Dead Wrong (19 page)

Murderer.

Had the person who'd attacked Catherine vandalized the property
first? He frowned, stepping into the foyer, heat pressing in on every side. No
breeze to cut the oppressive air. No open windows to clear the heavy scent of
cigarette smoke.

Sweat trickled down his temples and rolled into his eyes. He
ignored it, his attention on the creak and groan of the old house, the moan of
settling wood. Life had a different sound, a different feel, and he walked
through a small living room, knowing it was empty. The dining room was empty,
too, a nicked wood table and an old china cabinet the only furniture. No chairs.
No painting. No curtains on the windows. Everything spare and worn.

The floor creaked as he walked back through the foyer and into
what might have once been a family room. The room held a fireplace on one wall,
a hospital bed, a dresser and a chair. A small refrigerator sat on the floor, a
half dozen medicine bottles sitting on top of it. Someone had installed a window
air-conditioning unit, and it hummed softly as Darius checked the closet and a
small bathroom.

Empty.

The kitchen was the same. Nearly gutted with nothing but an old
oven and a chipped sink, it had seen better days. Tools lay on the floor and
paint peeled off the windowsills. Someone had been working hard, but the house
still felt tired and old as if the life had been sucked out of it. Lived in, but
already abandoned.

The front door opened, the floorboards in the hallway creaking.
Footsteps on stairs and someone walking above his head. Not the police. They'd
follow protocol and announce their presence.

He eased up the stairs, slowly, quietly. Whoever was in the
house wasn't being quiet about it. Drawers opened. Something slid across the
floor.

Searching for something?

He followed the sounds, lunging as a figure darted from the
room at the far end of the hall. His bum leg screamed in protest, phantom pain
spearing up from the place where his calf had been, but he didn't hesitate,
didn't let the pain stall his momentum. He slammed the perp against the wall,
his forearm pressed across a soft throat as he looked into a bruised face and
dark blue eyes.

Catherine.

“You're supposed to be at my place,” he said, biting back the
harsh words that were on the tip of his tongue.

“I have to get to the hospital.” Her voice shook, but it was
the only indication of her fear.

“Not at the risk of your life.”

“The person who attacked me would have to be crazy to hang
around.”

“The police were okay with you walking off?” Because,
he
wasn't.

“There are officers all over the road looking for evidence. I
was safe enough,” she hedged.

“You didn't get permission to leave, did you?”

“I was waiting to be interviewed. It was taking too long.”

“You can't do your grandmother any good if you're dead.”

“I'm not, so it's a moot point,” she said, her cheeks heating,
her eyes flashing.

“It doesn't pay to take chances.” He tried to keep the
exasperation out of his voice as he followed her down the stairs.

“I need to get to the hospital.” She grabbed keys from a small
table in the foyer and shoved them in her pocket, her hand shaking.

She put on a good show, but she was terrified.

“You'd better let the police know that you're leaving.”

“They're smart. I'm sure they'll figure it out.” She walked
outside, and he followed, ignoring her dark look. “Thank you for your help,
Mr....?”

“Osborne. Darius.”

“Catherine Miller, but I'm sure you already knew that.”

“I've seen the news stories.”

“Who hasn't?” She smiled, her eyes empty and quiet. “You saved
my life, and I don't take that lightly, but I'm fine now, and I need to get
going.”

So did he. He'd planned every minute of his two-week vacation.
Paint the house. Strip and refinish the hardwood floors. Fix the leaking kitchen
sink. Get the house he'd bought three months ago in order so it seemed more like
a home and less like a place to stay.

But the bruises on Catherine's face, the welts on her neck, the
quick beat of her pulse in the hollow of her throat made him hesitate. “How
about you let me give you a ride to the hospital?”

“I have a car.”

“So do I.”

“What—”

“The police are here.” Darius cut her off as a police cruiser
parked on the cracked and crumbled driveway. A tall dark-haired officer got out.
Darius knew him. Deputy Sheriff Logan Randal. They'd run into each other on a
couple of cases, and Darius had liked the guy.

“Catherine!” Randal called. “You were supposed to stay inside
and wait for me.”

“I told you my grandmother needed to be picked up.”

“I can send an officer for her.”

“And scare her to death? I don't think so.”

Randal sighed and took off his hat, running a hand down his
jaw. “Osborne, you were there when everything went down?”

“I heard Catherine's screams, but I didn't see the perp. No
sign of him here, either.”

“I need to leave.” Catherine sidled past, and Randal grabbed
her arm.

“Whoa! Slow down, Catherine. I can't let you walk away
unescorted. We don't know who attacked you, why he did it or where he is
now.”

“Neither do I, and Eileen is waiting.”

Obviously, they knew each other.

Even more obviously, Catherine didn't care about the connection
or Logan's authority as an officer of the law. She seemed bound and determined
to leave.

“I'll escort her to the hospital.”

“I don't need an escort.”

“Yeah. You do.” Darius followed her down the porch steps and
around the side of the house.

She ignored him, not glancing over her shoulder, not telling
him to leave. Just walking, sunlight pouring over her bright red hair and
casting shadows beneath her eyes.

He could go back to his renovation work, go back to his first
day of vacation and let Logan deal with Catherine and the person who'd attacked
her.

He
could,
but he followed Catherine
to a rickety garage, anyway, because following her was a whole lot better than
going home to his silent house. His boss and friend Ryder Malone had insisted
that four years was too long to go without a vacation. He was probably right,
but vacation without family didn't feel like much of a vacation. All it did was
remind him of what he didn't have.

Catherine hefted the garage door, but he pulled her back before
she could walk into the dank interior.

“Let me check things out, first.”

He expected her to argue, maybe tell him to go home, but she
stepped aside, staring out over the golden-brown fields, silent, stiff and
expressionless.

He had the impression of careful control and deep emotion.

That made him want to poke a little, see what kind of reaction
he could get.

Surprising, because he didn't believe in poking or prodding or
searching for something deeper. He'd tried it before, found what he'd wanted to
find instead of what was there. He wouldn't make that mistake again, but he
would
check the garage and make sure danger
wasn't waiting in the dark corners and deep shadows.

He turned away from Catherine and walked into the musty
garage.

ISBN: 9781459245433

Copyright © 2012 by Susan Sleeman

All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical,
now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

www.Harlequin.com