Out of Control (4 page)

Mikey's toenails skittered on the linoleum, his limp forgotten. Margot lunged for her comb in the bedroom and dragged it through her hair as she peeked through the peephole. Yep. Him. Her heart went ka-thud. She peered out again, studying the sculpted lines of his jaw, that grim but incredibly sexy mouth. The grooves around it were evidence that he knew how to smile. Maybe he only did it in the dark when no one was around. Emotionally blocked, no doubt. Strong, silent types usually proved to be dull, stolid types, in her experience.

She'd told him to get lost. He was too big, too strange, too serious for her. Too curious, too. She couldn't trust him with her bizarre story.

She should be furious. She was going to have to fake it. That took energy, and where the hell was she going to find it, under a rock?

Rat-tat-tat-tat.
Would you listen to that, his exalted Highness was getting impatient. That gave her the boost she needed to yank the door open and glare balefully out at him. “I said no, buddy.”

Davy looked around her porch. “Is this where you found the dog?”

Her fake anger evaporated into nothing. She gulped, and nodded.

“Any other incidents?”

There was a brisk, businesslike tone in his voice, as if he'd flipped a switch and a whole big mechanism was starting to crunch and grind.

“Hey.” She stuck her hand through the door and waved it in front of his face. “Did you hear what I said? Thanks, but no thanks. And how did you find me, anyhow? I'm not listed in the—oh. My. God.”

He held up a big paper bag. Fragrant steam rose from it.

“Enchiladas,” he said. “Tamales. Chile rellenos. Barbecued pork tacos. Chicken in mole sauce. Shrimp in butter and garlic. And…”—he lifted his other hand—“a six-pack of ice cold Dos Equis.”

She clutched the doorjamb. The scent of rich, spicy food almost made her faint. But damn, she should have at least as much pride as her own dog. Mikey never compromised his principles for food.

She swallowed, hard. “Uh…”

Not quite a smile, just a teasing hint of one, changed the landscape of his lean face. “If you blow me off, I'll toss it into the Dumpster while you watch,” he warned. “Just to spite you.”

“That's sick and wrong,” she told him.

“Yeah, sure. I was counting on getting here before you had dinner. I know how I feel about dinner after teaching two classes in a row.”

“Five, actually,” she said.

His eyes widened. “Five? Wow. Intense.”

“Two gyms,” she admitted. “Five classes. Some days I do more. Hush up, Mikey. He's got Mexican. Don't bite him till we get some.”

Mikey rose onto his hind legs and sniffed at the bag. He smelled McCloud's shoes, his ankles, and yipped a shrill order.

“Mikey just invited you in,” Margot said. “He likes shrimp.”

A slow grin spread over his face, activating a bunch of gorgeous smile lines and a startling flash of heated sensuality that sucked the air right out of her lungs. “Mikey's invitation isn't enough. I want yours.”

She forced herself to drag in some air. She was outmaneuvered.

“Oh, come on in, already,” she grumbled.

 

Faris's stomach rolled with anxiety as the door closed behind McCloud. He forced himself to exhale, to think clearly. He had to be patient, to remember how desperate she was, how defenseless and alone. Marcus had ordered him to search her house and tap her phone to monitor who she was in contact with, and so far, the answer had been no one. She'd been all alone in her dilapidated little rented house on Capitol Hill, waiting for him to complete her. Until tonight.

He crept through the darkness to his vantage point, in the middle of the overgrown rhododendron near her kitchen window. He'd hacked out the hollow space in the center and removed the branches that blocked his view two weeks ago. This was not the first time Faris had noticed Davy McCloud. He'd seen the man watching Margaret leave the gym where she taught, his face disfigured by lust.

But Faris couldn't compromise his anonymity by charging into Margaret's house and hacking McCloud into bloody pieces. Marcus would never forgive him if he lost control like that.

Besides, McCloud was well connected in the community. Ex-military, a respected private investigator, ties to the local police, brother in the FBI. Discretion was called for. Faris would organize something special for him. Quiet, untraceable, personal. And very, very painful.

Faris watched through the window with hot eyes. He'd been so hurt when she fled the hotel room without waiting for him.

He'd forgiven her, though. In spite of the trouble she'd caused. The mold Caruso had hidden was the key to Marcus's plan, and stupid Faris had let the one person who could have revealed its location slip away. Marcus had been so angry. Faris still shuddered at the memory.

The situation was delicate now. It had taken a tediously long time to find her, and time had run short. Marcus was impatient. Faris wouldn't let her play him for a fool again. He loved her, but he could be very stern if he had to be. Very cruel. Marcus had taught him how.

He choked up with emotion when he thought of carrying her unconscious body in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder with childlike trust. He'd heard somewhere that if you saved a person's life, you were responsible for that person for as long as she lived.

He'd spared Margaret's life, so it was up to him to shield her from the predators drawn by her exquisite vulnerability. Like sharks to blood.

He could not allow Margaret's attention be distracted from him now. He was herding her into his trap so gradually that when the time came, she would be exhausted. Grateful and relieved to fall into it.

She didn't need work, or money, or other people. She didn't need to drive through dangerous traffic, to be surrounded by dirty-minded men at that graphics firm. She did not need to slave into the night on that computer, straining her beautiful eyes to build a business that had no future anyway. She did not need that worthless, crippled old dog.

He was stripping it away from her, piece by piece. When it was all gone, she would understand. She just had to give herself to him. That was all. He would be her universe, her reason to exist.

The rest was just noise and clutter. She would learn.

M
argot flattened herself against the wall to make room in the narrow corridor as Davy McCloud's big body overwhelmed her space.

He looked into what doubled as her living room and bedroom, his eyes resting on the folded quilt on the floor that currently served as her bed. Her futon had been slashed to ribbons in the break-in, along with her new couch, both bought with the first paycheck of the short-lived job at the graphics firm. His eloquent silence made her twitch.

“Did you just move in?” he asked cautiously.

She grabbed the bag out of his hand and hefted it as she headed for the kitchen. Mmm, nice and heavy. “Seven months ago,” she told him. “My stuff got wrecked in the burglary.”

“Tell me more about that burglary.”

She spun around, and he stopped short to keep from bumping into her. So close, she could smell his shower soap, feel his body heat.

“I appreciate your interest, but I don't want to talk about it,” she said. “Big fat downer. I want some food, and a beer. Do you mind?”

She forced herself to stare back into his eyes, counting the seconds to center herself; one thousand one, one thousand two, but somewhere along the way she got waylaid and stopped counting.

Wow. That subtle downward slant of his eyelids was so sensual. Almost exotic looking. And how could a blond guy have such dark brows and lashes? It just wasn't right. There should be a law.

She'd been floating in a gaga, timeless nowhere for who knew how long when he nodded, finally breaking the spell. “OK. Let's eat first.”

That wasn't the deal she'd proposed, but she was too rattled to argue the point. She laid containers out on the table as McCloud put away the beers. She turned to see why cold white fridge light was still flooding the kitchen, and found him frowning over his shoulder at her.

“There's no food in here,” he said. “Nothing but canned dog food.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Whoops! You've found me out, McCloud. I love dog food. It's fab on Triscuits. Try it. Beer from the bottle OK?”

“Fine. Can I give your dog some pork?”

“Just don't give him anything spicy,” she said.

McCloud crouched down and held out a succulent chunk of pork. Mikey accepted it delicately, his small body quivering with delight.

“Huh,” she said. “So you're hungry after all.” She took a shrimp out of the pan, drained the butter and knelt down to offer it to Mikey.

He turned his head away, the very image of cool disdain.

“Oh, come off it,” she snapped. “You big poser. You love shrimp.”

Mikey held firm. Margot held the shrimp out to McCloud. “Here,” she muttered. “You give it to him. He's not speaking to me.”

McCloud proffered the shrimp. Mikey gulped it down and sneaked a sidelong peek at Margot to see how she was taking it.

Being scorned by her dog in front of Davy McCloud took all the stuffing right out of her. She flopped into a chair.

“He hates me now,” she said miserably. “Ever since the dead dog, when I started leaving him at the pet hotel. He thinks I'm punishing him. He won't eat, just to make me feel bad. He's already too skinny.”

McCloud offered another chunk of pork to Mikey. “He doesn't hate you,” he said gently. “He's just letting you know how he feels. You know he loves you. You're afraid this stalker's going to hurt him?”

She shrugged angrily. “If this weirdness escalates, that's the next logical step any normal sicko maniac would take, right?”

He looked dubious. “Is there such a thing as a normal sicko maniac? And could anything like this be called logical?”

She waved that away. “Don't be cute,” she said wearily. “I've watched way too many horror flicks in my time, and I figure the maniac has probably watched some of the same ones. The only thing that would suck worse than having my own dog hate my guts would be to come home and find Mikey…like that.”

He popped open a beer. “You're doing the right thing by your dog,” he said. “Once you straighten things out, he'll forgive you. For now, you need dinner.” He pressed the bottle into her hand. “So let's eat.”

The food was spectacular. They ate steadily, not bothering with conversation, stuffing empty containers back into the bag until what had originally looked like a ridiculous amount of food was reduced to smears of sauce that they scraped out of the containers with the extra tortillas. Mikey made out like a bandit with the pork and shrimp. Nothing beat pigging out on fat, protein and flavor after a long dry spell.

Margot took a long swallow of beer to wash down the lovely burn of hot pepper in her throat, and sighed. “Delicious. I'm stuffed.”

“Good. Now you can tell me about the break-in. And the dog.”

She tried to think of a way to put him off gently, being as how he'd just been nice enough to feed her an awesome dinner. “Look, if you're trying to drum up business, I told you, I can't afford to—”

“How about you let me worry about that?”

She studied his impassive face, wary of a trap. “There's no such thing as something for nothing,” she said slowly. “You don't know me at all, McCloud. Why do you even care?”

His broad shoulders lifted and dropped. “I can't help it. You made me curious. It's my only vice.”

She giggled nervously. “No sex, drugs or rock 'n roll, then?”

His bland smile made the words sound silly and frivolous to her own ears. What a ditz she must seem. His waiting silence had such a calm, patient quality. He looked like he could wait for hours and not get restless or bored.

She probably revealed more by holding back than she would by spilling her guts. McCloud was the meticulous type that fed every twitch of the eyelid and slip of the tongue into the database in his mind and then, crunchity-crunch, churned out conclusions that she could neither predict nor control. She might as well distract him by throwing him a few random facts. Like chunks of meat to fend off a wolf. She was a piss-poor liar anyhow.

“I told you most of it.” She avoided his eyes. “The rose petals started two weeks days ago. The break-in was six days ago. Three days ago the dead dog showed up. That's how long it's been since I slept.”

“What kind of dog? Did you know it?”

She shook her head. “It was hard to tell, under all that blood. No collar. A big dog. Shepherd mix, maybe.”

He nodded, and gestured for her to go on.

“I found it when I woke up,” she went on. “From the amount of blood, I figure whoever killed it must've done the deed right here on my porch, while I was sleeping. How creepy is that?”

McCloud reached behind himself and took another beer out of the fridge. He popped it open with an effortless twist of his enormous hand and placed it in front of her.

“What, are you trying to get me drunk?” she demanded.

The corners of his mouth twitched. “You need to unwind.”

She rolled her eyes and took a swig. “Bad idea, McCloud. If I unwound, I'd drill myself six feet into the ground. It wouldn't be pretty.”

His dimple flashed. She suddenly wished she could make him grin again. A big, crazy out-of-control grin. She pictured him laughing so hard that he rolled on the floor. Gasping and snorting while she tickled him, maybe. The silly image triggered a funny jolt of longing.

“Go on,” he urged. “How about the break-in?”

She yanked herself back into focus. “I came home from work one night and found the place trashed. Furniture slashed, everything torn off the shelves. Books, dishes, the stuff in the fridge, the cupboards. But the only thing they took was my laptop. And my sketchbooks.”

“Sketchbooks? What was in them?”

She widened her eyes. “Um…sketches?”

Her sarcasm didn't make the slightest dent in his focused calm. “How about jewelry? Money?”

She shook her head. “Don't have any.” Except for the evil snake pendant, of course, but that entailed talking about unspeakable stuff, and the wretched thing hadn't gotten stolen anyway. Worse luck.

“Could they have been looking for something?” he prompted.

His tone was neutral, but her stomach still lurched with guilt. Here it was, the blank wall beyond which she had to start fudging with half-truths. “If they were, I can't imagine what for. I haven't seen anybody lurking. Haven't gotten any love notes. Haven't been asked on any dates. Haven't pissed anybody off…that I know of.” She hoped the quaver in her voice sounded scared, rather than guilty.

He nodded calmly. “Vindictive ex-husbands?”

“Never married,” she said promptly.

“Ex-boyfriends?”

She thought about Craig, and swallowed over a hard, hot lump in her throat. “No one who'd be that mad at me.”

“How about angry women? Involved with any married men lately?”

“Hah. I'm no masochist,” she snapped.

“Blackmailing anyone?” His tone was supremely casual.

“Excuse me?” She jumped up and pointed to the door. “Out!”

Mikey chose that moment to jump up and leaned against McCloud's knee, trembling with the force of his wags. Traitorous little stinker. He was determined to undermine her.

McCloud's fingers tangled gently into Mikey's hair. “I'm just being methodical,” he said. “Don't take it personally.”

Margot sank back into the chair. The urge to tell another human being her troubles—no, not just any human being, but Davy McCloud in particular—was almost overwhelming.

She'd always believed in following her instincts, but this wasn't instinct prodding her. This was fear and exhaustion, tricking her into making what was probably a fatal mistake.

She blew out a tense, explosive breath. “No married men,” she said tightly. “No men at all for a long time.”

“How long?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Actually, it is. In this context of this particular conversation.”

She picked at the label of the beer bottle. “Nine months, almost.”

“Why'd you break up with him?”

Because someone slaughtered him and pinned the blame on me.

She wondered if the truth would shock that inscrutable look off his face. She gave him her flintiest stare and steeled herself to lie.

“He was cheating on me,” she said coldly.

Actually, that was literally true, she reflected. Irrelevant, but true.

He just nodded. “How long have you been in town?”

“Seven months,” she said. “I don't know many people here.”

“Where did you live before?”

“I don't see how that's relevant,” she snapped. “Oh, wait—you're the one who decides what's relevant, right?”

He smiled, but his eyes were watchful. “You said it, not me.”

She took a deep breath. “L.A.,” she lied.

“Do you have any reason to believe that someone from L.A.—”

“No.” She shook her head, too rapidly. “Absolutely not.”

His eyes narrowed. “There's a story behind that.” His tone put the phrase halfway between a statement and a question.

Oh God. If you only knew.
“Not really. Just ancient history.” She smoothed out her face, tried to look calm while screaming panic built. She was out of her league. Wasting the guy's time for no good reason.

“You didn't call the police. Not for the break-in. Not for the dog.”

There was no accusation in his tone. She felt it anyway, and flushed. She shook her head and waited for the other shoe to drop.

Minutes ticked by. Mikey rolled blissfully on his back, legs in the air, tail flopping as McCloud petted him. Her heart started to pound.

The words burst out of her. “Oh, come on, already. Aren't you going to ask me why not?”

His watchful eyes flicked up to hers. “You going to tell me?”

“No,” she said.

“No point in asking, then, right?”

He was unfazed, petting Mikey like nothing was out of the ordinary. “So…that's that?” she faltered. “No further questions?”

He lifted his shoulders in a faint shrug. “I recommend that you call the police. You've got a serious problem. They've got resources that I don't have. In any case, I can't help you unless you tell me what's really going on.” He paused thoughtfully, and added, “Then again, neither could the cops. So whatever. If you want to talk, I'm listening.”

“Believe me,” she said. “You don't want to know.”

“Oh, but I do.”

The laser brightness of his eyes made her mind go blank. “You'd be sorry,” she heard herself say.

“Probably. I never said it was smart. Like I said, curiosity is my vice. It's a lot more compelling than drugs or rock 'n roll.”