She could hear the clock ticking in the living room. She heard the distant wail of a siren. She didn’t hear a repeat of that scraping sound.
But Richard didn’t relax, didn’t move from his alert stance. He was closer to the door, his body blocking her; did he hear something she couldn’t?
Then she felt, sensed, someone just on the other side of the doorway, not stepping into the bedroom but looking into it.
The door opened back toward the wall against which the bed was positioned. Because of that, he couldn’t see the complete bed, just the foot of it, unless he came further into the doorway. Sweeney was acutely aware of the empty bed. Would he look at it and know they had heard him and were somewhere in the apartment, or would he assume no one was at home and she simply didn’t make her bed? Would he stroll into the bedroom, or—
The door crashed back against the wall, the sound exploding in the dark silence.
Richard dropped, already moving before the door hit the wall, his grip on her wrist dragging her down with him. An explosion deafened her, blinded her. Another one, nearer, came so close on the heels of the first one the sounds almost blended into one. A strange percussion hit her, a small burst of air blasted against her skin.
Gun shots.
Her realization was immediate, but by that time there was nothing but the tinny ringing in her ears and the sharp smell of cordite burning her nostrils.
Her hearing and sight began to clear. She saw him now, flopping in the doorway. She heard him, a guttural, inhuman groan. The air fluttered out of his lungs like a balloon going flat, and then she smelled him.
She gagged, but fought back the bile that rose in her throat. “Are you all right?” Richard demanded, his voice harsh with urgency as he spun on his bare heel to face her.
“Yes,” she managed to croak. He stood from his crouched position and went to the bed, switching on the bedside lamp.
She squinted, almost blinded again. Before her eyes adjusted to the light, Richard was on the phone, his gaze locked on the body sprawled in the doorway. “This is Richard Worth,” he said quietly, to whoever was on the other end of the line. “Kai Stengel just broke into Sweeney’s apartment and tried to kill us.”
Kai?
Stunned, Sweeney blinked several times and looked at the body, then wished she hadn’t. Kai sprawled facedown in the bedroom doorway, his head turned toward her and his eyes open, set in the emptiness of death. There was a small, almost neat pool of blood under him, but the doorframe and the wall behind him were splattered with blood and gore.
“Don’t bother,” said Richard. “I shot him. He’s dead.”
As he replaced the receiver on the hook, Sweeney rose shakily to her feet and turned to him, instinctively wanting to go into his arms. She froze. Dark red rivulets streaked down his arm and chest, streaming from the top of his left shoulder.
“Oh, my God, you’re shot!”
He glanced down at his shoulder. “Just a little,” he said calmly, catching her as she launched herself at him.
She fought free of his grasp and pushed him down to sit on the edge of the bed. “You can’t be just a little shot,” she said fiercely. “It’s like being pregnant; you either are or you aren’t. Stay here.”
She whirled and ran. Her first aid supplies were in the bathroom vanity cabinet. She had to step over Kai’s body to get out of the room, but she hesitated only a fraction of a second. Richard was bleeding, and the urgent need to take care of him overrode everything else. She was careful where she put her feet, but she didn’t slow down.
When she returned, laden with her first aid kit and a towel and washcloth, Richard had pulled on his jeans and was stepping into his shoes. “I told you to sit down!” she all but roared at him.
“No, you didn’t. You told me to stay here. I’m here.”
His mild tone infuriated her. But he sat down on the bed again and let her press a gauze pad to the top of his shoulder. “It’s just a burn; it won’t even need stitches.”
He sounded so remote that she gave him a sharp glance. His face was expressionless, his eyes cool and watchful as he looked at Kai. She remembered that he had been an army ranger, and suddenly she knew that he had killed before, that this was the way he operated in a firefight.
After a moment she lifted the pad and saw that he was right; the wound across the top of his shoulder was a raw streak that sullenly oozed blood. Sirens wailed, coming closer and closer; they sounded as if they were right outside, then the noise abruptly stopped. Sweeney picked up the wet washcloth and began cleaning the wound. Richard took the cloth away from her. “I’ll do it,” he said, and slipped his free hand under the T-shirt to pat her bare butt. “You’d better get some clothes on, unless you want the cops to see this pretty ass of yours.”
She scowled at him, but went to the closet and took out a pair of jeans, pulling them on without bothering to put on underwear. She was just in time; it took the first responding cops only a minute to get inside the building and up to her apartment. Richard made his escape while she was zipping and snapping, stepping past Kai to get to the front door before the thunderous pounding broke it down.
Four uniformed cops poured into the apartment. Sweeney had a glimpse of avid expressions on the faces of her neighboring tenants as they milled in the hall outside her door, then Richard pulled her into the kitchen, removing both of them from the scene so the cops could do their work.
The next few hours were a tumult. Detective Ritenour arrived hard on the heels of the uniformed cops, beating the EMTs by a couple of minutes. He was dressed, but his shirt was wrinkled and his tie hung crookedly. Richard had called the detectives instead of 911. More uniformed cops arrived, and the emergency medical team, and Detective Aquino. Her apartment was full of people. Radios crackled. More people arrived.
Richard kept her in the kitchen, seated with her back to the door so she couldn’t see any of what went on behind her. Two of the medical team looked at the wound on his shoulder and applied an antibiotic salve and a bandage. He finished cleaning him-self up at the sink, scrubbing away the blood with a wet paper towel, and refused any further medical treatment.
Aquino and Ritenour took their statements. They found the window in her studio where Kai had entered. There was no question about Richard firing in self-defense.
“I think we’ll find he killed Mrs. Worth,” said Aquino. “When he saw the painting Ms. Sweeney was doing, it must have been a real shock to him. Took him by surprise, otherwise he would have tried to do away with you then,” he said, looking at Sweeney. “Then I guess he thought he could pin the whole thing on you by telling us about the painting.”
“But how did he know you didn’t arrest me?” she asked, bewildered.
Aquino shrugged. Ritenour answered. “He could have called the precinct, or maybe he was watching. How doesn’t matter. He obviously came here tonight intending to kill you, only you heard him raise the window, and you weren’t alone.”
Aquino said sourly to Richard, “It’s illegal to own a handgun without a license in the city of New York.”
Richard shrugged, not a flicker of discomfort from his wounded shoulder showing on his face. “I have a license,” he said.
Aquino looked even more sour. “It figures. You did a damn good job. That was a clean hit to the heart. You’ve had training, haven’t you?”
“Military,” Richard replied. “Army.”
“Yeah?” Ritenour said. “What unit? I was in the army.”
“Rangers.”
Sweeney saw their expressions change, and they sat back in their chairs.
“The bastard didn’t have a chance,” Ritenour said softly.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
“You’re at the end of your rope,” Richard said roughly, tilting her face up. She was paper white, as much from fatigue as stress and shock; her eyes were dull and circled by shadows so dark they looked like bruises. “Get some clothes; I’m taking you home with me.”
Aquino got to his feet. “I’ll take care of that. She don’t want to go into the bedroom. Is there anything in particular you want?”
She shook her head. Normally she would never have allowed a stranger to paw through her clothes, but right now she didn’t care. He was right; she didn’t want to go into the bedroom. She might never go into it again. “There’s a satchel on the top shelf in the closet. Just throw some things in it.”
“You’ll need to sign a statement,” Ritenour said to Richard, “but that can wait a few hours. Get some sleep if you can.” He paused. “The media will be all over this, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” Richard rubbed his jaw. “Is there any way we can keep the painting out of the news?”
So Sweeney wouldn’t be a tabloid sensation, he meant.
“Maybe. I don’t see any need to mention it. The reporters will probably play up the lover angle, make it sound like some sort of lovers’ quarrel.”
Candra’s parents had already been hurt enough by her death, but now the sensationalism would double, and her relationship with Kai would be analyzed and dissected in public. “I wonder why he killed her,” Ritenour said, almost to himself. “We may never know.”
“If he did,” said Sweeney, speaking through a blur of exhaustion.
Both men gave her sharp looks, Richard’s lingering longer than Ritenour’s. “What makes you say that?” asked the detective. “If he didn’t kill Mrs. Worth, then he had no reason to worry about the painting, and no reason other than that to try to kill you.”
She shrugged. She didn’t know why she had said it. She tried to imagine Kai’s face in the painting, but that brick wall was still there, refusing to allow the image to form.
A few minutes later Aquino returned with the bag. “One of the policewomen packed it,” he said, as if he wanted her to know he hadn’t been handling her underwear. “I thought a woman would know better what another woman needed.”
“Thank you,” she said. She reached out to take it, but Richard’s hand was there first. If the weight of the bag bothered his shoulder, he didn’t show any sign of it.
“No sense in calling a taxi. One of the patrolmen can drop you off at your house.”
Richard nodded and cupped Sweeney’s elbow. “I’ll call you later in the morning.”
“Make it real late,” Aquino replied, and yawned. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. My advice is take the phone off the hook and get as much sleep as you can.”
“I need the painting,” Sweeney said as Richard began steering her toward the door.
“Sweetheart, there’s no need—”
“I need the painting,” she repeated, digging in her heels and dragging him to a halt. She couldn’t think straight; she was swaying on her feet, but she knew she couldn’t leave the painting behind.
“There are reporters outside—”
“I’ll wrap it in a cloth.” Tugging free, she trudged into the studio and took the painting down from the easel. She always kept lengths of cheesecloth for cleaning up and for covering the paintings, and she wrapped the painting in that. Richard was right beside her every step she took, watching her worriedly, but she was too tired to reassure him. She had just enough strength to do what was necessary, and getting the painting was necessary.
A policeman escorted them through the crowd of onlookers and reporters who clogged the hall. Flashbulbs went off in her face and a tangle of questions were hurled at them, but she made no effort to sort out individual words, nor did Richard answer. He was recognized; someone called him by name. He didn’t respond, keeping all his attention on her and on getting out of there. He did swear under his breath, but she was the only one who heard him.
The policeman managed to evade the couple of reporters who tried to follow them and dropped Richard and Sweeney off at Richard’s town house without incident. She clutched the painting and stared at the steps, wondering if she would be able to make it up them, much less the full flight of stairs inside.
“Come on, sweetie.” Richard’s voice was gentle, cajoling.
“I’m not a baby,” she said, scowling at him. “I’m all right.”
“Of course you are.”
Now he was soothing her. She hated being soothed. And she was pretty certain she could have made it up the steps without his help. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful, however, so she leaned against him as they climbed the steps.
He unlocked the door and let them in, then reset the alarm system. “Just leave the painting here.”
“No, I want it upstairs.”
Evidently he decided that trying to argue with her would take a lot more time than going along with her. He dropped the bag at the foot of the stairs and lifted her in his arms, painting and all.
“Your shoulder!” she protested, trying to wiggle out of his arms.
“Be still, before you hurt me.”
She froze, blinking up at him with big owl eyes and not moving a muscle as he climbed the stairs. If she hadn’t looked so utterly exhausted, he would have laughed.
He put her on the bed, and she was asleep before he got her shoes off.
He peeled her out of the jeans but left her in his T-shirt. By the time he’d removed his own clothes and got her under the covers, he was ready to collapse beside her. Getting in on the other side of the bed, he cradled her against his right side and determinedly shut out the ache in his left shoulder, concentrating instead on the joy of having her alive, in his arms and in his bed.
The sun was up and shining brightly when Sweeney woke him with her restless movements. He opened one eye and looked at the clock. Seven-thirty. “Go back to sleep,” he muttered. She didn’t reply, just kept rolling her head and pushing at the covers. A chill went through him as he realized she was asleep.
She slipped out of bed, moving so smoothly she was out of his grasp before he could react. She stood beside the bed, her eyes open but strangely blank. She seemed bewildered, as if she wanted to go somewhere but didn’t know how to get there.
Richard got out of bed and put his arms around her, shaking her gently to wake her. “Sweetie. Wake up, honey You don’t need to paint today. Come back to bed.”
It was a long time before she responded, blinking and looking up at him with bleary eyes. “What?” she mumbled.
“You were sleepwalking.” He kept his tone calm and got her back into bed. She immediately dropped into a deep sleep again, lying still in his arms. He allowed himself to doze, but didn’t relax his guard. She was in an unfamiliar place and might fall down the stairs if she began wandering around in her sleep. He woke every time she turned over, bringing her back into his arms and keeping her safe.
Because he didn’t want to leave her alone in bed, he woke her at ten-thirty. She managed to glare at him through only one eye, but to his relief she was fully alert. “You had better be waking me to have sex, because otherwise there’s no excuse,” she growled.
His eyes glinted, giving her maybe half a second of warning before he turned her on her back and mounted her. “I was only kid—” she began, then gasped as he pushed into her with a hard thrust that took him to the hilt. She half-screamed, and her nipples pinched into tight little buds. Her swift arousal turned him on even more, his erection hardening to the point of pain.
“Jesus,” he ground out, his voice hoarse almost beyond sound. He thrust a few more times and began coming, his body arching and shuddering as he spurted into her. She cried out again and her inner muscles clamped convulsively around his cock, milking him with her orgasm.
He felt like a human wreck afterward, lying sprawled on his back, incapable of moving. He couldn’t remember ever before coming that fast or that hard, not even as a teenager, when he had still thought of sex as a race to the finish line. She stirred before he did, pushing a tangled curl out of her eyes and sitting up.
“That wasn’t fair,” she accused, but her voice was husky with satisfaction. “Do it again, and do it right this time.”
“In your
dreams,” he managed to growl, delighting her into a laugh. “Well, maybe tonight.”
“It’s a date.” She bounced out of bed, moving him to a sour mental observation about being the one who had done all the work. She pulled off his T-shirt and headed for the bathroom, and the view of that curvy butt was enough to get him out of bed and into the shower with her.
* * *
He put on a suit and tie, knowing he would face a battery of reporters at the police station. They hadn’t been bothered so far, only because his private number was unlisted, but he figured it wouldn’t take some enterprising reporter much longer to get it. The phone downstairs in the office was probably ringing nonstop.
He buzzed Tabitha and found that he had guessed exactly right. “Tell them I’ll be giving a statement at the precinct in two hours, and that you don’t know anything else.”
“I don’t,” she said, disgruntled.
“And take a long lunch,” he added.
“Now you’re talking.”
He called Edward and asked him to bring the car around, and then he kissed Sweeney, who had put on her usual jeans-and-sweatshirt combination and was sitting cross-legged on the bed watching him. “I’ll have the cell phone with me,” he said.
“The number’s at my apartment.”
He scribbled it down again. “If the phone rings, don’t answer it. If I call, I’ll let it ring once, then I’ll hang up and call right back.”
“Got it.”
“I hope this won’t take long, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Why are you so worried?” she asked. “Kai’s dead.” It didn’t seem real. The terror of the night felt as if it had happened to someone else.
He gave her a long, searching look. “Maybe because of what you said, about if he did it. I don’t want to take any chances until the lab tests on the trace evidence are in.”
She thought of that wall in her mind and of the blank space on the painting where the killer’s face would be, if she ever finished it. “I’ll be careful,” she promised.