The Intended Victim Page 18

  “Did you find anything?”

  Ash rubbed his hands over his chilled face. It’d been a long day, and without the assistance of the police department database, he’d been forced to track down the past employees with his feet, not a computer.

  “I discovered that three of the former employees have left town and two have been in the Cook County jail for the past year.”

  She arched her brows. “Jail?”

  “Drugs.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t look particularly surprised. Obviously, the old saying was true: It was hard to find good help. “Did you track down anyone you could talk to?”

  “Roy Parker.”

  “The name is vaguely familiar,” she murmured.

  “He worked cleaning the pool and mowing the grass around six years ago.”

  She heaved a small sigh. “There were so many.”

  “No crap.”

  She ignored his muttered words. She was used to having a full staff that remained mere shadows in the background. In his house, they never hired out duties. It was his father’s opinion that God gave you children to take care of chores.

  “What did he say?” she demanded.

  Ash hid his urge to shudder. Roy Parker had reminded him of the perps he used to arrest when he still carried a badge. Whiny. Cunning. And always trying to turn a situation to his own advantage.

  “He remembered that the keys to the garage and the cars were always available.”

  She hunched her shoulders, a wistful expression on her face. Was she recalling the innocent days when they’d never worried about evil touching their lives?

  “We never thought about it. I tossed my own keys in the bowl.”

  Ash pressed on, hating the knowledge he was causing Remi pain. “He also recalled that there were at least three other part-time workers who came and left in the six months he worked for your parents.”

  “Did my mother fire them?” she demanded.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know about the part-time workers, but Roy admitted it was your father who told him to leave and not come back.”

  She jerked, clearly caught off guard. “Dad?”

  “Roy claimed he was caught sneaking an extra cigarette break in the pool house, but I can’t imagine that’s the full story,” he said.

  Surprisingly, Remi gave a firm shake of her head. “That could have been enough to get him fired.”

  “A smoke break?” Ash studied her in confusion. “That seems a little harsh.”

  “Not the smoke break, being in the pool house,” she clarified. “There’s an old story that my grandfather used to take anyone who double-crossed him there to be punished.”

  “Punished?” Ash lifted his brows. He’d heard lots of stories about the Harding family. He’d assumed most of them were exaggerations. “A stern chiding?”

  She looked almost embarrassed. “A little more old school, I’m afraid,” she admitted, obviously not wanting to admit that the pool house had been the site of extreme violence. “Once my grandfather died and my mother inherited the estate, my father had the doors locked to keep out trespassers who thought they would see a ghost, or worse, take a picture of the place and sell it on eBay. As far as I know, it hasn’t been used for thirty years.”

  “The dangers of a colorful past,” he teased lightly.

  She offered a rueful smile. “‘Colorful’ is one word for it.”

  Sensing her unease at discussing the family business they’d hoped to bury in the past, Ash was quick to change the subject. “That’s all the man could tell me,” he said. “I’ll try to track down the other employees tomorrow.”

  She gave a small nod, a visible shiver racing through her. “It gives me the creeps to think the Butcher might have been strolling around my house.”

  “It’s more likely I’m chasing shadows,” he reminded her, reaching into his pocket to pull out the soft object he’d stuffed in there earlier. Now that Remi was already upset, he might as well finish with the last of what he’d discovered. “I did find this,” he said, holding it out.

  Gingerly, she reached out to grab the object, smoothing the soft leather with her fingers. Then she gave a tiny gasp, her gaze lifting to reveal her pained recognition. “That’s my father’s glove.”

  “I found it under the Mustang,” he said. “Albert swore it shouldn’t have been in the garage.”

  “So how did it get there?” She glanced down at the glove in her hand. “And where’s the other one?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  She slowly lifted the glove to her face, rubbing the soft leather against her cheek as a heartbreaking tear slid down her face.

  “Can’t the bastard let my father rest in peace?”

  Unable to bear the sight of her raw grief, Ash gently tugged the glove from her hand and placed it on the low coffee table. Then he turned back to gather her in his arms.

  “Tell me why my mother was here,” he urged, hoping to give her the opportunity to regain control over her emotions. She’d always hated people seeing her cry.

  “She asked about the night I was attacked,” she said in a hoarse voice. “And she wanted to know why I broke off our engagement.”

  “Christ,” Ash breathed. Talk about leaping from the frying pan into the fire. “I’m sorry, Remi. I love my mother, but she can’t help sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  A shaky smile curved her lips, her face still tragically pale. “I think she’s worried I might hurt you again.”

  He mentally cursed his meddlesome mother. He adored her, but she was way too fond of interfering in matters that were his own business.

  “I’ll say something to her,” he promised.

  “No. She’s your mother,” Remi protested. “It’s her job to be worried about you.”

  “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time,” he reminded her.

  There was a short silence before Remi asked a question that sounded as if it’d been on her mind.

  “Does your family blame me for your decision to leave the force and move away from Chicago?”

  Ash lowered one arm and wrapped the other around Remi’s shoulders. This sounded like a conversation that might take a while. They might as well be comfortable. “Let’s go into the kitchen,” he said, urging her forward. “I want a piece of that coffee cake before it disappears.”

  She managed a wry smile. “You know me too well.”

  He bent his head to brush his lips over the top of her head. “I intend to know you better.”

  He heard her breath catch at his low words, but she firmly pulled away as they entered the kitchen. “Did you eat dinner?” she asked, clearly hoping for some task to keep herself busy.

  Ash swallowed a sigh. Patience.

  “Unfortunately,” he admitted. “The price of getting information out of Roy was taking him out for a burger and a beer. I think he ate half a cow and slurped down a pony keg before I could leave.”

  “A hefty price,” she agreed, hovering near the doorway.

  Sensing she might decide to bolt to the seclusion of her bedroom, or even take off to spend the evening with one of her friends, Ash took drastic action.

  He knew one certain way to keep her in the kitchen. Grabbing two plates and a knife, he moved to the counter to cut a couple of large slices of his mother’s coffee cake.

  Placing one on each plate, he settled on the high barstool and pointed toward the second plate. “Here.”

  She placed her hand on her stomach, but she couldn’t disguise her desire for the gooey sweetness. “No. I already ate three slices.”

  “Come on,” he urged. “You know you want it.”

  She blew out a heavy sigh, moving to settle on the stool next to him.

  “Fine, but if I can’t fit into my jeans tomorrow, it’s entirely your fault,” she warned, taking a large bite.

  “I’ll take full responsibility,” he assured her, pressing a lingering kiss on her lips. “Mmm. Cinnamon,” he whispe
red.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sweet, buttery richness seemed to melt on her lips as Ash brushed his mouth over hers. It was glorious. Remi sighed as a decadent pleasure jolted through her. She wanted to crawl into his lap and spend the rest of the night indulging in his sensual kisses.

  Dangerous, a voice whispered in the back of her mind.

  Especially when she felt battered and bruised by the thought that someone who’d worked for her family might be responsible for her father’s death. Now wasn’t the time to give in to her vulnerable emotions.

  Reluctantly pulling back, she cleared her throat. “I asked you a question earlier,” she reminded him, not surprised when the words came out as a harsh rasp.

  Ash’s eyes smoldered with suppressed desire, but he readily straightened and grabbed his fork to concentrate on his coffee cake. He was a man who had enough confidence in his skills as a lover to wait until she was completely comfortable in a more intimate relationship.

  “The answer is, no, my family didn’t blame you for my leaving Chicago,” he assured her, taking a large bite. “They would be the first to tell you that I always make my own decisions.”

  She placed her elbow on the counter, resting her chin in the palm of her hand as she studied his finely chiseled profile.

  “You were happy as a detective.”

  “I was. I loved my job,” he assured her. “But after your father died, I needed to get away to clear my head.”

  She got that. Ash and her father had been closer than just partners. They’d been like father and son. She didn’t doubt for a second that he’d been as devastated as she’d been by his death.

  “Why not take a two-week vacation in Oklahoma with Nate?” she asked. “Quitting your job and moving away from Chicago was extreme.”

  He gave a small shrug, continuing to eat his cake. “I needed to remember why I’d decided to go into law enforcement. When a friend asked if I’d be interested in a position at the university, I agreed. Going back to school seemed like the perfect solution.”

  Remi tried to imagine him standing in front of a group of eager college students. She couldn’t do it. He would always be a detective in her mind. “Was it a perfect solution?”

  “At the time,” he assured her. “There’s nothing quite like the energy and enthusiasm of students just beginning the journey into their careers.”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled at her fervent agreement. “I guess I’m preaching to the choir.”

  He was. She loved being a part of young students’ lives, hoping to mold them into the best people they could be. Especially those who society quite often assumed weren’t worth the effort of saving.

  “You said ‘at the time.’” She continued to study him, tracing each hard line and curve of his face. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “Being back in Chicago has made me realize I’m homesick.” He turned to meet her searching gaze. “Not only for my job as a detective but for the people I love.”

  Excitement sizzled down her spine. “You’re coming back?”

  His gaze swept over her. “I’m considering my options.”

  There was more sizzling, making her pulse go wild. “That will delight your mother.”

  Without warning, he swiveled the barstool, reaching to grasp her shoulders. “Just my mother?”

  The kitchen suddenly seemed smothering. Was she having a hot flash? Surely she was too young for that?

  “I’m sure your whole family will be happy.”

  His fingers slid over her shoulders and down her arms. “And you? Will you be happy?”

  “I . . .” The words died on her lips.

  He leaned forward, his breath brushing over her cheek. “Tell me, Remi. Have you missed me?”

  Any thought of denying the long years of misery without him was banished by the sight of the yearning in his eyes. This man had given her his heart without hesitation. How could she continue to batter it?

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Say it.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Bossy.”

  His hands moved to span her waist, his expression beseeching.

  “Please.”

  She paused, then, with a hesitant movement, she lifted her arm to brush the tips of her fingers down his jaw. His five-o’clock whiskers pressed against her skin, sending a shiver of anticipation through her.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  He released a husky groan, his lips pressing against her forehead. “I’ve ached for you, Remi.” His voice was low, harsh with a remembered pain. “I wake in the morning and my arms are empty. I sit at the breakfast table and I’m all alone. I see something funny and I turn to share it with you, but you aren’t there.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No.” He lifted his head to gaze down at her. “This isn’t about blame. I just want the barriers to be gone.”

  “I’m afraid.” The words left her lips before she could halt them.

  He blinked, obviously startled. “Of me?”

  “Of us,” she said, not sure how to explain the emotions that continued to haunt her. “The future.”

  His fleeting concern eased. “Ah. Then let’s take this minute by minute.”

  Her lips twitched. “Live in the now?”

  “Exactly.”

  She took a second to consider his offer. At last she gave a slow nod. “I can do that.”

  “Me too.” With a wicked smile, he slid off the barstool. Then, grabbing her knees, he parted her legs so he could step between them. Remi instinctively tilted back her head, giving him the perfect opportunity to cover her mouth in a deep, searching kiss. Not that she was about to protest. Instead, she lifted her arms to wrap them around his neck. “Cinnamon. Sugar,” he murmured against her lips. “And everything nice.”

  She shivered as the heat that had been smoldering inside her flamed into an inferno. “I don’t feel nice right now,” she informed him.

  He chuckled. “How do you feel?”

  “Naughty.”

  He pressed his hips between her legs, allowing her to feel the hard thrust of his erection. “I’m feeling pretty naughty myself.”

  She licked her lips, tasting the clinging cinnamon. “I’m going to have to learn how to make your mother’s coffee cake.”

  “It’s not the coffee cake,” he whispered. “It’s you.”

  “Probably a good thing,” she admitted. “I hate to cook.”

  His hands slid up her waist, gently cupping her breasts. “You have other talents.”

  She leaned back to send him a chiding glance. “Ash.”

  He released a sudden laugh. “I meant your ability to touch the hearts of students who most people would consider lost causes.” He held her gaze. “I admire you for that.”

  Remi felt a blush stain her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  The wicked smile returned as he used his thumbs to tease at the tips of her nipples. “Although this talent isn’t too shabby.”

  Remi shivered, arching against his hard body. “You’re not too shabby yourself.”

  He used the tip of his tongue to trace her lips. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

  Remi tangled her fingers in his hair. She wasn’t prepared to sleep with Ash. Not tonight. But she was fully onboard with the pleasure of sharing a few sugar-and-cinnamon kisses.

  * * *

  Rachel shivered. The wind felt like a knife slicing through her. It didn’t matter that she had on a puffy parka and a stocking hat and matching gloves. Nothing was capable of combating a Chicago winter. Especially not when she was standing in an abandoned lot in the middle of the night.

  “How much longer?” she muttered, stomping her feet in an effort to keep the circulation going to her toes.

  Had she actually wished she could get out and breathe some fresh air? Now she just wanted to be back in her cozy rooms. They might make her feel claustrophobic, but at least they were warm.

  There was no answer and she turned, try
ing to peer through the thick shadows. She’d been in this neighborhood once or twice, and each time it felt like she was taking her life in her hands. Which, of course, was the point of her being there.

  The director was insistent that Rachel couldn’t be convincing in her role unless she truly felt terror. As if Rachel hadn’t been raised in a neighborhood where her creepy landlord loitered in the hallway so he could cop a feel when she passed by him or dodging bullets while she was walking down the street.

  Still, she had to admit there was something unnerving about standing alone in the darkness. It was one thing to confront her familiar dangers. She’d learned how to cope with the grabby landlord by giving him a faceful of pepper spray. And she rarely walked the streets after dinner. It gave her a sense of security.

  Now she was surrounded by the unknown. Anything could be lurking in the dark. And worse, she suspected there was going to be some nasty surprise that was intended to teach her how to react to the scene in which her character was being followed by the killer.

  The thought made her as twitchy as the time her dad had tried to detox.

  “Shit,” she groused. “I’m freezing my ass off.”

  There was a crunch of footsteps against the broken pavement.

  “At last,” she muttered.

  “Don’t move,” the director barked.

  Rachel froze, battling the urge to turn. She wanted to see what was coming. She knew, however, that this was a test. If she failed, she might very well be sent home, her dreams shattered.

  She would endure anything before she allowed that to happen.

  With a grim effort, she conjured the image of her father. At this time of night, he would be passed out on the sofa. Her brothers would be stumbling home from their own evening of partying, making a mess in the kitchen that she would be expected to clean up.

  The thought helped to steady her nerves as she felt an arm circle her shoulder and grasp the collar of her coat. She held herself still even when she felt the hand tugging down the puffy material. She was confused. Was she being filmed? Did they want a better view of her face?

  She remained oblivious to the threat even when something was pressed against her throat.