Killer Focus (12 page)

Her hands shook as she plugged the kettle in. The distress was irrational,
but they had taken the box.

Whoever had stolen the computer must have watched her from Letty's house and had seen her store disks in the box. Maybe they hadn't wanted the information. Maybe they had just taken the box because it was attractive, or they had decided it might have contained programs they could sell. But the fact that the information she'd hidden had been targeted had shaken her.

She heard Fischer's truck pull up at the curb. Setting the mugs down on the counter, she walked through to unlock the front door.

Fischer's expression was calm. “Have you touched anything?”

“Not in the sunroom. As soon as I saw the computer was gone, I backed out of the room.”

“Have you rung Muir?”

“He's on his way.”

Fischer stepped into the hall. “You've checked the house?”

“It's clear.”

“I'll take a look anyway.”

Walking through to the kitchen, Taylor ignored the boiled water, found the coffee in the pantry and spooned it into the filter. They were going to need coffee, and a lot of it. Once Muir and his evidence techs arrived, the investigative process would take at least one, maybe two hours. She would be lucky to get out of town before nightfall.

I
t was dark by the time Muir and his people wrapped up the investigation. The interviews had been brief, because Taylor didn't have anything more to tell them than that her computer and a box of disks had been stolen. The fact that her television and DVD player hadn't been taken had been noted and seemed to support the theory that Taylor had arrived back home and disturbed the thief. When he had realized she was back, he had cut and run.

The theory was plausible and chilling, because the thief could have been in the house while she was taking a shower. The only problem with Muir's scenario was that neither Fischer nor Taylor could recall seeing a vehicle parked close to her place. There had been odd cars dotted through the neighborhood as they'd driven in, but nothing of any size, and definitely no vans or trucks.

Muir hadn't been put off. At this point they were assuming the robbery had been perpetrated by the same guy who had robbed Letty's house and killed her. He had spent time in Letty's house, scoping out Taylor's place, therefore he must have had a vehicle parked somewhere. It was even possible he was a resident in this part of town and locals were used to seeing his vehicle.

The evidence techs left first, followed a few minutes later by Muir. After collecting the coffee mugs, Taylor rinsed them in the sink, then stacked them in the dishwasher. As she loaded the carafe she noticed one of Buster's dishes in the rack and comprehension hit. She hadn't seen Buster since she had gotten home. She had been so absorbed with the events at the shooting range, then the break-in, that she had completely forgotten about him.

“What's wrong?”

“Buster.” When Steve frowned, she added, “Letty's cat.” Although, he was her cat now and already she had lost him.

“I've got a flashlight in the truck. I'll take a look out back.”

Grabbing her own flashlight from the pantry, Taylor walked down the back passage, stepped out the door and began calling. To her left, thick trees pressed in on the narrow, grassed space. To her right, Letty's house was bone white and elegant in the moonlight. The thought that Buster, who had probably been scared by the thief, was hiding somewhere on Letty's property sent a shiver down her spine, although she didn't think that was likely. She didn't know much about animals, but she was willing to bet Buster wouldn't go near the house, which to his acute senses must still be laden with the scent of death.

She crouched low, sending the flashlight beam skimming at ground level, picking out the woody stems of the hydrangeas and rhododendrons against the boundary fence. Eyes gleamed. Something small and fast flitted sideways and streaked up the side of a tree trunk. Another squirrel.

Following the squirrel with the beam of the flashlight, she searched the branches of a spreading oak. She'd assumed, because Buster was sturdily built, he preferred to stay at ground level, but if he were frightened enough, he would climb.

The beam of Fischer's flashlight swept the side of the yard that bordered Letty's place. They double-checked the backyard, then either side of the house. While Taylor walked along the street, calling, Fischer did another circuit of the house then checked Letty's backyard. When Taylor came up blank, she searched the house, checking under beds and in closets. Buster was gone, far enough that he hadn't responded to repeated calling. She was packed and ready to go, and she had done all she could to make sure Letty's killer was caught, but she couldn't leave Cold Peak without making sure Buster was safe.

Taylor was setting a dish of tuna and a bowl of water on the deck when Fischer materialized out of the darkness. As she straightened, he pulled her into his arms, the hold loose and meant for comfort, and she learned something more about Fischer. He was definitely comfortable with women.

She tilted her head back and stared into his eyes. “You've been married.”

“Briefly. A long time ago.”

“What happened?”

He released her and stepped back, and she drew in some much-needed air.

“The job.”

It was the answer she had expected. Beneath the surface cool, Fischer had a ruthless streak. She was willing to bet that when it had come to his marriage he hadn't given an inch.

He propped himself against the deck railing and crossed his arms over his chest. “You're staying at my place tonight. Or I sleep here.”

From the point of view of security, Fischer's offer made sense, but for a brief moment she felt herded. “All right. Let's make it your house. I'll take my car and meet you there.” That way Fischer wouldn't find out that she was already packed and ready to leave. In the morning all she would have to do was find Buster, and drive.

 

The weather had closed in again by the time Taylor pulled out of her driveway. Instead of turning left and heading for Fischer's house, she took a right and drove into town. Minutes later, after threading through the complex weave of inner suburbs, and keeping an eye on her rear-vision mirror, she doubled back and parked beside Fischer's truck.

If anyone had been tailing her, the steadily drumming rain and reduced visibility should have forced them in close enough that she would have spotted them.

The rain thickened as she sat in the driver's seat, watching the road to see if anyone cruised past. When the street remained empty, she collected her overnight bag, locked the SUV and walked inside.

Fischer's house was neat, but spartan: stained wood floors, basic furniture, a television and a stereo. The only luxury was the bed in the master bedroom, which was king-size. In terms of stamping his personality on his home, Fischer had succeeded in creating a blank page.

Fischer indicated that she should take the bed.

“You don't have to give up your bed.” She dropped her bag beside the couch to underline her point.

Feeling edgy after the drive around town, her nerves strung tight by the fact that she was forced to spend another night in Cold Peak, she followed Fischer into the kitchen. He had already started to assemble dinner: two steaks ready for the grill, fresh bread rolls he must have bought earlier in the day and a salad. With a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder, he was an odd juxtaposition of domestic and dangerous.

He opened the fridge door. “Beer or soda? Sorry, I don't have wine.”

She blinked, abruptly disoriented. A drink before dinner. It was a civilized ritual, something taken for granted in any number of households, and it hammered home how far she'd stepped away from normality. “Soda. Thanks.”

He took a frosted can from the fridge, ripped the tab and poured sparkling lemonade into a glass. While she sipped, she listened to the rain and watched Fischer cook and periodically take a pull from a beer. The label was Jax. The only touch of the South she'd seen so far in his house.

He slid steaks onto warmed plates then rinsed the pan, his movements economical and ordered as if nothing dangerous or unusual had happened that day, and suddenly the reason Fischer had gotten beneath her skin hit her.

He made her feel safe. Not sexually or emotionally, but in every other way that mattered.

In the middle of the chaos that was her life, he was as solid and dependable as the proverbial rock. Nothing appeared to shake him. As hard as she'd fought against trusting anyone, on a primitive, instinctive level she trusted Fischer, and with good reason, because every time she'd called on him, he had come through.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Everything. She was in love with him.

In retrospect it hadn't been a sudden process. She had seen him on a daily basis for weeks and steadily grown into the emotions. The day she had gone jogging and had finally registered Fischer on a sexual level, the attraction had blindsided her. From that point on, she had been gone.

His gaze sharpened. “Something's changed.”

He took the glass of soda from her hands and set it down on the counter. She registered his intent a split second before his head dipped and his mouth settled on hers. The hungry pressure of the kiss sent a raw shudder through her. Fischer had been polite, the perfect host, but she had no illusions that he would play the gentleman when it came to sex. Safe haven or not, he had never made any bones about the fact that he wanted her.

Fischer lifted his mouth, his gaze searching. “I hadn't meant for this to happen. It's your call.”

She hooked her fingers in his shirt and pulled him close. “Don't give me time to think.” If she had time she would say no, because doing this was crazy. She had to leave, and sleeping with Fischer was going to make walking away even more difficult.

He stepped in close, crowding her against the counter. “What made you change your mind?”

“Don't ask.” She cupped his face and kissed him back, imprinting the scent and taste of him, the hard warmth of muscle. She didn't want to talk, didn't want to examine—not when she would lose him tomorrow.

Long, drugging minutes later, his hands, settled at her waist, swept upward, peeling her limp T-Shirt from her arms. Cold air raised goose bumps. A split second later his mouth fastened over one breast through the fabric of her bra and the stirring ache in her belly sharpened.

Rain pounded on the windows, the cold from outside at odds with the heat flushing her skin. She felt the release as her jeans were unfastened, Fischer's hands working her jeans and panties down, the rush of cool air against her skin. His hands closed on her bottom and she wound her arms around his neck as he lifted her onto the counter. Seconds later, he shoved deep.

Shock reverberated as she registered the drag of the condom. She hadn't seen him sheathe himself and she hadn't given a thought to protection, but Fischer had; he must have had the condom in his jeans pocket.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he continued to thrust. The hot, stirring ache started again and her belly clenched. She lifted her head, Fischer's eyes locked with hers and sultry heat exploded in the room.

For long seconds she simply hung on, her head buried against his shoulder while she adjusted to the feel of him.

A small shiver went through her as he finally withdrew and carried her through to the bedroom. Rain pounded on the windows, filling the room with a damp chill, as he set her on her feet, unhooked her bra, discarded it then peeled out of his clothes.

She pulled back the bedcovers and slid between the sheets. Lamplight slid over his broad, tanned back as he smoothed on another condom, then joined her in bed, the heat of his body burning away the chill.

She wound her arms around his neck and settled against him. “What about dinner?”

His gaze locked with hers and heat swept through her again.

“Later.”

 

When she woke, it was still raining and the wind was gusting powerfully enough to make the windows shake. Light from the sitting room filtered down the hall, dimly illuminating the room, although she didn't need light to know that Fischer—
Steve
—was awake.

Her palm slid over his chest, enjoying the feel of hard muscle and damp skin. His hand closed over hers. Her eyes flipped open and she logged the fact that he was watching her.

“So what made you notice me? Up until a few days ago I was the invisible man.”

She smothered a yawn. With light gleaming off broad shoulders, a five-o'clock shadow roughening his jaw, she wondered that she had ever not noticed him. “Your truck.”

“If I'd known that I would have taken it to work earlier.”

She propped herself up on one elbow. “You can tell what people are really like by the vehicle they drive. For example, Dane looks great—the tan, the ponytail—but he drives a
hatchback.
”

His expression was bemused. “What's wrong with hatchbacks?”

“They're short. Cut off.”

Fischer wound a finger in her hair and tugged. “Back to the truck.”

She shifted closer, her thigh sliding between his. “If anyone had asked me, I would have had you pegged for a station wagon or an SUV. Something manly but practical.” She ran a finger down his chest. “Instead you had a four-wheel-drive muscle truck with mud spattered on the wheel arches.”

“The mud counted?”

She smothered a yawn. “It meant you went off road.”

“You are kidding.”

“Nope.”

He pulled her close, his fingers sliding through her hair. “You drive an SUV. What does that mean?”

“The SUV doesn't count.”

“Because it goes with the new identity.” His teeth closed over one lobe and a shiver went down her spine.

She let out a breath, the tension in the pit of her stomach growing. “That's right.”

“What if my truck was a cover?”

She slid a hand beneath the sheet, found his penis and gently squeezed. “Trust me, it isn't.”