Hard Evidence

  His breathing slowed, his pulse dropped.

  And he listened.

  Silence.

  Whoever the attacker was, he'd probably turned out the lights to cover his escape.

  Julian made his way quickly and carefully down the hallway to her door, his senses trained on the darkness. 'Tessa, honey, it's me, Julian."

  He heard the bolt tumble, and a shaft of light spilled across him from inside her apartment. Then she was there, alive and clinging to him.

  "Julian!" She was wearing only a white towel, tears on her face, a look of horror in her eyes, the ends of her long curls damp.

  He would have liked to clear the apartment, to make certain the bastard was gone, but having a nearly naked woman in his arms made that difficult. He tucked the Sauer away, shut and locked the door behind him, held her trembling body close, relief flowing thick in his blood. "It's all right. I'm here. Let's get you warm."

  By the time the first two cops arrived, weapons drawn, Julian had wrapped her in a blanket and gotten the full story. Then, rage a boiling black venom inside him, he stood behind her and listened to her tell it again to detectives, while officers combed through the apartment and the hallway outside, checking for fingerprints and signs of forced entry.

  Feeling shaky and nauseated, Tessa tried to answer the lead detective's questions, Julian's presence bolstering her.

  "Was your front door locked?" The officer sat on her coffee table, scribbled with a pen, looking strangely calm.

  "I-I think so, sir. I always lock it. But I'd been going in and out, and I was really tired. M-maybe it wasn't locked." She struggled to remember.

  "Did you actually see anyone?"

  She shook her head, huddled more deeply in the blanket. "The lights went out."

  "Is it possible what you experienced was just a dream?"

  She felt tears prick her eyes, squeezed them shut. Her stomach rolled. "N-no, sir. He left… He left bruises. I-I saw them. Oh, I think I'm going to be sick!"

  "Breathe, Tessa." Julian's voice was deep and soothing, his lips against her ear, his hands resting reassuringly on her shoulders. "Just breathe."

  She drew a deep breath and another and another.

  The wave of nausea passed.

  She heard a voice from the bathroom say they'd found two distinct sets of prints on the switch plate and the doorknob.

  Uniforms. The flash of a digital camera. Lights flashing red and blue in the street below. It was just like the night of the shooting. Only she was alive—unlike Maria.

  Whoever he was, he hadn't killed her. Which surely meant he was probably just some random pervert who'd crossed paths with her completely by coincidence and had no connection to the shooting.

  If he'd wanted to kill her, she'd be dead.

  She shuddered.

  "Do you feel you need to go to the hospital, have a doctor look you over, check those marks? If there are bruises—"

  "No." Tessa couldn't do that, bruises or no bruises. "I'm not hurt."

  "Is there anyone we can call for you—family, a close friend?"

  They'd asked her the same question a week ago. "I'll call someone myself, thank you."

  Kara and Reece would take her in, but they'd already done so much for her. Lissy was pregnant, but she and Will would surely welcome her, as would Holly and Sophie and even Kat. But Tessa didn't want to trouble any of them.

  "Then I guess that about wraps things up." The officer put away his notepad and pen and pulled out his business card. "Call me if you think of anything else."

  And then the police were gone.

  Julian sat beside her and pulled her against him. He felt warm and steady, something sure in a world gone insane. 'Tell me what I can do, Tessa."

  She wanted a shower. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to forget.

  She looked up at him, touched by the concern in his voice. "Would you mind staying while I take a shower? I don't think I can go into the bathroom again tonight if I'm alone."

  He nodded. "If you want, I'll stay the night on your couch."

  She stared up at him. "You would do that?"

  "Just try and stop me."

  Tessa sat on her couch, huddled in the blanket, while Julian cleaned black fingerprinting powder off the switch plate in the bathroom and drained her bathwater. She felt like a bit of a baby watching him do things that she could have done. Hadn't she always taken care of herself? Yes, she had—even when she was a little girl.

  Still she was grateful that he'd offered. She really didn't want to see her bathroom as a crime scene. How had he understood that?

  Perhaps the same way he understood that she needed a shower in the first place. After all, she'd just had a bath. But this wasn't about being grubby; it was about feeling clean again. She needed to scrub the feel of the man's hand from her body, wash away the aftertaste of horror, rinse the night from her skin.

  It felt strange to have him in her apartment. As always, he seemed to fill the space with his presence, dominating the room just by being in it. But it didn't feel threatening to her. Instead, it made her feel safe.

  After about five minutes, he walked out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. "It's all ready for you."

  He'd taken off his leather jacket, but he was still wearing his shoulder harness, gun and all. She got the feeling he didn't often go without it. What must that be like—to always be ready to fight and kill?

  "Thank you." She stood, drew the blanket securely around her, feeling his gaze upon her as she walked past him to the bathroom door.

  She stopped, looked at the tub, her feet strangely reluctant to enter the bathroom, the echo of her own screams playing through her mind.

  He came up behind her, rested his hands on her shoulders. "No one is going to bother you, Tessa. Anyone who tries will have to get through me first."

  She looked over her shoulder at him, managed a smile. Then she stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

  Julian rummaged through her cupboards, listening to the sound of running water. He hoped soap and water would be enough to wash away the sense of violation she must be feeling. He was just grateful the bastard hadn't done more.

  Oh, how he wished they'd caught the son of a bitch.

  Baking soda. Vanilla. Chocolate chips. Spices. Cooking oil.

  The memory of her, half naked and in tears, made his jaw clench. Someone had watched her, had followed her into her apartment, had crept up on her while she'd lain, vulnerable and naked, dozing in her bath. The perpetrator had gotten close enough to do whatever he'd wanted to do with her—beat her, rape her, kill her—and what he'd done was squeeze her breast.

  It didn't sound like Burien. One of his thugs would likely have kidnapped her, raped her at his leisure over a period of hours or even days, shared her with friends, then shot her and thrown her body in a ditch. Julian wouldn't have known she was dead until she'd been bagged and tagged. The thought— and the unwanted images it conjured—sickened him.

  No, this wasn't like Burien at all. Perhaps one of Tessa's readers had taken an unhealthy interest in her. Perhaps some college kid who lived in her building had decided to major in rape along with accounting and was working his way up. Maybe some junkie had hoped to rob her but had gotten distracted by the sight of her.

  And yet could it be coincidence that within a week of watching a murder committed by Burien's goons, one witness was dead and the other had just been attacked in her home?

  Hell, no.

  That's what his gut said. His gut was rarely wrong.

  He wondered if and when he should tell Tessa about Mr. Simms. Certainly not tonight. She'd been through enough already.

  Dinner plates, saucers, and bowls. Crystal wineglasses. Coffee mugs.

  Her apartment was small but tidy, with little touches that reflected her personality—tasteful and feminine. Pots of flowers. Framed Monet prints on the walls. Puffy lavender pillows on an overstuffed sage-green sofa. A solid oak bookshelf overflowing wit
h classics, volumes of poetry, and romance novels.

  No one stepping into this apartment would imagine that Tessa had grown up as the illegitimate daughter of a dirt-poor teenager. There was nothing of struggle and deprivation in the place. Tessa had remade herself and left her past behind.

  Julian respected that. He understood it. But he had made a very different choice, embracing his past with a literal vengeance.

  Oatmeal. Peanut butter. Tuna fish. Cans of soup.

  He heard her turn off the water in the shower, and a few moments later the bathroom door opened and her bedroom door closed. He tried not to think about her drying off, rubbing lotion into her skin, getting dressed.

  He finally found what he was looking for—a bottle of booze—and poured two shots of rum in a coffee mug. Then he set about heating water. It was a recipe he'd picked up from Juanita, the prostitute who'd become his father's de facto girlfriend and who'd probably been the closest thing to a mother Julian had known. She'd made this for him when he'd been nine or ten and sick with a cough. It hadn't done a thing to clear his chest or bring down his fever, but it had knocked him out.

  By the time Tessa emerged from her bedroom, he had the drink ready for her.

  He looked up, and the sight of her sent raw current arcing through his gut. Her hair hung in long, wet tendrils, her skin dewy and translucent. She was wearing a fluffy white bathrobe, her ankles and feet bare. Light pink polish glistened on her toenails, made her little toes look like candy.

  He wanted to kiss her, to untie her bathrobe, watch it fall to the floor, and kiss every inch of soft woman it revealed, including her toes. He wanted to bury himself inside her and feel her melt around his cock as he made her come again and again. But there were dark circles beneath her eyes, and he could tell she'd been crying. Between the assault and her time at the shooting range, she'd had one hell of a day. He was an ass for even thinking about sex.

  Her gaze fell on the mug in his hands. "Coffee?"

  Julian searched his mouth, found his tongue. "It's past midnight. You don't need caffeine, honey, you need sleep."

  She gave him a sad smile. "I've given up sleeping."

  "Drink that. I guarantee you'll sleep tonight."

  She looked doubtfully at the clear liquid, took the mug, sniffed. "It smells like…"

  "There's rum in it. Go have a seat on the sofa, and drink it down." He leaned against the wall and watched as she carried the mug into the living room, sat, took a ladylike sip, and shuddered.

  She glared at him. "This isn't going to make me sleep. It's going to make me choke."

  "Drink it all at once."

  Her gaze on his, she brought the mug to her lips, drank, made a pinched face. "Blech!"

  He crossed the room and sat down beside her. "Feeling sleepy yet?"

  "Oh, please!" She looked up at him as if he were being ridiculous and set the empty mug on the coffee table. "Do you think what happened tonight had anything to do with the murder?"

  "I don't know. We took some prints. We'll have to see what we get."

  She sank slowly into him, her words slightly slurred as his potion kicked in. "Maybe he was just a random boob grabber, just some creep. He really scared me."

  "I know." Julian settled her against his chest, found himself wishing he could take away her fear. "Don't think about that now."

  But she didn't seem to be thinking at all, her body boneless, her eyes closed.

  For a few minutes, he held her, stroked her damp hair, unsettled by the emotion building in his chest and yet reluctant to let her go. When it seemed she was truly asleep, he scooped her up, carried her to her bed, laid her down on the sheets, and pulled the covers over her, bathrobe and all. Then he stood, looking down at her. "Sleep tight, Goldilocks."

  He was about to turn away, when she spoke, her voice soft and drowsy. "Julian?"

  "Mmm-hmm?"

  "You're not so bad."

  But he was. Oh, yes, he was.

  Chapter 11

  Tessa slept deeply through the night. Because she'd forgotten to set her alarm, she slept through the I-Team meeting, as well. She had no idea that Julian had peeked into the room twice to check on her. Or that Tom had left a message on her cell phone demanding to know where she was. Or that Sophie had called worried about her. When she finally awoke and saw that it was ten-thirty, she felt rested and refreshed—and thought it was the weekend.

  She stretched and saw that she'd slept in her bathrobe.

  That was strange. Why had she done that?

  She must have—

  She sat up with a gasp, as the events of last night crashed in on her. She remembered doing her laundry, thinking someone was watching her. She remembered dozing off in the tub. She remembered hearing someone breathe, thinking she was dreaming—and then feeling a hand close over her breast.

  Sudden darkness, the icy horror, her own screams.

  How distant it all seemed with bright sunlight pressing against her closed curtains and a night's rest behind her—like the echo of a nightmare. But it hadn't been a dream. It had been terrifyingly real.

  She shuddered.

  She remembered other things, as well. Julian's voice on the other side of her door. Julian holding her, wrapping her in a warm blanket, comforting her. Julian offering to stay the night on her couch and—

  She gaped at her closed bedroom door.

  Good lord! Was he here?

  She slipped out of bed, crossed the room, opened her door, and stepped into the hallway to find him sitting on her couch, reading the paper, a cup of hot tea in his hand. His long hair was loose, hanging to his shoulders, and he wore no shoes and no shirt.

  He looked so blatantly… male.

  He saw her and stood. "Morning. How are you feeling?"

  "Urn," she said, stupidly, her mind suddenly blank, "I slept."

  He grinned. "Thought you might."

  The leather thong with the turquoise stone still hung around his neck. His nipples were a dark wine red against smooth olive skin, his shoulders broad and powerful, his arms lean and muscular. Dark curls were sprinkled across a well-built chest, tapering to a vee that traveled down the center of a six-pack and disappeared beneath the low-slung waistband of his jeans. Muscles she'd never seen on anything but marble statues curved around his sides just above his hip bones and dipped toward his groin.

  Tessa felt her belly draw tight, heat flooding her cheeks.

  She was staring at him, blatantly ogling him.

  It's called sexual attraction.

  She jerked her gaze up to his face, saw that he'd been looking at the kitchen clock.

  "I hope you don't mind that I helped myself to some tea," he said.

  "No! No, of course not." She realized she must look pretty awful standing there in her bathrobe with messy hair and no makeup. "Are you hungry?"

  "I don't want to put you to any trouble." He grabbed his shirt, slipped it over his head, all those muscles shifting as he moved. "I can grab something later."

  "It's no trouble, truly." And then it dawned on her. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry! Here you offered to stay here as a kindness to me, and I didn't even get you a pillow or blanket!"

  "Relax." He tucked his shirt into his jeans. "I wasn't expecting to you play hostess. Good article, by the way—balanced, informative without being sensational."

  "Considering your low opinion of reporters, I'll take that as high praise." She turned toward the kitchen, wondering if she had enough eggs to make them each an omelet. That's when it hit her. "It's Wednesday! I'm late for work! Damn, damn, damn!"

  Julian watched as she rushed to the phone and dialed what he assumed was the newspaper. Her hair was a mass of tangled curls that his fingers itched to touch. Her face was fresh from sleep. Her bathrobe was wrinkled and had slipped to reveal one slender shoulder. In short, she looked sexy as hell.

  Back off, buddy. No picket fences, remember?

  "Hi, Tom, it's Tessa… I overslept. My apartment was broken into last night, and… Y
es, sir, I know. I was up late with the police… In about an hour. I have an interview at one and was planning on writing a follow-up to today's story focusing on the exploitation of homeless teenagers—probably twenty inches if I can get it."

  Whoever Tom was—her boss?—Julian instantly loathed the guy. It seemed to him that someone who'd been through what Tessa'd been through over the past week ought to be entitled to a little sympathy, if not a few days off. Yet it was obvious the guy was grilling her.

  At the same time Julian was relieved to hear she intended to go to work. If she was at the newspaper, at least she'd be surrounded by other people and behind secured doors. The last thing he wanted was for her to be home alone. He had a job to do and couldn't stay with her all day. He was taking a big risk being with her at all.

  He intended to ask Irving to assign someone to watch her twenty-four-seven, but it would probably take a day to make those arrangements. He would have to fill in the gaps in the meantime.

  "I realize that, sir. It wasn't intentional." She hung up the phone, looking upset and frustrated, her gaze on the clock.

  "I've got an idea," Julian said, picking up the elastic band he'd left on the table and tying back his hair. "How about you get ready for work, and I'll make breakfast."

  While she took a shower and dressed, he threw together some huevos rancheros, popped toast in the toaster, and poured them each a glass of OJ. He'd just set a jar of salsa on the table when she emerged from her bedroom, wearing a sleek periwinkle-blue dress that made her blue eyes seem even bluer and her curves curvier. Her hair hung down her back in perfect spirals. Those same little pearls he'd found so tasty yesterday once more adorned her earlobes. Her feet were bare apart from her pantyhose, frosty pink polish just visible through the tan-colored nylon.

  "Wow!" she said staring at the table. "You really did make breakfast."

  "Save your astonishment for something more complicated than eggs, honey, or I'm likely to take it as an insult."

  She sat, picked up her fork. "The only other man I've ever seen cook anything is my friend Kara's husband."