Serving Up Trouble Page 7

  That thought made her quiver, but the water slowly turned less warm, then down right chilly. Finally she shut it off, purposely ignoring the deep yearning. It was just that she hadn’t had any sort of physical relationship since Tony, she told herself, and that had been nearly a year now.

  A year without sex. She needed to remedy that.

  Later. For now, sleep, and lots of it. She stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in the lone towel hanging on the rack.

  Definitely laundry day tomorrow. Without a towel for her dripping hair, she combed it back from her face and opened the bathroom door.

  All the steam escaped, and at first she couldn’t see. As the mist dissipated, two things hit her at once. First, the answering machine on her night-stand was blinking like crazy, and she realized she’d for got ten to listen to the messages when she’d gotten home.

  But it was the second thing that rendered her a speech less, trembling mass of fear.

  Her place had been ran sacked. Blankets, pillows and sheets had been tossed every where, her dresser and closet drawers opened and dumped.

  Shock immobilized her. She stood in the doorway of the bathroom, water from her hair dripping down her shoulders and back, still clinging to the towel wrapped around her. Her first instinct was to run back into the bathroom and lock the door. But that wouldn’t do her any good as the door didn’t lock—it never had.

  Grabbing the cell phone, she pushed on the power button and stood in indecision for one horrifying second.

  Was she alone?

  Was someone even now listening to her panicked breathing, just waiting to make their move?

  Oh, God. This couldn’t be happening, not again. She didn’t want to die in a towel, any more than she had wanted to die in a bank robbery.

  Quietly as she could, she backed into the bathroom, pulling the door closed, wincing as it squeaked, desperately wishing she’d bothered to have the lock fixed as she’d been meaning to do for months.

  Somehow she found the wits to crank back on the shower, which would hope fully muffle the sound of her voice. But because it was icy water now, not a drop of hot left, she left it running out of the tub spout as she hopped in and shut the curtain, crouching as far back as she could to avoid the spray.

  She looked down at her cell phone and hoped to God she couldn’t get electrocuted while operating it with her feet in the water. She hit redial, a number she was becoming unfortunately familiar with, and waited with baited breath to be attacked before the dispatcher came on.

  But she got Sam.

  He answered on the first ring with, “Where the hell have you been?” making her realize 911 hadn’t been the last call she’d made after all.

  It had been Sam’s cell phone.

  She let out a shaky laugh, her feet frozen from the water running over them, her little towel that didn’t cover enough chilled skin slipping. “I need you,” she whispered.

  She hadn’t meant to say that. In a million years she wouldn’t have planned to say it.

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” he said right over her. “About those prank calls—”

  “Sam.” She gripped the phone tight and shuddered. “Did you hear me? I need you. I…really need you. Right now.”

  Utter silence. Then in a voice gone soft and regretful, he said, “Angie, you know we can’t. I’m a cop, and you’re a part of the job, and—”

  Okay, damn it, she was not going to cry. So he’d misunderstood. So he’d rejected her out of hand. She’d known he would. “I mean someone broke into my apartment, Sam.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Here.”

  “Here where, Angie?” Now his voice was calm, alert. In control.

  And very professional.

  “In my apartment.”

  He swore. Very unprofessionally.

  And oddly enough, that soothed her more than anything else could have.

  “Get out of there, now.”

  She looked down at her very un dressed self and nearly let out a hysterical laugh. “I…can’t.”

  “Angie, listen to me very care fully. Arm yourself with some thing.”

  “Arm myself?”

  “A vase. A golf club. Some thing.”

  She peeked out the shower curtain and saw a can of hair spray, which she clutched to her chest. “Got it.”

  “Did you call—”

  “Nine-one-one. They’re next on my list.”

  “I’ll do it. Hang tight. I’m on my way.”

  Hang tight. Hanging tight. Knees knocking together, she sank to her knees on the floor of the tub and waited.

  Chapter 6

  I need you.

  Those three little words tore at Sam as he raced to Angie’s apartment. Why the hell hadn’t he just gone over there when he’d gotten her earlier message?

  That she hadn’t answered her phone shouldn’t have stopped him.

  That she scared him shouldn’t have stopped him.

  He drove faster. He was a professional, and as a professional he willingly headed into situations similar to this all the time. It was his job.

  But the cool, calm, professional cop he was inside had vanished and been replaced by a man—a terrified, protective, angry man he hardly recognized.

  Why had this happened to Angie, a woman who deserved hearts and flowers and a white picket fence, not this sheer terror?

  Damn it, she’d already been hurt. Josephine had told him that much. Hurt by a man who’d tried to mold her into his idea of the perfect woman.

  How could someone do that to the vibrant, sweet, open Angie?

  Shame furled in his belly as he remembered his first impression of her. Scattered. Flighty. Naive.

  She wasn’t any of those things.

  Please don’t let her be hurt, he prayed, and vowed right then and there to never add to that hurt of hers. And it wasn’t ego that told him he could do exactly that. Even he couldn’t deny there was some thing…undeniable between them.

  That he’d lost all perspective when it came to her didn’t escape him. He was a man darkly driven and in tensely private. He was a man who had no right to be thinking about hearts and flowers and a white picket fence.

  He was a cop, through and through, and he’d learned the hard way through his mother, then his ex-wife, that no one could get close to him.

  No one ever would.

  How many times had he heard that cops didn’t make good relation ship material?

  Yes, there was more to life than work, he knew this, but he also knew it wasn’t worth the headache. God, please, let her be okay.

  Getting to her place was the longest four minutes in history, but finally he came around the last corner to her building.

  Her entire apartment was ablaze with lights. And no squad car out front, which meant, despite his call to dispatch, she was still alone inside.

  Her front door was ajar. Pulling his gun, he pushed the door all the way open.

  Her book shelf had been dumped, her television and portable CD player broken on the floor. And despite the fact he could hear water running somewhere, there was no sign of life. “Angie?”

  From the small living room he could see into the even smaller kitchen. The cup boards had been opened, emptied. The plants in hand-painted ceramic bins had been purposely slammed to the floor and lay broken among her dishes and glasses.

  He’d seen enough to know that someone had tried to scare her, and undoubtedly it had worked.

  Silent now, with terror chasing chills along his spine, he headed down the hall. Bedroom trashed. And empty.

  The bathroom door was shut, beyond which he could hear running water. With a palm to the door, he shoved it open, gun ready.

  The small room was the only one in the house not messed with. The tub curtain was drawn closed, which was odd, given that he could hear the spout running behind it.

  Battle ready, he yanked the curtain open and steadied his gun.

  Only to drop it to his side a split
second later with a soft, harsh oath. “Angie.”

  She was down in the far corner of the tub, eyes wide as saucers. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  His heart all but cracked as he reached in and turned off the water. Ice-cold. Gently he pulled her out of the tub and ran his hands down her frozen arms. He could hardly breathe. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “Talk to me.” Cupping her face, he tilted it up. “Are you hurt?”

  “N-no.”

  Thank God. He struggled for his professionalism, barely found it. “You’re cold.” He went and grabbed the comforter off her bed, then pulled it around her.

  “I got prank calls.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Mostly that I’m to stop calling the cops.”

  He went still. “Which you didn’t do.”

  “Nope.”

  “So this was to scare you. What else did he say?”

  “Back off.” She managed a wry half smile. “I get the distinct impression I’ve hurt your suspect’s feelings.” She rubbed her forehead as if her head hurt.

  He resisted, barely, the urge to haul her close. “Tell me what happened tonight.”

  She sighed and looked around as if she was still surprised to see the mess. “I came home from class, let myself in and…” She lifted a shoulder and turned away.

  “You what?”

  “This and that…you know, ever since the holdup, I’ve…had a little trouble sleeping.”

  His gut clenched, thinking of her here. All alone. Frightened.

  “I’ve been flipping on all the lights at night. That’s the first thing I did tonight.”

  “There’s no shame in that,” he said to her back.

  “Yeah.” Then she let out a little laugh at herself that tore at him, and she pulled the comforter tighter around her. “Then I came into my bedroom and…”

  He waited but she didn’t say anything else. “Angie? You what?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. A tinge of embarrassment crept over her face. “I…stripped off my clothes and got into the shower.” She studied her toes. “Do you think they saw me?”

  Damn it. “Angie—”

  “No. Never mind.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over, right?”

  “That’s right,” he said gently, stepping closer. “It’s over.” And he would do everything in his power to make sure it stayed over. “What happened next?”

  “I stayed in the shower for a really long time.” She lifted her shoulder again. “I sang. Probably scared whoever it was to death, as I’m pretty much tone-deaf.”

  Sam couldn’t imagine anything about her scaring anyone.

  Except him, of course. He was scared to death of her.

  “When I got out,” she continued, “the place had been all messed up.”

  “But you never saw anyone? Heard anything?”

  “No.” She bit her lower lip, which started to tremble.

  Oh, God, the tremble.

  Tears would be next. “Angie—”

  Without another word, she dropped the comforter and went straight into the arms he hadn’t realized he’d held out. She burrowed close, pressing her icy nose into the crook of his neck, slipping her arms around his waist, fitting against him as if she’d been made for him.

  His heart, the one he’d thought impenetrable as stone, squeezed hard. Her hair was wet. Dripping all over him, in fact. And she wore only a towel. Just a little scrap of material. She’d been in the shower, at her most vulnerable. At the thought of what could have happened to her, helpless rage filled him, and he found his arms tightening around her in a way they wouldn’t have done around any other victim.

  Against his neck, she swallowed hard. “When I came out, I worried I wasn’t alone, that…” She shuddered and didn’t go on, but she didn’t need to.

  He bent his head, put his mouth to her temple. “It’s okay now.” This was no regular victim, this was Angie. She was different, and she had been from the very first moment he’d laid eyes on her. He didn’t think of her as part of the job, no matter how much he wished he could relegate her to that part of his mind. “We’re alone. It’s all right now.”

  “I know.” She sniffed but didn’t pull away. “I’m fine. I can handle this.”

  Another sniff sounded.

  Ah, hell. “Angie…”

  “No, really. I’m okay.” But her voice cracked, and she was shaking like a damn blender. “I’m not going…to fall apart.”

  “Of course you’re not,” he said, willing it to be true.

  “It’s just that…I wanted excitement in my life, you know?” She let out a little hiccup. “But I had some thing else in mind. Like learning to teach.”

  “It’s okay,” he whispered, rubbing his jaw over her hair, wondering who was comforting whom. Because somehow, she’d wormed her way into his heart despite his resolve.

  Not good.

  In fact, it was really bad. Bad timing. Bad form. Bad everything.

  In his experience, women fell into two categories: the kind who couldn’t handle his job—his mother and his ex-wife, for example. And then there were the danger junkies, the woman who wanted a rush of edgy adrenaline to excite their lives.

  He didn’t want to think of Angie as a danger junkie, since he under stood she was flexing her wings for the first time. She would never use him that way.

  As for his job and all that entailed, it didn’t seem to faze her, but he knew, given enough time, it sure as hell would. It fazed everyone sooner or later.

  Then her fingers found the skin at the back of his neck. Just a little stroke that woke up every nerve in his body.

  Her other hand lay trustingly on his chest.

  As he looked down at her fingers, at her, everything within him stilled. He was attracted to her, on some deep level he couldn’t ignore no matter how he tried.

  And he was responsible for her—this uninhibited, sparkly-as-hell woman who was so damn warm and thrilled with her new lease on life it almost hurt to even look at her.

  The truth was simple: he cared, far more than he wanted to.

  Talk about terror.

  Angie didn’t know how long they stood like that, wrapped together, her nearly nude body to his fully clothed one. “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  She swallowed hard and tried to put the words in the right order. “Thank you for coming. I meant to call 911 but…”

  It didn’t say much for her newfound independence that she’d called him instead, but she figured she was allowed to lean on someone once in a while.

  And he certainly had the strength to be leaned on. He had it in spades. God, the way he’d arrived, like the cavalry, all magnificent and edgy-looking, until he’d found her huddled in the bathtub. Then he’d gone so gentle, so…tender. She liked that side of him.

  Too much.

  “I don’t want to be thanked for this.”

  Oh, yes, his voice was calm and assuring, but even Sam couldn’t hide his eyes, which were filled with heat and a fierce, urgent concern.

  That alone warmed her toward him in a way she doubted he’d understand. It hadn’t been often in her life someone had felt those things for her. She liked it, the fierce concern. She liked it a lot. She also liked the heat. It did some thing to her insides, made her want to…glow. She’d always shied away from any serious emotional attachments, even with Tony. It made it easier when she didn’t live up to their expectations.

  But she wasn’t the same person anymore. She wanted more for herself. So much more. Living life to the fullest meant no more pretending her yearnings didn’t exist.

  Sam had probably never in his life had such thoughts. He was strong. His own man. If he wanted some thing, he went after it, and she admired that. “Are you always so tough?” she wondered softly. “So in control?”

  He pulled back, looked at her. “I like to be in control.”

  “But why?” She want
ed to be distracted, and there could be no better one than learning about this man. “What made you that way?”

  He lifted a broad shoulder. “Genes.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Actually, my mom. She’s the master of control. She’s…never forgiven me for being a cop.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. But that’s what I am, Angie.” He shocked her by lifting a big hand and wrapping a wet tendril of her hair around his finger. “That’s who I am.” His touch made her want to close her eyes. His voice made her want to burrow back against him. “By definition alone,” he said very, very quietly, “control is everything.”

  “But you’re also a man.” A man who was touching her, very lightly, very tenderly. Her insides did a funny dance, and as if he could read his thoughts, his eyes flared at the knowledge there.

  “A cop first,” he said, his voice low. Rough. “Don’t confuse it.”

  “I won’t, I couldn’t.” She entwined her fingers through the silky hair at the back of his neck. “You’re a cop through and through, I can see that. I accept that.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It’s true.” But she could see she’d have to prove that much to him. Maybe he’d been hurt. Betrayed. She had no way of knowing, much as she wanted to. “But this rigid control…this holding back…Sam, life can’t be lived to its fullest that way. It just can’t.”

  “I don’t hold back.”

  But that’s just what he’d done, from the very first with her. His mouth was so close to hers. Just a shiver, a single breath, and they’d be connected. “Don’t you?” she whispered.

  He stared down at her mouth.

  Oh yes, she had his attention now. Not as a victim. Or a responsibility. But as a woman. “I know how hard it is. Believe me, Sam, I know how hard it is to let go, because until recently, I’ve lived most of my life denying my own ambitions, my own hap pi ness. It was easier to do so than to face them. Which is really the same as all this rigid control you’ve got, don’t you see?” Her throat felt tight. “I’ve learned it’s much more fulfilling to be a butterfly than a caterpillar. I’m only guessing, because I’m still really new at this, but I know it’s going to be great.”