Out of Control (8 page)

His heart had beat so hard it almost exploded out of his chest.

If she'd kissed him, he would have gone for it and fucked her anyway, in spite of all the question marks. Everything about her turned him on, even her clumsy lies. They didn't come to her easily. It was almost endearing. The woman couldn't tell a decent lie to save her life.

The way his mind had couched that passing thought sent an uneasy chill down his back. He shrugged it aside.

Years of interviewing witnesses had made him expert in the study of body language. Margot was prickly and defensive because she was afraid, not guilty. She was no scam artist. She would crash and burn if she ever tried that line of work, the way her feelings were plastered on her face. She was proud, tough, principled. Impulsive. Scared to death, but more scared of the cops than she was of her bloodthirsty stalker.

Something even bigger and nastier lurked in her past. It would be a challenge to get past her wall of thorns. Challenge stimulated him, though after the Fleur debacle, he made a big effort to avoid challenges in his love life. He tried to keep things simple. Uncomplicated.

“Tried” being the operative word, women being what they were.

Curiosity burned him like acid. It wasn't his problem or his responsibility, but he wanted to nab this asshole who was terrorizing her. The more he thought about it, the more it pissed him off. He wanted to pin the sadistic fuckhead's balls to the wall.

He rolled up off the bed, restless and jittery, and wandered into the bathroom. He set the shower running, and stared at himself through the mirror fog. He wasn't vain about his body. It never occurred to him to be. It was a tool, a resource to be maintained. It was useful to have strong muscles and quick reflexes. Women tended to say yes when he made advances, and that was convenient, too. Up to a point.

He stared at himself, trying to see what Margot saw in him. Wanting her to want him. His pulse spiked, and his dick stood higher.

He stroked himself experimentally. He didn't much go for the shallow relief of jerking off. It was wasted energy, and he disliked the flat, let-down feeling it gave him after. But six months, for fuck's sake?

No one was perfect. No one was watching.

He stepped under the pounding water, soaped up his hand and gripped himself. His mind hit the reverse button and ran him right back to that moment where Margot's slender, cool hand was pressed against the center of his bare chest, her multicolored eyes wide and fascinated. Midnight blue fading to bright aqua, and a ring of golden brown around the pupil, like whoever put her together couldn't make up his mind and just kept on tinkering. That red, sulky-sweet mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed. Taut nipples poking the thin fabric of her worn T-shirt.

If things had gone how he wanted, her mouth would have curved into a sultry smile, and she would have pulled the T-shirt off and displayed herself to him. Eyes bright with that
what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it
look that drove him right out of his head.

No hesitation there. A sweep of his arm to clear the dinner stuff out of his way, and he set her on the table, shoved her onto her back so he could pull her sweatpants off, hands lingering on every warm detail of her lush hips and ass. She unbuckled his belt with frantic urgency.

Her words echoed.
“…don't have the time and energy for a boyfriend…can't handle no strings sex…where does that leave us?”

Good question. A dangerous idea took form in his mind, parallel and independent to the sexual fantasy that churned on unimpeded.

Maybe they could work out the perfect deal.

He didn't want a girlfriend any more than she wanted a boyfriend. He was tired of the frustration on the woman's part, the guilty discomfort on his. He hated one night stands, too. Often squalid and empty, always a health hazard, and he disliked waking up with someone with whom he had nothing in common but sex. Sneaking off before the woman woke up was bad, as if he'd stolen something, but the coffee, the groping conversation, her hopeful eyes—that was worse.

He didn't want no strings sex. He wanted carefully chosen, clearly agreed upon, precisely negotiated strings. A civilized, sensible arrangement between consenting adults. They were both single. She was attracted to him. She needed help, and protection. He was in a good position to offer it. She had her secrets to guard, he had his space to maintain. He would be very clear with her. Honest and respectful.

The idea excited him more deeply than the fuck fantasy had. The water had run cold, so he switched it off, rubbing water out of his eyes, and heard his cell phone ringing. He almost broke the sliding glass door in his haste as he bolted for the bedroom, dove for the phone. “Yes?”

Silence. The hollow kind that indicated that the line was open.

“Hello?” he said, more urgently. “Who is this?”

Click.
Whoever it was hung up.

Her phone number had stuck in his mind even after he'd decided that he'd never have reason to use it. He punched it in. It rang, once, twice. The line clicked open. “Margot? You OK?”

Another brief silence. “No,” she whispered.

A queasy, crawling feeling squirmed in his belly. “What's wrong?”

“Sorry I hung up on you.” Her voice was dull, none of its usual sass. “I lost my nerve.”

“Never mind that. What happened?” He waited a few agonizing seconds, and prompted her. “Did Snakey send you another present?”

“I think so. I'm scared to go out and look more closely.”

“Shit.” He was off the bed like he was on springs, fishing his jeans off the floor. He jerked them over his wet ass, not bothering with underwear. “What did he leave you this time?”

“I…I shouldn't have bothered you. I don't know why I…I guess I just panicked.”

She was chickening out. His instincts screamed to jump on her, pin her down, quick and fast. “I'll be right there.” He shoved wet feet into his boots, struggled with laces. “Fifteen minutes, max.”

He hung up, the better to forestall further argument, and dragged on his shirt. His mind flicked across the Glock 9mm in the gun safe.

He decided against it. Bare hands were his preference, with the knife in his boot sheath for backup. He charged out the door and over the dew-soaked lawn. He gripped the wheel to keep his hands steady.

He was an idiot, running into God knew what kind of mess, but he would bet body parts that whatever secrets Margot was hiding were not her fault. And that changed everything.

He knew the difference between reality and fantasy. He'd choked down enough reality when he was ten years old to know exactly how it tasted, but just look at him now. All that meditation and detachment were for shit when that hot button was pushed. Pow, he jumped three feet into the air and charged off, cape fluttering, to save the fair maiden from the gigantic squid. Forever trying to rewrite the sad story's ending.

Not that he was any goddamn superhero. In fact, he was a calculating bastard. Blatantly working the situation to his advantage.

But then again, she was free to tell him to fuck off if she pleased. So Margot Vetter needed help with her mysterious problems? Fine.

Then maybe she could be persuaded to help him with his.

B
lood all over her porch. Spattered over the peeling paint, the windows, the dusty wicker furniture that had been there when she moved in. Her welcome mat was drenched and sticky.

It was a scene straight out of one of those silly horror flicks she used to love, back before she figured out that life had enough horror in it as it was. She stared down at the puddle, remembering how she used to giggle and squeal with her friends at the Braxton theater, screaming insults and admonitions.
Don't split up, you airheads, someone always croaks when the group splits up! Don't go down into the creepy cellar, you brain-dead ditz, can't you hear the freaking music?

No scary warning music for her. Just birds twittering, tree boughs tossing in the fragrant breeze. Her wind chimes tinkled and clanked. Their hollow, random melody was supposed to be soothing. The lake of blood rendered it grotesque. More horrifying than any splatter flick soundtrack she'd ever heard. No group to split up and pick off, either. Just herself and Mikey, who had called a shaky emergency truce and was huddled behind her ankles, shivering. Mikey would face down ten pit bulls, but he was out of his depth with Snakey, and he knew it.

She was, too. Scared out of her wits. The only thing to do was run, but her emergency stash of money had all been invested in her fake references, still more blown on celebratory crap like the couch, a pretty dress and frivolous shoes when she'd landed the job. What was left had gone for the vet bills and the kennel. The twenty-three bucks in the freezer would barely fill the tank in her dying car.

She had a week to wait for her next piddly paychecks from Joe's Diner and her various gym jobs. She squeezed her eyes shut, and opened them. The blood didn't disappear. Just as well. If she were going bonkers on top of all this, she would be in real trouble.

That thought sent painful laughter jolting through her. Like this trouble wasn't real enough. Framed for murder and on the run from the law. Haunted by a grisly assassin with an unknown agenda. Stalked by a bloodthirsty maniac who might or might not be the same guy. The blood smelled meaty and nauseating. Her stomach bucked and rolled.

Under the circumstances, going bonkers might be a sweet relief.

She had to run. Just like before, a mad dash from nowhere to nowhere, disaster poised over her like the blade of a guillotine. Ouch. A guillotine was most definitely the wrong image to call up right now.

Running was the only option left. So why had she called up McCloud at five in the morning and begged him to come over and hold her hand? She was so lame.

Because he made her feel safe. Because she wanted to see him one last time. Because she wanted to say goodbye.

The answer to her own question came to her like a sharp bonk on the head, startling tears into her eyes. Yeah, that was it. Saying goodbye to a fantasy. Thanking him for…for what, she wasn't even sure. For what he might have been to her, if the world had been different.

What a ninny. One sexually charged moment with a guy, and she was mourning the poignant loss of the love of her life. Puh-leeze.

So. The plan. Scrape together every penny she could. Work the shift at the diner for the tips. Try, probably in vain, to get that cheapskate Joe to advance her for the days she'd already worked. Same thing at the health clubs. Pawn that goddamn pendant. And then run.

Jump, and the net will appear
, the touchy-feely self-help books said, but she just bet they weren't talking about clueless outlaws.

Davy McCloud's black pickup pulled up at the curb. A funny little sound came out of her throat. She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep any more from sneaking out unawares.

She'd never been so glad to see another human being in her life.

He bounded up the steps, lightfooted and silent. She sniffed back the soggy mess in her nose and leaned out across the gore, steadying herself by clutching the doorjamb. “Go on around to the back door, or you'll track this stuff all over the place. It's still wet.”

He stared at her blood-spattered porch for a long moment. “Jesus,” he said. His eyes fastened on her face. “You OK?”

She nodded. It was a huge lie, but she so appreciated his asking she almost started sobbing. She wasn't OK. She wanted a hug, this instant, and he was too far away, across a lake of blood. “Go around to the back door,” she repeated. “Now. Please. Don't make me wait.”

He nodded, and ran back down the steps.

Margot slapped the door shut and scurried towards the back door. She wrenched the warped door open. He pulled her right into his arms. Her face scrunched, her throat quivered, and she buried her face in the soft fabric of his shirt. He was so warm and solid. He smelled so good. She wanted to crawl into his pocket and just huddle there.

He grabbed a napkin left on the counter from last night's Mexican pig-out, cupped her head back and dabbed at her face.

She snatched it away and honked into it. “Sorry. I'm just—”

“Shut up.”

She blinked at him. “Huh? Excuse me?”

“Stop apologizing. I'm tired of it.” And before she had a chance to get properly pissed at his nerve, he disarmed her by kissing her forehead and folding her back into his arms again. “You call the cops?”

She didn't even bother to answer, and he didn't press the point.

McCloud pushed her into a chair and set about making coffee. She scooped Mikey into her arms, shut her eyes, and let him do it.

“Did you see or hear anything this time?” he asked.

“Like Snakey would make it so easy,” she scoffed. “Of course not. I was dozing. The alarm woke me up at four. And I saw…the blood dripping down the windowpane.” Her teeth started to chatter.

Davy set a steaming mug of coffee before her. “I hope you drink it black. Couldn't find any sugar or milk.”

She tried to smile. “Fine. Thanks.” She took a gulp of coffee just as he laid his hand on her shoulder. Bracing heat and strength poured right into her body. She choked, sputtering. She could not project her needy fantasies onto this guy. She had to get a grip, right now.

“I know what you're thinking,” she snapped. “But it's not true.”

“Oh, yeah?” He sounded amused. “Tell me what I'm thinking.”

“I'm not running away from my pimp. I haven't ripped anybody off. There's no drug deal gone bad in my past. I don't owe anybody money. I'm a dull person, leading a dull life. All I do is work.”

He sat down in the chair across from her and took a swallow of coffee. “It's nice of you to tell me what's not happening. But it would be much more useful to know what actually is happening.” He gazed at her over the rim of his cup. Waiting, just as he had last night.

She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and—

The phone rang. She leaped up, jostled the table and spilled her coffee over herself. “Oh, crap. Sorry. Excuse me while I get that.” She scurried into the bedroom, pathetically grateful for the interruption.

Saved by the phone from her own insane folly. She'd been a heartbeat away from telling him everything.

 

Davy strained to overhear her conversation, but after a moment it rose to a volume he had no trouble following.

“…I know, but believe me, this
is
an emergency…yeah, I know, but if…yes, but if I had known beforehand that some sick freak was going to splatter blood all over my porch, I would have arranged for a sub to cover for me, but being as how it was a
surprise
…uh-huh, guess what? The last time it happened, I was surprised too, call me silly…oh. Gee. Thanks so much for your compassion and understanding, Joe. You're…yeah. Whatever. Right back at you.”

The phone crashed down. Margot appeared in the kitchen door, cradling her dog. Her face looked pale and pinched.

“Trouble?” he asked.

She grimaced, and cuddled Mikey as she sank back into the chair again. “Nothing I can't handle.”

Davy stared at her graceful profile as she stared out the window, back straight, mouth tight. He wanted to hug her again, but she looked like she might shatter if he touched her. “Problems with work?”

She tossed her head, a vain attempt to look casual. “That was the owner of the diner where I work part-time. I was supposed to be there by now to prep. I might have just gotten fired.” She dropped her face into her hands. “This, I did not need. Could things get any worse?”

“Yes,” he said.

She looked up, incredulous. “Gee, brighten my morning a little more, why don't you? That was a rhetorical question, McCloud!”

“Don't ask questions if you don't want answers,” he replied.

“You're some comfort,” she said sourly. “A little ray of sunshine.”

“Comfort won't help you right now.” He made his voice hard. “You need the cops. If you don't want real help, don't ask for comfort.”

She put Mikey down and blew her nose. “I'd rather not. I rub cops the wrong way. Problems with authority. Daddy issues. You know.”

He shook his head. “No, I don't. But if you don't have the nerve to tell me the truth, at least don't insult me by feeding me a raft of shit.”

She winced, and lifted defiant eyes to his. “Would you stop that?”

“Stop what?”

“Didn't anybody ever tell you that staring is rude? I can't deal with that kind of scrutiny today. I don't even have my makeup on.”

He trained his eyes into his coffee cup. “Sorry,” he said. “I can't seem to help looking at you. I find you…interesting.”

She looked wary, but her lips twitched. “Interesting, huh? That's one of those sneaky, double-edged words. Interesting how? Interesting like flesh-eating bacteria? Interesting like something out of
The X-Files
?”

“Let me pick another word,” he said smoothly. “Fascinating.”

She snorted. “Oh, get out of town. Fascinating, my butt.”

“That, too,” he said, before he could stop himself.

She muffled a crack of laughter behind her hands. “Look who's trying to be cute. Hang on to your day job, McCloud. You weren't cut out to be a comedian.”

He was pleased to have made her laugh, even if it took making an ass of himself. “Please call me Davy.”

“Davy.” She said the word slowly, like she was tasting it.

He reached across the table and took her cool, slender hand in his. “You want to talk, Margot? I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

She hesitated, mouth trembling, and slowly pulled her hand away. “No. Not now. It's a long story, and I'm late for work.” Her voice turned brisk. “I dragged you out of bed at an ungodly hour—”

“I get up early anyhow,” he assured her.

“I really appreciate the moral support, but if you've got things to do, you don't have to hang around here. I'm past the worst of it. Now I just have to get on with my day somehow.”

He could've howled with frustration. She'd been so close to talking. “We could go someplace and get some breakfast,” he said.

She flinched at the mention of food. “God, no. I've got to clean that blood up somehow, and get Mikey to the kennel, and see if I can get to work in time to salvage my job, so maybe you should just—”

“I know a good cleaning service that can take care of your porch,” he offered. “And I've got a friend at an independent crime lab. I'll take a sample of that blood to be analyzed. You don't know who or what it's from. Don't handle it yourself. Let professionals deal with it.”

She looked doubtful. “I don't think I should have to handle it either, but I can't afford the luxury of—”

“They're my friends,” he insisted. “They'll cut me a deal.”

Her eyes were full of wary confusion. “Don't, Davy,” she said softly. “It's sweet of you, but…just let it be. I'll take care of it when I get back.” She stopped whatever else she was going to say, shook her head and scurried into her bedroom.

He headed out to the porch and stared at the dark, glistening pool. He wasn't great with blood. He could handle it if forced to, but it made him queasy and depressed, stirring memories he really didn't want to unearth. He forced himself to concentrate as he scraped a sticky flake of the blood into a plastic bag with the point of his knife.

When he came back into the kitchen, she was dressed in a dowdy blue waitressing uniform, somehow managing to look sharp and sexy in it. Her hair was twisted up into a spiky fountain of dull brown wisps.

She pulled a set of purple spandex workout gear off the drying rack in the kitchen, shoved them into her gym bag and pulled open the door. She jerked her chin for him to precede her out.

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?” he asked, as she followed him out. “We can do Thai, or sushi. You'll be hungry by then for sure.”