“Oh, God!” The brunette focused on his gun. Dropping to her knees, she snatched up the dog. “Don’t shoot! He doesn’t bite.”
Chase realized that the gun did point at the dog and now at the kneeling woman, who clutched the Yoda-like creature to her breasts. Turning the gun away, he pushed himself off the wall. “I’m not going to shoot. I need your help.”
She zeroed in on his shoulder, where his tan T-shirt had grown dark with his blood. Then her gaze zipped to his face. “Oh, God!” she repeated again, and her expression washed white.
The last “Oh, God,” told Chase that she recognized him. Yep, his face had been plastered across the news, all right. Double damn.
“Are you alone?” Pain vibrated his voice.
“No! My husband is here.” Her eyes went wide again, then darted left as she tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear.
He reread the word “divorced” on her shirt. As an undercover cop, he appreciated poor lying skills in a person—it made his job a hell of a lot easier. “Get up.”
She rose to her feet, keeping the squirming dog cuddled in her arms. “Why don’t I close my eyes, turn around, and you disappear? Then I’ll pretend I never saw you.”
“You would do that?” He studied her, wanting to believe it.
Her eyes widened and cut left again. “Of course.”
If ten different kinds of pain didn’t grip him in its clutches, he would laugh at her inability to lie. Hell, if not for the pain, he wouldn’t want to leave. His gaze swept over her again. At least he had her pegged: a very gorgeous, slightly nutty divorcée, who mostly told the truth—or did a terrible job of it when she did lie.
“Let’s go inside.” Forgetting he held the gun in his hand, he motioned for her to move.
“Please, just leave.” Her voice wobbled.
Dragging air into his battered lungs, he considered doing just that. But his next step flung him back against the wall of reality. He wouldn’t make it a block before the cops arrived. Then he wouldn’t have a chance in hell of proving he wasn’t involved in killing Stokes, or that he hadn’t taken the drugs from that bad bust that he and Zeke had worked a month ago. But damn, why hadn’t he ever suspected Zeke of taking the cocaine?
“I can’t leave,” he told her. “Look, I know you’re scared and you don’t believe me. You’d be a fool to believe me. But I’m not out to hurt you. I don’t care what they’re saying. I’ve been set up, and . . . Shit, I’m not guilty.”
Her slender throat bobbed up and down as if she attempted to swallow his words as the truth. One glance into her terror-filled eyes told him she hadn’t been able to pull it off.
“Let’s go inside.” This time he motioned with his hand instead of the gun. “You’re safe with me, I swear.”
She took a step back, stumbled, and almost fell. Normally, he would have jumped at the chance to wrap his arms around someone who looked like her—someone who he was sure was naked aside from her pink shirt. But after being beat up, shot, and leaping off a bridge, jumping was damn near impossible. He waited for her to right herself, then nodded toward the house. “Come on.”
Her gaze cut to his bloody shirt as if she wondered what chance she’d have at overpowering him.
A tad worried about those chances himself, he squared his shoulders. Pain filled the pit of his stomach. He refused to flinch. “Move.” He had intended to sound gruff but regretted it when fear masked her expression.
Chin high, she started walking. He stayed hip-close, in case she tried something. When she opened the back door, he shoved his foot in the doorjamb. She tripped over him in a last-ditch effort to lunge inside and lock him out. Forgetting his bruised ribs, he caught her. The breath-hitching pain dragged a growl from his gut. The dog echoed an angry version of the same sound when Chase latched on to the woman’s elbow. Not wanting to add dog bites to his list of injuries, he released her.
Twisting around, she glared at him. Her eyes widened. Anger smoldered in her baby blues. Before the smoldering flared into action, he nudged her inside. Following, he shut the door, never taking his gaze off her. Until he convinced her he meant no harm to her or that strange dog, she wasn’t going to be a willing hostage.
“Sit down.” He pointed at the white leather sofa. When she obeyed, he inventoried the room. Sofa, chair . . . in the corner of his vision he spotted something moving. Chase wrenched around and confronted a large red tabby wearing a . . . Santa cap. His panic lessened, yet his curiosity zapped into high gear.
He blinked, looked again. The Santa cat gave him a slow once-over; then as if finding him boring, the feline went back to his nap. Chase became aware of the tune, “Jingle Bells.” His next breath caught the scent of gingerbread and pine—Christmas.
He raked a hand over his face and continued to survey his surroundings. An extremely large, space-age-looking television played silently in one corner of the room, while an antique grandfather clock hypnotically ticked off the seconds in another.
Stepping to the New Age-looking recliner, he leaned against it for support. He’d never seen such an eclectic mix of stuff. The sofa looked expensive and modern in style, but the pale blue chair looked antique, and in need of a reupholstery job.
His knee bumped the side of the odd recliner and it came to life, humming and vibrating. Chase flinched. The feline Santa raised its head, meowed as if in appreciation, and snuggled deeper into the chair. Christmas music played. “Jingle all the way . . .”
Chase arched an eyebrow at the woman. The dog, sitting in her lap, shook its large head and nearly lost its reindeer horns.
“You do know it’s not Christmas?” he asked.
Ignoring him, she tugged at her shirt and looked toward the hall, where another cat strutted. The white-haired feline, wearing an elf costume, swayed forward and gracefully leaped into the chair with the other costumed cat.
“Okay, this is strange,” Chase said and studied the woman.
She didn’t answer. Then a voice boomed from the adjoining room, “Eat the tuna and pick up a gallon of milk.”
Chase swung around, instinctively pointing his gun. He darted to the entrance of the kitchen, his gaze zipping between the woman and the direction of the voice.
She squirmed on the sofa. “Are you going to shoot my refrigerator?”
Holding his aim, he stared at her. “The fridge talks?”
She nodded and tucked her shirt between her bare thighs.
His impression of her took on a new dimension. Oh, she still rated a ten on the gorgeous scale. He’d bet his wet socks her lying skills hadn’t improved, but his definition of her being slightly nuts no longer fit the bill. This woman, with her Christmas-costumed pets, vibrating recliners, and a talking refrigerator, took crazy to a whole new level.
He leaned forward and spotted the appliance in question. All silver, it looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. He glanced back at her. “Any other appliances talk?”
“The microwave and litter box,” she answered, as if the question hadn’t been strange. “And the fish on the wall. It sings.”
He blinked, mentally digesting the absurdity of it all. “What’s your name?” Maybe he had died on the bottom of the river and this was Hell . . . or Purgatory, he decided, finding her too pleasant to look at for it to be Hell.
“Lacy.” She hesitated. “And yours?” she added, as if in afterthought.
He stared at the television. “They haven’t said it?”
“It’s on mute. I only saw your picture.”
At least she hadn’t tried to lie about that. He shuffled a few steps to the old chair and sat down before he fell. “Chase Kelly,” he answered. Feeling something in the chair, he reached behind him and pulled out a wet towel and bright purple phone.
“What did you do?” She stroked the fidgeting dog, her gaze on the phone. “If . . . you don’t mind me asking.”
He heard the hesitancy in her voice, as if she was unsure she really wanted to know. Fear still shadowed her eyes, but now they a
lso simmered with indignation.
“I’m a narcotics officer,” Chase said. “My partner set me up to look like a dirty cop. I didn’t do anything.” He set the towel and phone on the hardwood floor, stifling a moan as he leaned back.
The dog wriggled in her lap. She didn’t move. “What . . . are you accused of?”
He could lie, but he didn’t see any reason. “I think they’re accusing me of stealing cocaine and maybe of killing a fellow officer. I’m being framed.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t believe me?”
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, then it popped out, moist, and a shade redder than the top lip. “Of course I do.” She brushed the left side of her chin against her shoulder.
“No, you don’t,” he said. Her eyes widened and he held out his hand. “Don’t worry. I don’t blame you. If I were you, I wouldn’t believe me either.” He dropped his head into the palm of his hand and squeezed his temples. Why had Zeke done this? Why?
“You should leave before my husband gets home,” she said.
He looked around the room. On the mantel, above the fireplace, sat a row of framed pictures. Most of the frames held photos of cats and her strange dog, but one displayed an elderly woman. Another held a black and white wedding photograph. The woman in it had black hair, but she wasn’t Lacy.
He focused on her again. “You’re lying.”
“I am not. He must have gone to the store . . . for milk.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “Didn’t you hear my fridge? We’re out of milk.” Her face paled and she blinked repeatedly.
He believed the fridge but not her. Standing, he crossed the room toward her. Each step unfurled a new pain. “Show me your left hand.”
She glanced down to where her fingers lay hidden beneath the dog’s white curly fur. “I . . . I don’t wear a ring.”
“And the t-shirt?”
She looked down at her shirt and her cheeks regained their color. “It’s old. I was divorced and I got married again. People get divorced and remarried. My parents got divorced and my mom remarried—lots of times.”
“So are you no longer desperate or delicious either?” He regretted the flirtatious remark as soon as the panic hit her eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I’m not going to hurt you.”
He glanced around the room, noting the holiday-scented candles burning. “Look. I need a place to lie low for a while. As soon as I’m strong enough, I’ll be out of your hair. Until then, however, it’s best if you just come clean with me. Does anyone besides you live here?”
She stared at the two costumed felines basking in the vibrating recliner. Slowly, she faced him. “I live alone, but people drop by all the time.” This time she didn’t blink.
“Are you expecting anyone soon—today or tonight?” He recognized the tune now playing as “Here Comes Santa Claus.”
She blinked. “Yes.”
“Don’t lie.” He sat beside her, and the sofa sighed with his weight. “I’m not going to hurt you or your Christmas munchkins.”
“I’m not the stuffy type whose friends feel as if they need to make an appointment to visit.”
“I’d never call you stuffy.” Weird, maybe. He leaned back against the butter-soft leather sofa and closed his eyes, fighting the aches pulsing through his body. Forcing his muscles to go slack, he listened as the song changed to “Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer,” and held the gun in his lap. The home’s heater took the chill out of the air and the grandfather clock ticked, and yet a different song began to play. The woman shifted. The sofa dipped. Chase opened one eye.
“Where you going?”
“To the bathroom.” She lost her color again and resettled.
“Where’s the bathroom?” he asked. When she pointed toward the kitchen, he stood. “Let’s go.”
“Never mind.” She fell deeper into the sofa.
“I won’t watch if that’s what you’re thinking.” He palmed the back of the couch to steady himself. The movement brought a jingle from the handcuffs that hung around his belt loop. Sticking his hand in his back pocket, he felt around for his key. Relief sighed through him when he touched it. No doubt she would balk, but until he could get her to believe him, he didn’t see a choice. He unlocked the cuffs from his belt loop.
She stared at the cuffs. “I don’t have to go that bad.”
“Come on.” He motioned for her to rise.
She nudged the dog from her lap and hurried to the kitchen.
“Not so fast.” He caught her arm.
She paled and stared at his shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”
Glancing down, he saw bright red blood spotting his shirt. “Use the bathroom, Lacy. I don’t have time for games.”
The ring of the phone punctuated his words. Hope brightened her blue eyes. “If I don’t answer, they might call the police.”
“Yeah, and if you do get it, you’ll say something to tip them off. Go to the bathroom.”
Suddenly the recorder answered. “Hi, you’ve reached Lacy Maguire Photography. I’m probably in my studio with my eye to the lens, so leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.”
“Lace!” a female voice practically screamed across the line. “I’m very disappointed in you. You know how I feel about people hanging up on me. Now, I realize your sex life is none of my business, but I’m your mother. If you can’t talk to me about this, then who can you talk to?”
Chase’s eyes widened at the expression on Lacy Maguire’s face. The voice on the recorder continued: “Because I know how difficult today is for you, I’m going to forgive you. But don’t let it happen again! And don’t let today get to you. Bye, love. Kiss-kiss.”
The machine clicked off. His captive turned on him, the fire in her eyes more intense. “Don’t look so amused.”
“This look isn’t amusement. It’s pain. I’m hurting like hell. Go on to the bathroom.”
“Not with you, I won’t.” Her shoulders stiffened, her defiant posture telling him more about her character. Not a wimp, this girl.
“Then I’ll just check it out,” he said.
“You think I’ve got a gun hidden under the toilet?”
“No. But you might have an escape hatch or high-speed Internet connected to the john.” His gaze shifted to the talking fridge.
He pushed past her to glance inside the small half bath. It did, for all general purposes, appear normal. Then again, the toilet seat had fish painted on it.
Stepping away, he motioned for her to enter, then he turned his back. “Don’t close the door.”
Chase leaned against the washer and dryer lining the wall and waited.
Hearing the flush, he turned around. When she appeared, she had a glint in her eyes that he didn’t like. He needed to get her handcuffed to something so he could raid her medicine cabinet for antibiotics and some painkillers. He wasn’t hungry, but realizing he hadn’t eaten in more than thirty-six hours, he decided to see what the talking refrigerator held. He wondered if the appliance would tell him if he asked.
“You got something I can eat?” He nudged her forward. “Bread, milk?”
“Didn’t you hear? I’m out of milk.” She pointed at the loaf of bread on the counter. “I wasn’t expecting company. But help yourself to the bread.”
“You want anything?” he asked.
“My appetite fails me for some reason.” Her sarcasm hung thick.
He pulled a chair to the center of the room. “Sit here and try real hard to believe me.” He spotted some knives on the counter and eased the chair a little farther from them.
Keeping an eye on her as she sat, he searched the fridge. He found several bowls of leftovers, but opted for jam. Pulling a spoon from the open dishwasher, he spread strawberry preserves haphazardly on one slice of bread. Folding the bread over, he buried his teeth into the soft sandwich. “Thanks.”
“Eat the tuna and pick up a gallon of milk,” the appliance repeated, and Chase shook his head.
The ph
one rang again. The answering machine played its message and another female voice came on the line. “Hey, girl. I thought by now you’d have flipped at Kathy’s chosen topic for tomorrow night. Have you read your e-mail? If you haven’t, do so now. I swear that woman is a few fries short of a Happy Meal. But I have to say, our discussions are never dull when she chooses the topic. And yes, I still say your topic of World War II last week was a bore.”
Chase pushed the last bite into his mouth.
The voice continued. “Anyway. Call me. You didn’t seem like yourself yesterday. Something going on? Besides being horny?” The caller chuckled. “I can’t wait to see what you pull up on this one. Kathy was blown away by your research on multiple orgasms.”
The jam sandwich caught in Chase’s throat and it took three tries to get it down. He gazed at Lacy and smiled. Her face held three different shades of red. So, his gorgeous yet nutty hostage was horny, huh? And she knew a thing or two about multiple orgasms. If things were different, he would have been happy to help her out of her . . . predicament and to further her research.
“You think it’s funny?” Her blue eyes squinted. “You threaten to shoot me and my dog. You come into my house, invade my privacy, and eat my food. And now you’re laughing at me.”
“Sorry.” His smile fell flat because he knew any discussion on the multiple orgasm would probably lead her to believe he intended to do some things he didn’t. “I didn’t threaten to shoot you. Let’s go.”
“Where?” She stood, pulling the hem of her shirt down.
“To the bedroom.”
“I don’t think so!”
“I’ve already told you I don’t intend to hurt you. I know you don’t believe me. But when I walk out of here, you’re going to be saying to yourself, ‘Damn, he was telling the truth.’ Now come on.” He pushed his gun into the waist of his pants and took her by the elbow.
She tried to jerk away but he held on and pretended he didn’t hurt. He headed back through the living room and down the hall as the song, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” piped through the stereo system. “You’re a real Christmas fan, huh?”
Each step brought a new pain to his body. He wondered why Lacy lived in the boonies, away from neighbors.
He wondered, too, why any woman who looked like her would be horny. Even with her talking appliances and obvious Christmas fetish, men should be lined up outside her door.
• • •
The man’s hand wrapped around Lacy’s forearm. Not tight enough to cause pain, but tight enough to trigger alarm. Fight him! her inner voice screamed. But she’d heard never to fight until it could count. She needed a weapon. The lamp in the bedroom. The bat in the garage. Desperate, her gaze darted to the singing fish hanging on the hallway wall.
He stopped outside her studio and glanced inside. The Christmas tree twinkled in the corner and her camera perched on top of the tripod. The man looked back at her as if she needed a straightjacket. Fabio, horns now hanging sideways, darted between their legs and took his position in front of the tree.
“I think I get it. You’re a photographer,” he said. “You were taking pictures of the animals. Like Christmas calendars or something.”
She nodded, her eyes searching for weapons. Fabio ran past them and hotfooted it into her bedroom. The bedroom . . . where this man, with a gun and handcuffs, was taking her?
Fear curled inside her stomach. Exactly what did he have in mind? His handcuffs clinked as he shifted.
“What is today?” He nudged her farther down the hall. When she didn’t answer, he squeezed her arm lightly. “Look at me. I’m not going to hurt you. I need your help. Relax. Talk to me and you’ll figure out that I’m not a bad guy. What is today?”
She glanced up, a thousand thoughts swirling in her head. “What do you mean?”
He pushed open her office door, peered in, and prodded her to step forward. “Your mother implied that you were depressed because of today’s date. I figured maybe it was your—”
“It’s none of your business!” No way would she talk to him about her life. No way would she let him kill her—leave her to be found stiff, wearing a Divorced, Desperate and Delicious shirt.
He shrugged. “Is it your birthday? You turn thirty today?”
Thirty? Lacy’s head jerked up. “Do I look thirty?”
“No. I . . . I . . .” He glanced down the hall.
The urge to fight and fight dirty washed over her. Reaching back, she snatched her talking fish from the hall wall and swung hard. Catching him unaware, she managed to wallop him a good one on his head.
He dropped to his knees as the fish started singing, “Take me down to the river . . .”
Piscine weapon tight in hand, she tore down the hall. She passed the grandfather clock, cleared the recliner, almost had the doorknob when he snatched a handful of her T-shirt. She took two more steps, then flew back into him like a stretched rubber band. Refusing to go down easy, she swerved and gave him everything she had.
Chapter Four