mother kept by the front door. Why the hell did his parents need so many keys? They had one house and two cars. With the countless sets of keys on key chains from various states they’d visited, it was more like they were renting out rooms in a damn B&B.

  Angelo fished through them, along with a collection of junk mail that would never be acknowledged and magazines that would never be read. The urge to rush to Cate intensified.

  Finally, he found the right one to his mother’s Fiat. It was fastened to a Maine — Vacationland key chain with an image of a lobster. He shouted to his father through the screen door.