No Turning Back (8 page)

I deposited Tigger on my bed, stripped off my shorts and climbed under the sheets. Tigger curled up at my feet and it felt comforting to have him there. But it was more comforting knowing Blane was in my living room. I didn't think I was a wimpy kind of girl, but then again, I'd never before seen anything like what I'd seen tonight.

I shut my eyes tight and tried to think of something else. Picturing Blane covering up with my grandmother's quilt caused my lips to twitch in a smile. Not quite like staying at the Ritz, but he had seemed unaffected by the condition of my apartment, which I appreciated.

I would have sworn that there was no way I was going to be able to sleep after the events of tonight, but that just goes to show you. Your body knows what it needs and I was out within minutes.

Someone was shaking me and I could hear screaming. My eyes flew open and I realized I was the one screaming. Someone was leaning over me, holding my arms. Panicking, I began thrashing, trying to get away. I was drawn towards a male chest as arms wrapped around me, effectively rendering me immobile.

"Kathleen! Wake up!" It was Blane. His voice finally penetrated my terror. "You're okay. It was just a nightmare." I abruptly stopped struggling and sat, shivering, in his arms. He was sitting beside me on the bed, holding me tightly. Now that I was awake, I remembered the dream I'd been having and I felt another tremor move down my spine. Blane rested his chin on the top of my head and his arms loosened slightly, no longer confining, just soothing.

I'd dreamt of Sheila. She'd been begging me for help and I couldn't reach her. Her throat had been cut and blood was going everywhere. I'd tried to stop it with my hands but the thick, warm fluid wouldn't quit spilling from her neck. That's when I had woken. I couldn't speak and couldn't seem to stop shaking either.

Blane moved so his back was against the wall at the head of my bed, pulling me with him so I was curled sideways on his lap, my head resting against his chest. It was rare that I felt petite even though I wasn't very tall, but I felt small and protected in his arms. We sat in silence like that for a while as I tried to get the images from my nightmare out of my head. Eventually, Blane spoke, the baritone of his voice rumbling in his chest.

"My family used to vacation every summer at Lake Winnipesaukee," he said conversationally, as if we were having a friendly dinner instead of me curled on his lap in my bed. "We had a summer home there and every May I couldn't wait until school was out and we could go." He spoke quietly, his hand rubbing lightly up and down my back.

"The days were filled with things young boys love to do. Hiking through the woods, hunting, tracking bears. I still went after my father died, taking my brother with me. We used to take our boat out on the lake. We'd water ski or dive. The water was always cold but we didn't care. The trees were deep green, the sky a brilliant blue and the water ice cold." My trembling began to ease as I listened to his voice, low and soothing in the dark. I could see how a jury could become similarly mesmerized.

"One time we were diving and I wasn't paying enough attention to him. He wandered away. I was frantic, trying to find him in the dark water. Nearly exhausted my air supply." I was completely engrossed in his story now, my nightmare all but forgotten.

"What did you do?" I asked quietly.

"Found him, finally. He was only twelve, maybe thirteen, at the time and since I was older, I was responsible for him. We made it up with moments to spare and then I wanted to kill him for scaring me half to death, though really it was my own fault." In my mind's eye, I could see Blane, an angry and frightened teenager, terrified that he'd nearly lost his little brother. "I didn't lose track of him again after that."

"Where is he now?" I asked.

"He lives here in Indy," Blane answered.

"It must be nice to have family close," I said wistfully, thinking of my parents. The only family I had was an uncle and his son on my dad's side, and I hadn't seen them for years. Didn't even know where they lived anymore.

"It can be," Blane answered enigmatically.

We sat there quietly for a while. I liked the dark. Most people were afraid of the dark but, to me, the dark had always been comforting. You could be yourself, say anything you wanted to say, and trust the night to keep your secrets. What happened in the long, silent hours from dusk until dawn was like a place out of time. That's how it seemed in my darkened bedroom with me on Blane's lap, huddled against his chest while his arms cradled me. I could smell his faint cologne and the warmth of his skin seeped through the layers of cloth separating us.

"When were you in the military?" I asked.

"Six years ago," he answered. Blane had removed his jacket and tie and rolled his sleeves up since I'd left him on the couch. He shifted, and as he did so, his bare forearm brushed my breast. I shivered and tried to ignore the accidental touch.

"Which branch?" I was curious. Being in the military was the last thing I would have associated with Blane. He had always seemed to me to be very much the aristocratic, blue-blood type that would never enter the armed forces. This discovery as well as the personal story he'd told fascinated me.

"I was a Navy SEAL." That shocked me into silence. I felt a new respect for him. My father had drilled into my head that we should always respect and be grateful to the men and women who volunteered for the armed services and I felt that emerge now.

“Surprised?” he asked.

“A little,” I answered after a brief hesitation.

“And why is that?”

I didn’t want to offend him so I chose my words carefully.

“It’s just that not many men like you join the military.”

“And what are ‘men like me?’” he asked dryly. I winced and didn’t answer. He sighed.

“I guess I can’t blame you for thinking that,” he said finally. “My father was furious when I told him I was joining the Navy. But he and I had come to a parting of the ways long before I decided to sign up.”

I was about to ask another question when he sighed tiredly and lean his head back against the wall. That pang of guilt struck again and I tried to move off his lap. His arms encircling me tightened, holding me in place, though he didn't speak. Resting back against him, I closed my eyes and relaxed.

When I woke again, it was morning and sunlight was streaming through my bedroom window. I felt deliciously cozy and warm. Then I realized why. Blane was behind me, spooning me against him, his arm draped over me and resting on my stomach. He must have lain us down at some point during the night, covering us with the comforter.

I came awake quickly when I realized my t-shirt had ridden up to my waist. I'd pulled off my shorts before climbing into bed last night so the only thing I had on below the waist was underwear. I tried in vain to remember if they were one of my nicer pairs.

While I frantically pondered what to do, I felt Blane stir as well. His arm tightened on me, pulling me backward and closer to him. I felt a hardness press against my backside that could only be one thing.

This was a completely unknown situation to me, having a man in my bed. I wasn't a virgin. That had been given up with a lot of furtive groping and sweating in the back of Donny Lester's car when I was sixteen, but my sexual experience since that rather unimpressive encounter had been virtually nonexistent. Which meant I was at a total loss as to how to handle this.

Blane moved again, his hand coming up to cup my breast. My breath caught in my throat. I didn't think he was even awake, actually. I must have made a noise because he suddenly lifted his head from the pillow as if startled.

I shut my eyes and didn't move. I wasn't sure what Blane's intentions were, and if I were absolutely honest with myself, didn't know what my reaction would be should his intentions be less than pure. My body was having its own enthusiastic reaction to his touch and was quite oblivious to my growing dismay.

As if realizing where he was after his abrupt awakening, Blane lay back down. I could feel his breath on my ear.

"Are you awake?" he said so softly that I almost didn't hear him. I nodded, barely breathing.

Blane didn't move for a moment, the heat of his palm like a brand on my breast, then slowly extricated his arm that was wrapped over me. My body seemed to hum in disappointment. Moving his hand backward, I felt his fingers graze the exposed skin of my abdomen and move to the curve of my hip, where they lingered. His palm settled into the juncture between hip and thigh, his thumb whispering across my skin.

"I'd better go." His voice was a low rasp in my ear that sent a bolt straight through me. I wanted to beg him to stay and keep touching me. Instead, I nodded again.

His hand seemed reluctant to move as his palm closed gently on my hip. Then he rose from the bed and walked into the kitchen. Jumping up, I threw on my shorts and finger-combed my hair as I followed him. He had grabbed his jacket and tie by the time I reached him and was pocketing his wallet, keys and cell phone and shoving his gun in the small of his back. Remembering my braless state, I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Thanks for coming," I said in a quick rush. He glanced at me as he pushed his wallet in his pocket and our eyes met and held.

"And for staying," I finished lamely. I felt myself blush, but couldn't look away from him. The stormy gray of his eyes held me transfixed.

"It wasn't a problem," he finally responded. "I'm sorry about your friend. I'll let you know if I find out anything." I nodded.

"If the police contact you, call me," he instructed. "Don't talk to them without me there."

"Okay." He looked like he wanted to say something else, but decided against it. His jaw was locked tight as I watched him leave. I peeked over the railing to the lot below, hoping no one had stolen his expensive car while he had been here. In a few moments, I heard the quiet purr of its engine and tried to ignore the sinking feeling I had when he pulled away.

Yellow police tape covered the door to Sheila's apartment. I stood there looking at it and then felt a brush against my legs. Looking down, I saw Tigger. He meowed forlornly and with a start I remembered I needed to feed him, and he no doubt needed a litter box as well.

I looked indecisively at Sheila's door again. I knew she kept the things for Tigger in her kitchen. I didn't think she would've minded my taking them if it was to make sure Tigger had what he needed. Going back into my apartment, I grabbed the spare key I had for Sheila's place. We had exchanged keys a few months ago for emergencies and in case we locked ourselves out.

Carefully pulling back the police tape, I unlocked her door and stepped inside. Wanting to go as quickly as possible, I hurried straight to the kitchen and picked up the litter box. I carried it back to my apartment and then returned for his food.

As I was crossing the living room, I heard a phone ring. I stopped in surprise, glancing around. The sound was muffled. Putting down the food, I followed the sound. It seemed to be coming from underneath the couch. Crouching down on my hands and knees, I stretched my arm under it until I felt my fingers brush the metal of the phone. Pulling it out, I looked at the display but it said unknown caller.

I debated for a moment whether or not I should answer, but it stopped ringing before I decided. I quickly shoved the phone into my pocket before I could reconsider. Grabbing the cat food, I locked the door, carefully replacing the police tape.

Hauling everything into my apartment, I set up the litter box and food for Tigger, who appeared quite relieved. Stripping my clothes off to get in the shower, I pulled out the phone and put it on the kitchen counter.

Today was Sunday and the one day a week I had off from both my jobs. After the emotionally and physically exhausting night I'd had, I found myself unwilling to do much except lay around my apartment. It was nice outside, a crisp autumn day, but I felt depressed and lethargic. I knew it was because of Sheila's death, but I tried not to think about it.

I wasn't a person who enjoyed crying. I didn't rent chick flick movies just so I could have a good cry. Actually, I hated crying and I despised the fact that I was easily prone to it. So I tried not to dwell on Sheila or the gruesome fashion in which she'd been murdered. Curling on my couch with Tigger, I ate a bowl of cereal and watched sitcom reruns on television until I fell asleep.

Monday morning dawned cloudy and gray. I didn't mind. It suited my mood. The weather had turned cooler so I wore a favorite sweater today, a teal turtleneck that was soft and comfortable. It hugged my curves and I thought it helped set off my eyes. I put a headband in my hair to keep it out of my face and thought I looked pretty good, which lightened my mood somewhat. I grabbed my coffee travel mug and headed to work, hoping to arrive on time for a change.

I had a small cubby at the firm where I could keep my things and do other work if there weren't any runs to be made. It had a computer, desk, and not much else. I left my purse and coffee there then went to make my rounds. Stopping by Diane's office first, I sighed inwardly when I realized she was in today and I'd have to actually speak with her. I pasted a bright, fake smile on my face.

"Good morning, Diane," I said pleasantly. Diane looked up from her computer and didn't smile in return. She looked me up and down for a minute, her lips pursed in an expression of distaste. I tugged self-consciously at the hem of my sweater. It was a common occurrence for her to make some kind of snide comment about my appearance and I waited to see what it would be today.

"Looks like your sweater shrunk," she said with a sneer. "You might want to throw a jacket on over that. I'm not sure it's really appropriate for the office."

I felt my cheeks flame. The sweater hadn't shrunk, she was just implying I'd gotten larger. As if she was one to talk, the chair she sat in creaking under her large proportions. But I bit my tongue from saying what I would have liked to say. She ran the office with an iron fist, only the lawyers and their personal secretaries off-limits to her. If I pissed her off, she could fire me and no one would gainsay her.