Catch a Shadow (19 page)

She'd never felt such a pull to another person. Relationships to her had meant friendship first. Common interests. Compatibility. If the sex was good, that was a plus.

But love as a many splendored thing? Forget it. That stuff was only in films.

Now she wondered whether there was something to it after all. Fireworks were going off inside her. Her pulse was rapid, and waves of heat swept her. Most painful though was the raw need fermenting in the core of her.

Then she winced as he brushed her arm.

He backed away. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm not,” she replied quickly.

“Are you always so honest?”

“No.”

He grinned then, and she realized it was the first time she'd seen anything more than a slight smile.

He cradled her chin with his hand. “I've never met anyone like you before.”

“I can honestly say the same.”

“I'm sorry I crashed into your life like I did. I don't understand why you're not running to the police now.”

“I don't, either.”

“You can remedy that,” he said.

“I would lose my job. I broke every regulation there is.”

“And that would be bad?”

“I got fired from one job. I don't really want another on my record.”

“What was it?

“I was a reporter with the
Atlanta Observer
,” she said.

A reporter! No wonder she was so good with the questions.

“Why did you lose it?”

“I voiced my displeasure over the way a story was covered.”

“Doesn't seem to be a firing offense.”

“It is, if the story was written by a close friend of the publisher, and I wouldn't quit complaining.”

“Why?”

“It was my story, and she got it all wrong.”

He laughed then. An actual laugh. A low rumble that started in his throat and grew. It even, eventually, touched his eyes. It was fascinating to watch.

“Do you always tilt against windmills?” he asked. His hand touched her hair and pushed back a curl.

“It's a fault,” she admitted. “My mom used to tell me that once I got an idea in my head, not even a rocket could blow it away. It wasn't a compliment. She said I had a compulsive personality.” She was rambling along like an idiot, and she knew it. It was just … he so disconcerted her. This guy was dangerous to her well-being, both physically and, she suspected, emotionally. Dangerous, hell. Hell with
suspected
. She knew he was pure poison. She'd always been an adrenaline junkie, but she'd never consciously invited danger before.

He was watching her with an intensity that made the air between them sizzle.

Then, with a small movement of a muscle in his cheek, he stepped away. “You need to eat,” he said, his voice husky.

She did, but she yearned for a different kind of sustenance. She wanted more of him.

He picked up her slice of pizza. “It's cold,” he said.

If so, it was the only cold item in the room.

“That's okay,” she said.

“Anchovies?” he said with some surprise.

“What's wrong with anchovies?”

“I just didn't take you for an anchovies person.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

“That was going to be my half,” he said.

“You'll have to settle for pepperoni only now.”

“Anything after prison food tastes good,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him.

“Why are we talking about pizza?”

When their lips met again, this time there was no gentleness, only white-hot heat.

CHAPTER 16

Jake knew he should stop.

He'd never taken advantage of a woman before, especially a vulnerable one, and the fact that Kirke had almost died today made her extraordinarily vulnerable. Escaping death often made one reach out and grab a piece of life, wisely or unwisely.

But it had been so long since he'd felt the softness of a woman. Even longer since he'd seen passion glaze a woman's eyes. Even as he knew his marriage was going bad, he'd been faithful. He wasn't going to be like his father.

But he couldn't stop his fingers from carefully exploring the back of her neck nor the smoothness of her face. Nor could he stop kissing her.

It was Kirke who deepened the kiss, who responded with the same abandon with which she seemed to do everything. No shyness. Not even the hesitation any reasonable woman would have for someone playing such havoc with her life.

Her tongue flicked out, tasting him, and her lips invited and seduced. They opened to him, and heat rushed through him. She wanted, and he wanted.

His blood was like currents of liquid fire, searing and sensitizing every nerve, every muscle. She leaned against him, and pleasure coursed through him as she responded so completely to every touch. And then her hands were doing their own exploration, intensifying every sensation.

He knew he should pull back. That would be the right thing.

But a sound came from deep inside her, a purring, welcoming sound that aroused him more than any spoken words. He felt her hand entwining with his hair, and they clung together.

His hand accidentally brushed the bandage on her arm, and he heard the swift intake of breath.

It was like a splash of icy water. He moved away with a sudden jerk.

He rose. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“Don't go.”

“I hurt you. Again.”

“
You
haven't hurt me at all.”

He shook his head. “None of this would have happened if I hadn't come to Atlanta.”

“Yes, it would. Your Mr. Adams would still have tried to kill that man, and I still would have taken the envelope. I just wouldn't have anyone standing between him and me.” She blinked rapidly, though, and he knew she must be far more tired than she wanted to admit. She still wore the bloodied uniform shirt, which meant she probably hadn't washed yet, either. Her arm had to be burning from that gunshot wound. She'd ignored it all, but apparently it was catching up with her.

He stood and found the pain pills that had apparently been prescribed after yesterday's injuries. He handed one to her, along with a soda, and watched as she swallowed it.

“Here,” he said, handing her another piece of pizza. “You need some food with that.”

Kirke obediently took several bites. Her eyes were obviously struggling to stay open.

“I didn't see any night stuff at your house,” he said.

“That's because I wear T-shirts at night,” she replied.

He went over to her suitcase and found a large T-shirt. It had been on the list she'd given him. He put it on the bed, then went into the bathroom. When he returned, he had two wet washcloths and a towel.

He turned back the sheet and cover.

“Lie down,” he ordered and was surprised when she did. It said a lot about how tired she must be. He helped her off with her uniform shirt. She wore a bra underneath, and it, too, had bloodstains on it.

He'd soaped one of the washcloths, and he ran it over her skin. He took his time washing her, returning frequently to the bathroom to get a fresh washcloth or rinse one out. When he'd finished the upper part of her body, he helped her pull on the T-shirt.

His cell phone rang. He looked at the number, then handed it to her.

“Sam,” she said fuzzily. “I'm fine. Jake got a pizza.”

She listened for a moment. “Okay. Here's Jake,” she said after he made a gesture with his hand.

He took it and asked, “When will you be leaving the club?”

“Around two a.m.,” Sam replied.

“When you arrive, the connecting door will be locked,” Jake said. “You can call to open it.”

There was a pause. Sam obviously wanted to say something, probably something obscene, but he resisted and just hung up.

Jake went back to the bathroom. More hot water. More bath as he carefully avoided the bandages covering cuts from the purse snatcher. He cursed under his breath. By the time he had finished, her eyes were closed.

He turned off all but the bathroom light and left that door partially open, then he dragged the chair over to the window. He could see the back parking lot from here, though not the front, and the hallway was accessible from both the parking lot and the lobby.

He looked back at her. The bruise around her eyes was growing more colorful. Her injured arm was outside the sheet. She looked the ultimate innocent. He'd wanted to kill Gene Adams before but never as much as he did at this moment.

Jake glanced at his watch. Eleven p.m.

He would snatch an hour's sleep, then drive to the club where Sam was playing. He had a bad feeling about that. Adams was good at exploiting weaknesses, and he might know that Sam was one of Kirke's weaknesses. When Jake made sure both were safe tonight, then he would try to work with Kirke on those numbers that Del Cox had passed to her. Maybe she would remember something else.

Merlin watched him as he opened the plastic container of fruit. He offered the parrot some grapefruit. The bird had been unusually silent, as if he sensed that not all was right with his world.

When Merlin finished his treat, Jake put the cover over his cage, grabbed a piece of cold pizza, and sat back at the window.

The parking lot was quiet. He closed his eyes. An hour's sleep, and he would be okay for another day.

Kirke jerked awake.

For a moment she panicked. Where was she?

Then she remembered. Remembered the sniper. The purse snatcher. Dear God, the plastique.

She remembered the feel of Jake Kelly's hands.

She'd never felt anything as sensuous as when he washed her. Sensuous and yet oddly gentle. She shivered deliciously as she relived those few moments. Perhaps it was the gentleness that stirred so many sensations and emotions.

She moved and saw his form in a chair at the window. He was sleeping, and yet she suspected at any second he would detect her small movements. He needed sleep as well, and she enjoyed watching him, even though she felt partially drugged by sleep and her reaction to the events of yesterday.

What time was it? What had wakened her?

She turned to look at the clock, and in that moment he woke. No sudden movement, just a quietness that she recognized. He rose slowly with an athletic grace that sent another set of shivers along her back.

“I'm glad you're awake,” he said in a low voice. He walked over to her and sat down. “I'm going to Sam's club to make sure he makes it back here.”

“You're afraid he won't?”

“Adams probably knows where Sam plays, and he can lead them to you. I don't want to take more chances.”

His words sobered her. She had to remember why she was here, not drift back to those hands, to the tenderness in them.

He took her hand. “Promise me you will stay here. Don't open the door until you hear my knock. Not for anyone. Not for room service or a repairman or someone from the desk. Not even for Sam. I've locked the connecting door. If he wants in, he can call.”

She nodded, her eyes intent on his face. Not quite as hard now. Yet she thought she saw more lines.

“The signal?” he asked.

“Three knocks, pause, then two more,” she recited.

He nodded. “And if someone tries to get in, urge Merlin to make that siren sound of his.”

“Merlin never does what he's told.”

“Well, do something that makes him think it's his idea,” he said with a hint of a smile.

“Okay,” she said, snuggling back down in the bed. She didn't want him to go. She felt infinitely safer with him at her side. But he was right about Sam.

He picked up the clock and set it for three. “If we're not back by the time the alarm goes off, call the police. Tell them everything you know.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I hate to do it to you, but get up and fasten all the locks on the door after I leave. Then go back to sleep.”

Then he was gone.

Despite his order, she got up out of bed and padded to the window. She stood near the corner and watched him walk to his car. There was an alertness to his movements that reassured her. For a moment, she wondered about him. She'd never asked if he had a wife. Had children. Had other family.

What if he had all three?

She watched as he drove out of the parking lot.

Then she went back to bed, but she knew she wouldn't go back to sleep. She coaxed Spade up on the bed.

Something alive. She needed that.

But she really wished Jake was back. He and those gentle hands that had soothed and comforted and, for a while, chased away the cold shadows.

CHAPTER 17

Jake used his map to find the nightclub in downtown Atlanta.

Once he arrived, he drove around the block. There seemed to be no private parking, only valet service.

He wore a light blue, long-sleeved shirt he purchased earlier in the day. Still, he wasn't sure he could get inside the club with blue jeans until he saw two jean-clad men enter.

Well, he hadn't gone to a club in fifteen years or so.

He gave the valet twenty dollars and asked to park his own car.

The young man in a tie didn't blink. Just gave him directions on where to park.

Jake drove through a narrow alley into the back. He almost instantly saw Sam's car. He parked and looked around. No one. He stepped out of the car and inspected Sam's.

No explosives. Jake heard the crunch of pebbles as a car was being driven in. He stood and brushed dirt off his new shirt as he strode down the driveway toward the front entrance. He noted a side door that was probably used by employees.

He went inside, paid an exorbitant cover charge, and wandered over to the bar where he could see the small stage. Sam was playing sax with four other musicians. Jazz, and very good jazz at that.

Some couples were dancing, Others were sitting back and listening. The lights were dim, and he doubted Sam could see him.

Jake ordered a drink. He was one of the few patrons sitting by himself. The rest were mostly couples.