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“How so?”
His gaze slowly lifted, locked with hers. “She takes in strays. That kitten she has? Etta probably hasn’t had her checked for rabies.”
Knowing he was talking about more than just the kitten had Regan’s stomach burning like acid. “One look at Anthracite and you can tell she’s okay.”
He moved to her bedroom door, glanced in before looking back at her. “What about you, Regan Ford?”
“I don’t have rabies.”
His gaze traveled down, all the way to her bare feet, then back up again. “You do look good on the surface.”
His intimate scrutiny seared Regan like a blast, an almost palpable force that made her knees weak. God, she had to get away from him.
Clenching her fingers on the knob, she jerked the door open wider. “It’s late, McCall, and I want to go to bed.”
He stepped to her, curled a finger under her chin and nudged it up. “That an invitation?” he murmured.
“For you to leave.” She slapped his hand away while her pulse thrummed. He was all but standing on top of her. Close enough that she could smell him. No cologne, just soap—something that brought the woods to mind one moment and dark, intimate nights the next.
She didn’t want to feel. It was safer that way, easier; if she hadn’t been numb over the past year she couldn’t have survived. Two men were dead because of her. Their murders were an internal wound she didn’t dare touch because it was still bleeding. She wanted to keep the bleak ice inside her frozen.
She took a step back from the man whose hot gaze threatened to crack that ice. “Since you’re apparently Etta’s self-designated watchdog, you might want to stick your nose in an aspect of her life where she is at risk.”
“That would be?”
“Her health. She baked tonight, meaning she spent a lot of time on her feet, which is exactly what she shouldn’t be doing. She broke a bone, she has to keep her weight off her foot as much as possible or complications could set in.”
His eyes were now crimped with concern. “What sort of complications?”
“Are you aware she’s a diabetic?”
“Yeah. Has been since I’ve known her.”
“A diabetic’s immune system isn’t top-notch. That means slower healing. Possible infections.” Regan paused when she heard the emotion begin to break through her voice. She owed everything to the woman who’d given her a job, a place to live. To hide. “I try to get Etta to follow the doctor’s orders, but she’s stubborn.”
His gaze narrowed on her face and Regan could swear she felt it penetrate through her. “You sound like you know a lot about medicine.”
She clenched her fingers tighter on the knife. “I’m just repeating what Doc Zink told me.”
“I’ll talk to Etta tomorrow. Try to get her to behave.”
“Good.”
He stepped out on the balcony. Even as he turned back toward the door, Regan shut it and shot the dead bolt into place.
She walked to the kitchenette, laid the knife on the counter and waited. When she heard his footsteps clatter down the outside staircase, a shiver ran through her, like icy fingers slicking her flesh.
He was curious about her, too damn curious. Like any cop, Josh McCall had numerous law enforcement networks available. Her Regan Ford identity could pass a cursory check, but what if he dug deeper? Standing there, she could almost feel the cold steel of handcuffs lock onto her wrists.
Panic clawed at the base of her throat. It would take mere minutes to cram her clothes into her suitcase, grab her running money and drive away from Sundown.
And go where? a voice inside her asked. Drift through a blur of towns and cities as she’d done when she first went on the run, forever looking over her shoulder to see if Creath was there?
Allowing herself a moment of despair, she dropped her head into her hands. Her life might as well have a sign posted: Danger Behind. Danger Ahead. What the hell should she do? Just the thought of taking off again, of giving up the tenuous life she’d begun in Sundown made her feel physically ill.
So, she would stay, at least for a while. Until she had time to think. To work out a plan.
She looked back at the French doors. It hadn’t been just a cop she feared who’d just walked out of them but the man whose warm touch she could still feel against her flesh. She thought her sensuality had died with Steven, but Josh McCall had proven her wrong.
A vivid premonition of disaster swept over her. “Stay away from me, McCall,” she said, her voice a thready whisper. “Just stay away.”
Payne Creath sat alone in the Homicide detail’s dim squad room amid a maze of steel desks the color of dirty putty. The air carried a stale edge of tobacco. If he concentrated, he could hear the raucous sounds of the French Quarter seeping in through the building’s grubby windows. The computer monitor holding his attention flooded his sharp-angled face with an eerie unnatural hue as his agile fingers worked the keyboard.
He possessed an innate ability to hunt. Combined with a fixed persistence, he could locate anything and anyone, no matter how long it took.
He would find her—it was fated.
Susan. She had smooth skin and liquid brown eyes, small breasts and a slender waist. From his first glimpse of her, he had loved the look of her, the sound of her, the scent. She’d been his one magic person. Only her. He had dealt with his rivals. All of them. That she’d run from him, left him, had been a dagger to the heart. As quick as that, love turned to hate. One year later, his wound still oozed blood.
Was she feeling safe, burrowed in her hiding place? Had she fooled herself into thinking he would fail to keep his promise to share his disappointment with her in the worst way imaginable? Would she feel a shiver race beneath that smooth skin if she knew how much the passage of time had honed his resolve to find her?
“Just got us a homicide call. Gonna be a long night.”
Looking up, Creath met the gaze of the short, stocky man who strode into the squad room, cell phone in hand. Creath had no friends on the police force, just acquaintances. His partner was no exception.
He dipped a hand into the plastic bag on his desk, pulled out a peppermint while his mouth formed the polished smile that pulled people in, making them believe anything he said. “What’d we do, cher, snag us a mass murder?”
“Triple. Two male college tourists and a pimp named Lo-Vell. Lots of blood.”
Creath unwrapped the peppermint. “Well, hell, guess we’ll have to put off eating breakfast.”
“Guess so. I’ll get the car, pick you up out front.”
Creath began shutting down the computer, feeling a tic of regret over interrupting the night’s search. She was smart—not once since she’d run had she used her real name, nor did he think she would. Numbers were something else. The passage of time increased the likelihood she would let down her guard. It was easier to slip back into using one’s real date of birth, maybe risk using her actual social security number a time or two. So, he watched. If any cop radioed in a check to the National Crime Information Center computer, or checked an ID or made any other type of documented contact with a female matching her description who used her real date of birth or social security number, his off-line search would turn it up.
His hunt didn’t stop with law enforcement. Using his home computer, he had hacked into the database of hospitals and ambulance services, searching for new hires. She’d have to work. By now, the amount of money she could make in her chosen profession might outweigh the peril of exposure.
And if anyone—from cop to job recruiter—ran her prints, they’d get a hit on the murder warrant.
Then she’d be his.
He would see she paid for rejecting him. For the pain she’d caused him. He would take pleasure in being the ultimate victor in this struggle.
He felt the power rise inside him as the computer clicked off and the monitor’s single eye went black. The image of him locking handcuffs around her delicate wrists crouched darkly in his brain. For him, it would be the ultimate twisting of the knife to escort her to prison, knowing she’d be spending the rest of her life locked in a cell.
Thinking of him.
Chapter 3
Josh woke the following morning with a picture in his head of Regan Ford standing at her French doors, gripping a knife. Not your normal small town response when greeting a visitor.
Of course, he had no clue if the woman who’d looked willing to wield that knife hailed from the country or a big city. No idea of where she’d come from. What, or who was in her past.
No idea yet.
Deciding to get his morning run over with before the heat set in, he pulled on shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves torn out, then snagged a pair of crew socks and his running shoes from the duffel bag he’d yet to unpack. Halfway down the broad oak staircase a rich, heady scent greeted him. Thankful he’d taken time last night to program the coffeemaker, he headed for the kitchen.
The room was big and cluttered and, despite the gleam of snazzy appliances and shiny tiles, homey. Tossing his socks and shoes beside the granite-topped cooking island, he pulled a mug from a cabinet. While pouring coffee, his thoughts returned to Regan. Since he couldn’t shake her, he bowed to the inevitable and took a shot at analyzing what it was about the enigmatic bartender that had her clinging like a burr to his brain.
His mouth formed a cynical arch. Her sexy, slim-as-a-reed build had a lot to do with it. Females with nifty little bodies had always drawn him like…well, a cop to a crime scene.
He toasted a bagel before heading out of the kitchen. Steam billowed from his mug as he walked along the paneled hallway lined with a pictorial history of the McCall family. There’d be new photos soon, he thought. His three sisters had recently married. His oldest brother had reconciled with his wife and they’d renewed their vows. His parents had taken a boatload of pictures during the Valentine’s Day quadruple wedding ceremony.
Josh stepped out onto the front porch, narrowing his eyes against the already intense morning sunlight. With his thoughts centered on the dark-eyed bartender, he was only vaguely aware of the sweet scent of the yellow roses spilling out of the clay pots lining the porch rail.
Regan Ford had more attributes than just a body built to star in his fantasies, he conceded. There was that fox-sharp face, made even more compelling by a frame of thick, midnight-black hair he wouldn’t mind plunging his fingers into. And those auburn-flecked eyes. Watchful. Waiting. Intriguing.
On a physical level, she wasn’t a woman he could easily rid his mind of.
Then there was the challenge she presented. Last night at her apartment she’d been a package full of nerves and hostility. The nerves she tried to hide. She hadn’t bothered with the hostility.
No problem—as a cop he was used to being where he wasn’t wanted. As a man, he savored the prospect of digging through whatever layers made up Regan Ford.
Granted, it was her right not to tell him where she was from. And keep her last name to herself. A woman tending bar was smart to withhold information while engaged in a conversation with a stranger. People had all sorts of reasons for holding back personal information. One being privacy. Another, they had something to hide. Problem was, secrets sometimes held a nefarious edge, causing innocent people to get hurt.
Finishing off his bagel, he strolled to the end of the porch. Etta’s blue two-story house sat bathed in sunlight, its white shutters gleaming.
Like most cops, he believed in being thorough and covering every base. He had learned in both his personal and professional lives never to take anything or anyone at face value. Which was what Etta had done when she hired a stray off the street without checking her out.
A stray who was damn prickly about questions.
He did a mental replay of Regan’s small apartment. There’d been no photographs, letters or other personal items in sight. A lone vase of daisies was the only indication the woman who’d lived there half a year had done anything to transform the apartment into a home. The woman who’d answered the door looking pale as chalk, and gripping a knife. During his years on the force, he’d never met an abused woman who hadn’t been systematically isolated from friends and alienated from family. Was Regan Ford hiding from an abuser?
Josh sipped his coffee. That was just one of many questions his gut told him needed answers, for Etta’s protection. And to satisfy his own curiosity, which he conceded had transformed overnight from idle to intense.
The whispering slap of footsteps against pavement brought his chin up. Turning, he caught movement on the road. Raven-black hair bobbed in a ponytail as Regan, looking wasp slim in a black crop top, gray shorts and running shoes, jogged by at an impressive clip.
“Speak of the devil,” he murmured then dumped the remainder of his coffee onto the lawn. No time like the present to start working on satisfying his curiosity, he decided as he swung back into the house to grab his shoes and socks.
Ten minutes later, he jogged around a curve on the patchy asphalt road and had Regan in his sights. His gaze slid over the black crop top, down a long feline arch of spine to a small, shapely bottom in snug shorts.
One hell of an inspiring view.
Even this early, heat and humidity turned the air thick as syrup, forcing his lungs to work like a bellows. Sweat pooled on his flesh, soaked into his clothes as he focused on his target. She kept her speed steady. Her pace disciplined.
Up to this point he had held back his own speed, letting the muscles he hadn’t taken time to stretch soften and warm. Now he quickened his pace, lengthened his stride as a mindless rhythm orchestrated his movements.
He watched as Regan reached the turnoff for the marina. Traffic on the road had picked up so she had to pause and jog in place while a pickup pulling a boat on a trailer took the turn, grit popping beneath its tires. When she dashed off, she took the fork rimming the lake, heading in the direction of the tavern. He knew from previous runs that Truelove’s was five miles from his family’s house. Ten miles, round trip. If Regan made a habit of jogging from her apartment to Etta’s and back each day, she had to be in great shape.
His gaze slid from her waist down to her trim bottom, then to her tanned, coltish legs. Amazing legs. Yeah, that sexy little body was in primo shape.
After waiting at the turnoff for a break in traffic, he increased his speed. Since Regan gave no indication she was aware of his presence, he figured the heavy traffic muted the sound of his footsteps. By the time he closed in on her, all he could hear was the drum of his own pulse echoing in his ears.
He reached out, touched her elbow. “How’s it going?”
The next instant she rounded on the balls of her feet. Her arm swept up. He saw the Mace canister just in time to lock a hand on her wrist, twist her arm behind her back and turn her into the solid restraint of his body.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear. “You need to work on your friendship skills.”
With her locked against him he felt the outrage—and something more—shoot through her stiffened frame. Then his words must have penetrated and she began to squirm.
“Let go!”
He took a moment to savor the warm, salty smell of woman. Another to acknowledge that the tightening in his gut was raw and purely sexual. Then he dropped the arm he’d locked around her waist, but kept his hand clenched on her wrist. She instantly whirled to face him while trying to jerk from his hold.
“Let me go.” Her voice sounded far away. Hollow.
He pried the cylinder from her grasp, then gave her a long, speculative look. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. “Do you Mace every jogger you meet?”
Regan’s heart slammed against her rib cage; she took choppy breaths, trying to control the adrenaline rushing through her system. “You snuck up on me. Put your hand on me. What the hell did you expect?”
“A friendly hello?”
Cars whizzed past while she glared up at him. The hand gripping her wrist was hard and strong. Like his face, his voice. “Just…let…go.”
“If I do, you going to try to Mace me again?”
She clenched her jaw. “That would be hard to do, since you’re holding the canister.”
“Good point.” He released his hold, studying her with those dark eyes that seemed to see everything at once. “I didn’t sneak up on you. Not intentionally.” He used his forearm to swipe sweat off his brow. “The traffic’s heavy—the sound of it must have kept you from hearing me come up from behind.”
“Right. Okay.” Panting, she walked in small circles to keep her muscles from locking up. “I…overreacted.”
“You’re prepared, I’ll give you that.” He held out the canister. “For a tiny thing, you pack a punch.”
Cursing herself inwardly, she grabbed the Mace from his hand and shoved it into her pocket. She’d barely heard his voice over the sound of traffic and her pounding pulse. Had known only that it was male, that the fingers on her elbow were rock hard and filled with strength. The mix of paranoia and fear that shot through her mind told her it was Creath who’d come up behind her.
The man staring at her with open curiosity was almost as bad.
For the first time, she allowed herself to take a good look at him. He looked sweaty and incredibly sexy in tattered gray shorts that revealed long, firmly muscled tanned legs. His white T-shirt was wrinkled, ragged and sleeveless. Shoulders, she thought. The man had amazing shoulders.
And, dear Lord, when she’d been locked against him his body had felt like solid muscle. When she realized it was McCall, not Creath, who controlled her struggles, fear had rocketed into searing need. It was as if her body had been starved for a man’s hardness, the hunger buried beneath her grief. And now the feel of McCall’s body had unleashed that hunger.
Her heart hammered painfully against her breastbone as she shoved an unsteady hand at the damp tendrils escaping her ponytail. “Well, see you around, McCall.”
He stepped into her path. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
