A Whisper in the Dark (13 page)

John was good at being careful.

Not that a woman like Julia Wainwright would have anything to do with some has-been ex-cop . . .

“No, but I can start spending time here at the shop.”

She seemed to consider that, nodded. “I can live with that. For now.”

“Good thing, because you don’t have a choice.” Before she could protest, he set his hand on the underside of her untreated knee. He lifted it for a better angle, bending the knee slightly. The movement caused her skirt to slide up. Only an inch or two, but enough so that every male cell in his body jumped to attention. For several dangerous seconds he couldn’t take his eyes off the silky flesh of her thigh.

Fifteen years ago, the kids had called her “canary legs” because her legs had been so skinny. She’d been like a gangly little bird, tiny and awkward and homely. But there was nothing awkward or homely about the woman sitting so close he could smell the exotic scent of her perfume.

His fingers were large and dark against her skin. At some point she’d removed her stockings, and he was keenly aware of the velvet softness of her skin. The supple strength of the muscle beneath. The warmth emanating from her into him. The electric current of something else he didn’t want to name.

In his mind’s eye he saw his hand slide up her thigh, beneath the hem of her skirt. He imagined his palm sliding over silky flesh, his fingers touching soft, secret places. Sinking into wet heat. He envisioned the way she would look at him, her eyes heavy with desire as she leaned back into the pillows and opened her legs to him, let him inside . . .

The hot rush of blood to his groin stunned him. He went hard. His hand stilled. Her flesh burned his palm, but he withstood the sizzle. A tremor ran the length of his body. Caution and the sharp edge of sexual attraction tugged him in different directions. The power of it shocked him, and for a moment he could do nothing but stare stupidly at his hand wrapped around her leg.

He didn’t want this. Hadn’t asked for it. Goddamn Benjamin Wainwright for dragging him into this. John was in no condition to take on this kind of assignment. He was in no frame of mind to even consider the possibility of a sexual relationship or any other kind of relationship for that matter. He was clinically depressed and plagued with nightmares. Aside from the bottle of gin in his kitchen, guilt was his one and only friend these days.

So what the hell are you doing with your fingers wrapped around her leg?

Shifting to accommodate his erection, John dragged his gaze away from Julia’s thigh. He rushed through the process of bandaging her knee. He didn’t do a very good job of it, but he had to get out of there. She was too close. He was feeling too many things at once. If he wasn’t careful, he might just do something stupid. Like lean close to get a taste of that full mouth. In the back of his mind he wondered what she would taste like. If she would be sweet or spicy. If she would pull away or kiss him back. If she would groan low in her throat and lean close . . .

Finished with the bandage, John slid back and stood abruptly. “Where’s the cot?” he heard himself ask.

She set her feet on the floor and looked at him oddly. “Are you sure you won’t take the sofa?”

“I need to be downstairs.” He nearly snapped the words.

“Oh. Of course.” She rose and started for the door.

He knew better than to watch, but his eyes took on a life of their own and he drank in the sight of her curvy backside beneath that skirt.

“The cot is downstairs in the storage room. I’ll just go down and get—”

“I’ll do it,” he cut in.

“Oh, well . . . sure.”

He barely spared her a glance as he brushed past her and started for the door. But he could feel the blood pooling low. The attraction tugging at him like a choke chain on a dog.

In his frame of mind, the thought of getting involved with a decent woman like Julia scared the hell out of him. He didn’t trust himself. Didn’t know what he was capable of. Some days he felt like a ticking time bomb. It was as if the guilt of taking another man’s life had unleashed something inside him. Something that was ugly and mean and unpredictable.

He heard her say something as he reached for the door and yanked it open. But he didn’t respond. He didn’t turn to her. He didn’t even look her way.

“John,” she said.

He slammed the door in her face. He knew it was rude. But he didn’t care. He didn’t want to be attracted to her. He didn’t want to feel
anything
. For her or anyone else.

He took the steps down to the shop. He could smell the remnants of vanilla candles. But it was the memory of her perfume that titillated him. For a moment he stood in the dark silence of the shop, listening to the traffic on the street. The patter of rain against the window. The hard beat of his own heart.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he muttered.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the keys to his Mustang. At the alley door, he disengaged the locks and stepped into the night. Mist swirled down from a black sky. John raised his face to the sky, hoping the cold rain would clear his head.

Around him the sounds of the French Quarter reverberated through the alley. The bass beat of a drum from the club down the street. Lively conversation drifting on the breeze. He should have been pleased taking on this assignment. It was work. He liked and respected Benjamin Wainwright. He’d known Julia since she was a skinny, knobby-kneed kid. Only she wasn’t a kid anymore and his feelings for her were a hell of a lot more complicated than he wanted them to be.

Muttering beneath his breath, he crossed to the Mustang he’d parked a few yards down and unlocked the door. Bending, he reached into the glove compartment and withdrew the flask. He uncapped the lid, tipped the bottle and took a long pull that burned all the way to his gut.

He’d never developed a taste for alcohol, but then this wasn’t about pleasure. It was about escape. About pain. About punishing himself for fucking up and costing a man his life. It was about two children losing their father. A wife becoming a widow at the age of thirty-two.

Lowering the flask, he slammed the car door. He took another drink as he crossed to the shop. A third as he walked inside, closed the door and locked it behind him. By the time he found the cot in the storage room, the alcohol was beginning to do its job.

Thank God he’d thought to fill the flask before leaving his apartment.

He dragged the cot to the center of the storage room and unfolded it. He glanced at the blanket and pillow Julia had brought down, but he wasn’t going to use them. They smelled like her, and he didn’t want to be reminded of her while he slept, while his guard was down.

John took another drink. He hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch and his head was beginning to spin. But he welcomed oblivion. Anything was better than the hell his mind had become. But there wasn’t enough alcohol in the flask to do the job. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the whole goddamn world to get the knife out of his heart.

He sat down hard on the cot, unlaced his boots and set them aside. Leaning forward, he put his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes and tried to shut down his mind.

But his thoughts refused to give him peace, and for an instant they transported him back to that warehouse. He remembered the ice-pick stab of terror when he’d pulled the trigger. The black cloak of dread that had dropped over him when he’d realized he’d shot a cop. The greasy nausea that rose into his throat when he’d looked down at his hands and seen the other man’s blood on them.

John took another drink. Then another. And another. The flask was almost empty now, but he no longer cared. He lay back on the cot and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think.

He didn’t want to be here. Wasn’t even sure why he’d left Chicago. But deep inside John knew. He was a man about to come apart at the seams. He knew enough about himself to know that when it happened it would be violent.

He thought about the last woman he’d had a relationship with, and the keen blade of shame cut him a little deeper. In retrospect, he knew she was one of the reasons he’d fled.

He and Alison had been together for nearly a year. He’d liked her as a person, cared for her. He’d even entertained the notion of being in love with her. Then one night a few days after the shooting she’d pressed the wrong button and he’d gone off on her. If he hadn’t pulled back, he might have done something he would have spent the rest of his life regretting.

But she wasn’t the only reason he’d left Chicago. John knew that if he’d stayed, the darkness would have swallowed him whole. He knew if he’d had the guts to pick up his gun, he would have taken the easy way out. He knew he would have put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

NINE

“No! God, please,
no
!”

The horror of the nightmare sent him bolt upright. Labored breaths mingled with whimpers of pain and tore harshly from his throat.