Kitabı oku: «Takedown», sayfa 3

Chapter Three

“You didn’t have to call me. I’m in my room. Homework’s done. I’m fine.”

Despite the reassurance of the actual words, Michael Cutler heard nothing but Go away and leave me alone in his son’s voice. He tipped his cell phone up to his temple, shifted to a more comfortable position in the cab of his heavy-duty pickup truck and breathed out a steely sigh before pulling it back to his mouth and trying again. “You want me to get some food while I’m out? I can drive through and get you a couple of burgers on the way home.”

“We ate dinner.”

Technically, Mike, Jr., had pushed the stew around in his bowl, eaten half his grilled cheese sandwich and rolled away from the table as fast as his wheelchair would take him as soon as Michael had granted his request to be excused. “I don’t mind running to—”

“Brett’s waiting, Dad.”

“I see.” Brett was Mike’s online gaming partner. They’d once been a trio of friends—before their classmate Steve had died in the crash that had shattered Mike’s legs. Now the three caballeros were down to two and Michael didn’t want to see his son isolate himself from any more of his former friends. “Well, tell Brett hi. You’ve got postapocalyptic worlds to save, I’m sure.”

“I guess. Can I go now?”

“I’ll be home in time to say good-night.”

“Okay.”

Click.

Michael downed the last dregs of his tepid coffee and crushed the paper cup in his hand. “That went well.”

About as well as a standoff with a hostage-taker who refused to negotiate.

He shoved the empty cup back into the holder between the two front seats of his black pickup. Conversations like that one were a big reason he’d been sitting outside this particular brownstone for more than an hour already. This was one problem he thought he could fix. As soon as he’d clipped his phone onto his belt, Michael pushed up the sleeve of his pullover sweater and checked the time on his military-grade watch: 8:10 p.m.

“Where the hell are you?” he whispered, turning his attention from his taciturn son to the darkened windows of Jillian Masterson’s apartment building. His watch had ticked away with the same ominous slowness the night Mike hadn’t shown up by curfew and he’d finally gotten a call at 2:00 a.m. from a traffic cop to tell him his son was being airlifted from the scene of an accident. He wasn’t jumping to any morbid conclusions yet, but he wasn’t ready to dismiss his suspicions about Jillian being in some kind of trouble, either.

A quick perusal of the building’s layout told him her apartment was on the front side, facing the street where he’d parked. And though several other residents of the south Kansas City neighborhood had pulled into the adjacent parking lot, unlocked the lobby’s security door and lit their windows with the warm glow of activity inside, Jillian’s third-floor windows remained dark, cold and empty.

Not that it was his job to watch over the leggy physical therapist’s comings and goings. But with Mike shut up inside his bedroom with his headphones on and his attention glued to the epic zombie battle he and Brett were waging online, Michael had chosen to act on a concern he could do something about—finding out exactly what had put the fear into Jillian’s green eyes when he’d found her reading that letter in her office.

Despite the promise she made that she’d do whatever was sensible to keep herself safe, Michael’s gut and the excuses Jillian had come up with to dismiss her panicked reaction were giving him the same message. Something was very, very wrong in that woman’s life. He’d worked too many domestic dispute calls with his team not to be suspicious about so-called loving relationships that invoked more terror than tenderness.

What she was doing for Troy Anthony was commendable and courageous, but not reporting in after a visit to a neighborhood where gangs and drugs and prostitutes often called the shots was worrisome enough. It was downright foolish if there was some kind of unwanted admirer in her life who could use the inherent dangers of Jillian’s crusade against her—or who might even be a part of that world she was trying to help Troy leave behind.

She said she’d be safe at home before dark, damn it, and the sun had set an hour ago.

He needed her to help Mike unplug himself from his isolation and anger, and move on with his life. Selfish as it might be, Michael wouldn’t let her efforts to help one young man jeopardize the recovery of his own son.

Squeezing the steering wheel in his fists, Michael eased out his frustration while keeping his senses focused and sharp. He’d felt these same pangs when Pam had been consumed with cancer and was dying. He’d wanted to protect her, too—wanted to do whatever it took to drive the uncertainty from her eyes and make her smile.

Maybe he couldn’t fix Mike’s problems, after all.

Maybe he couldn’t help Jillian.

Maybe there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help any of the people who were most important in his life.

But he’d fought for Pam until the very end—until that last evening in the hospital when she’d finally told him to let her go. He’d promised his late wife that he’d fight just as hard for their son to live a long, happy life. Thus far it seemed Michael had had more failures than success. Mike had turned to the party life to cope with his grief. In his efforts to forget the pain of losing his mother, he’d lost even more—a good friend, football, the future he’d had planned.

It would take one hell of a fight to mend his son and reclaim the close-knit family they’d once had. And if Jillian Masterson was the key…

Giving up wasn’t an option.

Michael scrubbed his palm over his jaw and tried to think this situation through. He liked Jillian well enough—better than a man his age probably should. No doubt there were plenty of young bucks in K.C. who’d noticed that long, sable-colored hair and those green Irish eyes, too. He was older, not dead. Jillian’s endless legs, that beautiful mouth and the sharp remarks that came out of it awakened his masculine spirit in ways he thought had died two years ago with Pam. It was hard to look into her frightened expression and not want to touch her or hold her and drive away that fear.

Ultimately, however, his feelings were irrelevant. He just had to keep Jillian safe so that she, in turn, could continue to make the miracle of Mike, Jr.’s, recovery happen.

That meant thinking like a cop—like a veteran SWAT team commander. Fortunately, that was one thing Michael could do without any doubts.

Did he risk a call to her brother Eli—a former KCPD internal affairs officer who now ran investigations for the D.A.’s office? Did he call one of his own men, sharpshooter Holden Kincaid, whose oldest brother, Edward, was married to Jillian’s sister? In a roundabout way, he could ask if anyone had heard from her—if anyone knew of her particular plans for the evening. Did she have a meeting? A date?

“Why don’t you panic the whole family and create some real chaos?” he muttered out loud. There’d be no more phone calls tonight. He knew better than that. One of the traits that made him the leader he was at KCPD was his ability to remain calm—his ability to rein in whatever he was feeling to keep his men focused and get the job done.

Michael’s job tonight was simply to make sure that Jillian got home safely. Her personal life wasn’t his responsibility. He just needed her in one piece and on the job Monday when he took Mike in for his therapy session. He needed Jillian to make his son smile. And laugh. And truly want to live again.

He’d ignore the stirrings in his blood teasing him that spending time with Jillian Masterson made him feel like living again, too.

JILLIAN STUFFED A FRENCH FRY into her mouth and reached across the seat for another as she slowed her SUV and pulled into the parking lot of her building. She circled around once, looking for an empty spot, preferably one close to the door since the rest of her day had totally sucked and the idea of braving the long, lonely parking lot by herself was about as appealing as the sensation of having unseen eyes on her 24/7.

“Great,” she muttered, reaching the end of the lot and circling around again. “Just great.”

When she reached the entrance again, she pulled into the only empty spot she’d seen. It wasn’t terribly close to the door, but at least it was close to a streetlamp and she’d have some light along most of the walk to help keep real and imagined shadows at bay. She doused the headlights, killed the engine and tried to psych herself up by telling herself that her long day—from Loverboy’s letter to running into Isaac Rush after getting bawled out by Troy’s grandmother, from lusting after Michael Cutler to the need for an N.A. meeting—was almost over.

The handful of fries she’d eaten since leaving the drive-through window at a fast food restaurant sat like rocks in her stomach. Still, all her training as an athlete, physical therapist and recovering addict demanded she get some kind of nourishment into her system, no matter how tired she was. So she grabbed the bag and climbed out. Greasy dinner, sleeping in a blue and pink bedroom and finally getting to a new day wasn’t much, but it was something to look forward to.

The beep of her remote locking the car couldn’t mask the slamming of a car door nearby. The instantaneous thump of her heart couldn’t drown out the crunch of approaching footsteps, either.

Jillian spun around. Where was her company? Would she recognize a neighbor? Or was it him?

“Hey, Jilly,” the male voice drawled, stopping her at the rear of her SUV. “I’ve been waitin’ for you.”

Seeing the familiar handsome face and spiked blond hair transformed her fear into irritation. “Blake. You scared the daylights out of me. What are you doing here? Didn’t you get my message?”

“Didn’t you get mine?” He loosened his tie and unhooked the collar of his striped shirt. “You stood me up tonight. I thought we were having drinks.”

“I never said yes to a date. I never will.”

“I love a woman who plays hard to get.” He leaned in close, as if he intended to kiss her, and Jillian jerked away. He clamped his hand down on her wrist and she stomped on his instep. With a howl and a curse, he instantly released her. “Maybe not that hard, baby.”

Another car door slammed. Could this night get any worse?

It could.

She saw the drop of dried blood at the corner of Blake’s aquiline nose and realized there was a slur to his southern drawl. She shoved him away when he leaned in again. “Oh, my God, Blake—are you using?”

“Just a little. I don’t know how many times I can let you break my heart without putting a stop to it. It dulls the pain.”

“It dulls the brain. You’re throwing your fortune away, maybe even your career. Don’t blame me for your addiction. Good night.”

He shifted his stance, blocking her path when she tried to move around him. He laid his hand over his heart. “You hurt me, Jilly. Nobody’s ever been able to take your place. I can get clean. I’ve done it before. Just give me a chance. Don’t hurt me like this.”

Fine. He wanted to talk pain?

“Did you send me a rose this week, Blake? Are you trying to rekindle something with me?”

“Hell, I’ll buy you two whole dozen if it’ll get you to come back to me.”

“Did you send the flower?” She was beginning to think the answer was no, that the more expensive, dramatic gesture he’d just offered would be more his style. Still, she needed to be clear. “We are never getting together again. I told you that two Christmases ago when we tried to recapture the magic we once had.”

Turned out it wasn’t magic at all, but a curse. She had to have been high herself to think she’d ever been in love with a man like him.

“You need to go home, Blake, and sleep this off. In the morning, call Dr. Randolph at the Boatman Clinic. I’ve given you his number before. Get help. Please.”

“Say you love me and I will.”

MICHAEL STRETCHED HIS LONG LEGS out beneath the dashboard to control the restlessness inside him. Chances were, Jillian would show up safe and sound any minute now, and he was doing all this worrying for nothing.

Or not.

Hidden in the darkness of the truck’s interior, he recognized her dark blue SUV as it zipped into the parking lot and circled around twice before she pulled into a space right next to the entrance and abruptly cut the engine and lights. In the circle of light cast by the streetlamp across from him, he could easily make out her jerky movements as she checked in every direction before grabbing a sack of takeout food from the passenger seat and locking the door behind her. Her long strides took her to the back of her SUV and she disappeared from sight.

And then he saw the blond man in the suit climb out of his Jaguar the next row over and stumble toward Jillian.

Michael’s gaze narrowed. His pulse raced. “What the hell?”

He was out of his truck and dashing across the street when he heard the man shout out a curse. Michael slowed his steps, assessed the scene. Was Jillian in danger?

“Oh, my God, Blake—are you using?” Whatever was happening, Jillian seemed to be fighting the battle just fine on her own. Still, he’d seen such fear in her eyes that morning. If this was the guy responsible for putting it there…

Stepping into the grass to approach in stealth mode, Michael reached the hood of her SUV and identified each of their positions at the rear of the vehicle.

“Get help. Please.”

“Say you love me and I will.”

Michael circled around in time to see the blond man reach for Jillian. He snuck up behind the fool and had him in a headlock and on the ground before his fingers ever touched her.

“Michael!”

“What the hell?”

“KCPD, pal. Put your hands on your head and stay on the ground if you know what’s good for you.” He straightened to find Jillian staring at him, her soft mouth agape, her green eyes wide and confused. “You okay?”

“Where did you…? How did you…?” She blinked, and he read suspicion instead of gratitude there. “Are you following me?”

“This guy apparently is.” The guy squirmed, tried to get up. Michael put a boot squarely in his back and pushed him back down to the asphalt. He still needed an answer. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. He’s an old boyfriend. He wouldn’t…” She hugged the sack she carried up to her chest and glanced down at the man on the ground. “His name’s Blake Rivers. I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

Blake Rivers tried to turn his face up to Michael. “Who are you, old man? You can’t be her daddy, ’cause he’s dead.”

Jillian gasped. Michael knew enough of her history to know that that had been a cruel, tactless thing to say. “I’m a friend. One who’s going to do whatever the lady tells me to do. Get the hint?”

He didn’t. “Jilly and I have history.”

“History’s in the past. I’m talking about right now.” Michael pressed a little harder with his boot. “Jillian, do you want this man around?”

The sack took a beating from her wringing fingers. “Blake, I told you I can’t see you anymore. I just wanted to know if you had sent me a rose last week.”

“Baby, I told you to your face how I feel.”

“You can’t have me back. Ever. I don’t know how many different ways I can say it—you’re not good for me. Now go home.”

“Why? So you can bang this old fart?”

“Michael isn’t—”

“Michael can handle himself just fine.” Proving he was as good as his word, Michael hauled Blake to his feet and escorted him back to his car. “The lady said goodbye. You’re leaving.” He stopped long enough to open the car door and look him straight in the eye. “You sober enough to drive, pal?”

Blake sputtered for a moment, blinked his vision clear and then climbed into his Jaguar and started the engine. Michael was already calling in the name, plate and location to alert traffic patrol as the car pulled out and sped away.

Hopefully, he’d get home without incident. Hopefully, Michael had done enough to keep him away from Jillian.

But if he’d been expecting gratitude, or even a friendly hello, from her, he’d been mistaken.

As he rejoined her at her SUV, he didn’t bother asking if she’d been rattled by the encounter with her ex. Jillian stood tall and strong. And she was spitting mad.

“Did you follow me uptown to Troy’s apartment, too?”

He pointed to his pickup across the street. “No, I’ve been waiting over there.”

Anger twisted into confusion. “That wasn’t you watching me?”

“No, that jackass in the Jaguar…” She wasn’t talking about now. His gaze narrowed in on the tight lines of strain bracketing her mouth and every muscle in him tensed, instantly on guard. It wasn’t anger that had her so tense. “Watching? Explain.”

“Never mind, Captain.” She turned away.

They were back to Captain?

“Jillian, did something else happen?” He reached for her arm, touched the soft fleece of her sleeve.

She whirled around and smacked his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

As instantly apologetic as she’d been quick to attack, Jillian reached out and patted his chest. She smoothed imaginary wrinkles in his sweater and blood surged to the point of contact. “I’m sorry. Long day. I…” Her gaze following her shaky fingers, she brushed her fingertips over the brass and blue enamel badge clipped to his belt. If she was worried about assaulting a police officer, or muttered one word about not respecting her elders…But she curled her fingers into her palm and the explanation died in her upturned eyes. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. Sorry I hit you.”

He was a man. He was a cop. He was here. He could handle whatever she had to say. Michael softened his voice, taking the authoritative clip from his tone. “Don’t apologize. Just talk to me.”

“I can’t.” Shaking her head, she wrapped both hands around the crumpled takeout sack. “You’re not here to solve my problems.” A tiny frown dimpled the smooth, tanned skin of her forehead. “Why are you here, anyway? Is Mike okay?”

“Mike’s fine. He’s holed up in his room and won’t have a civil conversation with me, but I know he’s safe. You? I’m not so sure.”

“Just don’t give up on Mike—keep trying to connect, no matter how rude or sullen he gets. You never know when the message is going to kick in. If he keeps hearing the words and seeing the actions, he’ll understand that you love him, and that he’s not in his fight all alone. Well, if you don’t need anything else…” She held up the fast food sack. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

“Sage advice, Obi-Wan. But like I said, you’re the one I’m worried about right now.”

“I’m okay.” With a smile he didn’t buy, Jillian bade him good-night and headed down the walk toward the front door again. She was on the first step when she turned to face him. A deep, ragged breath lifted her shoulders. “Who am I kidding? Would you do me a favor? If you’re not on duty—of course you’re not on duty, you’re not in uniform—but if you don’t have to be anywhere—”

“What is it?” He was already closing the distance between them. Michael stopped on the step below her, tilting his chin ever so slightly to look up into her eyes.

“Would you…” Her fingertips danced just above his chest again, as if he needed to be soothed before she could ask him the favor. His pulse seemed to pick up the same jumpy rhythm. “Would you walk me up to my apartment, Captain? Just make sure it’s clear to go inside. I’ve had some weird things happen lately, and I’m getting a little paranoid.”

More weird than that letter? “What did Blake Rivers say to you?”

“You know I used to be like him. I suppose now I’m just sober enough to know that something isn’t right.”

He knew she didn’t talk about her past life much, but she’d shared enough. He’d have done his homework on the woman responsible for his son’s recovery, anyway. And besides, Mike’s response to her was so strong, it didn’t make a difference. “You don’t deserve this harassment. You beat your addiction, Jillian. You made something of your life.”

“Not enough, it seems.” Or else she wouldn’t have some creep making her startle at a man’s unexpected touch? “You sure you still want to help me?”

Michael simply nodded, stepping up behind her to shield her from unseen eyes she thought were watching as she unlocked the door and led him inside. When she hesitated at the open elevator doors, Michael touched the small of her back and guided her inside. When the doors closed behind them and she didn’t move away, he let his fingers slide beneath her jacket to rest just above her belt in an even more protective gesture. The sinuous curve of her hip beneath her knit top told him she was as firm and fit as she looked.

But the pulsing heat that warmed his fingers even at that innocent contact warned him that his interest in helping Jillian might not be as paternal and altruistic as he might have thought. He quickly drew his hand away as if he’d crossed a forbidden line of friendship and tucked his errant fingers into the front pockets of his jeans.

She’d asked the KCPD captain to escort her upstairs, not the red-blooded forty-four-year-old who couldn’t seem to keep his hormones in check tonight.

He peered down the third-floor hallway before he let her exit the elevator. Clear. The muffled sounds of television shows and lively conversations filtered through his ears as they passed by her neighbors. Nothing unusual there. Once they reached Jillian’s door, Michael put a hand on her shoulder to hold her back so he could enter her apartment first.

“No sign of forced entry,” he stated as she pulled out her key. Still…Michael pressed Jillian back against the wall beside the door frame and looked her straight in the eye. “Stay put. I don’t want to mistake your movement for something or someone else.”

Jillian looked straight back and nodded.

Unhooking the cover on the holster at his waist, Michael rested his hand on the butt of his Glock and crossed the tiny dining area to see what was on the other side of the counter that divided the open kitchen area. A few dirty dishes in the sink, a wireless phone on the wall with a blinking red light indicating four messages. But nothing seemed out of place. He checked the window that opened onto the fire escape off the kitchen. New lock. State-of-the-art. “Have you had a recent break-in?” he questioned.

“No. I asked Eli to replace the old lock for me. The metal had rusted.”

Beefing up the locks—evidence of a woman who lived alone in the city showing common sense? Or did Jillian have a more specific reason for not feeling secure in her own home? How many love letters did a woman have to receive before she felt compelled to change the locks and have a cop walk through her place?

Scanning quickly and thoroughly from left to right, he moved through each of the remaining rooms. Living room clear. Bathroom clear. Her bedroom was a little messy—the smell of fresh paint tinged the air, and the bed was still rumpled from where she’d lain among the sheets and quilt. The window, inaccessible from outside without a fire engine ladder or rappelling rope, was cracked open to help disperse the paint fumes, but the room and closets were clear.

“I don’t see anything out of place.” Michael secured his gun and came back into the living room.

“Thank you.” Jillian’s shoulders sagged with genuine relief before a bolt of internal energy fired through her. She opened the door and flashed him a smile that surely meant goodbye. “You won’t tell Eli or my sister that I’m losing it, will you? They worry enough about me living on my own. Now I can tell them that the finest of Kansas City’s finest said there was nothing to worry about.”

That wasn’t what he’d said, and Michael wasn’t ready to be dismissed just yet. He braced his hands on his hips and stood his ground. “Does this paranoia of yours have anything to do with that love letter you threw away this afternoon?”

Boom. Smile gone. The door drifted shut as she stormed across the apartment to meet him in the kitchen. “You went through my trash?”

Michael shrugged off the accusation. “Didn’t need a warrant to do it. Something was…is clearly bugging you. And don’t tell me it’s my imagination. I know what brave people who are trying to hide how scared they are look like. Is it an abusive boyfriend? That Rivers guy who won’t take no for an answer?”

She tossed the sack onto the counter and planted herself in front of him, matching his stance and nearly matching his height. “One, I don’t have a boyfriend, and two, what business is it of yours who follows me or sends me things I don’t want?”

Whoa. “You were followed tonight? I told you to drive straight to a police station—”

“You’re twisting my words around—”

“You’re the one who asked me to check out your apartment.” One beat of silence passed. Then another. Michael’s burst of temper squeezed into something much more controlled, much more concise. “You’re being stalked, aren’t you?”

The flush of defensive anger drained from her face, leaving Jillian’s smooth skin an alarming shade of pale. Swift negotiating tactic, Cutler.

When her gaze dropped to the middle of his chest and her head bobbed with a reluctant nod, it wasn’t victory at finally getting a straight answer he was feeling. The nagging burn in his gut that had told him something was wrong wasn’t eased one bit by the truth.

“Jillian…” Michael reached out to brush aside the strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. He gently tucked it behind her ear, then cupped his hand against her jaw. The cool velvet of her skin, the warm beat of her pulse throbbing beneath his fingertips—they eased the guilt and worry in his gut. He tipped her face back up to his and drifted half a step closer. “You jump every time I enter the room, and you go on the attack every time I even suggest that you might be in danger. Sure signs you’re hiding something. This isn’t something you can fight on your own. You shouldn’t have to.”

Her nostrils flared as she took a deep breath. Her eyes locked on to his. Her hands curled into tight fists and rested against him. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

Michael stroked the side of her neck, dipping his fingertips into the coffee silk of her hair. Her pulse was quick but steady. “Have you reported him to the police?”

She tapped at his chest. “And tell them what? He hasn’t threatened me in any way. He just…loves me.”

“Does it feel like love?”

Her answer was to walk straight into his chest. She clutched a fistful of the sweater she’d smoothed so meticulously earlier, and buried her face at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. She was shaking.

Michael was much more than a cop standing there in Jillian’s kitchen as he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight against his body, trading solace for the tactile reassurance of her warmth and trust. He turned his mouth to the delicate shell of her ear. “Now tell me who this bastard is—and why he’s got you so spooked.”