Face to Face (3 page)

He saw her safely to her car, a blue Subaru Impreza, parked two spaces down from his.
Bomb?
He whirled to grab the keys from her, but too late. She started the car before he could intercept her. He couldn't stop the flinch that interrupted his inhalation. Turning, he got behind the wheel of the Mustang, all focus and attention on Hart's car in front of him.

By the time they drove two blocks, he was already exhausted from his vigil. Christ, how long could he keep this up?

<><><>

Cassie stared at Drake in her rearview mirror. Hunched over the wheel of the Mustang like a tank commander going into battle. 

What the hell was going on? she wondered, and not for the first time. For once in her life she was following the rules. Hadn't pried, had tried to give him time, space to deal with whatever worries this new case brought. But this was getting out of control. 

He wasn't sleeping. He was constantly on edge, jumping at the slightest thing. And for some reason all the more solicitous of her. Taking her to the clinic, coming by to get her for lunch, picking her up, spending more time at her house. No matter what he claimed, it wasn't the dust from the clinic renovations that had driven him from his building and to her house the past week. Nothing could keep him from his art. 

The only other time he stopped painting was after he'd been shot, when he suffered from post-traumatic stress, having panic attacks, fearful something might happen to her.

She almost stalled the car at the light on Beechwood. Drake once stopped painting because he was anxious about her.

Could his current case have something to do with her? She decided to test her theory. The next light was yellow. She hit the accelerator and crossed the intersection just as it turned red. Looking in her rear view mirror, she watched as Drake followed her, not even bothering to check for traffic.

Damn, she'd been a fool. This
did
have something to do with her. As usual, Drake was too busy playing the knight in shining armor to bother her with any trivial details. 

Once heated, her temper moved quickly from a simmer to a boil. She thought he trusted her, why not with this?

Cassie screeched to a stop in the parking lot of The Liberty Times building, Drake's building at the end of Ravenna Way, originally home to a 1920s newspaper. She slammed her car door. 

Not waiting for him, she flung the back door open and sprinted up the steps to the first floor, which would house the medical clinic, counseling offices, and legal services. The second floor was almost done, ready to receive the food bank and daycare. The Liberty Center Community Clinic had been Drake's dream, his and her old boss's. Together, he and Ed Castro scrounged the funding necessary to make the dream a reality.

Cassie ignored the dust-coated oak floors, stepping through framed but empty walls to assess the work before her. She had insulated and drywalled the main dividing walls, giving the social services' offices and the legal clinic in the front of the building their own space. The rear two-thirds of the first floor was the medical clinic, which was only rough framed so far. She put her hands on her hips, turning in a circle, deciding which project to tackle first. 

Besides tackling Drake. If he didn't trust her enough to talk to her, confronting him would only make things worse. That much she'd learned in the five months they'd been together.

Feeling the urge to pound something, Cassie strapped her leather tool belt around her hips and spotted a likely candidate. She'd hammer together the two by fours she cut yesterday to make a radiator cover.

Hard to worry with a tool in your hand
, Gram Rosa, would say. Cassie swung the hammer a few times and smiled. As usual, Rosa was right. 

Who could Drake be protecting her from? Cassie thought, settling into the rhythm of her work.

Or what?

CHAPTER 3

Drake ran after Hart, following her up the outside steps into the rear of the building. Then he spotted the determined set of her jaw and angry blush coloring her cheeks. Should have told her sooner. He stepped forward, ready to fill her in, to convince her to leave for the Lake immediately, until she started to swing the damn hammer loud enough to wake the dead.

He watched her for a few moments before beating a retreat upstairs to his apartment on the third floor. He'd tell her later. After she calmed down. Otherwise, there was a very good chance she'd rush out, determined to do something, and end up causing more harm than good. 

Hart was like that. She acted before she thought, relying on her instincts and gut level determination to pull her through any situation. So far it had worked. Drake thought about some of her close calls and grimaced as he crossed the open space of his living room and dining area. 

Better to stick with his plan. Safer for all involved.

In the bedroom, he shoved the few things he'd need for the Lake trip into a gym bag. He wouldn't be staying there long. Once Hart was safe at Nellie's house, he would return to the city and find his stalker. Or rather, let his stalker find him.

It was a game of cat and mouse. One Drake intended to win. Now that he knew this actor was serious, he'd bring Jimmy Dolan, his partner, on board. Maybe Sarah Miller, Commander of the Major Crimes Squad, as well. As soon as he had Hart safely out of the way.

Drake tucked extra ammunition into the bag and zippered it shut with a final glance at the chrome headboard. Hart’s hand-carved one was so much better. Her face, flushed with their love-making as the old bed creaked and sang beneath them, flashed through his mind. 

He just needed to make it through the day. Then their lives could get back to normal.

He ran down the steps, pausing on the first floor landing, the scent of fresh-cut lumber filling the air. Hart hammered in synch with the Aerosmith that echoed through the high-ceilinged space. He smiled. Her taste in music was even more eclectic than his own. On any given day her MP3 player shuffled between heavy metal, classic rock, Irish folk music, R and B, jazz, and zydeco.

At least she wasn't still mad. One good thing about Hart. She had a quick temper but never held a grudge.

Drake stood in the doorway. He admired the way her lithe muscles, rock hard from her Kempo training and the construction work she'd done on the Liberty Center, rippled beneath the fabric of her denim overalls and tank top. She swung the hammer with efficient movements.
Tap, tap, bang
and a nail was in. She mouthed the words to "Love in an Elevator" while she swiveled her hips in time with Steven Tyler's warble.

The slam of a car door sent Drake's hand flying to his gun, shattering the moment. 

He pivoted and saw a familiar figure climb the outside stairs. Tony Spanos. Drake dropped his bag and moved to intercept the burly ex-policeman. At six-four, Spanos had four inches and several pounds on Drake. That didn't worry him; he and Spanos had tangled before and he'd always come out on top. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Drake asked him, pitching his voice so Hart wouldn't hear them. He kept advancing, forcing Spanos to retreat out the door, onto the concrete stoop, and two steps down the handicapped ramp.

"Cassie invited me. Didn't she tell you?" Spanos asked with a smirk.

Drake clenched his fists and resisted the urge to wipe that superior grin from Spanos' face. He wasn't worth it. After resigning from the force two months ago, Spanos was now a civilian and thus off limits.

But damn, it would feel so good. Drake had little sympathy for the younger man. Once upon a time he thought Spanos might make a good cop, even if they didn't get along. That was before Spanos lost his nerve during a hostage situation, forcing Drake to take a dangerous headshot to take down a gunman. 

Since Hart had been the hostage in question, Drake would never forgive Spanos for jeopardizing her. Hart didn't know she was the reason Spanos lost his badge. To his credit, the ex-cop tried to make up for almost getting her killed by helping out at the Center, but that didn't mean Drake had to like him hanging around.

"How's life been treating you, DJ?" Spanos used Drake's nickname as if they were old drinking buddies. "I figure if Cassie's calling me to come over, maybe you guys are having a bit of trouble. Guess years and booze will do that to a man." Spanos hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. He was twenty-eight, six years younger than Drake, with brown hair, dark eyes and a smile he seemed certain drove the ladies mad.

Drake ignored his jibes, noting the logo embroidered on Spanos' denim work shirt. Guardian Security. Hart had mentioned the alarm system installation this week.

"Hi, Tony." Hart's voice came from behind him, interrupting the crude reply Drake was formulating. Drake's bag was slung over her shoulder.

"Thanks, honey," he said, taking the bag from her. Before she could protest his use of the hated saccharine diminutive, he kissed her passionately. Only after he left her breathless and flushed by the unexpected display of public affection, did he release her. 

"I'll call you about lunch." He strode to the Mustang, tossing the duffle into the back seat of the convertible.

As he drove out of the parking lot, Spanos gave him a middle-fingered salute.

<><><>

Cassie walked down the steps. Drake peeled out of the parking lot like an adolescent trying to impersonate James Dean. She put her hands on her hips and turned to Tony who wore a look of extreme innocence on his face. 

"Want to tell me what that was all about?" 

Tony shrugged. "Drake's a nut job. I don't get what you see in him."

Cassie knew the ex-cop had a crush on her. Five months ago, they started off on the wrong foot, but she had since earned Tony's admiration and he'd apologized, blaming his rude behavior on his animosity with Drake. Now he often helped out with the Liberty Center. Even convinced his new boss to give them a break on the security system the Center needed. 

She liked the tall, hulking Greek. Beneath the Neanderthal exterior he'd revealed a soft heart—at least as far as the Center and Cassie went. He never forgave Drake for replacing him in Pamela Reynolds' heart or the role he felt Drake had played in her suicide..

"You ready to get started?" she asked, changing the subject away from Drake to one she and Tony could comfortably talk about.

"Sure." He grabbed a notepad from his pocket and began taking notes. "I'm thinking a code key back here and out front. This entrance will be limited access, right?" He gestured to the door behind them.

"Right. Everyone except a few staff members will come in the front entrance."

"Do you want a camera out here and in the front?" He gestured to the gang graffiti that was renewed daily. "Might not be a bad idea."

She considered his suggestion as she regarded today's artwork sprayed on the Center's brick wall. Alongside the usual gang tags was a portrait of a young couple holding hands, vibrant flowers flying about them as if they walked on air. Tagger, the artist, was in a playful mood she noted, tilting her head to take in the neon swirls. 

"Too expensive,” she decided. “Besides, we'll never have the manpower to actually keep an eye on them. Let's put our resources into better locks and sensors at the most critical areas."

"All right." 

Cassie scanned the area beneath the dumpster for telltale shadows of an eleven-year-old's skinny legs. Tagger was nowhere to be seen today. Usually he'd wait for Drake to leave, then appear as if from nowhere. Of course, most days she wasn't accompanied by a man in uniform.

Taming Tagger was harder than coaxing a wild animal from its den. But, after weeks of tempting the eleven-year-old with offerings of food and art supplies pillaged from Drake, she finally made headway. To the point where he would occasionally stop long enough to join her in a meal or to offer warnings of the latest gang activity, a constant threat with the Center perched in the no-man's land separating the Ruby Avenue Rippers and the Garfield Gangstas. 

They moved back inside and she showed Tony the second floor daycare area. 

"I can't believe how much you've finished since the last time I was here," he told her. "You've done a really good thing, Cassie." 

"Thanks." She found herself blushing as he ran a hand over the mitered corners of the molding she'd so painstakingly cut to match the original trim. She'd spent hours getting it just right. 

He turned and smiled at her, taking her hand in his larger one and running a light finger over her new calluses. "You might have found a second career here–just like I have."

She pulled her hand away, not sure how to handle his praise. "It's been fun," she admitted. Although not as much fun as a fresh trauma or scene run. Not to mention the hours she spent working alone at the Center—a far cry from the camaraderie she experienced with her team in the ER. "But I'll be happy when it's finished and I get back to being a doctor."

"Have you heard anything about King's lawsuit?" The last time Tony came over to the Center, she'd been served another notice in Richard's malpractice case. Nothing like having your ex-husband sue you for almost letting him die. 

Tony had helped her over her anger by challenging her to a Spackle battle and they'd ended up with more of the mud on themselves than on the drywall.

"They keep changing the date." 

"Damn lawyers. They're just trying to keep you off balance."

"I let Juliet handle it now." Juliet Nguyen was the Liberty Center's attorney and would be running their legal clinic.

He squeezed her hand. "King's an idiot. You did everything you could. He would have died if you weren't there."

That didn't matter to Richard. He wanted Cassie back—and if he couldn't have her, he'd be just as happy to destroy her life instead. Like he'd almost done while they were married. Possessive, controlling, narcissistic…that was Richard. At least when he was a surgeon, before the drug overdose. The overdose meant for her. A fact Richard's family would never let her forget. As if she ever could. If she'd drunk from that cup instead of Richard…