No One Left to Tell (20 page)

She couldn't see Celia's face, but she pictured her brow furrowed with eyes rolled toward the ceiling, accompanied by a heavy sigh. Her twelve-year-old daughter was an admitted drama queen who still had a crush on her father. Yolanda understood completely. Even after two years of courtship and fourteen years of marriage, she still carried a torch for her husband.

"Dad's still not home? So what else is new," Yolanda muttered under her breath as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. Raising her voice once again, she answered, "No, honey. You've got school tomorrow. Your father will understand."

Walking over to her daughter, she gently raised the headphones from her ears, then cradled Celia's warm cheeks in her hands. Lowering her lips to the young girl's forehead, she kissed her, saying, "Time for bed,
cosa fina."

Leaning back, Celia turned and smiled. Between them, the nickname of "fine thing" in Spanish was just as good as saying—

"Love you, too, Mom."

Turning off the TV by remote, Celia walked toward the stairs. With a devilish grin, she turned and pointed upstairs, silently gesturing for Yolanda's cooperation. It took her only a moment to understand what her daughter wanted.

"You better be done with your teeth, Junior," she called her final warning upstairs.

With a silent chuckle, Celia raised the okay sign and stepped loudly up the flight of steps. A second later, a rumble down the hallway and running water in the sink told them both that Tony Junior was up to his old tricks. But tonight, she and her daughter had won the game. The twinkle would be in Celia's beautiful eyes.

Kids would be kids, she mused with a shake of her head. But then, what was her excuse?

Before she followed her daughter upstairs, she did her routine walk through the house. She'd lock the doors and turn off the lights with one last check of the thermostat. The laughter of her children kept a smile on her face. As usual, she left the front porch light on and a lamp near the front door so Tony would know he was loved—and missed.

But as she dimmed the light in the living room, a motion caught her attention. She'd seen something through the drapery sheers. Yolanda pulled aside the front window curtain and squinted into the night, blocking the dim lighting behind her with cupped hands to shield her eyes.

Again, to the left, near the street. A shadow darted for cover in the hedges of their property.
Their property!
She gasped. Backlit by a streetlamp, the movement had been abrupt.

On many occasions, the neighbor's cat yowled in the night, an eerie cry. Or the animal rooted around in the garbage, dropping a trash can lid to the ground from time to time. Her heart leapt every time. Over the years, she realized her mind sometimes played tricks whenever Tony wasn't home. Her first reaction was to chastise herself for being foolish, but tonight was different.

Quickly making the sign of the cross, she closed her eyes and prayed she'd been mistaken. But her only answer was the ugly truth. A red laser pierced the night and cut through the blackness like a knife. A hideous Cyclops with a bloody red eye glared directly at her, finding her peeking through the window.

Damn it all!
This was no cat.

Racing to the phone near the kitchen counter, she grabbed the receiver to her ear. With trembling fingers, she punched the buttons, dialing 911. All she heard was her quickening breaths. She tried again. Nothing. No dial tone.

The phone was dead.

Her hand tightened on her gun as Raven stepped through her house. With every room she entered, her arms rigidly extended in a two-fisted grip, aiming the weapon into every corner in search of the intruder. Between rooms, she held her Glock with bent elbows as she made her way to the next room. She left the kitchen for last. A glimpse down the hallway revealed the source of the cold air. In the kitchen, the side door off her carport was flung open.

Still, it could be a trap.

The man might be clever enough to open the door, hoping she'd let her guard down. And the outside light was out, no doubt disabled on purpose. As she entered the room, her eyes peered anywhere someone might hide. So far, she was alone.

But more evidence of the intruder was plain to see. Her stovetop had been wrecked, spotted with sauce as if the pot had boiled over. Yet it was obvious what had happened. The man had made a contribution to her recipe.

A framed photo of her father in uniform poked out from the bubbling sauce. It'd been ripped from the wall and thrown into the saucepot, splattering a mess across her white stove. Maybe it had only been a diversion.
Stay alert, Mackenzie!

Raven shifted her gaze to the opened doorway. She aimed her weapon into the void. For all she knew, the man stood just outside in the shadows. She wouldn't be able to see his silhouette.

"You'd better be long gone, you son of a bitch!" her voice was stern, so contrary to how she felt.

She slid out the door into the night. On the cement of the carport, her damp feet ached with the cold. In an instant, winter's chill seized her. She gasped, sucking icy air down her throat. Then a vapor steam billowed from her lungs.
Keep moving!

In the distance, she heard a droning sound from a television. Her neighbor's house. The sights and sounds of her childhood suburb filled her senses. Even after someone had broken into her home, the rest of the world went on in blissful ignorance.

Damn it!
Slowly, she let her guard down.

But just as she lowered her gun, a noise came from the front of her house. Her body tensed again. The sound had been faint. A scuff of a shoe? Racing around the corner, she brushed past an evergreen. Bounding up the step, she reeled her shoulders, trying to aim her gun. But her arms struck something immovable—the dark shape of a man.

A loud pop. Shattered glass.

Cold as she was, pain shot through her joints when the man grabbed her in a viselike grip. He pulled her off the ground. She felt his warm breath against her neck. With elbows pinned to her chest, all she could do was flail her legs, kicking at her attacker.

She shrieked, not from fright, but from anger and frustration. A low, guttural sound. Writhing and twisting, she felt blood rush to her face. Her heels jabbed at the man's legs, striking without mercy. If she hurt him badly enough, he'd drop her. Only a matter of time before she found the sweet spot. With his grunt, she ramped up her assault.

"Damn it! Let me go, you bastard!"

The man had his hand on the barrel of her gun, trying to wrench it free.

"Hey, hey, stop it! Ow!" he protested. "Is this how you greet all your guests?"

Raven stopped.
Ob, my God!
She knew that voice. The man's hand pried the weapon from her grasp— only after she
let
him win.

"Christian? I thought—" She didn't bother to finish. Her heartbeat still hammered her eardrums.

He loosened his grip and stepped aside, setting her near the step to the front porch. "Be careful. I dropped the wine bottle. Glass is everywhere." Looking down at the robe and her feet, he asked, "Are you barefoot?"

Ignoring his question, she turned toward him. "Someone broke into my house."

A fleeting and cynical notion took hold, her cop instincts hard to deny. What if Christian had been the one in her house, then conveniently pretended to have just arrived? Her brow furrowed as she gave the idea shape, staring at him in the dark. Yet even with his face in shadow, she heard the concern in his voice.

"Are you okay? He didn't hurt you, did he?" After brushing back her damp hair, he reached for her shoulders. "You're wet. You must be freezing."

God, how she wanted to believe in Christian. Being right about him meant her trust barometer was fully functional. But even now, she heard Tony's voice in her head, reminding her how dangerous this man was. Raven loved being a cop, but at times, she hated how it'd changed her over the years. Had she grown so jaded that she couldn't trust her own heart?

Before she delved deeper into that thought, he handed her the gun, then scooped her up in his arms, lifting her without effort. Stepping around the corner, he carried her through the kitchen door and slammed it shut with an elbow. With all his fussing, she felt ridiculous. But as she relaxed into his shoulder, smelling his subtle cologne mixed with the leather of his jacket, everything felt right. She'd been on her own for so long, it felt good to be taken care of for a change.

"Bedroom?" he asked.

Still stunned by his bold gesture, all she could do was point down the hall, eyes wide. Then her damned cop brain took charge.

"Christian. Please, I'm fine. You don't have to—"

Before she finished her objection, he'd yanked back the covers of her bed and set her down. She began to thaw the instant he pulled the quilt to her chin, more a reaction to him than the fine insulating capabilities of her comforter. But as he stared down at her, his confident expression melted like the chill from her skin.

Suddenly realizing where he was, he stood abruptly, then shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. Christian's sudden uneasiness surprised her. She fought back a smile. Before now, "cute" was not a word she would've ever associated with Christian Delacorte. But damned if he didn't have the word stamped across his forehead.
In blaze orange!

He made her feel safe again. It felt good not to be alone. And by the way he avoided her gaze, she knew he felt awkward with the unexpected intimacy.
So, you're human after all, Delacorte!

"I'm gonna look through the rest of the house, if you don't mind, make sure we're alone." He narrowed his eyes. "Can I make you some hot tea? Or something?"

"Please. The teapot is on the stove," she called down the hall after he'd slipped out. The cop in her added, "And be careful what you touch. I'm gonna call for a team to dust for prints."

Raven couldn't just sit, like some grand queen bee. Sliding from bed, she tightened her robe around her waist and gave the sash a tug. She picked up the phone from her nightstand and called the station house. A long shot, but maybe the bastard had left some fingerprints. Raven ended the call, knowing a team would be arriving soon. She had to get dressed.

"I'm just gonna rinse off, get the soap out of my hair," she called to him. The idea of a cold-water rinse gave her a shiver, but the message on the mirror had to be preserved. More steam would cover it up. Maybe a blast of ice water to her scalp would jump-start her brain.

Stepping back into the bath, she found Christian staring at her mirror, his jaw tense. He'd started his search of her house where the whole thing began.

"So this wasn't a random break-in. The bastard killed Mickey." He stared at Raven, trying to make a point. "And he tossed a photograph into your dinner plans. Any connection? The man in the photo was a cop in uniform."

"You're observant. A photograph of my father."

She crossed her arms, amazed how he'd noticed so much in his short walk through the kitchen. A wet strand of hair fell across her face. With a finger, she tucked it behind an ear.

"If this wealthy bachelor gig doesn't work out, maybe I can find an opening for you in law enforcement."

"Not exactly my thing, but thanks." With his green eyes fixed on her, he pressed, "Now answer my question."

"Not sure I can. Just give me use of my bathroom and fix me that hot tea you promised. It'll give me time to think." She led him by the arm and switched places in the cramped quarters.

Christian's stoic expression returned, as if she'd just given him the brush-off. But to his credit, he didn't interrogate her any longer. He turned toward the kitchen. A tinge of guilt gnawed at her, for what she'd thought about his intentions. Before he was out of eyesight, she called to him, peeking around the bathroom door.

"Christian?"

He looked over his shoulder, the concern for her safety still in his eyes. God, she hoped she wasn't imagining it.

"Thanks, for everything. I'm glad you're here." And she meant every word.

A faint light from her bedroom painted his handsome face with warmth. His expression softened. A lazy curve to his lips broadened into a seductive grin.

And time stopped.
Oh, that smile! Downright lethal.

His eyes locked on to hers in knowing silence. Suddenly, she became aware just how naked she was beneath her robe. She clutched the collar of her garment and inched farther behind the door. Her cheeks flushed with need. Maybe he wouldn't notice.

In an awkward gesture, she cleared her throat to ward off the emotion. He seemed to read her mind. Without a word, his smile faded, and he quietly resumed his trek down the hall.

Just like that, the moment came and went between them. Slowly, she closed the door behind her, struggling with a grin of her own.

His smile. Just like she remembered.
Damn it!
She wanted to be right about him.

Pulling into his driveway, Tony knew Yolie would not be pleased with his late hour. He'd missed dinner and tucking the kids in bed. Admittedly, Celia and Junior would be mortified if their friends knew they were still getting tucked in for the night. But this was a family ritual that Tony wanted to keep sacred for as long as possible. A parent didn't get these years back.

As usual, his front porch light was on, as well as the living room lamp. Yolie always told him it represented her burning love for him. He liked that idea, very much.

His shoulders ached with tension from the long day, but the warm welcome home lifted his spirits. Parking the vehicle in the drive near the front of their house, he turned off the ignition and flung open the car door. The Latino radio station abruptly came to an end. Stepping out of the car, he fumbled with his key ring, looking for the one for the front door. Slipping from his grip, the keys hit the ground with a clink. His eyes followed the sound, then he stooped to pick them up.

In that instant, a shadow eclipsed the streetlight, casting its length along the driveway. He looked up, half expecting his Yolie to be standing there, something she did on occasion. But a darkened silhouette stood before him. A man.