Keeping Watch: Heart of the Night\Accidental Bodyguard (6 page)

The bomber was
real
worried about what she was revealing in her articles, which, when you got down to it was
nada,
nothing, zilch. Jack the Tripper wasn’t worried about Kate August. Which meant, of course, that he hadn’t sent the package. She knew who had filled a box with red confetti and some kind of explosive and had it delivered to her office.
You want to know how it feels to have a bomb go off in your hands, Ms. August?

The bastard had even put his return address on the package. He had called her a vampire, feeding off the pain of other people, and he had apparently decided to arrange a taste of what it was like to be those other people. She had been lulled into believing his apology. She wondered if she would have been fool enough to have opened the package if he hadn’t apologized Friday night. She would like to think she wouldn’t have been this stupid if she hadn’t had that personal contact.

After all, she was one of the few people who knew about the return address on Jack’s last package, something the police hadn’t made public. So Barrington couldn’t know, of course, that she’d been told. The return address wasn’t supposed to trigger any red flags. He had even asked her Friday night, mockingly,
“Afraid, Ms. August?”
He had wanted her to feel as terrified as she’d accused him of being, and so he’d arranged a demonstration of exactly how that terror felt.

She opened her bottom drawer and took out her purse. She was aware of the confusion of voices around her, but her head was remarkably clear, her mental processes functioning very well, she thought. Considering.

“Excuse me,” she said to whoever was standing over her chair.
Lew,
she realized, looking up. “I have to go now.”

“Relax, Kate. The police will be here in a few minutes. I’ve already called Detective Kahler. They’ll want to talk—”

“I have to go
now,
” she interrupted, insistent. She pulled her arm away from his hand. “I
have
to go. Please, Lew, I really have to go.”

Maybe he could read the building hysteria. Not just fear any longer. Anger. She was so furious she could strangle Thorne Barrington with her bare hands for making her feel this way. Especially when she remembered how she’d daydreamed about him, practically drooled over his damn pictures, for heaven’s sake.

“At least let me drive you home. Kahler can meet us at your apartment. You’re in no condition to drive,” Lew argued. His voice was quiet and reasonable, like someone talking to a child who was afraid of the monsters under her bed.

“I’m
fine,
” she said again, walking past him. She was relieved no one else attempted to stop her. The room was perfectly quiet now, a silence unnatural to its usual frantic atmosphere. With every step she took, pieces of red confetti fell out of her hair, off her shoulders.

When she reached the hallway, away from the watching eyes of the people in the newsroom, she stopped. She shook her head, aware of the resulting shower of metallic bits. She glanced down at them, scattered over the flat charcoal of the commercial carpet. Several caught the light from the ceiling track, glittering like freshly spilled droplets of blood. She picked off a couple that had clung to the damp spots on her dress.

A newsreel picture of Mrs. Kennedy climbing the stairs of the airplane that day in Dallas, still wearing that blood-splattered pink suit flickered into her head. Blood. That’s why he’d made them red. Like the room in the boardinghouse in Austin, she thought, and then she was forced to block the image.

Did he think this was some kind of joke? Even given the fact that she’d entered his home, invaded his damned privacy, did he believe she deserved this? How sick could you get?

Pretty sick, her subconscious jeered. From the mail she’d gotten since she’d started the series, she certainly had cause to know that there were a lot of very sick people out there. Only she had never before believed Thorne Barrington was one of them.

S
HE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN
the gate would be locked. She had pulled up to the curb exactly as she had on Friday night, but today the security system was clearly back in place. She wondered briefly if Barrington had been expecting her.

She opened the car door and stepped out, the heat rising around her from the street and the sidewalk. There had to be a bell or a buzzer, something to let the inhabitants of the house know they had a caller. She found it beside the gate, almost directly above where the dog had been tied Friday night.

As she waited for some response to her jab on the button, she looked over the wide, tree-lined street to watch the construction crew working on the ruined house that stood directly across from the Barrington mansion. It had been the victim of a recent fire, windows charred and the glass blown out. In some places the damage was enough that she could see into the exposed rooms, their walls literally burned away.

Heat waves shimmered off the pavement between the two old mansions, despite the scattered shade of the oaks, and she wondered how the workers could continue to labor in the sweltering heat.

“May I help you?”

Apparently there was no intercom. An old man stood inside the fence, waiting for her response to his question. He was thin and stooped, wearing…what butlers wear, Kate realized with a trace of amusement, despite her anger. Like something out of a thirties movie, those old black-and-white society comedies. He looked like Carole Lombard’s butler.

The sparse white hair was neatly combed, but clearly visible under its sweep was the flesh-colored bandage on his forehead. Elliot, she thought. This was Elliot. And Barrington was right. That big lummox of a puppy would certainly be too much for this fragile old man.

“I’d like to see Judge Barrington, please,” she said, smiling at him. She hid her anger, but it took a great deal of effort. First she had to get in; then she’d tell that bastard exactly what she thought about his sick prank.

“I’m sorry, but Judge Barrington is not receiving guests,” the butler said. He placed a trembling, liver-spotted hand on the crossbar of the gate, as if to steady himself.

It bordered on criminal to send this old man outside into today’s inferno, Kate thought. Why didn’t Barrington answer his own door, or at least hire staff that didn’t appear to be at the point of death? “Are you all right?” she asked. She wondered what she’d do if he fell again. She wouldn’t even be able to get inside to help him.

“Oh, indeed, miss. I’m fine, thank you.”

“Would you please tell the Judge that Kate August is here? I’d like to…thank him. Would you tell him that, please?”

“Of course, but I must warn you, miss, that he doesn’t see visitors. He hasn’t for years.”

“Please,” Kate begged, smiling at him again, “just ask.”

She wondered why she was bothering. Barrington wasn’t going to let her in. Why should he? He had to know how angry she would be. Her only hope was that he might personally want to gloat over the results of what he’d done.

“Do you have a card, Miss August?” the old man asked.

“Of course.” She fumbled in her purse and then handed him her card through the wrought iron bars. His hand trembled so much she was afraid he’d drop it in the transfer, and she knew if he did, he’d never manage to bend over to pick it up. However, he finally grasped it and turned to totter up the walk. She held her breath as he climbed the steps to disappear into the house, shutting the glass-paneled door firmly behind him.

Kate took a breath, letting it out almost in a sigh. She was still angry, but the flight or fight adrenaline that had brought her here was beginning to fade, and she wondered if she’d be able to get up enough steam to say all the things she wanted to express to Thorne Barrington.
If
she got in, and that appeared to be a very big if.

K
ATE
A
UGUST
,
he thought again, looking down at the card Elliot had handed him. She’d come to thank him for dropping the charges, he supposed. At least he thought the old man had said something about thanking him.

He hadn’t listened too carefully after he’d heard her name. He had surprised himself by agreeing to see her, but his responses to being told she was here had surprised him even more. Anticipation. And something else, stirring deep and hot in his body. A feeling that he had almost forgotten.

Despite the situation Friday night, he hadn’t been able to forget her. He had especially liked her voice. Low and husky. A “whiskey-voiced” woman was the old expression. And he had remembered her perfume. Released by her skin’s warmth, its sweetness had invaded the room. As it had later in the car. All the way home, he’d savored the lost pleasure of being surrounded by a woman’s perfume.

When he woke last night, it had not been the familiar nightmares, not those scenes of devastation that the media celebrated, which had pulled him from sleep. Instead, her softness had been under his lips, the familiar fragrance, the smooth texture of her skin tantalizing. His body had responded to the dream. A hard, aching response. It had taken him a long time to go back to sleep, and he had remembered it all this morning. He had lain in bed, remembering the dream. Remembering Kate August. And now she was here again.

I
T WAS PROBABLY
ten minutes before the front door reopened, and Kate watched the old man retrace his slow journey down the walkway. This time he carried a black umbrella, still furled. Kate found herself wishing he’d use it as a walking stick, but he carried it with the crook over his forearm. Her card seemed to have disappeared, but she was gearing herself up for another polite Southern argument if he refused her admittance.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” Elliot said, releasing the latch on the inside of the gate, “especially in this terrible heat.”

Unbelievingly, Kate watched as he pulled the gate inward, inviting her to step inside. Then the butler carefully reclosed the gate and checked the lock. He turned to her with a smile, opening the umbrella to hold over her head.

“I thought that a little shade might be welcome,” he said.

“Thank you. That was very kind of you,” Kate responded, biting the inside of her cheek to prevent a smile.

“My pleasure. Judge Barrington sees so few visitors. I must confess,” he said, “that I was a little surprised when he agreed to see you. Please don’t misunderstand. I was very pleased, of course, but surprised. Since that terrible, terrible explosion, you know.” He paused and glanced at her face.

“I know,” Kate said.

She was trying to slow her pace enough to match his and to stay under the umbrella he carried. Anything else would have been rude, and no matter how angry she might be at Barrington, she could never be unpleasant to this old man. Since the butler was at least two inches shorter than she, Kate was finding it difficult to accommodate his umbrella.

“I worry about him being so alone,” Elliot confessed.

So did I,
Kate thought bitterly,
until he pulled his little stunt today.

“I’m so glad you’ve come, Miss August,” Elliot said, as he opened the door for her, inviting her into the coolness of the dark interior. He carefully closed and refurled the umbrella and then placed it in the stand by the door. “Mr. Thorne is in the parlor. He said you would know the way. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll fix some iced tea. That would go nicely on a day like this, don’t you think?”

Kate’s own training was too strong. She knew all the things she was supposed to say, and she found herself saying them without effort. “Tea would be wonderful, but please don’t go to any trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I’m delighted you’re here. You go right in, Miss August. Mr. Thorne is waiting for you.”

Somehow in the enforced intimacy of the shared umbrella, Barrington had become Mr. Thorne. She had been accepted. By Elliot, at least, who was now going to make them some iced tea.

And then they could have a tea party. Just Thorne Barrington and her. That was okay. She probably would, she thought on reflection, work up quite a thirst telling him exactly what she thought about the way his mind worked. Surprisingly, she found she was dreading this confrontation. She was still angry, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered all the things she’d said to this man. She’d accused him of hiding, and maybe he was, but who had given her the right to judge?

What gave him the right to do what he did today? To make a fool of me in front of everyone. To scare me to death.

She pushed the sliding door open. The room was dim, an artificial twilight, the heavy shades all pulled to keep out the afternoon sun and its heat. It reminded her of her grandmother’s house in Tupelo, always darkened against the oppressive invasion of the summer heat. People had kept cool that way in her grandmother’s day, but here she could hear the air conditioner’s efficient hum in the background. Apparently the darkened parlor was simply another anachronism, clinging to the dead past.

“Ms. August,” Barrington said from across the room. “You asked to see me?”

He was standing. The perfect gentleman. She was a little surprised to see that he was wearing jeans and a dark knit shirt. Somehow she had expected a suit. Because of the butler’s formality, she supposed. But there was no reason, of course, for Thorne Barrington to be formally dressed in his own home.

His shoulders were broader than she’d expected, and his chest filled the cotton shirt, its muscled width tapering to a flat belly and slim hips. She’d seen his physique often enough in the photographs, but as he had last night, he seemed a little larger than life in person. A little overwhelming.

His eyes were very dark, surrounded by that sweep of long lashes. His coal-black hair was longer than in the pictures and maybe touched with gray at the temples. Something new, but what was he now? Thirty-seven? Thirty-eight, she thought. Old enough to be graying. The same strong nose and square chin. The individual features weren’t that remarkable, but taken together—