She swallowed, her face much as he'd seen it that first night—pale and filled with both shock and horror. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
She met his gaze, looked away. "You must think I'm a complete wimp."
"No." He lifted a silky curl off her cheek, tucked it behind her ear. "I don't."
Watch it, Darcangelo. You're treading dangerous ground.
He'd already kicked himself in the ass a dozen times for kissing her in the stairwell. He didn't need to make matters worse.
"I-I keep seeing her face, hearing her voice. Every night I dream… and there's so much blood!" Tears pooled in her eyes. She dashed them away. "Damn!"
He sat beside her, stroked her hair. "It's not a crime to cry, you know."
"I-I'll bet you don't cry."
He didn't. He hadn't cried since he was five and his father had backhanded him and called him a pussy. "I cry all the time—sad movies, Hallmark commercials, the opera."
She looked over at him, blinked—and smiled. "Nice try, but I don't believe you."
He shrugged and ran his knuckles over the soft curve of her cheek. "Why don't you let me take you home? I think you've had enough of the shooting range for one day."
She sat up straighter, shook her head, her long golden curls bouncing. "I can't."
For a moment he thought it was the ride home she was refusing, and he knew he had only himself to blame. He'd practically mauled her in the stairwell today. Could he blame her for wanting to stay away from him?
"I have to do this, Julian. I have to try. If I don't face this, I'll never have the strength to come here again, and I might as well not even carry a gun."
More than a little surprised that she'd even consider another attempt, he tried to gauge her frame of mind. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"I'll say one thing for you,.Goldilocks. You have guts."
Ten minutes later, they headed back into the range, Julian having arranged for fifteen minutes of private use. He talked her through her stance once more, drew the target in a little closer so she'd have a reasonable chance of hitting it, and gave her the go-ahead to fire.
"The gun is going to jump in your hand. Don't let that intimidate you."
A determined look on her pale face, knuckles white where she gripped the gun, she squeezed the trigger.
Pop!
The gun jerked, and he could see the surprise on her face. He started to say something reassuring, but her focus was entirely on the target. Her eyes narrowed, and she fired five times in quick succession.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Six holes appeared in the target—all of them centered in the chest area.
Amazed, Julian looked down at her.
She put the gun down on the counter, gave him a shaky smile. "How'd I do?"
"Honey, remind me never to sneak up on you in a dark alley again."
Julian dialed Dyson's number and shoved a frozen bur-rito in the microwave.
He'd given Tessa his secured cell phone number in case of an emergency, followed her home, and made certain she'd gotten inside safely. Then he'd driven home, trying to sort out the irritating knot of feelings in his chest.
Lust he understood. It was a simple emotion and resolved with a good fuck—most of the time. But Tessa inspired it in him like no other woman he'd known. He'd kissed her this morning, and he'd lost control—there was no other way to describe it. Even so, lust he could deal with.
The protectiveness he'd felt at the shooting range even made sense. Even though he'd been trained to take on the bad guys and not comfort victims, the purpose of his work was to protect people, to put himself between everyday folks and the killers who roamed the streets. She'd needed his help, and he'd responded. Nothing strange about that.
But the tenderness he felt for her confused him. He'd held her, and he'd wanted to keep holding her, not for sex but to comfort her. He'd stroked her hair, and he'd wanted to go on stroking her hair just to feel the silk of it against his hand. He'd wanted to kiss her tears away, to see her smile, to drive off the demons that haunted her.
Hell, he was probably just really horny and needed to get inside her so he could get her out of his system. And yet a part of him was grateful that someone had interrupted them and kept him from fucking her mindlessly in the stairwell. What the hell was that about?
She deserves better. That's what that's about.
He needed to stay away from her, for her sake as well as his own. If Burien was after her, that meant he was probably watching her. If he was watching her and saw Julian with her…
Not a good plan.
As far as Julian knew, Burien didn't know he existed, much less what he looked like. Julian would live longer if he kept it that way. The last thing he needed was to be recognized at Pasha's or on the street. Burien's answer to FBI agents was as simple as it was messy—a bullet to the brain.
"Dyson here."
"Got an ID on the killer. Tobias Ronald Grant, age twenty-five." Julian pulled the salsa out of the fridge. "His prints match several taken from the basement apartment. He's done time—sexual assault, robbery. Head blown off with a forty-four. We should have an answer on DNA by the end of the week."
"I'll see what else I can dig up on him—associates, known addresses, that sort of thing. Margaux's finishing up in Long-mont. Turns out her lead was solid."
"Burien?"
"She can't prove it. She found a so-called massage parlor where the women—all South American—were being forced to turn tricks. Whoever was running the place was long gone by the time she got there. She's sorting through the leads she got from the victims, but the language gap is slowing her down."
"I can help out if you'd like."
"Ah, hell, Julian. You know how territorial Margaux can be."
He knew, but he didn't care. "This isn't a competition. She can deal with her grudge against me on her own time."
"No argument here. How's it going with your interrogations?"
"I've brought in fifteen Johns so far. Most of them spilled their guts the moment they saw the photographs I took of them outside the crib, but they're not telling me much I don't already know. We're getting search warrants for their home and work computers and waiting for DNA tests before deciding on charges. If any one of them shows up inside Maria Ruiz, we'll push for rape."
"Anything else?"
"We should ask the local cops both here and in Omaha to put a watch on the two witnesses, Mr. Simms and Ms. Novak. If Burien stays true to form, it won't be long—"
"Simms is dead. His brother found him yesterday morning, but it's not what you think. The ME in Omaha has ruled it a heart attack."
Chapter 10
Tessa dropped her overflowing basket of dirty clothes onto the folding table and began to sort it into piles. She'd come home from the shooting range wanting macaroni and cheese, a hot bath, and a good night's sleep only to realize she hadn't done laundry in more than a week. Not wanting to go to work without panties, she'd eaten supper and then lugged her laundry stuff down the hallway to the laundry room she shared with everyone else on her floor.
A load of towels. A load of colors. A load of delicates. A load of whites.
Fortunately, three machines were available. It was, after all, Tuesday night—not prime washing time.
It was then she realized it had been exactly one week since the shooting. Whoever that girl had been, she'd been dead now for a week. And without meaning to, Tessa found herself mulling over the facts of the case.
A teenage girl gunned down in public in a drive-by. One witness who remembered the girl coming to the gas station with three other young Latinas every Sunday afternoon to buy candy under the watchful gaze of an older woman. No smiling, no talking. Two other witnesses who'd seen the four girls coming and going from the now-empty basement apartment three blocks away from the gas station. Police tape around the apartment entrance on the night of the shooting.
Tessa had assumed it was gang relate
d, and perhaps it was. But her new homeless boyfriend, Arthur, had raised other possibilities. Could the girl have been a prostitute fleeing her pimp? A drug mule fleeing a dealer? The victim of a predator who'd pulled her off the street? The autopsy might shed some light on those possibilities, but Tessa didn't have the autopsy report. She'd have to do something about that.
She stuffed the load of towels and washcloths into one machine, put four quarters in the slot, and added a capful of detergent.
Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw someone move. She glanced up, expecting to see one of her neighbors walking down the hallway.
No one was there.
Prickles ran down the back of her neck.
You're just jittery from the shooting range, girl.
She stood for a moment, watching the hall. Then, feeling silly, she loaded her darks in another machine, her mind drifting back to the case.
She still considered it strange that four teenage girls would buy candy in grim silence. Were they quiet because they were shy and didn't speak English, or were they quiet because they were unhappy and afraid? Why would they be afraid with the older woman there to watch over them? Unless…
What if they were afraid of the older woman? What if she wasn't there to watch over them—but to control them?
The idea slid into Tessa's mind like a puzzle piece snapping into place.
She dropped her third load into the last remaining washer, fed it quarters, and poured in soap, mulling over the implications.
There was Chief Irving's words to consider, as well—and those of a certain extremely handsome and irritating undercover cop. Both had repeatedly warned her this was a dangerous case and seemed to have some notion of who the killer was.
Be damned glad the three bears aren't home. Goldilocks.
Had Julian meant there were three suspects and that they had lived in that apartment?
A man's shadow fell across the gray tile floor.
Tessa's head snapped up.
No one.
Ice slid down her spine.
Certain someone had been there, she walked to the laundry room door, stuck her head out, and looked down the long hallway, but saw no one.
"You're imagining things," she told herself.
Feeling uneasy, she put the load of delicates back into her laundry basket, together with the detergent and the remaining quarters, and carried it quickly down the hallway to her apartment, glancing over her shoulder a time or two, her pulse racing. She fished out her keys, let herself in, and locked the door behind her.
She took a deep breath, leaned against the door.
Get a grip, Tessa.
She decided to use the time waiting for the wash cycle to finish to do a little housework. It wasn't the restful evening she'd planned, but at least the work would be done. She dusted and watered her plants, sorting through the facts of the shooting and asking herself questions until her brain was tied in knots. Then she plugged in the vacuum, ran it over her carpet—-and nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang.
A telemarketer.
Tessa was less polite than usual, refusing to listen to their pitch and hanging up.
Sure the machines were finished washing her clothes, she grabbed her keys and the dwindling roll of quarters, opened her door, and peeked into the hallway. It was empty, fluorescent light shining brightly down on familiar white walls and gray carpeting.
You're just creeping yourself out thinking about this stuff.
Without admitting to herself that she was hurrying, she walked back to the laundry room, moved her laundry from the three washers to two big dryers and fed them quarters. Then she almost ran back to her apartment, ignoring the prickles on her neck and refusing to look over her shoulder.
What is wrong with you, Tess?
What she needed was some relaxation and sleep. She filled her tub with hot water and lavender bath salts, got out a fluffy white towel, and let her jeans and T-shirt fall to the floor. By the time the water was cool, her laundry would be dry, and she'd be ready for bed.
She slipped into the tub, sighed. The heat felt heavenly, the soft lavender scent easing the tension from her muscles and the worries from her mind. She forced herself to let go—and found her thoughts taking a completely different turn.
Yesterday she'd hated Julian Darcangelo. Okay, so maybe she hadn't hated him, but she'd been very, very angry with him. He'd interfered with her job, and he'd implied her work on this investigation was nothing more than vanity journalism. But today…
Today he'd kissed her. It had been more than a kiss, of course. It had been foreplay, full blown and erotic. He'd made her knees go weak, made her forget she was standing in a public place, made her want do anything she had to do to get him inside her. He'd made her wonder if sex with a man could really be all it was played up to be.
If you try to tell me next time I see you that you haven't been thinking about fucking me, I'm going to call you a liar.
She didn't particularly like the language he'd used, but she had to admit mat's precisely what she'd been thinking about most of the afternoon. Even remembering it made her belly clench and her nipples tighten. She'd never had a man kiss her with that kind of intensity before. If that was how he kissed, what would it be like to have sex with him? She would probably catch on fire, burn down the building, or maybe the whole city.
But had he kissed her just to prove a point or because he'd really wanted to kiss her?
Certainly, he had wanted to prove something. But she remembered the deep sound of his groan, the way he'd nipped her throat as if he'd wanted to eat her whole, the feel of his erection, huge and hard, against her belly. Though she couldn't claim to understand men—really, who could?—he'd seemed to be just as carried away as she was.
Of course, that didn't mean he cared about her. All it meant was that he wanted to have sex with her—which made him a lot like the men she'd avoided since college. And yet he was nothing like them.
Maybe you're hoping I'll kiss you again.
God, he was arrogant. But although she'd found his arrogance infuriating, tonight it made her smile. And it wasn't hard to figure out why.
He'd been there for her. When the blast of the other gun had sent her into shock, he'd been there for her. He'd kept her from falling onto the floor. He'd taken the gun from her hands. He'd held her against his chest. He'd even lifted her up and carried her, for goodness sake! Then he'd done his best to comfort her.
No man had ever been there like that for her before.
She closed her eyes, remembered the feel of his hands on her hair, the concern in his blue eyes, the soothing sound of his voice.
It's all right, Tessa. Slow your breathing. That's it.
She must have dozed off, for she found herself dreaming that she heard a click and the sound of someone breathing.
Then a cold, rough hand squeezed her breast.
She gasped, and her eyes flew open—just as the bathroom went dark.
Tessa screamed, terror shooting like liquid ice through her veins. She jumped to her feet in the water, shrank back against the cold tile wall. And over the thunder of her own heartbeat, she heard her front door slam.
Barely able to think, breathless with panic, she flew from the tub to her bedroom, unsure where her purse was, unsure where the gun was. She saw her cell phone, grabbed it from its charger with shaking hands, and pushed the call button. The little screen lit up, and she saw that the number it had dialed was the last one she'd programmed in—Julian's.
* * *
Julian didn't believe it. No matter what the autopsy report said, something told him there was more to Mr. Simms's death than had met the ME's eye. There wasn't a shred of hard evidence to back up his feeling, nothing beyond the niggling in his gut.
He was midway through his aikido routine, wrestling with his doubts, when his encrypted cell rang. He saw the number on the LCD display.
He answered. "Tessa?"
"Th-there was a m-man
! In my a-apartment. H-he came in wh-when I was a-asleep in the tub. H-he touched me. H-he… Oh, God, Julian, I-I'm so afraid!"
Julian took the stairs from his basement two at a time. "Is he stiH there?"
"I d-don't know. I-I screamed. I think h-he ran." Her breath broke in a sob.
"Hang up, and dial nine-one-one! Lock your door, and don't let anyone inside unless they show you a badge. Grab your gun, and do whatever you have to do to protect yourself. Do you hear me, Tessa? If it moves, and it isn't a cop, shoot it! I'm on my way."
The seconds seemed like hours as he grabbed his shirt, his shoes, his harness, his Sauer, and his keys. He punched in his security code, hit the controls to the garage door, and vaulted into the front seat of his pickup. Tires shrieking, he backed out of the garage, down the driveway, and into the street.
He took Speer, then tore through an empty parking lot, over a sidewalk, and up a one-way street to get onto Fourteenth, somehow managing to get into his harness with one hand on the wheel. Then he called in over his radio, forgetting his Denver ten codes and resorting to profanity instead.
"I'm en route to a possible sexual assault in progress. That's a ten-whatever-the-hell—and send backup, goddamn it!"
She'd said he'd touched her. Had he raped her?
Either way, he was dead meat if Julian got hold of him.
Denver's darkened streets seemed to stretch on forever. He pushed the truck up to sixty, managed to squeak through a yellow light at Curtis, then drove the wrong way up another oneway street. Yet no matter how fast he drove, he knew he couldn't get to her in time if the son of a bitch was still there. Rape took only minutes, murder far less.
He tore around the corner, screeched to a stop in front of her building, and ran up the sidewalk. The front entrance to her building was secured—a glass door with a deadbolt— so he used the FBI master key, shattering the pane with the handle of his Sauer and reaching inside to force the handle. Then he took the stairs, sprinting up seven flights, weapon ready, to find the hallway outside her apartment in blackness.