He ran his hand over his face. The operative word before had been affair. Now the emphasis was on the other word.
Love. He'd never been in love before. He had greatly cared for some of his lovers but never before felt this fascination, this obsession, with a woman. He loved her, and it scared the shit out of him. What if he did the wrong thing? He seemed to be walking a delicate tightrope between not coming on so strong that he scared her off, and holding back so much that she thought he didn't care at all.
To hell with it, he thought. From now on, he was going to go with his instinct, which was to move as fast as possible and make damn sure she and everyone else knew his intentions. The primitive urge to stake his claim went beyond the physical; making love to her was wonderful, but he wanted all the legal ties, he wanted his ring on her finger for all to see.
But where in hell was she?
If he knew Karen, she had worked last night, never mind having gotten very little sleep the night before, never mind the hassle of navigating airports and wrestling luggage. He hadn't called earlier because he figured she would be asleep, but it was late enough now that she should be awake. Night had fallen, and the Quarter was alive with tourists looking for good food, hot music, cheesy strip joints, all of which were readily available.
It occurred to him that she didn't know his home phone number, and she couldn't get it by calling information because it was unlisted. He dialed her number again and left a third message, giving her the number and ending with, "Call me, sweetie. No matter what time you get home, call me."
She did have his voice-mail number, though. Just on the off chance she had called it, he punched in some more numbers and listened to his messages. There were only two, one from a gutter punk trying to make points by feeding him some info he'd already had for two days, but the second message was from Karen. His heart thumped against his ribs when he heard her voice.
"This is Karen. Someone is trying to kill me. I'll be on flight sixteen twenty-one, American, arriving at ten-thirty in the morning."
Every hair on his body stood up. Swearing, sweating, Marc waited to see if there was an addition to the message telling him where to reach her now, but the line clicked off, and nothing but silence followed.
God damn it! He stood and slowly paced around the living room, thinking. This had to be tied to her father, just like the Medina murder. But how? Why? A comparison of the slugs taken from Rick Medina hadn't matched the one that had killed Dexter Whitlaw, but just because they hadn't been killed with the same weapon, that didn't mean the murders were unconnected. Neither was this. Every cop instinct he had developed after years on the job told him Karen was in danger for the exact same reason her father had been killed. The problem was, he didn't know why, he didn't have a clue who was behind it, and Karen was evidently in hiding somewhere and he didn't know how to get in touch with her.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, and picked up the phone one more time. He had some instructions for Shannon.
The only seat available on the flight was a window seat, in the very last row. Karen stared down at the blue bowl of Lake Pontchartrain and the brown coil of the Mississippi River, with New Orleans sandwiched between them. It had all started here, with Dexter. Even if Marc wasn't interested in her personally, he would still help her, because he was a good cop, and Dexter had been murdered in his territory.
She still hadn't talked to him. When she called from a pay phone last night, she had gotten his voice mail again. The message she left was to the point: "This is Karen. Someone is trying to kill me." Then she gave him her flight number and arrival time and was too tired to think of anything else to say, so she hung up.
Maybe going to Marc wasn't such a bright idea, but he was the only person she could think of who might help, and she would certainly be safer in New Orleans than she had been in Columbus. She had had to use her real name to get the airline ticket, since passengers were now required to show a photo ID when checking in for the flight. Assuming her pursuer had the expertise, contacts, and funds, he would be able to trace her movements to New Orleans, but once she was there, she planned to check into a motel under a false name and pay cash, so there wouldn't be a paper or electronic trail for him to follow. New Orleans was a big city, a tourist city, with thousands of tourists every week and a lot of hotels and motels to accommodate those tourists. She could easily hide.
It occurred to her now, after she had gotten some sleep and could think again, that she could just as easily have remained in a Columbus motel under the same conditions. Columbus was more dangerous, though, because people knew her, could, if anyone asked, say, "Oh, yeah, I saw her a couple of days ago. She was in the supermarket on Such-and-such Street." A lot of people passed through the hospital, and a lot of them remembered her. Strangers were constantly speaking to her, telling her of their stay in the hospital, and she always smiled and nodded, but she seldom remembered anything about them.
She didn't want to be in Columbus. She wanted to be in New Orleans, with its heavy, sticky heat and air of casual, cheerful wickedness. And so she was here, though she had no idea if Marc would be at the airport or what sort of welcome he would give her even if he was there. If he wasn't, she would take a cab to the city. He had a job, a busy one. Just because he had made time for her before didn't mean he could, or would, do so again.
The plane landed with a slight bounce, and they taxied to the terminal. As soon as the plane lurched to a stop at the jetway, passengers ignored the instructions to remain seated until the captain turned off the seat-belt sign and crowded into the narrow aisle, taking down bags from the overhead bins, dragging them out from under seats. Karen remained seated; the rear of the plane was always the last to empty, and she was in the very last row. Except for stretching her legs, standing up would serve no purpose because she certainly wasn't going anywhere for a while.
But eventually, the line began to snake forward, and the plane emptied in fits and starts. Karen crawled out of the cramped seat, wincing at her sore ribs, her sore knee, her sore hands. She ached all over. This morning, she and Piper had solemnly bandaged each other, then hugged good-bye and laughed and cried at the same time. Piper had argued at first against the entire preposterous idea that someone was trying to kill Karen, but the more she thought about it, the more worried she became, and finally she had agreed the safest thing to do was get out of Dodge.
Piper had been right about something, too. With her hands bandaged, people rushed to handle her one suitcase for her.
Though her wardrobe was limited to what the policewoman had packed, when Karen finally stepped off the plane into the heat and humidity of the jetway, she realized she was better dressed for New Orleans weather now than she had been before. Other than a couple of uniforms, her wardrobe currently consisted of two pairs of jeans, a lightweight flowered skirt that fell to mid-calf, three cotton tops, some socks and underwear, sneakers, and a pair of sandals. She wore the skirt and sandals and felt much cooler than she had before.
Marc nabbed her as soon as she set foot in the terminal. That was the only word for it. A hard hand closed over her nape, dragging her to a halt, and he said with suppressed violence, "What the hell is going on?"
* * *
Chapter 16
« ^ »
He was still angry, Karen thought. No, angry wasn't an adequate word; he was furious, his eyes glittering, his lips a thin grim line, pale around the eyes and nose. She was so glad to see him that she closed her eyes as a sigh of relief soughed out of her lungs. "Hi," she said, another inadequate word.
Then she was in his arms. He eased her there, as if afraid of hurting her. She felt his heart hammering under her cheek, his breath soft on her hair, the hard bulge of his gun in the holster at his waist, and it felt so wonderful to be where she was that the cessation of solitude was almost painful. She had never felt this connection with anyone else, this lightness as her body touched his, this pure, delicious sense of homecoming.
"You look like he
ll," he said, the blunt statement so far from his usual courtesy that she thought he must be rattled. She did look rather battered: limping, both hands bandaged, a bruise on her cheek, and that overall pinched, pale look that came from too little sleep and too much stress.
"Yesterday was an eventful day."
"Are there any injuries I can't see?" The words were tight.
"Ribs. Sore, but not cracked."
He muttered another curse under his breath. "Let's get out of here. Any bags?"
"One."
"Do you need a wheelchair?"
She leaned her head back and gave him an appalled look. "No! That would make me more conspicuous. My knee is stiff, but I can walk perfectly well. Let's just get my suitcase and get out of here."
The line of his mouth didn't relax, and the hard glitter in his eyes didn't soften, but he slowed his long stride to match her much more leisurely gait, his arm around her waist as if he felt she needed steadying. The more she walked, the more her knee loosened, and if she went slowly, she didn't limp.
She said, "If someone had the means, how long would it take him to find out I took a flight here?"
"If someone had the means, he could have someone here waiting for you or be here himself." He looked as if he wanted to do something violent.
She stopped, her heart jumping with panic. "Get away from me," she said fiercely. "If you're with me, then you're in danger, too."
He turned to face her. "You're going with me," he said between clenched teeth, "if I have to pick you up and carry you. Then you'll be conspicuous." He took her arm and steered her toward the escalator. "After your message, I took precautions. I'm not here alone."
She decided not to push him any further. From what she could tell, his temper hadn't subsided at all during the past two days. He looked dangerous, his gaze hard and restless as he surveyed the people around them, and she suspected he would welcome the chance to unleash that temper on someone.
Getting off the plane had taken so long that the luggage was already being unloaded. After a few minutes, the carousel chugged her suitcase around; she pointed it out, and Marc snagged it.
He was parked at the curb. Another car had pulled up close behind him, and a lean, good-looking young black man stood on the sidewalk beside them, his eyes shielded by sunglasses. "See anything?" Marc asked as he stowed the suitcase in the trunk. He had put on sunglasses, too, making him look hard and expressionless.
"Nothing out of place. Everything's calm as a convent."
"Good. Karen, this is Antonio Shannon. Antonio, Karen Whitlaw."
"Pleased to meet you," Karen said. "Are you a detective, too?"
"Yes, Ma'am." Shannon smiled at her. Like Marc, he wore a jacket despite the heat.
Marc opened the passenger door and ushered her into the car, his hand warm on the small of her back. The touch was so familiar, so possessive, that she shivered.
"I'll watch your six and make sure you aren't followed," Shannon said quietly to Marc.
"Thanks. I've put in a call to McPherson, but I'm routing everything through you so there won't be any direct connection to my house or my home phone."
Shannon nodded. "Got it. Go on, get her stashed. I'll handle things."
Marc clapped Shannon on the shoulder in appreciation and slid behind the wheel. As he pulled away from the curb, he watched in the rearview mirror as Shannon did the same, falling back far enough that he could see if anyone tried to follow Marc. Shannon had good instincts, maybe a result of his military training, maybe because he was naturally sharp.
Karen cleared her throat. "Is Detective Shannon your partner?"
"Detectives in New Orleans aren't teamed. But he worked with me on your father's case, and we get along. I trust him."
"Who's McPherson?"
"Someone who might be able to give us some information. Now—" His tone was measured, but she still heard that suppressed violence beneath the control. "Tell me what happened yesterday."
She did, as calmly and concisely as possible. She also told him about her previous home burning to the ground. He digested everything in silence for a minute. "Do you know the name of the bastard who entered your apartment?"
"Carl Clancy." Detective Suter had told her his name, to see if she recognized it.
He indicated the bruise on her face. "He did that?"
"Yes, but the hands and the knee are courtesy of the other bastard, the hit-and-run one. Actually, my hands are just scraped. Piper put these impressive bandages on them so people would help me with my suitcase. With my sore ribs, it was difficult for me to handle it."
He said something under his breath again, something vile and inventive. Karen stared straight ahead. If Marc was swearing like that, he was a volcano waiting to blow.
"I know it sounds far-fetched," she blurted. "Maybe I panicked. But twice in one day seemed a little too much for coincidence, and when I added it to my father being murdered and my old home burning, I—what's the legal term? A preponderance of evidence? That's what it felt like. Or am I being paranoid?"
"No, I don't think you're paranoid. Something else turned up on your father's case that makes me real uneasy." He checked his rearview again.
"What?" She turned around and checked behind them herself. "Is anyone following us?"
"Just Antonio."
"Tell me what turned up."
"Another body, in Mississippi. The other man and your father knew each other, and they were probably killed at the same time. The other man was in a car in the hot sun, so the coroner can't pin his time of death down as accurately as we could with your father, but it's close enough."
"What was the other man's name?"
"Rick Medina. Your father knew him in Vietnam. Did you ever hear of him?"
She shook her head.
"He worked for the CIA."
Startled, she said, "Dad wasn't CIA."
"I know, but they knew each other anyway. At first, when I found out about Medina, I thought maybe he had been the primary target and your father got in the way. But now…"
Now, with the attacks on her, it seemed likely the situation was reversed.
She rubbed her forehead. "Why come after me? I don't know anything about what he did."
"Someone evidently thinks otherwise."
"Do you think this has anything to do with the CIA?"
He shook his head. "They seem to be as much in the dark as we are. Medina did occasional work for them, but he wasn't in their employ at the time. No one knows why he was here."
"Another dead end."
"Or a lead. Whoever dumped Medina's body did it across the state line, probably thinking we wouldn't link the two murders. Medina's murder looked like a robbery, except they left the car, which was worth a lot of money if that was what they were after. It was as if they wanted him to be identified without any trouble."
"Why would they want him identified?"
"Because they wanted someone to know he was dead. Who and why?"
"We keep saying they."
"I don't think one person could have managed both murders so cleanly, with no witnesses."
So what were they dealing with? she wondered. An army of assassins? People she wouldn't recognize, who could walk up to her door at any time, perhaps wearing a police officer's uniform, and kill her when she opened the door? Would she ever feel free to cross a street again without wondering if one of the cars waiting at the traffic light was going to make an early start and run her down?
Now she was being paranoid, but where did it end?
She stirred, realizing they had been silent for some time and were almost in New Orleans. "If you don't mind, take me to a nice, quiet motel that's within walking distance of a supermarket. I'm paying for everything with cash, so if I check in under an assumed name, I should be safe enough."
His jaw tightened. "I'm taking you to my house," he said evenly.
His house. Her stomach clenched in a rush of mingled desire and terror. "I can't stay with you. If the
y find me, you'll be in danger, too."
"And if they find you, you'll be a hell of a lot safer with me than you would alone in some motel room."
It was blind instinct that had sent her back to New Orleans, a panicked need to be near Marc, but now that she was here, she knew she couldn't live with herself if anything happened to him because of her. "I can't take that chance. Once they trace me to New Orleans, wouldn't your house be the first place they would look?"
"Why would they? Contrary to what you seem to think, no one except the two of us knows we spent the last night you were here screwing all night long like a couple of minks."
He said it so smoothly, the rich, dark tones of his voice shaping the words almost into a caress. If he meant to shock her, he succeeded. If he meant to forcibly remind her of the intimacy they had shared, he succeeded in that, too. She felt her face get hot as a blush spread from her breasts upward.
She tried to ignore both her blush and his comment, doggedly sticking to her guns. "You're the one who investigated Dad's murder. Of course, they would watch you—"
"I would almost welcome them," he said, very gently. "I'm armed, and I'm pissed."
Yes, he was—royally pissed. Again. Or still. She stared blindly out the window.
He exited off I-10 and worked his way over to Canal Street, then down Chartres, then left on St. Louis. He hit the garage door opening, and Karen managed not to duck as he drove under the yawning door with inches to spare.
"How long are you going to pretend it didn't happen?" he asked, getting out and opening her door, then collecting her suitcase from the trunk.
She bit her lip as she preceded him up the stairs.
She felt herded, as if she had no choice but to go in the direction he had chosen. "I'm not pretending. I know very well what I did. You have a right to be angry, and I apologize. I acted like a fool, running away the way I did. I'm not used to—well, anyway, I'm sorry."