Books by Maggie Shayne (208 page)

He lifted his eyebrows.
 
"He's more than an 'evil phone call guy,' Mary.
 
He's a killer.
 
He's struck before—I can prove it to you, if you'll give me an hour.
 
I brought evidence."
 
He patted the shoulder bag that hung over his worn gray trench coat.
 
"And he'll strike against unless we stop him.
 
But he's
not
going to get you."

She thought he was finished.
 
He sounded reasonable, convincing and fairly sane.
 
He also sounded like a man who only wanted to watch over and protect her.
 
Which meant he was too good to be true.

Then he sent her a knowing smile and added, "how you choose to think me, on the other hand is entirely up to you."

Michael was not the person who'd been harassing her.

She told herself that over and over again.
 
She refused to think 'He's not the killer" because she didn't want to believe there
was
a killer.
 
Just a nutcase with an obsession.

Michael was not easily dissuaded, and she found herself absurdly, perhaps stupidly, glad of that.
 
She wanted to see just what "evidence" he was carrying in tat flat brown leather case.

She drove though the city with the wipers beating out a steady pulse and the rain cascading over the windshield, until she came to the turnoff for her apartment building.
 
It had a parking lot in the back.
 
No nice dry garage.
 
No attendant,
 
But it was well it, had a gate with a lock, and only the tenants had keys.
 
She pulled up to the gate, stopped the car and looked into the back seat for her umbrella.

"I'll get it," Michael said.
 
She hated to admit she'd been hoping he would offer.
 
But she got the feeling he already knew that.
 
She handed him the key.
 
He was out of the car before she could offer him the umbrella and back almost as quickly.
 
Frowning at him, she said, "What you decide to take the umbrella after all?"

"It's done."

She looked from him to the gate.
 
In between passes of the wiper blades, she saw the gate standing wide-open, waiting.
 
"That was fast,"
 
She frowned harder.
 
"You barely got wet."

"I... hurried."

"Right."
 
She pulled the car through the gate and noticed that when Michael got out to close it again, he took a bit longer.
 
When he got back into the car, raindrops spatters darkened his coat and glistened in his long hair.
 
Her hand tensed, and she caught herself in the nick of time.
 
She'd been about to reach up and brush the raindrops from her hair—an act that would be too intimate and familiar.
 
It didn't feel too intimate, though.
 
It felt as natural as making love to him would feel.

Oh, God.

He handed her the keys.
 
His hand caressed hers as she took them, and she didn't think it was an accident.

"Thanks."

She drove across the lot into her parking slot, right in front of her ground-floor apartment.
 
It had a tiny concrete patio in front of the door, no more than five by five.
 
She had a huge potted palm sitting on it, a begonia in a hanging basket, a lawn chair, a set of wind chimes and a welcome mat
 
it was sheltered from the rain by the overhanging balcony of the apartment above which was exactly the same size.
 
And it sported an outdoor light.

"You leave these things out?
 
And no one's stolen them?"

She shrugged.
 
"Guess no one's interested in lifting a plant or three-dollar lawn chair."
 
She unlocked the door reached inside to flip on the light and then stood very still, staring in at the mess that had been her neat-as-a-pin apartment.
 
The sofa cushions were on the floor; books from the tiny bookshelves had been strewn about;
 
the lamp was lying on its side.
 
"Oh, hell, not again."

She started to get inside, but Michael's hand on her shoulder stopped her.
 
"Don't.
 
He could still be around."

"If he is, he's going to be one sorry freaking stalker."
 
She reached into the umbrella stand just inside the door, pulled out her trusty baseball bat and stomped inside.
 
"Come on out, you bastard.
 
I've had about all of this I'm going to take."

She was halfway to the kitchenette when she heard Michael say, "It's all right.
 
He's gone."
 
Did he sound slightly amused
 
She glanced back at him.
 
He was taking off his coat now, laying his brown case on the coffee table.

"How do you know?" she asked, watching him.

He tapped his head with his forefinger.

"Oh, right.
 
You're a mind reader."
 
She rolled her eyes.
 
"If you don't mind, I'd just as soon back that up with a mundane look-see."

He smiled at her.
 
She almost dropped the bat.
 
His smile was potent, a killer smile, and it made her go weak in the knees.
 
Damn him.
 
She turned away moving across the living room to the kitchenette, which was only separated by a breakfast bar, but it was enough for someone to crouch behind.

No one was there.
 
But the cupboard doors were all open, every last one of them, and there were dishes and food out that hadn't been out before.
 
She stepped back into the living room and looked at the only door off it, which led to her bedroom.
 
Her hand tightened on the bat.

"Let me," Michael offered.

She nodded.
 
There was no sense pretending to be brave when she was scared half to death.
 
She held the bat toward him.
 
He glanced at it and smiled again, but he didn't take it; just turned the knob and opened her bedroom door, stepped inside, looked around.

Some hero he was; he didn't even turn on the light.
 
She crept in behind him, bat at the ready, flipped on the light switch, scanned the room.

She didn't see anyone.
 
But her top dresser drawer was open, and her lacy delicates had been scattered around the room.
 
He noticed them.
 
She saw him notice them.
 
His gaze lingered on the negligee she'd bought at a lingerie party just to be nice.
 
It was sheer, sheer black, and tiny, and it lay across the bed.
 
As if she'd planned to put it on.

"That wasn't there before."
 
She said it almost defensively.

"I'm glad to know that.
 
I'd have thought you were expecting someone."

"I wasn't.
 
And I wouldn't wear that for anyone, anyway.
 
I mean, for anyone I'm currently seeing, because I'm not.
 
Seeing anyone, I mean..."

"I know."
 
He strode to the closet, opened the door, poked around inside.
 
Then he opened the remaining door, which led to the bathroom, where makeup and brushes were scattered all over the sink and inside it.
 
He even moved the curtain and looked inside the shower.

"No one where," he said.

He hadn't checked under the bed.
 
She bit her lip and wondered how silly she would look if she asked
 
him to.
 
He came back into the bedroom, walked straight to the bed, lifted up the covers and bent low to peer underneath.
 
Then he rose again and smoothed the covers back in place.
 
"Have I missed anything?"

"No."

"Good."
 
He went to the dresser, bent own and began picking up the things on the floor, pacing them back in the drawer.
 
His big hands on her bras and panties made her stomach clench.
 
Her mind whispered things she wouldn't want him overhearing, and her breath came shorter and faster than before.

She went to him and took the items.
 
"Really, um, I'll get it."

"I want to help."

"Then... go start on the other rooms."
 
She'd thought about insisting he let her do it all herself, but she know, somehow, he wouldn't see that as a viable option.
 
But she didn't want him handling her underwear, because she couldn't help but wish she was in them at the time, and that was a ridiculous thing or her to think about a man she had just met.

No matter what he looked like.
 
Or how intense his eyes.

It felt as if she knew him intimately—as if she'd known him forever.

He held her gaze for a long time, until she squirmed.
 
Then, finally, he broke eye contact as if it were an effort, turned and left her alone in the bedroom.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

Michael had to force himself to move slowly.
 
He'd made a big mistake when he'd opened the gate.
 
He'd instinctively darted through the rain, moving at preternatural speeds no human could achieve.
 
He was only glad it had been too dark for her to have observed his movements.
 
She wouldn't have seen more than a streak, a blur of motion.

He put cushions back on the sofa, righted the lamp, began picking up books and glancing at the titles as he replace them on the shelf.
 
She read the classics.
 
Shakespeare, the Brontës, T.S. Eliot.
 
That was in keeping with what he had observed about her.
 
He knew she was intelligent.
 
He believed her to be shy and uncomfortable around people.
 
She barely talked to the customers at the bar where she worked but in a place that dark and that noisy, she didn't need to.
 
When any of them paid her undue attention she would start fidgeting with the cross she wore,
 
sliding it back and forth on its chain.
 
A nervous habit, as if the clientele really were vampires and cross really would ward them off.

God, how frightened would she he if she knew what
he
really was?

She had surprised him, he thought, glancing through the open bedroom door to see that she had finished in there and was moving into the bathroom.
 
When she'd grabbed the bat and challenged the intruder, he'd been surprised and pleased.
 
He liked her even better for that.
 
She'd been petrified, but ready to fight to protect her space.
 
Fear wouldn't make her back down.
 
It was a remarkable quality in a woman who kept to herself the way she did.
 
And he wondered if he'd pegged her wrong.
 
Maybe it wasn't that she was shy.
 
Maybe she simply didn't like people.

She seemed to like him, though—a little too well, maybe, even though she thought it unwise.

He moved into the kitchenette and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, knowing she wouldn't want to eat from anything the intruder had touched.
 
He wasn't as certain about the food.
 
Mary was not wealthy.
 
Working a double shift at the bar to pay for rent and tuition, barely ever sleeping.
 
She was majoring in English, hoped to teach one day.
 
She baby-sat for some for the neighbors to earn extra cash, and when the bar's owner had been looking for someone to come in and clean the place on the weekends, she'd taken that job, as well.
 
Her degree was slow in coming—she was twenty-seven now, and getting closer to the goal.
 
She took only what classes she could afford, one or two at a time, fitting them around her work schedule.
 
She was between spring and summer session right now.

He knew a lot about her.
 
He supposed he should have expected the courage, given the determination and rive she showed in pursuing her education.
 
He hadn't.
 
He'd found it both surprising and endearing.
 
And like everything else about her, arousing as hell.

She came out of the bedroom as he stood with a box of macaroni and cheese mix in his hand.
 
He held it up, brows raised in question.
 
"What about the food?"

She shrugged.
 
"Can't you just mutter over it?
 
Work your mojo?
 
Find out if he messed with it or something?"

"I read people.
 
Not food."

She crossed the room, joining him in the kitchen, and he heard her thinking how much smaller it seemed with him in it, and that she didn't mind it, and then she thought about his hair again.
 
She' been thinking about his hair a lot.
 
It probably wasn't altogether wise for him to keep reading her thoughts, but he didn't want to stop.
 
She pictured herself running her hands through his hair, and then she pictured it spread across her chest as he kissed her breasts.
 
He almost groaned aloud.
 
Then she forced her focus to the food on the counter.

"Lets throw away whatever's open, keep whatever's sealed," she said.

"Let's throw it all away just to be safe."

"I can't afford—"

"I can."

She lowered her head, wrestling with her values, telling herself she couldn't accept money from a man she didn't know.
 
That it was wrong an somehow sleazy.

"Consider it payment for my room and board tonight"

Her head came up fast.
 
"You really can't stay here."

"Sure I can."

"You won't fit on my sofa.
 
You're too tall."

"Not an issue."
 
He scooped the food into the wastebasket, then closed the cupboards.
 
"Let's sit, so I can get rid of the doubts in your mind about me."