Hot Pursuit (8 page)

This time Jack knocked on the door hard. “Taylor, are you okay? It's Jack. I need to talk with you.”

He heard a brushing sound that might have been bare feet, and then the door opened. She'd been crying—face pale, eyes puffy.

“Sorry to bother you.”

She rubbed her cheek awkwardly with one sleeve. “No problem.”

“You okay?”

She rubbed a bare foot against her calf and didn't meet his eyes. “Why wouldn't I be?”

She was wearing old navy sweatpants and a blue T-shirt just tight enough to show the smooth curve of her breasts. Puffy eyes or not, she had the kind of glow that didn't come from rouge or any of the things that most women felt they needed to be beautiful.

Jack wanted to pull her into his arms. He realized suddenly that he wanted to make love to her for seven or eight hours, until all the pain left her face. In fact, the urge was so strong it shocked him.

“You're sure that you're okay?”

Taylor looked down at her locked fingers. “Of course.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Did she think he was a
complete
fool? He propped one hand against the wall. “In that case, I need to borrow some sugar.”

She blinked. “Sugar?”

He held out an empty measuring cup. “That's right. I'm all out.”

Taylor's mouth curved in the hint of a smile. “Is this one of your less inventive lines, Mr. Broussard?”

“Call me Jack. And it's no line. Scout's honor.”

“Somehow I can't picture you as a Boy Scout.”

“Now that's downright cruel. At last count, I had forty-three merit badges.” He smiled lazily. “You want to hear the oath?”

“Forget the oath. Come on, I'll get you some sugar.” She gave a shaky laugh. “It's the least I can do after—well, everything.” She turned, wiping her face surreptitiously. “Ignore my raccoon eyes.”

“Your eyes look fine.” He waited until she looked at him. “And you don't owe me anything, Taylor. Let's get that straight.” There was an edge to his voice that surprised him

After a long time she nodded. “Okay. I don't owe you.” She motioned him inside, opened a drawer, and began filling his cup with sugar. “Tell me why you didn't take credit for saving those people.”

Jack shrugged. “Doing the thing is what counts—not talking about it afterward.”

“Most men I know would be getting drunk right now—and bragging at the top of their lungs.”

Jack didn't answer.

“Damn it, you're so calm, so controlled. Who
are
you?”

“Just a friend.”

She bent over suddenly, her body tense. “Give me a minute here.”

Jack saw her shiver. “Take all the time you need. It's normal to feel shaky after a thing like this.”

Sugar spilled, dusting the counter. “I'll be fine. I can take the heat.” Her hand trembled and sugar drifted down onto the wooden floor.

Very gently Jack pulled the cup out of her hand and turned her around to face him. “No one said you couldn't. But sometimes it's better if you don't have to take the heat alone.”

She didn't move. “I
never
do this.”

“Spill sugar?”

“No, fall apart. Cry at shadows. I can't stop seeing the body bag.” She took a jerky breath. “The blood at the back of the store.”

Blood wasn't something you forgot easily, Jack thought.

“Doesn't it bother you?” Her eyes were dark, like North Sea breakers he'd seen churning near the big oil rigs in a winter squall. They weren't beautiful, but they were unforgettable.

“Yeah, it bothers me. I shot a man a few hours ago, and his face is the last thing I'll see tonight. Probably the first thing I'll see when I wake up. Right now, all I want to do is go home, strip, and wash until I start feeling clean again.” His voice was harsh, and he shook his head. “Yes, it bothers me. But letting him kill an innocent man or woman would bother me a hell of a lot more.” He stared at the sugar scattered over the counter. “Tonight, that old clerk is going home to his family. He's going to kiss his wife and hug his grandkids and be glad to be alive. That's good enough for me, Taylor. It should be good enough for you, too.”

“It should be.” She closed her eyes. “I'm having some trouble with this.” She pressed her hands flat against the sugar-covered counter. “My apartment feels too quiet. I can still feel his hands on my throat when he shoved me down that corridor. I expect to turn around and see him here, waiting for me.”

“You want me to look in the other room?”

She stared at him as if checking to see if this was a bad attempt at humor, but Jack's face was serious.

“No, I know he's not here. At least the logical part of my mind knows.”

“Look, I'd be happy to walk through with you.”

Shuddering, she put one hand out to steady herself. Somehow her hand found its way to his chest. It seemed an eternity that she stared at him, then slowly pulled away. “I'm sorry,” she said softly. “You're being very nice.”

“No need to be sorry. Lean away.”

She pulled away slowly. “I'm not a leaner.”

Jack had already figured out that much about her. From her file he knew Taylor O'Toole valued her independence, even if it occasionally got her into trouble. “Everybody leans sometime.”

“I can't imagine you leaning.” Her eyes roamed his face. “Your cheek's cut.”

“It's nothing.”

Taylor swallowed. “Nothing? I saw the store. I heard the shots.” Her voice fell. “I've seen it in my mind dozens of times. I've written the scene without blinking an eye. But I've never . . . lived it. I—I owe you a lot.”

He started to protest, but she cut him off. “
I do.
We both know that. At the time it was a blur, but now things are clearing. I can hear his voice and feel him twitch behind me. He smelled like old beer and garlic.” She ran a hand through her hair, trembling. “I don't think I can ever smell garlic again without remembering.”

“Maybe not now, but you'll forget. That's the way we're made.” Jack had a hard time staying still, keeping his distance. He reminded himself that this was a mission and she was his assignment.

It almost worked.

“I hope you're right.” Her hand shook. “Oh, no. I think I'm going to—”

She clutched her stomach, and Jack turned her gently, bracing her head over the sink, supporting her shoulders with one arm. He went on holding her that way while she retched violently.

Chapter Eight

FROM TAYLOR'S BOOK OF RULES:
Tomorrow is usually too late.

Jack's hands tightened. “Go on and let it out.”

“Sick,” she rasped, between hacking breaths.

“Only normal.” Jack steadied her with one hand at her shoulders while she spilled out her guts.

When the spasms finally stopped, her legs simply gave way, and he caught her, bracing her against his chest. “Deep breaths. Come on now.”

Taylor shuddered. “Why do I keep seeing him? Seeing the blood?”

“It's called being alive. You see it until it starts making some kind of sense.”

“There isn't any sense. It was violence—random and brutal.”

That kind was the worst, Jack knew. You wondered if you could have done anything different to change the outcome. The answer was usually no.

He brushed a hand over her hair. “I'm sorry it happened, Taylor. I'm sorry you're hurting.”

“I don't want to remember.”

He didn't bother lying, telling her she'd forget. The hard truth was that she wouldn't. The violence would always be with her, every time she went into a crowded store or looked down a dark street.

“So what do I do?”

Instead of empty promises, he focused on practical advice. “Take a deep breath.”

“I can't. It makes me dizzy.”

“Do it anyway.”

He felt her body shift. She dragged in air and her breasts brushed his chest. He ignored the instant swell of heat stirred by that brief touch.

“Any better?”

“Some,” she said weakly. “I'll probably be fine in a minute. You can let me go. I'm sure you've got places to go, people to see. Women to seduce.”

He smiled at her. “I'm in no particular rush.”

“I didn't mean—about that last part. About the women.” She cleared her throat. “Who you seduce is none of my business.”

He kept a straight face. “Damned right.”

“I mean, I hardly know you.”

“Not much,” he agreed.

“Two strangers.” She took a breath. “They met over lasagna.” She made a watery sound that might have been a step toward a laugh. “Of course, right now one of them looks like an anemic raccoon. Clothes torn. Hair a wreck. Tossing her cookies. How much would it take for you to forget this ever happened?”

Jack frowned and thought about pulling her closer. Darker images came to mind as he brushed his hand lightly over her cheek.

“What's to forget?” He eased away, suddenly aware of grave temptation. “Your body's simply reacting to the shock, trying to force it out of your system.”

She looked up, frowning. “So this is a good thing, being gut-wrenchingly sick in front of a complete stranger who happens to be sexy as hell?”

“Absolutely.” His brow rose. “Sexy as hell?”

She flushed. “Definitely hot. So how did you get to be so smart, Mr. Jack Broussard?”

Once again she caught him by surprise. Since the urge to pull her close was greater than ever, he did exactly the opposite, stepping back, forcing a mental distance. But their eyes held, framing silent questions, measuring subtle possibilities. Strangers—but not quite strangers.

She wouldn't hide her emotions, not this woman. She'd bite him one minute and screw his brains out the next. She'd be absolutely unforgettable, in bed and out of it.

And any man would be lucky to have her for even one night.

Bed?

Jack gave himself a mental shake.

“Now that you're done being sick, I should get moving.” He reached for his cup. “Thanks for the sugar.”

Watching her reaction was fascinating. He could see her take a breath, compose herself, working hard at control. “I dropped most of it.” Her cheeks were still flushed, and her voice was husky.

Not that Jack was about to read anything into her reaction. Being touched by violence shook people up and made them react unpredictably. He wouldn't take advantage of that vulnerability—especially not with a mission in progress. Besides, he liked soft, easygoing women who didn't argue so much. Getting involved with Taylor O'Toole would be like getting tossed naked from a chopper with no parachute.

“Hey, don't let me keep you from your work. Studs and planks.” She carefully brushed the spilled sugar into the garbage. Only when that was done did she turn, and by then her face was neutral. “I guess I should thank you for the counseling session. But who the heck are you? Don't tell me you're a simple, ordinary carpenter or I might throw up again.”

“I'm a great carpenter,” Jack protested.

“You may be, but it's not who you are—or what you really do. Are you an undercover cop? CIA?”

Hell. These were the questions he'd hoped to avoid. “I'm not a Fed.”

“A cop?”

He shook his head. “I'm a P.I., okay? As it happens, Harris Rains' wife is putting together a file as part of her divorce proceedings. She hired me to fill in some of the details.”

She stopped brushing the sugar. “You appeared today because you were following Rains?”

“Afraid so. But that's got to remain absolutely confidential or it will blow my case.”

“He deserves to lose his shirt. The man gives protozoa a bad name.”

“What makes you say that?”

She started to answer, then shrugged. “Let's just say I have my reasons.”

So she wasn't going to tell him about the climbing bolt that pulled free or the funeral wreath she'd received in a box. Clearly, trust didn't come easy to Taylor O'Toole. He wondered briefly what had hurt her, making her lose her trust. “Want to share those reasons?”

“Not particularly. So what kind of investigation work do you handle?”

“The usual mix. Runaways, shoplifting rings, cheating spouses. Amazing, but there are just as many women to follow as men these days. It appears that infidelity has become an equal opportunity vice. I also have an occasional adoption case.”

Taylor looked down, one hand tensed on the counter. “I don't understand. Why would someone dump a baby, then want to know what happened ten years later?”

“Lives change. People change their minds.”

“Maybe.” She crossed her arms, staring at a bar of sunlight that fell on a corner of her desk. “Not that I know anything about the subject.”

Neither of them moved. The apartment was very quiet, and Jack was uncomfortably aware of her T-shirt hugging the curves of what were clearly very nice breasts.

Not that he was ranking them.

Not that he'd even meant to look closely.

Hell.

“Uh, I'd better—”

“Well, maybe you should—”

They spoke at the same moment, then stopped, suddenly awkward. Jack started for the door, sugar in hand. Outside in the hall, the elevator chimed. Slippers crossed the tile floor, and Taylor's doorbell rang in three quick bursts.

“Taylor, is that you? Are you all right?”

“That's Mrs. Pulaski, my oldest neighbor.” Taylor ran a hand through her hair. “Her husband died last year and she worries about people.” She moved past Jack to the door. Once again, he had the sense she was reining in deep emotions, constructing a layer of composure she didn't really feel.

When Taylor opened the door, a tiny woman with snapping eyes and ramrod-straight posture was pacing outside. She was dressed in a black exercise leotard and what, to Jack's uneducated eye, looked like about twelve layers of parrot feathers at her neck. She immediately gripped Taylor in a tight hug. “You must be frightened to death.”

“I'm fine, Bella. Just a little shaky.”

“I saw it on the news. I was so worried about you.” She studied Taylor anxiously. “Maybe you should go take a nice long bath. I've got a bottle of vodka in case you'd like to get drunk.” She smiled at Jack. “Maybe your friend wants to join you.”

Taylor smiled wanly. “I doubt that alcohol would agree with me right now.”

“Sick, were you? Maybe tomorrow, then.” Taylor's neighbor glanced up at Jack, her eyes narrowed. “I don't believe I've met your friend.”

“This is Mr. Broussard. He was there, too.”

Bella Pulaski shook Jack's hand, her grip surprisingly hard. “Are you the one that shot Taylor's kidnapper?”

Jack nodded.

“What do you carry?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“For firepower. I favor a Smith and Wesson myself, but my late husband always swore by his Beretta. I keep telling Taylor she should get a gun for safety, with her being a young, pretty woman. Single, you know, out at night doing research in all kinds of seedy places. This city's not what it used to be,” she said pensively. “Well, young man, I hope they give you a medal.”

“No need for that, ma'am. I only did what anyone would do.”

The elderly woman snorted. “Most men would have run in the opposite direction. No guts, not like my Ben.” She continued to study Jack. “Are you in the military? I can usually spot the carriage since my grandson just finished at Camp Pendleton. A jarhead,” she added proudly.

“A what?” Taylor asked.

“Marine. A true credit to his family,” Bella said crisply. “Are you in the Marines, Mr. Broussard?”

“I'm not a Marine, ma'am.”
No lie there.

“Too bad. Taylor could use someone to keep her safe. Can you imagine being pushed from a window by that lunatic? Oh, dear, she's looking white again. I think she's about to—”

As Mrs. Pulaski spoke, Taylor spun around and disappeared into the bathroom.

Bella shook her head. “She's a writer, you know. Creative—doesn't sleep well. I hear her at night, pacing the floor. My apartment's one floor down. Not that I listen,” she added quickly.

“Of course not.”

She leaned toward Jack, her voice low. “Taylor doesn't see many men. Mainly she works. Wonderful stories with great characters, but no time for herself. Oh, she goes climbing on occasion—and look what happens. The last time she went on a date, she complained for a week. And there's no one special,” she added helpfully. “None of them stay overnight.”

As Taylor went on making sounds of distress in the bathroom, Bella sized up Jack slowly. “It's about time she had a real man in her life.” She gave him another sharp look. “Navy?”

Jack sidestepped the question. “I think she's about done in there.”

“She shouldn't be alone right now.”

“No, she shouldn't,” Jack agreed. “But I'd have to work to convince her of that.”

Just then Taylor appeared, her face whiter than ever. “Are you two talking about me?”

“I thought Mr. Broussard should know the lay of the land.”

Taylor ran a hand across her face. “I think he knows the lay of the land better than we ever will. He has that kind of face.”

“Exactly what I thought.” The tiny woman frowned at Jack. “Air Force?”

“Not a chance,” Jack said with complete candor. He held out a crumpled tissue to Taylor. “I'd love to stay and talk, but I think Taylor needs some rest. She should go to bed before another bout starts.”

“You think there'll be more?” Taylor asked weakly.

“It's a definite possibility.” He nodded politely at Bella Pulaski. “Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on her.”

“I'll hold you to that.” The tiny woman left in a flurry of quivering feathers.

Taylor was still pale when Jack closed the door, but her voice was firm. “I'll be fine. You really don't need to stick around.”

“No trouble. Where's your bedroom?”

She crossed her arms. Something stirred between them in the silence. “I'm not sure I want to answer that.”

“Stop glaring at me. This is strictly one neighbor helping another. Let's go.”

“You like giving orders, don't you?”

“Only when they're necessary.” Before she could argue further, he headed down the hall past a sunny room lined with bookshelves and a huge picture of cliffs above a windswept beach. In the last room, soft curtains framed a view of city hills and a soft flash of distant water. Her bed was near the window, buried beneath pillows in a dozen shades of blue.

Jack turned down the comforter. “Hit the sack, O'Toole.”

“More orders?” Taylor sighed and sat down. She took a deep breath and toyed with one of the blue pillows. “This feels extremely . . . odd.”

“Tough.” Jack peeled the comforter all the way back. “Lie down.”

After a moment, Taylor sank backward, the pillow clutched to her chest. “You're a hard man to refuse.”

“So I've heard.” He slid the comforter up around her. “Get some sleep. If you need me, just bang on the wall.”

Taylor was very still beneath the blanket. “You don't have to do all this.”

“True. And you don't have to argue so much.”

“I've always been good at arguing.”