Love Bites (13 page)

“Excuse me? Oh.” She winced slightly. “Ohhhh yeah, that could be a problem.”

“Yes. Thankfully, he lives on a remote farm and doesn’t seem to mistake humans for fowl. But he keeps talking about his successful hunt.”

“How old is your grandfather?”

“Seventy-five.”

“Has he been exhibiting signs of senility? Alzheimer’s?”

“No. In the past year, he’s gotten a bit more forgetful, but nothing like this. The duck-hunting thing has been coming and going for about a week, and seems to be worse in the late afternoons and evening. He’s fine during the day, and when I ask him about duck hunting then…well, he looks at me like
I’m
crazy.”

“Any other signs of confusion?” she asked.

“No…not really.”

She wondered if it could be sundowning, a symptom that often occurred in people with dementia. “Has he ever had these types of incidents before? Any recent stressors?”

“No and no.”

“Has he been ill?”

“He did say he felt a little warm, but I figured it was just a change in the weather, as they say.”

“Change in the weather, huh? I’m guessing that’s not something I’m going to find in the American medical journal.”

“Na,” he drawled. “Probably not. It’s an old-timer’s term for sinusitis.”

“Okay. Well, there are a few different possibilities, but I wouldn’t be able to say for sure unless he was properly evaluated.”

“Hmm,” he sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of.” The line was silent for a few seconds before he said, “My grandpa isn’t what you would call a fan of shrinks, but I bet I could get him to come in to see a pretty lady for a physical.”

Pretty lady, huh? For all he knew, she was a troll. But she was betting that voice of his was matched by dreamy eyes and a lazy smile. His charm probably worked on every woman he ever came across.

“You can have him stop by the clinic. We can run a standard psych exam, a few memory-skills tests and some basic labs.”

“Labs? What kinda labs?”

“Just a met panel and urinalysis. You can always take him to his primary-care physician, of course.”

“We’ve made an appointment. But to be honest, I drive right by your clinic almost every night and I’ve seen the sign advertising complete confidentiality. I mean, in theory, the results of any doctor’s visit would be confidential, but…” He sighed. “My grandfather’s proud and—well, his standing in the community is an issue. I don’t want word getting around that he’s…ill…if I have no cause to worry.”

Ah, she thought. So the charming voice went with an upper-class background and a need for discretion. Instantly, she felt a part of herself close up. She knew it was happening, but she couldn’t stop it. Her own father, who’d made his money in the dot-com boom, was a perfect example of how the wealthy generally equated fairness with favoritism. With entitlement. As if that hadn’t been enough of an example, the last well-off man she’d dated had been genuinely perplexed when she’d broken things off with him after several dates; it had taken only a few angry comments and some rough handling from him before she’d finally understood why—he couldn’t believe someone
like her
(read humbly middle class) wasn’t genuflecting with gratitude at the chance to date a man
like him
(read arrogantly loaded).

Please. As if being rich and well-connected outweighed that the guy had sweaty palms, bad breath and left her completely cold.

When he’d put his hands on her, she’d taught him just how truly uninterested she was. He’d been walking funny when he left. Needless to say, she hadn’t been moved to break her bout of celibacy with or since him.

Abruptly aware that she hadn’t responded to the officer’s last statements, she reassured him, “You’re certainly right, you know. Everything you say to me, and anything your grandfather might say to me, is confidential.”

“Thank you.”

His obvious gratitude seemed so genuine, she relaxed. She jotted down a few notes next to the incoming phone number on her sheet of paper.

Duck hunting = shot mailboxes. Wants discretion. Social standing. Grandson caring and HOT….

She stared at the last word she’d written and shook her head. She’d circled “hot” several times. What was wrong with her? Throwing down her pen, she spoke more crisply.

“So…what do you mean by increasing forgetfulness? And is your grandfather being supervised? Have you locked up his gun?”

“Mailboxes aside, he’s not dangerous. But yes, I have confiscated his shotgun. And he’s forgetful in the way many of us can be, although he’s never been so in the past. Misplaces his keys. Walks into his room and forgets why.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Yes. He has ever since my grandmother died three years ago. But he has a full-time assistant, and I try to stop by as often as I can.”

“So, what do you say? Will you consider bringing him into the clinic for an evaluation?”

“Would you be the one to evaluate him?”

She sensed more than concern and curiosity in his tone. She sensed…hope? Anticipation?

“Our medical techs would run the labs. As for the psych evaluation itself, I wouldn’t necessarily—”

“Because that’s what I’d want. I’d certainly be grateful to you, ma’am, if you can make time for him.”

To a “Yankee” like her, being called ma’am would normally have been an insult, given she wasn’t quite yet thirty, but the way this man said it…

“Why do you want
me
to see him?”

“I’m a good judge of character, and I feel like I can trust you with him. With this situation. Can you see him later today?”

Since it was just after ten p.m., later today would mean early in the morning. When she’d be sleeping. Then again, he’d said his grandfather’s psychosis had only presented itself later in the
day. “I’m afraid after working two shifts, I won’t be back until tomorrow night, but the staff here is—”

“What time does your next shift start?”

She hesitated then said, “Nine p.m. tomorrow.”

“That should be perfect. How about I see you tomorrow, Molly? When I introduce you to my granddaddy.”

She was suddenly anxious for the opportunity to meet him. To see if his face and body matched his voice. To see if he really cared for his grandfather as much as he seemed to. “If you’re sure you don’t want to bring him in earlier,” she said slowly, “that’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure. Thanks for talking to me, Molly. Sweet dreams.”

Sweet dreams? With that voice running in her head, they would be sweet indeed. But first she had to finish the rest of her shift.

It was almost two hours later when Nick, Molly’s replacement, finally showed up. By then, she was running on exhaust and anxious to get home. After gathering her things, including Gator’s round cage, she walked into the main clinic lobby and passed by the guard’s station, frowning when she saw he was gone, likely making his rounds. Danny was a quiet young man who appreciated the brownies she sometimes baked for him and the rest of the staff at the clinic. It had been awkward when he’d asked her out last month, but he’d taken her gentle refusal in stride and things had gotten back to normal after he’d started dating a girl he’d met at church. She’d been hoping Danny would walk her to her car, as he usually did on late evenings, but who knew how long he’d be gone. And though there were a handful of employees working graveyard throughout the building, Molly certainly didn’t want to bug them. Even so, despite being bone-deep tired, with the lure of a soft bed calling to her, the thought of walking outside alone unnerved her.

She’d been a victim of a carjacking a few years ago when her grandparents had still lived in Los Angeles. The guy, a man named Luther Jones, had knocked her around. After she’d testified at his trial, he’d yelled that he was going to hunt her down as soon as he got out of prison. It had taken years for her to start to feel safe again, but self-defense classes had helped. She’d felt secure enough that she’d even started dating again—until Elliott Rich-and-Stuck-on-Himself had proven once again that some men didn’t know how to control themselves. Despite growing up with a father who’d smacked her mother around, logically she knew all men weren’t violent. Still, she was beginning to believe that, when it came to dating, at least, it was better to be safe than sorry.

She walked to the outer door and peeked out.

Her car was about halfway down the near-empty parking lot, not more than two hundred feet away. She took out her keys and held them between her fingers the way she’d been taught in self-defense class. Then she stepped out, Gator’s cage in hand.

She walked quickly.

“My little friend,” Gator chirped suddenly.

“Yes,
say hello
to my little friend,” Molly said with a smile. Gator and her grandfather had loved watching the same type of shoot-’em-up action movies that her grandfather had once acted in and directed. Gator could quote Arnold, Clint and Bruce. With Al, Gator had never managed to say the entire line from
Scarface
, but Molly hadn't given up hope yet.

Her steps slowed slightly as she relaxed. “You were such a good bird today, Gator. Maybe I can convince Jenny to let me bring you—”

She was almost to her car when a voice sounded from just behind her.

“Mawwwwwlleeeeeeeee,” it singsonged.

Involuntarily, she screamed and dropped Gator’s cage, which tipped over on its side. Dimly, she heard Gator’s piercing shrieks as the cage rolled away. She jerked around and caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. Instinctively, she tried to turn, but it was too late. The hooded figure was almost on top of her.

Strong fingers dug into her arms.

Under the dim parking-lot lights, most of what she saw was black. Black clothes. Black ski mask over her attacker’s face. But she also saw two tiny patches of white where his eyes shone through the mask’s eyeholes. Terror seized her, but then her previous self-defense training clicked in. “You bastard! Let go of me!”

He jerked her closer. “Shut up!” he muttered, the strong odor on his breath escaping from the mouth hole in his mask. For a second, the distinct scent made her freeze, but then she continued to struggle.

“You damn—” But his words choked off when she kicked out, catching him in the groin. She’d hoped his grip would loosen, but it tightened instead. She fought to wrestle away, but a second later she felt a stunning blow to the side of her head.

Through her dizziness, she lunged forward, trying to bite the man’s neck or chest, anything she could reach, but he grabbed a hank of her hair, yanked her head back and punched her in the face. Her body slumped and she almost blacked out. Dimly, she was aware of Gator shrieking and her feet dragging against the asphalt as the man hauled her away from her car.

Suddenly, light blazed directly in her face, blinding her. She heard the heavy, panicked breaths of her attacker just before he cursed and shoved her forward. She fell face first toward the ground, scraping her palms where she caught herself, but her torso and head hit with painful thuds anyway.

She heard the pounding of running feet. A deep, masculine voice just over her head shouting for backup to apprehend a fleeing suspect while he checked on a victim. Then gentle hands touched her shoulder.

“Shhh. You’re okay, darlin’. He’s gone.”

When she whimpered and flinched back from the hands touching her, they retreated. A victim, he'd called her, when she'd never wanted to be a victim again.

She lay there for a few seconds, the newcomer crouched down next to her, his hands deliberately hanging between his knees where she could see them, as if he wanted her to know he wasn’t a threat. Her eyes wandered upward until she could take in his dark blue police uniform. In the background, blue lights flashed, and she registered it was from his patrol car.

“Are you okay?”

Groaning, she forced herself to move and slowly brought her knees under her. It was harder than she would have expected. She raised a shaky hand to her temple, wincing as the raw scrape on her palm met her tender eye and cheek. "Is he gone?"

“Yes, you're safe, ma’am. He was wearing a mask. Did he say anything? Any idea who he was?”

“N-no. I mean, he said my name. Told me to shut up. But he used a weird tone. I didn’t recognize his voice.”

“Okay, so it wasn’t a random attack. He knew who you were. Do you work here?”

She nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Molly— Molly Peterson.”

“Molly, it's me. Officer Wade King. We talked earlier, remember? You’re safe now, don't worry.”

She stared at him. Despite the trauma she’d just suffered, she wasn’t too far gone to notice he was just as gorgeous as she’d imagined. Sandy-blond hair. Brown eyes—dark, deep orbs that reminded her of mink. A firm, square jaw, a full bottom lip and a slightly cleft chin. The first word that popped into her head was
yum
.

But despite all that, it was really his voice she focused on.

That voice. She recognized that voice.

“Molly, I said you’re safe. Did you hear me?”

“Yes, yes. I’m safe. And you’re—you’re hot.”

Bemused, Wade stared at Molly Peterson, who brought a hand to her forehead as if she'd suddenly gotten dizzy. “What I mean is, of course I remember you. You called earlier. About your grandfather and the ducks. I recognize your voice.”

Wade said, “That’s right,” even as he forced his expression to remain impassive.

Molly thought he was “hot,” but Wade didn’t smile for three reasons. First, her face was red where the bastard had hit her, and his adrenaline was still rushing through his veins at the close call she’d suffered. Two, he was keenly aware of the flush of embarrassment that washed across Molly’s face and he didn’t want to contribute to her embarrassment even more. And three, he was too busy trying to regain his equilibrium, not just because of the attack he’d seen, but because of the intense response he was having to the woman in front of him.

Ten minutes ago, he’d been doing his nightly patrol down Broad Street when he’d had the strong urge to swing by the nearby clinic’s parking lot again. Maybe it was because he’d talked to the woman named Molly on the phone earlier and knew she’d be leaving work late, or maybe it was because he’d continued to think about her long after he’d hung up, picturing a sultry brunette with kissable, lickable and caressable, pale skin. Whatever the reason, something had led him here. Only the clinic had been quiet, no signs of trouble anywhere.

He’d moved on to the lot across the street when he’d seen a woman exit the medical-clinic building. He’d stared at her, wondering if the pretty brunette with—yes, it certainly looked like she had smooth, milky skin just waiting to be properly appreciated—could possibly be the Yankee he’d talked with. That woman’s voice had been kind, but at the same time all crisp with sharp edges. It had made him think of a buttoned-up schoolmarm and her ruler and all the fun things she could do with it.

Yet, despite his curiosity and slightly kinky thoughts—or maybe because of them—he hadn’t planned on approaching her. It hadn’t seemed appropriate. Plus he hadn’t wanted to scare her. But then he’d been the one who was scared.

He’d seen the man jump her.

And the only thing he’d been able to think was
I won’t be able to get to her in time
. Unbelievably, he was shaking slightly and he could see that her own calm was starting to disintegrate as shock settled in.

When Molly moved her hand back to her head, Wade's eyes narrowed. “Your head hurt?”

“A little. I must have hit it when I fell….”

He shifted closer and gently ran his fingers along her skull, wincing when he felt a sizable lump near her left temple. But she wasn't bleeding and her eyes looked clear. “How many fingers am I holding up?"

“Three.”

Gently, he helped her to her feet, but kept a supporting arm under her elbow.

A squawk rang out, followed by soft thuds.

“Oh my Lord! Gator!” Molly exclaimed.

Huh? “Excuse me?”

“Gator. My parrot. His cage—”

That’s right. She’d been holding something as she’d walked. From where he’d been, he hadn’t been able to make out what it was, but… Her gaze flickered frantically around her, and Wade started checking behind the nearby cars. Before he got to the third one, he heard more
scrapes and flutters. A second later, he saw the cage with the parrot inside. He took a step toward it, freezing when it screeched, “Bastard!”

He heard a moan behind him and turned.

Molly was there with a hand over her mouth.

He cocked an amused brow.

Unbelievably, when she lowered her hand, she was smiling a chagrined smile. “I called him a bastard. The man who attacked me… Now who knows how long Gator will be saying it.”

“But you’ll be around to hear him say it,” he pointed out softly. “That’s all that matters. Here, let me get the cage for you.” He picked it up and gently righted it.

“Bastard.”
Squawk
. “Bastard.”

He laughed, the parrot’s words managing to relieve some of the tension he was feeling.

“Guess he’s got my number.” He handed her the cage and she shushed the bird, sticking her fingers through the wires so she could gently caress his feathers.

“It’s okay, buddy. You’re okay,” Molly crooned. The bird instantly head-butted her fingers and calmed down.

Wade stared in amazement. “I didn’t know parrots were so affectionate.”

“You’d be surprised. Gator’s got a mouth on him, but he’s definitely a lover, not a fighter.”

“Lucky guy.”

The instant the words popped out of his mouth, the air became supercharged. The spark of awareness that had previously lit her eyes flamed out of control, and he felt an answering warmth spread throughout his body.

He shook his head and tried to concentrate on the fact she still looked slightly pale and traumatized. Then he didn’t even have to try. Her body vibrated with fine tremors and he heard her breath hitching.

“Molly,” he said gently. Taking the cage from her, he set it on the ground then placed his hands on her shoulders to turn her.

“I’m okay,” she breathed out, but her stalwart expression crumpled and a tear leaked out of her eye.

“Oh, baby girl,” he said. “Shhh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Her fingers grasped at his uniform, and suddenly her face was buried in his neck and her body plastered up against his. He hissed at the way his body automatically reacted to her, hardening and preparing for what it thought would be a huge slice of heaven. He tried to shift himself to the side so he didn’t alarm her with his erection, but she simply burrowed deeper into him.

He held her and stroked her hair for several long minutes, until she pulled back. He tried to smile as he swiped her tears away with his thumb.

Need pressed down on him. It wasn’t professional and it wasn’t politically correct, but he wanted to kiss her. They were both shaking, their bodies thrumming with the need to affirm she was whole and healthy in the most basic way possible. His gaze latched on to her mouth and her eyes widened, not in alarm but desire. She licked her lips. Inwardly, he groaned, wanting to chase her little pink tongue with his own. Hell, he didn’t want to just chase it. He wanted to catch it, rub it, devour it. Devour her. Instead, he forced himself to draw back. He was acutely aware of the bruised swelling near her eye. Once again, rage filled him, and he didn’t doubt that if he had her attacker here, he’d be tempted to exercise a little police brutality on him. Of course, he wouldn’t. At least, he hoped he wouldn’t.

“You okay now?” he said, his voice crisper than he intended, because even thinking the words
police brutality
had him shaken. He wasn’t that type of guy. Didn’t have an anger-management problem. But with her, when he remembered watching the man’s fist striking her face… He reined in his spiraling emotions with iron-willed control, knowing he needed to keep things cool and calm, if only for her sake.

It was as if his gaining control gave her the ability to do so, as well. She blinked and her face cleared. She moved away from him, and he frowned at the feeling of loss he experienced. He wasn’t sure why he was having such a strong reaction to her. She was pretty, but he’d dated and bedded much more beautiful women. What was it about this sweet, dark-haired yank that made him want to sweep her up and shelter her away?

His eyes flickered to the office behind her. “We need to have you checked out. You said there's medical staff inside, right?”

She shook her head before wincing and raising her hand to her temple again. “No. I mean, yes, there’s medical staff here, but I’m fine. I—”

Like hell she was. But he could tell immediately she was going to be stubborn about this. “We need to take photographs of your injuries,” he pointed out. “For the report.”

“Report?”

“Crime report. Incident report. About the attack.”

“Oh.” She sighed and looked at him pleadingly. “I’m so tired. I really, really just want to go home. I’ve worked almost twenty-four hours straight. Can’t we just—I don’t know—can’t I come in and have pictures taken tomorrow? Talk to you then? The bruises from where he hit me will be more visible by then anyway.”

He hesitated, but then shook his head. “I'm sorry, but I can’t let you go without getting checked out first.”

She sighed. “Okay. But I’ll have to bring Gator with me.”

“Of course,” he said, and picked up the parrot cage.

Twenty minutes later, after conducting an exam and taking pictures, a doctor reassured them that she’d be fine. He did, however, recommend her getting a ride home.

Wade nodded. “I can give you a lift.”

“No, that’s okay,” Molly rushed out. “I’ve already called my friend Nina.”

Nina, Wade thought. The name coupled with their location probably wasn’t coincidence. “Would you be talking about Nina Whitaker, by any chance?”

“Yes. You know her?”

He nodded. “Nina interned here several months back.”

Molly’s lips pressed together. “That’s right. Shall I tell her you said hello?” Though the question was polite, he thought he saw a spark of jealousy in her gaze. Wishful thinking?

“Sure,” he said. “But before she gets here, I’d like to ask you a couple more questions. You up for that?”

She sighed, her exhaustion magnified by the swelling and bruises on her face, but she gamely nodded. “Ask away.”

“You told me he said your name. Do you know anyone who might want to hurt you? Ex-boyfriends? Anyone bothering you at work or the gym?”

“No. Well, I was dating someone a while back who didn’t like it when I broke up with him.”

Amazing how much it bothered him that she’d been dating someone. Anyone. Amazing how satisfied it made him feel that she’d broken it off. “How long ago?” He pulled out his pen and notepad.

“Six weeks.”

“What do you mean, he didn’t like it? Did he get violent?”

“He grabbed me pretty roughly. But he didn’t hit me.”

His jaw clenched. “What’s his name?”

To his surprise, she looked away, her expression turning stony. “I’d rather not say. He isn’t the type of person to wear a ski mask and jump me in a dark parking lot, and I don’t want to be accused of causing problems for him.”

“No one’s above the law, Molly.”

She turned back to him. “I know that, but you talked about your grandfather’s delicate social position, and this person has his own status to worry about. I have to live here, and I don’t want to make accusations and cause problems unnecessarily. I told you, it’s not him.”

He stared at her. When it came to ruling out a violent suspect, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about social positioning. But she’d been through a lot and this wasn’t the last conversation he planned on having with her. “We’ll get back to him later. Now, how about anyone else?” he asked, with his pen poised above his notepad.

“I was carjacked in L.A. a few years ago. I testified at the guy’s trial and he wasn’t really happy with me. Made a few threats. But he should still be in prison.”

Dear Lord, he thought, trying to visualize her being held at gunpoint. She must have been terrified. He jotted down notes. “What’s his name?”

“Luther Jones.”

“How about at work? You get a lot of phone calls from strangers, but you told me your real first name. Do you give it to your callers?”

“When someone asks, yes.”

“So the man who attacked you could have been anyone who called?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. Someone unhappy with what I said.”

“Or maybe even someone happy,” he pointed out.

Her face screwed up with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a great bedside manner, even on the phone. Could be someone took a liking to you and wanted to make the connection more personal than professional.”

“That would be a strange way of asking me out.”

"It’s certainly not the way I’d go about it.”

Her eyes widened and she flushed. But it wasn’t just embarrassment he saw on her face. He saw interest there, too. The same interest he felt coursing through him, demanding he find out if her lips were as soft and lush as they looked. But now wasn’t the time….

“Sorry,” he said. “I'm getting ahead of myself.” He gave her a hint of a smile before wiping his expression clean. “So any weird calls that indicate someone has a personal interest in you?”

“I can’t remember anything specific. I even take notes, and I would have kept them if I was concerned, so… No, absolutely not.”

“You sound sure,” he said.

“Oh, I’m certain.”

His brows raised. “Nothing a little out of the ordinary?”

“People have called asking if we remove bugs that the government implants in citizens’ brains,” she said dryly. “There's plenty out of the ordinary with my job.”

“I guess that’s true. I should know, with my grandfather hunting imaginary ducks.”

She smiled slightly—a sweet, humorous, gentle smile—and he forced himself to put his pen and paper away.

Okay, he’d satisfied himself that she was going to be okay and she had a reliable ride home. His backup had radioed in, and unfortunately, Molly’s attacker had gotten away. He really needed to get back on patrol. But first… He reached into his front uniform pocket, pulled out his card and scribbled on the back of it. “Here’s my card with my personal cell phone number. You call me if you need anything.”

She glanced at the card and bit her lip. “The number. It’s the same.”

“Excuse me?”

“When you called me earlier. About your grandfather. You used your cell phone.”

The right side of his mouth tipped up. “That’s right. Very observant.”

“I try to be. And I’m normally really good with voices. The guy who attacked me, he was disguising his voice, otherwise I might be able to give you a better lead.”

“It’s okay. But if you remember anything else—”

“Sambuca,” she exclaimed. “His breath, it smelled like sambuca!”

“Isn't that an Italian liqueur?”

“Yes! My grandparents loved it. They used it in their coffee instead of sweetener. They called it
caffè corretto
.” She smiled at the memory, her expression bittersweet. “Corrected coffee.”

“They’re gone now?” he asked gently.

“Yes. Gator belonged to them.”

He nodded. “So, sambuca. Right. That’s a unique detail. I’ve never actually tasted it before.”