Authors: Virna Depaul
As her body hit the conveyor belt and was dragged backward, she screamed in pain. Something sharp scraped along her bare legs, then her cheeks. She hit the safety of her living room carpet and lay there stunned.
Until a huge crash exploded behind her. Rolling to her back, Natalie shoved herself up on her arms and strained to see. Nothing. She saw nothing. But she could hear them. Heard them identify themselves. Heard the footsteps pounding swiftly across the tile of her entryway and then growing quiet as they stepped onto the living room carpet.
She saw two large shadows. Hated the idea that strangers were in her house again. “No, stop—” she tried to call out, but her voice got stuck in her throat, only small gasps for air coming out. “Please,” she managed to say. “I’m—”
“Check the bedrooms,” a male voice snapped. A second later, the room became quiet as the treadmill stopped. Natalie jerked her head around. Strong fingers wrapped around her arm, and she flinched away, his touch burning through her skin like fire.
The shadow at her side took shape but remained blurry.
And then she heard his voice again.
Rich. Smooth. Gravelly.
Like dark chocolate with just enough toffee to tease and make you crave more.
“I’m Special Agent Liam McKenzie, California DOJ. Are you all right?”
* * *
“
A
RE
YOU
ALL
RIGHT
?” Mac repeated. Natalie Jones just continued to stare at him, eyes wide and unblinking, chest heaving underneath her thin T-shirt. His own heart was still knocking against his ribs, and his muscles were tensed in preparation for an attack. His eyes swept over her, noting both physical traits and bodily condition. Tawny, brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. A lean, lightly muscled frame that signaled strength even as her pinched expression indicated she was in pain. She had red marks on her legs and cheek, but they were nothing compared to the fresh bruises on her neck, or the numerous bruises on her arm that looked older.
Frowning, he readjusted his hold so that his fingers barely brushed her soft skin, but he didn’t let go completely. He felt the same irrational wave of protectiveness he’d experienced when he’d heard her scream. He hadn’t hesitated or stopped to confer with Jase before breaking through her door. He’d acted instinctively, drawing his weapon, sparing no thought for procedure or exigent circumstances or even his own safety. He’d acted like a man whose woman or child was in danger when she was a total stranger to him.
For a split second, a wave of something unfamiliar but frighteningly good shot through him. Before he could identify it, she trembled and pulled back. Instinctively, he tried to hang on, but then deliberately let his hand drop. As soon as he broke contact, he felt normal again.
Had she felt it? Had she felt the loss of it? Maybe, because her eyes looked panicky. “Easy,” he soothed. Or at least that was his intent, but she flinched. “I need you to answer me. Are you okay?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. With absolutely no makeup and her hair plastered away from her face, she was all eyes and lips. Big caramel-colored eyes with a green ring around the iris, the color still compelling despite the ocular blood hemorrhages that were common in victims of attempted strangulation. Long lashes much darker than her hair. Bare, pouty, swollen lips, slightly parted to reinforce the impression of confusion and vulnerability.
And bruises. Cuts and bruises scattered across her face, fresh and old.
He saw other things, too. Subtler things. He saw the small creases beside her mouth, which hinted that she liked to smile, and the deep, impenetrable wall of sadness in her eyes that told him she no longer knew how. Everything about the woman was a contradiction, as mysterious and uncomfortable as the intense desire throbbing through him. For a crazy second, he wondered what she tasted like.
Maybe she’d hit her head when she’d fallen, but what was his excuse? Good thing he had the best poker face of anyone he knew.
He tried to stand, but something wouldn’t let him. It was as if an invisible chord linked them together. It forced his gaze to yet another part of her body, this time her damp T-shirt, which clung to her full breasts. “If you don’t answer me, I’m going to call a cab.”
Her brows crinkled in confusion.
“An ambulance,” he clarified. “We call them cabs.”
Whoa. He saw her muscles tense. She looked ready to bolt.
“Ch-chair…” she whispered, trying to push herself up. Mac shifted his grip so he cupped her elbow and easily helped her to her feet. Mindful of her slow, stiff gait, he led her to the green sofa set back several feet from the treadmill. “Water. Please,” she croaked out as she sat down.
“The bedrooms are clear,” Jase said as he walked into the room. From behind her, Jase shot him a questioning look.
“I’ll be right back. Stay with her.” Mac went into the kitchen, rifled through a couple of cabinets that were sparsely and immaculately ordered, but couldn’t find any glasses. He crouched down to check drawers. “Where are your glasses?” he called.
He barely heard her soft reply. “Paper cups on the counter two steps from the microwave.”
He grabbed one and filled it with filtered water from her refrigerator. She lifted her hand as he walked into the room and took the cup he offered. She took one long gulp, then several smaller ones.
She lowered the cup, keeping it clasped lightly between her palms, and stared at it. “Why are you here?”
“We’re with the California Department of—”
She lifted her face and looked at a point over his shoulder. “You said you’re a police officer.”
“Technically, yes. A detective, but for the state, which is why I’m called a special agent.”
“Whatever your title is, I already gave my report to Officer Munoz yesterday. Did you catch the man who attacked me? Is that why you’re here?”
The woman had been as wobbly as a wet noodle, covered in sweat, struggling for breath. In a manner of seconds, she’d gotten herself together. It was as if drinking a cup of water had filled her with a cool, calm composure—and a hint of animosity toward them. Why?
He chalked it up to some people just not liking cops, even though those same cops were actually trying to help them most of the time.
Jase cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows as if to ask, “Are we going to stand here all day?”
Mac’s eyes returned to the Jones woman. She stared unblinking, almost as if she was playing a game of chicken with him. She’d trembled beneath his touch. What would she do, what would Jase do—hell, what would
he
do—if he reached out and touched her again? As he’d predicted, as he’d hoped wouldn’t be the case, his reaction to meeting her in person was twice as intense as his reaction to researching her on the web. He didn’t like it. Not one damn bit.
Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he said, “I’m here to talk to you about the man who attacked you last night. But first…do you know Lindsay Monroe?”
She frowned. He wondered if she could fake confusion as easily as she faked calm. “Who?”
Her voice was stronger now, with a hoarseness that again evidenced the violence she’d suffered the day before. Somehow he knew, however, her voice would be naturally low. Sultry. But he needed to get back on track here.
“The name doesn’t sound familiar to you? Not at all?” he asked, testing her.
She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest even though one hand still held the cup of water. Her arms plumped her breasts up, and he vaguely wondered if she’d done it on purpose.
“Why don’t you stop playing games and tell me what this is about, Officer?”
“Special Agent. Or Detective,” Mac replied absently, his eyes still focused on her chest. Realizing that, he switched his gaze immediately to hers, but she kept her own eyes averted. “Patrol officers usually wear uniforms.” For some reason, that brought a flood of color to her cheeks.
“Listen,” he said. “I apologize for breaking in, but I heard you scream. I’ll send someone over to fix the door. But right now, I want to ask you some questions. We can go to the local police station if you prefer… .”
If possible, her face closed up even more. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Her vehement response made Mac pause. And instantly made him more suspicious. Why the hell was she being so prickly? “Is there something about me that troubles you, Ms. Jones?”
She licked her lips. “Other than you forcing your way into my home and scaring me half to death? Of course not. I already told you, I don’t know a Lindsay Monroe. And even if I did, what does she have to do with a burglar trying to kill me?”
“Quite a lot, considering your burglar might actually have killed Lindsay.” His voice was more gruff than he’d intended.
Her face drained of color.
“He already killed someone?” she repeated hoarsely. She touched her throat, as if remembering the feel of the intruder’s fingers trying to squeeze the life out of her.
Mac mentally cursed. Damn it, he shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. This woman had almost died at her attacker’s hands, and now she had to imagine another woman who hadn’t been able to escape the way she had. “Listen,” Mac said. “Let’s backtrack for a bit. You don’t remember meeting Lindsay, but how about Alex Hanes? Does that name sound familiar?”
“No. Should it?”
“Not necessarily. But I have some pictures I’d like you to look at.” He pulled the eight-by-ten glossies out of a folder and dangled both of them, side by side, in front of her face. She blinked, stared at the pictures impassively, then glanced away.
“I—I don’t recognize them and I don’t know what this is about. Now, will you both please leave?”
She sure was in a rush to get him out the door. “Why won’t you look at me, Ms. Jones?” Her refusal to do so ate at him, making him edgy—edgier—in a way it shouldn’t.
“Mac—”
Mac shot Jase a quelling look.
“Do you know the first thing they teach us at the academy? That refusal to make eye contact is a sign a person is hiding something. Are you hiding something, Ms. Jones?”
“Hey, Mac—”
Jase stopped when Mac glared at him again. Eyes narrowing, Jase crossed his arms, leaned back against the wall and motioned for him to continue.
The woman’s chin rose defiantly. “I know my rights. Unless you arrest me, I don’t have to go anywhere with you. And I don’t have to talk to you, either.”
“What makes you think I won’t arrest you?” he murmured, then immediately wished he could recall the words. Jesus, what was wrong with him? The woman wasn’t a suspect, but a victim of attempted murder. She was also a possible source of information in another murder investigation, and he was acting like an ass because she wouldn’t look at him? He ran a hand through his hair and struggled to regain his composure. “Look, you’re not under arrest and I don’t know how we got off to such a bad start. Again, I’m sorry we broke in. I was concerned when I heard you—”
A mechanical voice interrupted. “The time is 11:00 a.m.”
Silently she reached down and pressed a button on her watch.
Without looking down. And not before touching her hand first and trailing her fingers up to her wrist.
Mac stared at her for several long seconds. “Cool watch.” He took another look around, searching the sparsely decorated, dimly lit room through new eyes. Wide walkways. Everything pushed out of the way. Nothing to trip over. Cabinets precisely organized with everything in its place. A large swath cut around the treadmill as if anticipating the very thing that had happened earlier.
That’s when he spotted it. Tucked into the corner next to an upright piano. The white of the cane almost blended into the stark white of her walls.
A walking cane.
For someone who was blind.
Mac’s gaze bounced to her, then to Jase, who still leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. The other man’s expression said it all.
No shit, Sherlock.
CHAPTER FIVE
T
HE
SILENCE
STRETCHED
ON
for so long, Natalie wondered if the detectives had dematerialized. Like Captain Kirk and Spock in the old
Star Trek
shows her mother had watched incessantly. But no, a slight shifting of light indicated one of the detectives—Detective McKenzie, the one who’d touched her earlier—had moved closer to her.
“Did you lose your sight in some kind of accident?” he asked, his voice softened by what sounded like pity. Natalie’s spine immediately stiffened.
“What? No.”
“Your watch. Your walking cane. How long have you been blind?”
“What makes you think I wasn’t born blind?”
“You’re a photographer—”
“There are blind photographers,” she said, hating how waspish and defensive she sounded. “Evgen Bavcar for one. And Alice Wingwall, from the East Bay.”
“Somehow I don’t think NASCAR would have let you behind the wheel of one of their cars if you were blind, even if it was just to do one lap on opening day. That was what, about two years ago?”
She tried to keep the surprise off her face but knew she failed. Just as she probably failed to mask her regret. Driving a stock car had been an intense rush, and she’d enjoyed every minute of it, but she’d gladly trade the experience for the chance to see again. A little better. A little longer.
“You’ve made quite a name for yourself with the press. I didn’t have to look very hard to find out a whole lot about you. But there’s been absolutely no coverage about you being blind.” His voice lowered again. “When did it happen?”
His soft voice, tinged with a gentleness that suggested he actually cared, was like a needle stabbing at a raw wound. “That’s none of your business.”
She could practically hear him grind a layer of porcelain off his teeth. She saw a blur of movement and heard the rustling of clothes as he squatted in front of her. She strained to see his individual features but could only get an impression. First, of body heat, warm and intense. Then of scent, citrus and sandalwood. Then, for just a few seconds, her visions focused and gave her a hint of him. Stark. Angular. Dark brows that framed his eyes. A square, aggressive jaw.
Her fingers itched and her pulse sped up. It was a feeling she’d experienced often in her life, but one that took her by surprise now. After the farmers’ market, even when her vision had improved, not for one moment had she ever thought she’d take a picture again.
Now, she had the desperate urge to reach for her camera. To capture the pure aesthetic beauty that made up his face. His body. Unfortunately, her camera was out of reach. More importantly, it wasn’t as if she could ask the detective to strike a pose. Still, the rush of adrenaline she’d felt so many times in the past, the one that sped the creative muse through her system, prodding at her to take picture after picture, had made a rare and unexpected appearance. And with good reason.
For the first time in weeks, Natalie saw color outside her dreams. Well, not
really.
In reality, his countenance and everything around him were still shades of gray, but as she stared at him, her mind conjured up swatches of dark mocha, burnished gold and deep passionate reds and plums. Not soothing, by any means; not the cool blues and greens of the Greek Islands or the Cascade Mountains, but the deep fall colors of New England or the Italian countryside. Aged and weathered by the years to a sensual patina of decadence that made her all the more desperate to capture it on film.
She wasn’t sure how to handle it. Her comment about blind photographers to the contrary, she’d thought that was all behind her. That her passion
needed
to be put behind her. Exorcised. Excised. Ruthlessly cut off like an atrophied limb threatening to take blood the rest of her body needed to survive. Color was a memory to be gorged upon in sleep, just like feelings of peace and contentment, both stemming from the fact she had 20/20 vision in her dreams. Those weren’t things she could ever hope to experience again during her waking moments.
Now, she wasn’t so sure. Now, she didn’t know if she’d embraced Bonnie’s isolation theory out of pragmatism or fear. The notion that she could once again experience life as more than a monochromatic existence loosened something inside her that immediately unfurled and attempted to stretch its wings.
“I know what happened to you last night,” the detective said softly. “How scared you must be. Please, let’s start over. I’m not here to make things harder for you. I just need to ask you some questions about a case I’m working on. Can I do that?”
The movement inside her halted. Now he sounded as if he was trying to gentle a horse. Was her fear showing that much? Had she gotten that bad at maintaining her cool? Tremors ripped through her and she struggled to concentrate. To answer him. “I’m sor—”
The subtle contrast of light and dark in front of her blurred as he waved his hand in front of her face. Outraged, she threw up her hand to knock his away but ended up entangling their fingers instead. Before she could draw away, his fingers curled, trapping hers in a gentle but inescapable grip. Her body stiffened the way it had when he’d touched her earlier.
She yanked away and tucked both hands protectively underneath her thighs. “I’m legally blind, not completely blind. Not yet. I see hints of light and dark. Can often distinguish shapes.”
“You didn’t tell Officer Munoz any of this. At least, it’s not in his report. Why?”
She swallowed hard. Why? Because it was
her
business, not a stranger’s. Because she didn’t want anyone, not Officer Munoz, not
this
man, to know her weakness.
Weaknesses could be exploited.
“As you said, I’ve been in the public eye a lot. The press doesn’t know about my…condition. I want to keep it that way.”
He paused, then blew out a breath. She felt it disturb the air in front of her seconds before it caressed her face. Instinctively, she turned her head slightly, as if to maintain contact with it.
“Okay. So, in Officer Munoz’s report, the reason your identification of your attacker was so…vague…is because—”
“It was dark,” she whispered. “I—I was in the dark.”
Instead of blowing out his breath this time, he held it. The small reaction drew her figuratively closer. A rush of unexpected intimacy swirled around them, as if her words had suddenly transported them into the very darkness she’d spoken of.
It wasn’t a darkness that scared her. Instead, it was erotic. Heady.
Heavenly.
In her mind, it pressed her against him. Prompted him to put his arms around her. Made her nipples harden and her breath hitch and the spot between her legs ache. Heat fluttered its fingers across her entire body, not just warm but
hot
, banishing the coldness that had continued to cling to her over the past month. In the intimate space of the enclosure, she greedily reached for more, pressing harder against him, wanting to get inside him, wanting him inside her, big and thick and hard and ruthless, refusing to let her turn away or hide for one second longer—
“Ms. Jones?”
His fingers were wrapped around her arms, and he gave her a slight shake. Almost immediately, he released her, as if her heated skin had burned him. And not in a good way.
She blinked rapidly, willing herself out of her disorienting fantasy. Dear God, what had happened to her? Sex hadn’t interested her much when she’d been at her most sighted and adventurous. She tried to erect the mental barrier that would keep her calm. Protected. She couldn’t find it.
Desperately, she cleared her throat. “Per-perhaps you can tell me a bit more. Was Lindsay Monroe’s home burglarized, too? Does she live close by?”
After a beat or two, he spoke, but not to answer her question. In a deceptively mild voice, he asked, “Photography might not be your business anymore, but you still
take
pictures, don’t you?”
She bit her lip, wondering if he was purposely being cruel. “Why would you think that?”
“You talked about blind photographers. You’ve got a lot of fancy equipment here.”
He’d obviously spotted the massive console against the wall, the one she’d seen in the Philippines and immediately fallen in love with. Carved out of mahogany and accented with pewter handles and scrolled carvings, it now stored boxes of meticulously filed photographs, each group separated by dividers with embossed labels that had cost her a small fortune to have custom-made. A computer system rested on top of the console, including the oversize monitor with the attached magnifying screen. It mirrored the setup in her office. If she bent down and pressed her nose against it, she could sometimes discern the contrasting edges of images in her photographs, but only if she darkened the edges in Photoshop first. She’d had a short reprieve, but she knew someday she’d lose even that.
“I figured you still use it to—” he continued, jerking her from her thoughts. His incorrect assumption threatened to shatter what little composure she was clinging to.
“You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.” She struggled to breathe, wanting to cover her ears to block his clumsy questioning. Her fingers automatically climbed to her throat, brushing skin left tender from last night’s attack.
She dropped her hand. Suddenly all she could think about was getting them out. Out of her house.
Don’t fear your need for isolation,
Bonnie often said.
Embrace it. Go at your own speed. Take time to adjust before putting yourself out into the world again. That way, when you do, you’ll stay there. Happily.
Once more, she asked herself, pragmatism or fear? Right now, it didn’t matter.
“You’re right, I don’t know you. But I do know one thing. We have reason to believe the man who killed Lindsay Monroe may be the same man who attacked you last night.”
She felt the color drain from her face. She’d been expecting something bad, but not quite…that. “He killed her?” she repeated hoarsely, sinking back into her chair. Her fingers jumped to her throat again. Pressed against her fluttering pulse. “Did he—?”
“He killed her, a sixteen-year-old girl, and dumped her body for some fishermen to find.”
She sucked in a breath. Her gaze strained to distinguish the shadows of both men—she’d almost but not quite forgotten about the other one, but he’d stepped closer when Agent McKenzie had talked of the fishermen finding Lindsay.
They were both big. Agent McKenzie was a few inches shorter, but broader in the shoulders, with a hint of attitude that made him more intimidating than the taller man beside him. She imagined people gave them wide berth, both on the job and off. She felt their eyes laser into her, their curiosity keen.
“I’m Special Agent Jase Tyler, ma’am. You didn’t know Lindsay was murdered?” Despite his probing question, he sounded relaxed, his accent very much a drawl. She immediately pictured a cowboy, but one equally as comfortable in a Ferrari as he was on a horse. The image reminded her of something… . A horse? A car? Her brow furrowed before she forced it to relax. It didn’t matter.
A teenage girl had been murdered. Possibly by the same man whose fingers she could still feel staining her skin. She shook her head.
“No—no. Of course not. I don’t even know who Lindsay is—was. When—?”
“Her body was found about a month ago. Estimated time of death is anywhere from four to eight weeks before that. We have some leads, but after what happened to you last night, we were hoping for something more.”
“We were hoping you might have seen something that could help us catch Lindsay’s killer.” That came from Agent McKenzie.
He probably hadn’t meant to sound accusatory. Disappointed. But he did.
Helpless. Useless. That’s what she was without her sight. He might as well have come right out and said it.
“Is there anyone who might want to hurt you? A boyfriend? A former coworker? Someone you got into a fight with at the grocery store?”
“No! No one.”
His partner shifted position, then Agent McKenzie did the same. Her head swiveled back and forth between them, and her breath caught. It was difficult trying to keep a sense of both of them, which was adding to her unease. Her feeling of being out of control. She wished she knew something that could help, but—
“The cross pendant,” she suddenly remembered. “The one the officers found. It must belong to him—”
“We’re looking into that, but we need more. Maybe you remember other things. You guessed he was about five feet eight inches, muscular build. So you touched him?”
“I did more than touch him. We wrestled. Or maybe grappled is a better term.”
“Did he have long hair? Short?”
“Very short. Almost a crew cut. Nothing I could grab on to.”
“See, that’s good. We didn’t know that. How about words? Smells? When he spoke, did he sound familiar to you? Did he seem to know much about you? Did he say whether he was looking for something or was waiting for you specifically?”
Her anxiety increased as he continued to pepper her with questions. “No. He didn’t say anything like that. He said he was sorry a couple times. I didn’t really believe him, given he was still trying to kill me.” She heard the rising hysteria in her voice and bit her lip.
Stop, stop, stop. Hold it together, Natalie.
“It’s okay. I know this is hard for you, Ms. Jones.” She heard a swiping sound. Imagined him running his hand over his hair. What color was it? What did it feel like? What made her think that instead of being short and rough, like her attacker’s, it was thick and cool and would likely bring her the comfort he himself had been seeking? She twisted her hands together to keep herself from reaching out for him.
“We’ve already established you’re a celebrity in your own right, but you recently took a sudden hiatus from your career. Because you went blind?”
The sudden change in subject matter surprised her. Instantly made her suspicious. “Why is that relevant?” she asked automatically. Then, realizing how defensive she sounded even to herself, she held up her hand. “Never mind. I’m not trying to be difficult, honest. Just give me a second.”