She gasped. Get up. Get up. Get up.
He didn’t move. Facedown in the wet grass, pine needles already falling on his bare back, he remained still. Too still.
She swallowed, her heart beating so fast it was hard to breathe as she finished unlocking the door. Was this the heart attack she’d been waiting for? She had to put all her weight into moving the heavy door, but she got it open.
The rain and wind attacked her instantly.
What if he was dead? A hit to the temple could kill somebody. Everyone knew that.
She blinked and looked in the direction the branch had come from. The tree had cracked and was swaying crazily. She’d been meaning to have somebody cut it down. It was definitely going to fall.
Right on the downed ex-cop.
This was her fault. She hadn’t called a forester because she hadn’t wanted to talk to anybody on the phone. Her weakness had created danger.
There was no choice. She had to help him.
Her breath came out in a rush, and she launched into motion, ignoring fear. She ran across her brick patio and onto the grass, the wild wind competing with the ringing between her ears. The rain smashed against her pink tank top and shorts, molding the soft material to her body. Her hair whipped around in the wind, getting soaked, and she shoved tendrils out of her eyes, having to squint.
He struggled to his hands and knees just as she reached him, her bare feet covered in wet grass.
She paused, fear nearly swallowing her. Was he okay? She could return to the house.
His head hung down, his wet hair obscuring his face. This close, the violence done to his body was even more evident. A large surgical scar wound around his left thigh, and another healed knife wound showed on his left hip.
“Malcolm?” she whispered, her voice stolen by the storm. She reached out and touched his shoulder.
He jumped up so quickly, she screamed. Pivoting, he turned to face her, his legs braced and his fists clenched. Fire lanced in his green eyes. Terror and fury sharpened the rugged angles of his hard face. Blood mingled with rain on his right temple.
Her feet froze. Her legs shook. She couldn’t move. He was so much taller, so much bigger, than anybody she’d ever met. If he attacked her, she didn’t have a chance.
But she still couldn’t run.
Recognition slowly filled his eyes, making him look more human than animal. “Pippa.” His chest heaved. He dropped to one knee, and water splashed up.
She grasped his arm, his skin slippery from the rain but still heated. “Don’t pass out again. I can’t get you inside by myself.” Going on instinct, swallowing her fear, she shoved her body beneath his arm. “Muscle weighs more than fat.” Babbling now, she lifted up and helped him stumble to his feet. “You don’t have any fat.” Not an ounce. Even his abdomen, now that she could see it, was ripped. “So you’re heavy. I can’t drag you inside.” He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. Probably more.
“I’m okay,” he slurred, staggering by her side toward the patio.
“Right.” She kept going until they reached the sliding glass door, feeling small and defenseless so close to him.
With his free hand, he carelessly slid the heavy door the rest of the way open. His easy strength rippled tension through her abdomen. Awareness and something else. Something heated and needy that she’d worry about later.
Then they were inside her cheery yellow-patterned kitchen. She helped him sit at the quaint round table, and the antique wooden chair groaned under his weight.
She took a step back.
He overwhelmed the chair. His wet hair and the blood on his face gave him a primitive, dangerous look.
And she’d brought him into her safe haven.
* * *
Mal’s chest ached, probably because his heart had rammed against his rib cage in a way that had to be unhealthy. Certainly unnecessary. He often awoke in the dead middle of a panic attack, and fresh air always seemed to help, so he usually ran outside like a wild animal.
He hadn’t considered he’d get beaned in the head this time.
Everything hurt. His head, his face, his hip, his damn leg. But warmth and the smell of freshly baked cookies wafted around, somehow calming him.
He blinked water out of his eyes and focused.
Pippa hovered near the open sliding door, her hair a wet mass around her head, rain on her angled face. Her tiny tank top and shorts were soaking wet and plastered to a surprisingly curvy body. Her nipples were diamond hard against the flimsy cotton, and even though she was short, her bare legs were plenty long for her body.
That quickly, his cock joined the cacophony of pain. Hard and needy.
Her eyes widened.
He sprawled in the flimsy chair and didn’t look down. In only boxer briefs—wet ones—there was probably no doubt where his mind had gone. “I won’t hurt you, Pippa.” The name didn’t feel right on his tongue. Why not?
She swallowed, her throat moving with the effort. “I’m sorry about your head. It was my fault.”
Unless she’d walked out and hit him with a bat, he didn’t see how. “It was a tree branch from our shared backyard. It’s my fault as much as yours.” He tried to wipe blood away from his temple. “Let’s blame Mother Nature. She’s always been a total witch to me.”
Pippa’s laugh was strained.
The room still spun a bit around his head or he’d stand up and get out of there. “Give me a minute to get my bearings and I’ll leave you alone.” Even though she was scared as hell of him, she’d rushed out into that storm when he’d been injured. Then she’d brought him into her home. He’d bet his last twenty dollars she’d never brought another person in here. The woman had a kindness to her. “Okay?”
His promise seemed to galvanize her. She rushed for a kitchen towel and moved toward him, pressing it to his head. “You might need to see a doctor.”
He placed his hand over hers, even though the pressure hurt his head more. “I’ve been harmed worse, sweetheart.” Her hand was wet and smooth beneath his. Small and delicate—so damn breakable.
This close, her scent of sugar cookies and something unique, something all her and surprisingly sultry, filled his head. If he just turned his head a couple of inches, his mouth would be near those enticing breasts. His groan had nothing to do with the gash in his temple.
She lightened her hold. “I have aspirin.”
He had the hard-on of an eighteen-year-old kid. He also had Glenlivet back home. A shot or five would help.
Even with the outside door open, intimacy hushed through the small room. His body wanted to explore it while his brain fired out a hell no. He ignored her breasts and lifted his head, meeting her gaze.
Ah.
Awareness, warning, fear, curiosity, need. Maybe it was the night, or maybe it was the scare outside, but the woman’s expression was completely unguarded. He wasn’t the only one in the room having a fight between his body and his brain.
Her sapphire gaze dropped to his bare chest. And then lower.
His dick jumped in response, as if having its own conversation with her.
A fascinating—truly fascinating—blush spread from her chest, up her neck, and over her still wet face. “Well.” Her pretty pink lips barely moved with the word.
He held his breath. Would she make a move? If she did, he’d be all in. Even though it’d be a mistake of torrential proportions, he’d have those shorts off her in a second. But she had to make the move. A guy like him, one who outsized her so completely, couldn’t make the move. He wouldn’t. But if she offered, he’d probably be able to die happy. Or at least content. Definitely grateful.
She removed her hand and retreated several steps, her gaze lifting to a place beyond his left shoulder.
The disappointment was like a hammer to the gut.
She cleared her throat. “I’m not good with people. With being around people.”
Was she telling him to leave? “I understand.” He could probably sta
nd without keeling over now.
“Mrs. Maloni lived in your house before you, and we were friends. We talked and spent time together,” Pippa said, her voice soft. “She was a good neighbor.”
Was she asking him to be a friend? “I don’t have friends,” he admitted, his headache diminishing enough that he could breathe. “At least, I haven’t in a long time.”
Her gaze returned to his. “Why not?”
He couldn’t sit there with a full-on erection in his wet underwear and bond with her. For one thing, her plastered and very thin clothes revealed every smooth line and curve of her body, and his mouth was watering with the need to explore every inch. So he planted a hand on the table and forced himself to stand. “Pippa? I’m happy to be your neighbor, and I can try to be your friend. But we’re going to have to start tomorrow, or rather, later today, when we’re both fully dressed.”
A small smile played on her lips. “This is rather ridiculous.”
That wasn’t the word he’d choose, but he returned her smile. It had been so long since he’d actually been honest with somebody, he wasn’t sure how to do it. “If you’d asked me into the bedroom, I would’ve said yes.”
She tilted her head to the side. “I know.” Then she moved out of the way so he could go back outside. “Were you serious about being friends?”
“Sure. Why not?” Every bit of him knew he wasn’t leaving Cottage Grove now. How could he?
“Okay.” Her voice was tentative. “Tomorrow, late afternoon, after I finish my work for the day. We’ll walk the property and maybe get to know each other. We can look for any threats.”
An odd word to choose, really. Not damaged trees or property problems, but threats. “Okay. I’m running errands most of the day but will make it a point to be here by early afternoon.” He kept her towel and headed out to the patio before striding back into the storm.
One of many coming his way, if history had taught him anything.
Chapter Four
Parking the truck in a half-full parking lot, Mal double-checked the address he’d scrawled on a sticky note. “Odd,” he murmured, looking around. The building in front of him definitely had been built in the seventies. Square, beige-colored, three stories high.
The morning drive from Cottage Grove in Virginia to this oddly placed building outside DC had taken him more than an hour, and he’d questioned his wisdom with every mile.
A deserted grassy area with worn picnic tables sat to the left, while a row of similar buildings extended to the right. Behind him was the interstate. The area was quiet—eerily so.
He hesitated to lock his SIG in the glove compartment, but without credentials, he couldn’t very well walk into a government building armed. If this was a government building. Chances were, it was one of those satellite offices for overflow, but that was close enough.
Jumping out, his boots hit wet pavement. The rain had softened, barely falling, but it still dampened his hair as he strode around parked vehicles to pull open the glass front door.
The interior hadn’t been updated. Worn yellow tiles, a marquis on the wall with mismatched letters, dingy white paint. No security and complete silence. An elevator bank of two faux wood elevators was over to the right. He moved toward the marquis, not surprised that the HDD wasn’t listed. Had he gotten the address wrong?
An ancient elevator opened, and Angus Force stepped out. He wore a full suit and looked like a fed from years back. While shorter than before, his hair was still messy; he’d tamed it back with some sort of gel, and his tie was neatly knotted. “West.”
Mal looked around the deadly silent floor. All the doors to the offices were closed. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“The gym is on the ground floor at the end of the building.” Force flashed a quick smile. “You think this is nice? Wait till you see your office.” He stepped back into the elevator.
Mal shook his head and followed. The elevator hitched when he stepped inside. “I’m not joining your team.” Especially in this hellhole. “You said if I came in you’d give me the records you supposedly have on Pippa.”
“So, it’s Pippa now, is it?” Force murmured, pressing the far-left button. “First name basis already? You are good.”
Mal didn’t rise to the bait as the elevator began to descend. “We’re heading down.”
“Yep. Nothing gets by you, Detective,” Force said cheerfully, tugging on his tie.
“What’s a Homeland Defense unit doing in this place?” Curiosity was a bitch.
They descended two floors, and the doors slid open to a small alcove with a flickering light. An old door to the right looked like it led to a closet, and a smaller one to the left had a restroom sign above it, old and tilted. “We’re kind of a dirty secret nobody wants around,” Force said, striding through the alcove. “And I lied.”
Mal followed him to see a bullpen of sorts with several scratched old desks scattered around, a few piled high with dusty boxes. Garbage and discarded computers lined one wall. “About what?”
“You don’t have an office.” Force pointed to four open doorways across the wide room. “From left to right: my office, case room one, case room two, and computer center.” He gestured around the room. “You can have first choice of desks. I was thinking of arranging them in a circle or something Zenlike. What do you think?”
Mal cut him a look. “I don’t give a damn how you decorate.” The paint on the walls was peeling, and the yellowish lights from the ceiling buzzed. The floor was dirty cement. “Just give me the files.”
The elevator dinged and opened.
Mal turned slightly to face the elevator. The guy who stepped off looked like he belonged in one of those superhero movies.
As the bad guy.
The huge, scary, psychotic bad guy.
Force smiled. “Right on time. Lieutenant Commander Clarence Wolfe, meet Detective Malcolm West.”
“I’m not a detective any longer,” Mal said at the same time Wolfe muttered, “I’m not a lieutenant commander.”
“Right,” Force said, turning and moving farther into the room. “I keep forgetting. In fact, I’d like to swear you both in as agents with the HDD.”
Wolfe looked around and sighed. He wore ripped jeans, a torn shirt, and a worn leather jacket. His hair was cut short, his eyes brown, and his jaw solid rock. A scar slashed from his left temple down to his jugular. He had to be at least six-six, if not taller. “This place is worse than I thought yesterday.”
What was going on? Mal’s gaze drifted to the case rooms. “When you said this was a new unit, you weren’t exaggerating.”
“No.” Force strode through the desks and entered case room two.
Mal looked sideways at Wolfe, who returned the look.
“Why aren’t you a detective any longer?” Wolfe asked, his voice low and hoarse.
“Why aren’t you a lieutenant commander?” Mal returned.
“Rumor has it, I’m insane.” Wolfe turned and followed Force into the case room, oddly graceful for a man his size.
The guy looked insane. Rumors were often true. Mal looked around again and then made his way through the desks to the doorway, where he glanced inside. A long conference table faced a huge whiteboard set up like a murder board. His gaze instantly caught Pippa’s picture lined up with several other women to the right. The designation “An Teaghlaigh” was scrawled across the top of the entire board.
Force caught his focus. “Means family in Gaelic.”
Wolfe yanked out a chair and dropped his muscled bulk into it. “Is this my case? The one that’ll get me back into the Teams?”
“No. On this one, West will be primary,” Force said, gesturing for Malcolm to sit. “If he stays.”
Mal slowly drew out a chair, weights settling on his chest. “You have two minutes to tell me what’s going on. Then I’m out of here.” Why would Force want a guy with his skill set on this?
The huge dog from yesterday padded inside, looked around, and then
found a corner to flop into.
“That’s Roscoe,” Force said easily. “He’s a good dog but has a few quirks.”
Quirks? A hundred-pound German shepherd with quirks? That sounded just freaking great. Malcolm returned his attention to the board, where a man’s picture was on the left side, clearly labeled. He had intense brown eyes, angular features, and longish brown hair. A young Johnny Depp before the eyeliner. “Who’s Isaac Leon, and why are the Greek signs alpha and omega below his name?”
Force leaned against the left wall. “Leon is a cult leader, and he claims to be the Alpha and Omega. His people call him the One.”
“Only Christ is the Alpha and Omega,” Wolfe said softly, eyeing the dog in the corner. “Your puppy looks hungry.”
“Don’t bite him and he won’t bite you,” Force said easily.
So, the hulking ex-soldier knew his Bible a little. Mal nodded toward the pictures of four women. “I’m taking it they’re members of this little cult?” All four women were beautiful, but Pippa had something special about her. Must be those eyes.
Force nodded. “Yes. Those are the ones we’ve been able to identify so far. They’ve all left the cult and have been leading lives off the grid since. We’ve only found Pippa and a woman now named Trixie.”
“Could be innocent,” Mal murmured, his gaze on the picture of Pippa. It had been taken at least five years earlier, if not more. Her hair was longer, her face fuller.
“Right.” Force reached into one of the many boxes dumped around the room and brought out a picture he taped beneath Pippa’s. “We’re still getting organized. This is her mother, Janice. We believe she’s still in the cult.”
“Why?” Mal asked, studying the picture. Unlike her daughter, the woman was a blonde, but Pippa had her eyes.
“We have more pictures,” Force said.
Mal exhaled. “All right. There are tons of cults in the country. Why the interest in this one?”
Force tapped a pencil. “First, I did an analysis of where the cult has been located and compared it to runaway rates and deaths. There’s a strong correlation.”
“Okay. Normal cult stuff,” Mal said. “Runaways and deaths can be covered by state or local cops. What else?”