Forgotten (Shattered Sisters Book 2) (6 page)

He couldn't rest easy after she'd sneaked away to get the cannon and had returned, tucking it within easy reach. He told himself it was okay, that he'd removed the bullets already. But he couldn't be sure she hadn't reloaded it, because he hadn’t searched the place for bullets yet, and he couldn't be sure she wasn't a lunatic who was planning to shoot him. He figured at least with his arms around her, he'd know if she went for the gun.

Unfortunately this close he could smell the lingering aroma of cigarette smoke that clung to her hair. Radley's words floated into his mind like filmy ghosts.
She lights up a cigarette, my friend, you get the hell out...think about those butts with the coral-frost lipstick stains on them....

He tried
not
to think about those butts, even as he wondered what shade of lipstick she used. Then he asked himself if he was the one who was stark, raving mad. Despite the fact that he had every reason to believe she might roll over at any minute and try to blow his head off, his body was beginning to respond in some very primitive ways to the feel of her.

Beyond the clean, crisp feel of the sheets, he felt the silky texture of the nightgown she wore. Beyond the musky smoke in her hair, he could smell the shampoo she used. Under the weight of his thigh, hers was like silk, and firm, and so shapely he wanted to trace the length of it with his lips.

The image jarred him, and he had to back off a little so she wouldn't feel his response to her tight, rounded backside pressing into his groin.

How could he lust this way after a woman who might be out to kill him? Maybe that head injury had done more damage than he knew.

Eventually, after hours of restlessness and several changes in position that did nothing to ease his discomfort, he must have slept. When he woke she was not in the bed. He couldn't believe it. The rising sun slanted through the window, spilling over the empty pillow where she'd been. He sat up quickly, glanced around the room and found it empty. He yanked the drawer open. The gun sat there like a stern reminder. A quick check and revealed that the damned thing had been reloaded...to the hilt. He slammed the drawer, swearing, threw back the covers and got up just as she stepped in from a door that linked the bedroom directly to a bathroom.

She wore a pair of low slung jeans and a tank top that fit like a second skin. Her hair was a mass of long wet straggles. Water beaded on her neck. His gaze moved lower, to the round breasts beneath the clingy material, to the luscious rise of them visible at the scooping neckline and the droplets that clung there. A rush of blatant, animal lust seared him from the inside out, and he cursed himself for idiocy. Even then, he let his glance sweep down to her denim encased thighs, curving calves and sexy bare feet

He swore yet again, and didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until she said, "Sorry. I tried to be quiet."

"You were." He lifted his gaze, by sheer force, to her eyes, slanting and green and full of mystery. "Leave me any hot water?"

She smiled, and he felt an inexplicable hope that whatever she was doing, she had a good reason. "I left you plenty. And while you're showering, I'll make us some breakfast."

"I thought you couldn't cook."

"I didn't say I couldn't. I said I didn't...much. I can scramble eggs and nuke sausage."

"Well, I can butter toast and mix up frozen orange juice, so we ought to survive." He glanced down at his body, clad only in skivvies. "I don't suppose I have a change of clothes here?"

"No. Sorry. Right after breakfast we'll go over to your place, if you want. Maybe being in your own apartment will sweep some of those cobwebs out of your rafters."

And that was when he noticed the running shoes dangling from one of her hands. "You going out?"

"Coming in, actually." She walked to the closet and tossed the shoes carelessly inside.

He frowned. Dammit, how could he have slept right through her leaving the house? He was lucky he didn’t wake up dead. Why hadn't he heard the car, or the bike? "Where did you—?"

"I run every morning. I hope I didn't bother you when I snuck out."

Snuck out.

"I never even knew you'd left. What time—?"

"A little after five." She smiled softly and her eyes traveled over his face. "You were sleeping like the dead, Ash. I think your body has a little recovering to do yet."

Right. He must have been out cold. And the last time he remembered glancing at the clock's luminous digits, it had been twelve twenty-something. She could have been gone half the night, for all he knew. He had nothing but her word for it.

The entire time he spent in the shower, he kept thinking about the famous scene in
Psycho.
But nothing happened. He emerged, groped for a towel and smelled the scent of scrambled eggs and sausage wafting up the stairs.

He pulled on his jeans, but didn't snap them closed. The sight of the clothes she'd left discarded on the bathroom floor distracted him. He bent to pick them up. Shiny black spandex leggings with hot pink racing stripes. Little white ankle socks. Her damp towel was still there, too. He stuffed the clothes into the hamper, then opened the medicine cabinet, rubbing one hand over his scruffy face and hoping to find a new razor.

There was a tap on the door. He went to it and swung it open.

Joey didn't say a word. Her lips were parted, as if she'd started to speak, but nothing came out. Not even, he thought, a breath. Her wide green gaze moved down his bare chest, pausing for a moment at the slightly gaping fly of his jeans, then jerked upward to his face again.

His ego spiraled upward and he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. "Did you want something?"

She shook her head. "No. I just—the razors. They're in the closet, top shelf. Shaving cream, too. I thought you'd be looking for them."

She wanted something, all right. Her eyes said it all. And why the hell did it give him such a thrill to know a murder suspect was lusting after him?

"Thanks. I was just looking for them." He turned and opened the closet, pulling down the cream. She still stood in the doorway. He glanced at the pink can. "Powder-fresh scent?"

A mischievous smile played with her lips. "It's the best I can do for now."

"It won't be so bad. I like the way
you
smell."

She cleared her throat and lowered her gaze.

"So how's that breakfast coming?
It
doesn't smell half bad, either."

Her head flew up again. "My eggs!" She turned and raced down the stairs. He chuckled and turned back to the sink to begin applying the lather to his face.

A few minutes later he heard a phone ring, and then her voice, cussing long and fluently. He stuck his head out the bathroom door. "I think it’s mine,” he said.

"Thank God," she yelled back.

He wiped the last of the lather from his face and ducked into the bedroom to snatch his phone from where he’d left it on the nightstand.

"Ash?" Radley's voice was strained. "We've got another one.”

"When?" Ash tried to keep the turmoil from his voice.

"He was found half an hour ago. Coroner's putting the time of death between two and three this morning with what he has so far. We'll know more later."

Ash swallowed hard. He couldn't be sure of Joey's whereabouts between two and three this morning. He only had her word that she'd left the house around five. He didn't want to ask the next question, but he knew he had to.

"Where?"

"Phoenix, Ash. A couple of miles from where you're sitting." .

Ash shook his head as it began to throb again.

"Ash, did she leave the house? Was she away from you at all between two and three?"

"It's circumstantial."

"Dammit, Coye—"

"I don't know, okay? I fell asleep."

"You fell—"

"I know. I'm an idiot. Shoot me. Save her the trouble."

"You really think—?"

"It was a sick joke." He didn't think Joey was out to kill him. Or anyone else. Hell, the idea was ludicrous. "Look, we don't know anything yet. Keep this to yourself until we do." Why in God's name was he trying to protect her? He ought to call the cops himself.

"Too late for that, Ash. They have the plate number of that bike from the last time. Now, with this murder practically in her backyard, don't think they won't be over there to grill her."

Ash closed his eyes. His mind was spinning. He just couldn't make himself accept that the woman he'd held in his arms last night, the woman whose tears he'd wiped away after a nightmare had scared her half to death—could also be a cold-blooded murderer. "Thanks for the warning, Rad."

"You want me to be there when they show up?" Radley asked.

Ash chewed his lip. He looked up at the sound of Joey’s footsteps, light and quick. She stopped in the doorway, her eyes huge and round and green. "I burned our eggs."

She looked so damned remorseful he couldn't help but smile at her. He covered the mouthpiece. "That's okay. I hate eggs."

Her face brightened immediately. "Raisin bran?"

"My favorite," he lied.

She grinned and trotted back down the stairs. Ash stared at the empty doorway until Rad's voice brought him out of his trance.

"You want me to come over or not?"

Ash stiffened. "Only if you're going to back me up. And I mean one hundred percent"

There was a long pause. Then, "What are you going to do?"

"Trust my instincts. They haven't been wrong yet, have they?"

Ash’s facial muscles were too tight. There were a pair of brackets etched between his dark brows. He kept looking at her across the table. Not saying anything, just
looking
at her between bites. It gave her a squirmy kind of feeling. As if he was searching for something, as if he was trying to read her mind. He finished his raisin bran and rose, rinsing the bowl, then stacking it in the dishwasher.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or just keep frowning all morning?" But she already knew, didn't she? She'd felt the eerie restlessness in the middle of the night. She'd paced and shivered and given in to her craving for a cigarette. She'd sensed the ugly blackness closing in. She’d tried to run it off with a morning jog, but she’d been too afraid to leave his side, to go far. She’d jogged up and down the driveway a dozen times, keeping the house always in sight.

He turned to face her, smiling a little. "I didn't realize I was frowning."

"It was that phone call. You've been messed up ever since." She rose, too, leaving her cereal bowl, spoon still inside, on the table. "Who was it?" She felt sick to her stomach. The dread she'd felt so strongly last night returned, and she braced herself for his answer.

"Rad Ketchum." He didn't elaborate.

"Your editor." The darkness gathered around the edges of her mind. Something bad had happened last night. Something she'd sensed...maybe even as it was happening. Something she should have been able to prevent. What good was the damned "gift" if she was too afraid to use it? God, when the coldness, the darkness, came to her, she did her utmost to push it away, to ignore it, when she should look closer, examine it and try to see what it meant. And it was coming again now, the cold, clammy hand clutching her heart and squeezing. It was getting harder to breathe. And then there was white heat searing her throat.

She gasped in pain and sat down hard when her knees buckled without warning. Tears choked her. Ash shot forward, startled, grabbed her shoulders and asked if she was all right. She lifted her head and stared up at him, the most horrible, gut-wrenching fear she'd ever known throbbing all through her. "It isn't her," she whispered. "It isn't Caroline. Tell me it isn't Caro."

His puzzled frown—or was it a worried one?—deepened just before Joey closed her eyes against a flood of tears. "Why would you think...? Joey, Caroline is fine. This has nothing to do with your sister." He shook her a little, hands tightening on her shoulders. "You hear me?"

She drew a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. She forced her eyes open as the tide of panic receded. "Then who?"

His dark eyes narrowed, and through the haze of dread she realized she was giving too much away. He'd wonder how she knew. If she told him, he'd think she was insane, or worse. She bit her lip and tried to think logically, coherently, even with that shimmering gloom hovering in her peripheral vision. It was getting closer. Getting harder to ignore.

"Something's happened to someone. I can see it in your eyes. Your editor called and told you something and..." She bit her lower lip and watched as some of the suspicion faded from his eyes. "Just tell me."

"Okay. There was another murder last night. Early this morning to be exact."

He watched her face, observing her every reaction, she thought. "The Slasher?"

He nodded. "The victim was found a little over an hour ago...in Phoenix."

She knew her eyes widened. She felt them expand until her head ached. Phoenix, New York was only a few miles from Clay, where she lived. She'd sensed the darkness was getting closer, but this was too close.

She shot to her feet, catching the front of his shirt in both fists. "Caro lives in Phoenix—"