Gabriel (14 page)

Maybe she was just conning herself into seeing what she’d so desperately yearned for,
for so many years. Instead, she focused on the desolation and pain in Gabriel’s eyes
when he’d confessed his doubt about healing from the loss of his wife and son.

How many times had she sneered at women who believed they could change a man? Women
who didn’t listen when a man told her the truth about his motives and intentions?

She refused to be counted among their number.

Gabriel had never made secret his continuing love for a dead woman. The kiss had been
nothing—an emotional knee-jerk response, not a loving gesture or sign of affection.
She would be a fool to pretend he wanted more than friendship between them. That line
of thinking only courted more heartache, more pain.

Squaring her shoulders, she picked up the two plates and turned around.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Chapter Fifteen

Several hours later, Leah walked Gabriel to the front door. She batted away the whisper
of wistfulness rolling through her. The evening had been…lovely. And even she knew
foolish desires only led to further hurt, she couldn’t stop her stubborn heart from
wishing their time could have lasted just a little longer.

“Lock the door behind me,” he ordered, pulling it open.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

“Good girl,” he drawled, patting her on the head. When she muttered a threat directed
at his family jewels, his mouth lifted in a faint smile. “Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I would offer you leftovers, but you fired me as your
caretaker.” She smiled, erasing the sting from the words. “Thanks for coming over,
Gabe.”

He nodded but didn’t turn around to leave. Instead, he stood just outside the door.
She met his gaze silently, but inside, her heart and pulse hammered out a deafening
racket.

“Good night, Leah,” he finally murmured before moving across her porch toward the
steps.

She closed the front door behind his retreating figure and exhaled her pent-up breath
on a long, hard
whoosh
. For several moments she stood still, her palm pressed to the door frame, head bowed.

She was an addict. A desperate, jonesing addict. And her drug of choice was Gabriel
Devlin.

With a sigh, she returned to the kitchen. Her actions were automatic as she wrapped
up the leftovers, washed the few remaining dishes, and wiped down the counters. The
routine left her mind open to reminisce about the evening. An evening with Gabriel.

Being with him had been euphoric…and painful. Exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Joyous
and agonizing. Sitting across the table from him, staring into his beautiful eyes
and lovely face, hearing his dark rumble of a voice—had thrilled her. But knowing
an evening like this would be all she shared with him killed something inside of her.

Like a drug addict, she understood this obsession with him wasn’t emotionally healthy.
It interfered with finding a partner who not only returned her feelings but could
offer her his devotion, his heart. And before the accident when he’d been happy with
his family, she’d accepted he was beyond her reach and had resolved to move on. Find
a man whom she respected, appreciated, and maybe one day loved with the passion only
Gabriel had inspired. But after Maura and Ian had died, she’d placed those plans on
hold. Gabriel had been in such pain, and even though being around him so much only
embedded him further in her heart, she’d been determined to be there for him until
he was over the worst of his grief. Until the day came when she wouldn’t worry about
walking into his apartment anxious over what she’d find.

And, it seemed from his “firing” of her earlier that evening, that day had arrived.
Yet she still had a difficult time letting go.

“Dr. Phil, here I come,” she grumbled, hanging the dish towel over the edge of the
sink. Shaking her head, she exited the kitchen and climbed the staircase to her second-floor
bedroom. She doubted even the talk-show doctor with his decades of experience could
cure her of this love. Over the years she’d witnessed Gabriel date, marry another
woman, and start a family. She’d seen him bury his wife and his heart.

And still, she loved him.

She unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged free of the material.
God
. There were nights like tonight when she would gladly admit herself to a hospital,
lay out on a gurney, and demand her heart be cut from her chest. Maybe then this yearning,
this need, would cease.

After a shower, she dragged a tank top and sweatpants over her body, turned back the
covers, and grabbed an elastic band off the bedside dresser.

“Oh, damn,” she muttered, pausing in the middle of tying her hair into a knot at the
top of her head.
I didn’t turn the alarm on
. For a few seconds, she debated whether or not to trek down the stairs and enter
the code on the panel next to the door. But the mental dispute didn’t last long. Common
sense ruled out weariness. Somerville was a relatively safe area, but too many years
on the force had shown her what one careless oversight could result in. Two minutes
and a jog up and down a flight of stairs didn’t compare to the horror of a home invasion.

Groaning, she wheeled around and left the bedroom.

As if an invisible wall had sprung up in front of her, she jerked to an abrupt halt.
Her blood froze in her veins, the cold spreading to her chest, her stomach, her limbs.

The hatch leading to the attic yawned open in the ceiling like a hungry mouth.

The ladder-stairway slowly lowered with an eerie creak. A pair of legs slithered through
the opening and descended the steps.
Legs. Waist. Torso. Head
.

Her brain screamed
run!
Her heart pounded out the same frantic message, but her body refused to obey. She
stood, unable to move, as her eyes registered the sight of the black-clothed stranger
emerging from her attic.

The intruder paused on the last rung. Slowly, his hands fell from the spindly staircase
railings, and the air turned to molasses as he pivoted, his movements slow, deliberate.
A black ski mask concealed his features, but she saw the lift of his cheeks beneath
the knit, glimpsed the flash of white teeth beneath. He was
smiling
at her.

Her paralysis snapped.

She whipped around. Darted for the bedroom.

Gun. Have to get to my gun
.

Two steps, and she was in the bedroom. Harsh rasps filled her ears as she slapped
the door closed behind her, hoping to impede the intruder’s advancement.

Wood smashed against wood. He was in the room. Sweet Jesus, he was in the room. Her
heart shot to her throat as her fingers scrabbled over the bedside dresser. Finally,
she grasped the handle and yanked the drawer open.

The drawer slammed shut on her fingers. Pain radiated up her hand and rebounded to
her fingertips. With a yelp, she snatched her hand free and cradled it against her
chest.

A heavily muscled arm hooked her around the neck and wrenched her back against a hard
chest, hauling her to her tiptoes. She grabbed at the unyielding band of flesh, trying
in vain to pry it away from her neck so she could drag in a lungful of air.

He tightened his hold.

“Please,” she wheezed, clinging to his arm now instead of fighting him. Terror welled
inside her, cresting, only to swell again in a never-ending breaker of fear.

What did he want? Would he rape her? Kill her?

The thought of him violating her body renewed her struggles. Every self-defense tactic
she’d learned streamed through her head like a ticker tape. She released his arm,
and with all the strength she could gather, snapped her elbow backward.

He flinched, his grunt echoing in her ear. Not wasting a moment, she brought her bare
heel down on his instep, and pain rippled up her calf as bone connected with the steel-toe
boot. Yet, triumph surged in her blood. His hold loosened a fraction. It was all she
needed. She grasped two of his gloved fingers and wrenched them backward. His hold
weakened even more as he emitted a muffled cry.

She rotated outward, grabbed his wrist. With a feral snarl, she jerked her knee up
toward his nuts.

He twisted his hips and blocked the blow.

Agony exploded across her cheekbone. She gasped. Fire seared the side of her face.
She stumbled, dropped to her knees, hands cradling her cheek.

He gripped her hair, yanked her head back.
A knife
. It filled her vision; her world narrowed to a steel, serrated knife with a black
handle. The light from her lamp bounced off the blade, and the dull gleam blinded
her.

Another abrupt tug and her muscles screamed as the edge of his weapon bit into her
neck. Ice licked her throat followed by a sizzle of heat. She whimpered. A slick trickle
of blood dribbled down her neck, catching in the dip at the base of her throat.

He didn’t utter a word—didn’t make a sound—but she
felt
his satisfaction. Felt his enjoyment through the shiver that ran through him and
vibrated against her. Felt his intent in the lethal pressure of the knife pressed
to her skin.

“Why?” she whispered. If she was going to die, she wanted,
needed
, to know why. When no reply came, she swallowed. Suppressed a flinch as the razor-sharp
edge of the blade scraped her flesh. An idea coalesced in a nebulous swirl, and even
before the notion could fully form, she blurted her hunch. “I’m helping you! I’m investigating
Richard’s death. Why are you doing this?”

He went rigid.

She held her breath. Would he speak now? Would he tell her why?

No
. She gasped as he released her hair, curved a hand under her arm, and yanked her
to her feet. He wasn’t going to explain. But he’d already answered her.

This man who held a knife to her throat and shoved her toward the bed had sent the
letter and missing-person flyer. Yet for some reason, he no longer considered her
an ally but a threat. A victim.

Dispensable.

Sorrow, rage, and desperation rolled through her with the force of a fierce gale.
It swept aside caution, leveled self-preservation.

Fight. Survive!

She pried her fingers under his arm, dug her nails into hard flesh, and
shoved
.

He grunted in surprise and shifted the knife away.

With a hoarse cry, she flung her head back, slamming her skull into her attacker’s
face.

His howl filled the room, almost obliterating the clatter of his weapon hitting the
floor.

Run, damn it! Get out!

Like a rabbit caught in the sights of a predator, she darted across the bedroom and
bolted into the hallway. She skirted the attic ladder and didn’t slow as she hit the
staircase. Under the roar of her racing heart she heard the heavy pounding of booted
footsteps behind her. She didn’t pause, didn’t look back.

The floor flew up to meet her as she leaped over the last few steps. As soon as her
soles hit the hardwood, she threw herself the last few feet for the front door. She
fumbled with the lock, terror stealing her coordination.

Oh, God. Please.

The lock turned under her bruised fingers. She twisted the knob, yanked the door open.
Cold air rushed over her face.

Thank you. Oh, God, thank you…

A hard, suffocating weight smashed into her back. The door crashed shut under the
impact, crushing her hope of escape and survival along with it.

Harsh breath rasped in her ear, hot against her skin even through the knit mask. He
reached up and, with an abrupt twist, reengaged the lock.

He whipped her around, then slammed her to the floor. The back of her head cracked
against the wood. Black swirled around the edges of her sight, but she fought it back.
She gathered the last of her strength, bucked, swung a fist at his temple. A vicious
snarl rolled out of him. He glared down at her through the mask’s eye slits, then
manacled her wrists to the floor with one hand. And the other…the other held the knife.
Moonlight from the window glinted off the steel.

“I’m tired of your shit, bitch,” he snarled.

Don’t speak,
she screamed silently. God, if his silence had been eerie, his rough voice sent chills
over her skin, cutting as sharp as his blade.

Deliberately, he laid the knife down next to her ear. He reached into the pocket of
his dark hoodie and slowly withdrew a gold coin and placed it next to the weapon’s
handle. Then he picked up the knife and, as if in a nightmare, it descended. She watched
it, wanting to shut out her imminent death but was unable to close her eyes.

“Leah!”

Gabriel!

Her assailant’s arm and blade halted. Unblinking brown eyes studied her as if weighing
his options.

“Leah!” Chay?

Her attacker bit out a muffled curse.

Relief welled inside her like a geyser. Weakening her. Tears stung her eyes.

He swore again then leaned over her, his grip tightening.

“Tell my special boy I said hello,” he rasped in her ear. Chuckling, he launched to
his feet and bounded down the hallway.

Stunned, she stared after him. What had just happened? Was he really gone? Would he
come back?

“Leah!” Pounding at the door. “Answer me, damn it!”

Gabriel’s voice snapped her deep freeze. She leaped up, lurched to the door. In seconds,
she had it open and was in Gabriel’s arms.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Leah? Baby—”

“He was inside.” She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “And he
didn’t come for my Alfredo.”

Chapter Sixteen

“You should’ve stayed the night at the hospital.”

Leah rolled her eyes and shuffled through the front entrance to Gabriel’s condominium.

“I don’t have a concussion and nothing’s broken. There was no reason to stay.”

The slam of the door resounded with his feelings about her medical opinion. She sighed.
For a writer who specialized in words, he was extraordinarily fluent in the non-verbal,
too.

He stalked past her, the overnight duffel the police had allowed him to pack for her
in his hand.

“Gabe, you can just put the bag on the couch.”

He skidded to a halt, slowly turned around, and she almost flinched. Thunder darkened
his face, lit his blue eyes. Christ, if he’d been Thor, her ass would’ve been fried
by a thunderbolt blast. She smothered a swell of laughter.
Thor?
The pain meds the doctor had given her must be making her loopy.

“You are taking my bed,” Gabriel bit out. “No argument.”

“Okay.” She held up her hands, palms out. “Fine. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

After another hot glare, he spun on his heel and continued down the hall, pausing
once by the small dining room table to deposit her tote bag. Once he disappeared through
his bedroom door, she wilted against the wall. She’d assumed a brave, keep-a-stiff-upper-lip
façade for his benefit, but she was tired and aching. Her face throbbed, the cut on
her throat smarted, and her fingers thudded. Tremors attacked her legs, and inside,
terror had scraped her raw. Unfortunately, the doctors didn’t have bandages or pills
for her soul.

Snapshots of the hours since her attacker had fled flashed in front of her eyes. Gabriel
racing into her house after the intruder. Chay pacing back and forth at the bottom
of the porch steps. Cops swarming her lawn and home. The paramedics stretching her
out on the white-sheeted gurney. Gabriel, Chay, Mal, and Rafe filling her hospital
cubicle.

It seemed surreal. As if the attack had happened to another person, not her. In her
home. Her sanctuary. Her haven.

But not anymore. Maybe never again.

The irony that an intruder had invaded the home of a former cop and current private
investigator was not lost on her. God, she’d felt like such an idiot when the investigating
officer had informed her at the hospital how the guy had simply placed a ladder against
the back of her home, busted out the attic window, slid through, and then waited.
When she’d had her security system installed, she had motion detectors placed in the
basement and the first and second floor hallways, but not the attic.

“Why aren’t you sitting down?” Gabriel bore down on her like an avenging angel.

“I need a shower,” she said. She plucked at the tank top dotted with blood. Hospital
stench clung to her skin. Adhesive residue from the Band-Aids she’d removed as soon
as she’d cleared the emergency room’s sliding glass doors dotted the crook of her
arm and the back of her wrist.

She wanted to be clean more than she desired her next breath.

“Can you stand up in the shower by yourself?”

“I’ll manage,” she snapped, her patience slipping its medicated leash.

Gabriel grunted. Resisting the urge to give him a one-finger salute, she pushed off
the wall and carefully ambled down the hallway. Jeez, must be the meds making her
so touchy. She was never so short-tempered with him. But no wonder. Between the hit-and-run
and the break-in, she felt like Mike Tyson’s punching bag.

When she neared him, he muttered something under his breath but gently clasped her
elbow and guided her to the largest bathroom. He led her to the commode and helped
her sit on the closed lid. Soon, water streamed from the shower spigots, the steam
already curling from the frosted glass enclosure. Gabriel left the room but returned
shortly with a bathing cloth, towel, and T-shirt.

“I’ll be right outside the door. Call me if you need help.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Leah,” he said, leaning down and invading her space. The tip of his nose
grazed hers, and his breath brushed her lips. “I promise you, I
will
come in here.”

“Okay, Gabe,” she said, not attempting to conceal her irritation. Hell. She’d been
through enough tonight. Did he really think she’d risk another bruise on top of the
ones mottling her neck, arms, and legs like a roadmap?

He waited until she rose and shrugged the jacket Raphael had given her off her shoulders.
She gripped the hem of her tank top and glanced up, a blistering remark about getting
undressed in front of him dying on her tongue. He was staring at her. His gaze touched
on her neck, shoulders, and arms before returning to her face. Stark pain stripped
away the anger and worry from his expression, leaving a crushing vulnerability. The
anguish tore at her heart, her soul. She lifted her arm, held out her hand, but he’d
already spun around and fled the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

She exhaled, dropped her arm to her side.

Weariness draped across her shoulders like a heavy winter coat. It threatened to drag
her down under its weight. And wouldn’t that be the coup de grâce of the evening?
For Gabriel to find her sprawled on the black-and-white tile?

Swiftly, she stripped and stepped under the hot, pulsing spray. She groaned—couldn’t
help it, and hoped it didn’t bring Gabriel barging in. The water sluiced over her
head and ran down her body, washing away the dirt from her struggle and the dried
blood from her skin. She stared at the drain, watched the water circle and empty.

When the tears started tracking down her cheeks, joining the rivulets coursing down
her skin, she didn’t know for certain. One moment she was standing under the shower
head, palms flattened against the damp tiles. In the next instant, her shoulders shook
with hoarse sobs that burned her throat. Everything—the horror, the pain, the violation—crashed
down on her, and she shattered.

She couldn’t be strong anymore.

After a long while, she twisted the faucets, shutting off the water. She stepped from
the stall, rubbed the white towel over her skin, and drew the large, black T-shirt
over her head. The soft cotton billowed around her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh.
Bending over at the waist, she flipped her hair forward and wrapped the towel around
her hair turban-style. As she straightened, a perfunctory knock sounded at the door
seconds before Gabriel entered.

“How did you know I was dressed?” she grumbled, kneeling and gathering her clothes.

He didn’t rise to the bait but moved closer. He cupped her jaw, tilted her head back.
“You’ve been crying,” he said, voice soft, kind.

Damn
. Not a kind Gabriel. She sniffled, tugged her chin out of his hold. A kind Gabriel
would break her.

“Are you hurting?”

“I’m tired.” She ducked her head, training her gaze on the floor rather than meet
his all-too-perceptive scrutiny.

“Here.” His fingers curled beneath her elbow. “Sit.” He lowered her to the closed
toilet lid even as he issued the order. He moved behind her and unraveled the towel
from her hair.

“Don’t worry about it.” She grabbed the damp cloth. “I can dry my own hair.”

“I know.” He swatted her hand away.

Too tired to put up a fuss, she sat, docile, as he finished unwrapping the cloth.

“Gabe?” He paused. “Why were you and Chay there tonight?”

“I never left,” he murmured. “Since the hit-and-run, all of us have taken turns watching
out for you. Tonight was Chay’s watch. I didn’t feel like going home, so I sat with
him for a while. We both heard your front door slam shut, but when you didn’t come
out, we decided to check it out, make sure you were okay.”

A part of her should be outraged. Mal, Rafe, Chay, and Gabe had been conducting a
stake-out on her home and neglected to inform her about it? But their protective streak
had saved her life. Their stubborn love had kept her safe from a psycho’s knife.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’re more than welcome, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

Tenderly—more tenderly than she could imagine—he blotted the water from her hair.
Gently, so gently, he rubbed the wet strands, taking care with the raw area where
her head had struck the floor after she’d been tossed—

Don’t go there!

“Breathe, baby,” Gabriel murmured. He hunkered at her feet, his bent knees bracketing
her calves. He cupped her face, tipped it down, and forced her to meet and hold his
gaze. “Focus on me, Leah. You’re right here with me. Breathe.”

The phantom fist squeezing her throat gradually released its grip, and she inhaled,
desperately trying to suck in enough air to fill her lungs.

“Easy,” he said, calloused fingertips lightly stroking her cheek. “That’s it, baby.
In. Out. In. Out.”

She followed his lead.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale
.

“I’m good,” she whispered. Humiliation whipped through her, its sting as biting as
the onset of the panic attack. “I was a cop, for God’s sake.” He released her, and
she curled her fingers into her palms to keep from grabbing his hands and begging
him to touch her again. “It isn’t the first time someone has come after me. Christ,
I’ve been
shot
. I don’t know why I’m reacting like this.”

“Because before, it wasn’t personal—the suspect had a crime to get away with, and
you were in the way. Tonight, you were the target. And it was in your home.”

She shuddered. “I feel so
violated
.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. Rocked back and forth. “He may not have
succeeded in killing me, but he did destroy my sense of security. He was in the attic,
Gabe! In the attic the entire time you and I cooked and ate dinner…when I showered.”
She shook her head. “I no longer feel safe in the one place I call mine.”

“I know. He took your sanctuary away from you,” Gabriel said, smoothing a palm over
her damp hair.

“Yes,” she whispered vehemently. “I’ve comforted victims of home invasions and robberies
before. Told them everything would be okay. Or, they’d lost stuff but at least they
had their lives.” She scoffed. “God, how pretentious I must have sounded. They lost
far more than ‘stuff.’ Everything might eventually be okay, but it sure as hell wouldn’t
be the same.”

Gabriel didn’t reply. But what could he say? Two years after his own tragedy, and
he still struggled to claim a sense of normalcy.

He stood, held his hand out to her. She stared at his palm for a long moment before
placing hers on top. He drew her up and led her from the bathroom. He guided her down
the hall and into his bedroom.

The last time she’d seen this room, shadows had darkened the corners and pre-dawn
pearly beams had stretched across the tangled bedcovers. Tonight, a soft yellow crescent
of light spilled from the bedside lamp. The dark blue coverlet and white sheets were
turned back in invitation for a tired body. Large pillows promised a haven for a good
night’s sleep.

Sleep
. She swallowed.
What will I see when my eyes close?

The attic staircase slowly lowering. A black-masked man with a knife and the promise
of death reflecting off the blade?

“Don’t leave me,” she blurted breathlessly.
Oh, shit.
She winced, the rash words boomeranging in the room. “I mean, will you stay and talk
to me?”

“Of course.”

She nodded, relief quickly shoving aside embarrassment. Avoiding Gabriel’s gaze, she
sank onto the bed and eased her feet under the covers. The other side of the mattress
dipped as he sprawled on top of the blanket. He reclined against one of the pillows,
his fingers interlocked over his flat stomach.

“Do you want me to turn off the light?” he asked, voice hushed.

“No.” She shook her head. Curling on her side, she rested her cheek on her palm. “I
remember being afraid of the dark when I was a little girl.” A rueful smile ghosted
across her lips. “Mom and Dad used to come in my room and check under the bed and
in the closet before I went to sleep. Dad would make this huge production about propping
a chair under the closet door knob so nothing could sneak out.”

“I snuck a piece of rope from the basement,” Gabriel confessed, settling deeper into
the pillow. “Before I went to bed, I’d tie one end to the knob and wrap the other
around my bedpost.”

“But most closet doors open out, so what was the point?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I was seven. It made sense at the time.”

She chuckled. “I didn’t know you were afraid of the dark.”

“Not something I wanted to broadcast,” he drawled. “Besides, cats took the place of
the bogey man in the closet.”

“Cats?” She laughed.

He nodded, his expression sober…except for the gleam in his blue eyes. “After
Pet Cemetery,
I refused to have anything to do with them.” He glowered at her when she snickered.
“Okay, your turn. What are you afraid of?”

She hesitated. “Clowns,” she confessed and grimaced at his sharp crack of laughter.

“I’ve known you since you were in messy pig tails. You’re making that up.”

“Honest to God.” She lifted her other hand as if taking an oath. “They terrify me.”

“Clowns are funny, harmless,” he objected.

She sniffed. “What about that demented clown in Stephen King’s
It
? And The Joker?” She ticked off the number of demented clowns on her fingers. “John
Wayne Gacy?”

“Technically, Gacy was a psychotic serial killer, not Pogo the clown.”

“Whatever. They’re freaky.” She shivered. “Let’s face it. Stephen King fucked us up.”

He shook his head, coughed, and earned a glare from her. He held up his hands in mock
surrender.

“Your turn again,” she demanded. “What are you afraid of? And remember, I upped the
ante, so you have to at least supply me with equal ammunition. What? Spiders? Heights?
Ladies’ underwear?”

The half-smile curving his mouth disappeared, the light in his eyes faded. Expecting
another mocking scoff, the shift from amusement to solemnity took her aback.