He stopped, peering down the long row of plants, heart pounding in his thin chest. The beam of a flashlight swept back and forth, searching. Instinctively, he stepped off the path, hiding himself among the leaves.
In the glow of the flashlight, he saw a pair of legs and—
His eyes rounded. Fear clogged his throat, preventing him from screaming.
He backed away. Tripped and went sprawling on his rear. Bolted to his feet and ran.
No! Get away!
No, no, no . . .
“Ahhh!”
Howard jerked awake, panting, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. The storm raging in his brain slowly quieted as the terror of the dream receded.
“God,” he rasped. “What the hell
is
that?” Hand shaking, he wiped a trickle of sweat off his brow and shook his head to clear the sticky tendrils of fear. Calm his thundering heart. Again.
Months of this weird nightly film reel attacking his sleep was getting to him. He had no freaking idea what the dream-turned-nightmare meant, beyond the hellish, scattered recollections of his childhood.
Okay, so the nightmare wasn’t all fragmented nonsense, if he admitted the truth. The abuse had been real enough, as had his mother’s garden. His haven. He vaguely remembered how, as a small boy, he’d loved the plants, the smell of fresh soil.
The garden was one of only two positive memories he had of his first home, the one he’d shared with his biological parents. The other was how much his mother had loved him—before she’d run off for parts unknown, leaving him to suffer at the hands of a violent man. But not for long. His father had been dead and buried for over thirty years. Thank God Bentley and Georgeanne Mitchell had swooped in to rescue a half-dead little boy from a hellish existence.
As for the recurring terror, he’d told no one about the onslaught. Bentley and Georgie would understand and want to help, but he’d held back from worrying them. He couldn’t do that to Sean, either. The poor guy had a real-life horror to survive. He didn’t need to deal with a best friend who just might be going crazy.
With a groan, Howard rolled onto his side and peered at the digital clock on the nightstand. Two thirty in the afternoon? What a shameful waste of a nice Sunday. On the bright side, he’d managed nearly six hours of blessed sleep before the rude awakening.
Untangling himself from the sheets, he pushed out of bed and padded for the kitchen to switch on the coffeemaker. No matter the time of day, becoming conscious called for java. The juice of life, and his worst vice. Yes, he worshipped the god of Starbucks. Too bad he hadn’t invested early.
The coffee brewing, he headed for the bathroom to shave and shower. Twenty minutes later, he was dressed in clean jeans and a black T-shirt, sipping his brew at the kitchen table.
And eyeballing the phone on the counter. To call or not to call? His stomach knotted. Jesus, he sucked at the boy-meets-girl thing, and his track record with sustaining a long-term relationship blew. Call it a catch-22 brought about by his own choice of company. Most of the women he’d dated in recent years wanted to sleep with him, period. Minus the sleeping part. The ones who started talking his and hers toothbrushes, he broke things off with quick. And yeah, for a while he’d let his happy cock do all the thinking. He was a man with intense sexual desires, after all.
Eventually, however, the casual sex left him feeling lonely and used. Yet the thought of being emotionally vulnerable to a woman, depending on her for his happiness? The idea congealed a ball of cold, greasy nausea in his belly.
He’d abstained from women for about a year, trying to figure out a solution to his problem. Julian, incredulous, had said he’d lost his effing mind. Why should a confirmed bachelor fix what isn’t broken? Maybe the guy was right about this one point.
He was stinking tired of his own company. Meeting Kat last night had been his breaking point. The girl had a quirky sense of humor, was educated, gorgeous, lush, and unless he’d missed his guess . . .
willing
. She’d all but invited him to take her on an adventure neither of them would forget. Just fantasizing about the various ways he’d deliver caused his shaft to harden and push against the zipper of his jeans. Why fight the attraction?
Crossing to the counter, he nearly tore the junk drawer off the track by yanking it open to grab the phone book. Quickly, he flipped it open to the M’s. “McKenna-comma-Katherine. There!”
Punching in the number, he waited, assailed by a sudden case of nerves. He wasn’t used to assuming the role of pursuer. What if he screwed up? What if he’d misread her signals or—
“Hello?” a soft, groggy voice greeted him.
Christ, she was still in bed. “Um, Kat?”
A hesitation. “Yes?”
“It’s Howard Paxton. From last night.”
“Oh!” A rustle. “Howard! Hey, what’s up?”
He closed his eyes, barely stifling a groan. “I was wondering, that is, I thought maybe you’d like to—”
“Absolutely!”
His eyes popped open. “Ah . . .”
“I’m sorry,” she laughed, now sounding merry and fully awake, and not the least bit apologetic. “I suppose I should wait and let you finish. What do you have in mind?”
Uh, I’d like you to go down on me until I come so hard I shrivel like plastic wrap?
He cleared his throat. “Well, I thought I could take you over to check on your parents’ house, then maybe we could grab a bite to eat? Casual, nothing fancy.”
“Sounds great. What time?” The smile in her voice practically lit his kitchen through the phone.
“I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”
“I’m still in bed!”
“No complaints here.” He sighed.
“What?”
“Nothing. Half an hour. Jeans and a T-shirt are all you need for what I have in mind. No makeup, either.”
“Ohh, you’re an evil man, Lieutenant Paxton,” she drawled. “Remember, when the swamp monster answers my door, you asked for it. I guess we’ll find out right off the bat what you’re made of, huh?”
Her teasing warmed him, inside and out. “Tough stuff, Miss McKenna. Bulletproof.”
“We’ll see, big guy. Need directions?”
“Sure.” He fumbled for a sticky note and pen, scribbling the route to her apartment ten minutes away. “Got it.”
“Thirty minutes, then. Bye, Howard.”
Hanging up, he replaced the phone in the cradle, let out a whoop and punched his fist in the air. Who cared if he was acting like a lovestruck teenager? Talking to Kat for five minutes had worked a miracle.
Grinning, he realized he looked forward to spending the afternoon with her more than he ever had with any woman.
Down, boy.
He snatched his denim jacket from the arm of the living room sofa and shrugged it on. On the way through the kitchen, he scooped up his key ring and headed out the door into the attached garage. His mammoth Ford F-250 and stout Harley motorcycle were parked side by side.
“Oh yeah, babe. Let’s see what
you’re
made of.”
He swung onto the Harley and cranked the ignition. The machine roared to life as he hit the garage door opener, then pulled on his helmet. Whoops, the extra helmet.
Dismounting, he jogged to his workbench, retrieved the one he’d purchased for his last girl-dash-friend and hoped Kat wouldn’t mind too much. How else did a guy happen to have a female-sized helmet lying around?
He strapped it onto the back, resumed his seat, and drove out of the garage. As he guided the bike carefully down the drive, he happened to glance to the right, toward his front door. A flutter of paper caught his eye and he slowed, raising the sun visor of his helmet.
A white, letter-sized envelope was stuck between the screen door and frame, about chest high. A note from one of his “brothers” at the station? Nah, they’d have called. Something about a letter in his door struck him as strange. Whoever put it there hadn’t seen fit to simply ring the doorbell and talk to him in person? The fact didn’t rest easy.
He paused. Almost got off the bike to fetch it.
No. For personal business or pleasure, anyone who mattered knew how to reach him. The envelope could wait. He had more important places to be.
A very special lady to impress.
Smiling, he lowered the visor, opened the throttle, and let the horses run. As he reached the end of the street, a glimpse in his rearview mirror gave him a start. For a second, he could’ve sworn he’d spotted a figure standing in the shade of the oak tree in his front yard.
At the stop sign, he braked and whipped his head around.
Arson, murder, sleep and sex deprivation, strange envelopes, and now hallucinations. There was no one under the damned tree, but . . .
The ominous foreboding returned.
Like he’d been strapped into a car with no brakes and pushed toward a cliff. His life, about to spiral out of control, a phantom calling the shots.
With one major difference. He was no longer the starving, beaten little mouse he’d been as a kid. These days, any fool who wanted a piece of Howard Paxton would receive a proper attitude adjustment.
Trouble?
Bring it on.
Throwing back the covers, Kat leapt out of bed and dashed for the closet. Thirty minutes! Was Howard really so eager to see her again he couldn’t wait for a girl to look halfway decent? Or maybe half an hour seemed an eternity to a man used to hitting the door in thirty seconds. Making split-second decisions that saved lives.
Pawing through her jeans, she decided the second explanation suited the lieutenant better. He didn’t strike her as a rash person, but a steady rock. In complete control. A man who set his sights on a goal and followed through, no fuss. Wishful thinking? Maybe, but based on their brief, pleasant encounter last night, albeit under awful circumstances, she didn’t think so.
As a teacher, she spent hours on end working with the varying personalities of students, parents, and staff. She liked to believe that over these first five years of her fledgling career, she’d become pretty good at reading people.
Every instinct told her that with Howard, what you see is what you get.
And so far, Kat liked what she saw.
Excitement rippled through her, settling as a quivering bubble in her tummy. Yeah, the man might end up being a toad, turn the nice fizzy feeling to acid indigestion, but so what? That was the risk anyone took when getting to know someone new, and something told her Howard was worth a Hail Mary.
Chewing her lip in indecision, she finally selected a pair of old, comfortable jeans. They were broken in, faded but not frayed, and hugged her full figure in gentle curves without looking painted on. Next, she jerked a green babydoll T-shirt off the hanger and held it up, debating. The color complemented her eyes, and the shirt, her favorite, sported the winged Aerosmith logo across the chest in dark print.
The clingy T-shirt emphasized her generous breasts, creating the impression that “the girls” might take flight, wings and all. Rod—what an unfortunate, ironic name—had hated the shirt. Or rather, the stares that somehow never found her face when she wore it.
The few painful months with Rod had been a real eye-opener. When they met, she hadn’t had a lot of experience with men, save her own family. Still didn’t. The men in her family cherished their women, adored them. Rod put on a good front, at first.
Then came the friendly “suggestions” concerning her appearance.
Your clothes are too tight, Katherine. Darling, you know I love you, but you just don’t have the figure to carry off what you’re wearing. Really, hip huggers and a belly button ring
?
She gave an inch, and he quickly graduated to criticism. His constant disapproval had put a chink in her armor. But he hadn’t pierced it. Thanks to her folks and her sister, she was made of tougher stuff than that. Fed up, she’d given Flaccid Man the boot, and hadn’t looked back.
With an impish smile, Kat carried the clothes into her bedroom. “The lieutenant prefers the natural look? Fine.”
Whistling, Kat discarded her pajamas and dressed quickly, opting for comfy tennis shoes. In the tiny bathroom, she tamed her bed head, leaving it loose around her shoulders, then brushed her teeth. Finished, she peered into the mirror and grimaced.
Ugh. The natural girl look had limits, and the smoke-induced saddlebags perched on top of her cheekbones must go. Brandishing a tube of concealer like Excalibur, she dabbed and smudged the puffiness into submission. Sort of. The results were anything but magical, her appearance only slightly less scary. Cheating just a bit, she dusted her cheeks with a tiny amount of blush to avoid greeting the poor man looking as though she had the flu.
This done, Kat searched the medicine cabinet for eye drops. Her throat was a little sore and her blood-shot eyeballs felt like they’d been battered and fried, another gift from last night. But at least she was alive this morning to complain, unlike the person murdered in Joan and Greg’s house.
Squeezing a couple of drops in each eye, she blinked away the grit, Howard’s chilling words a mantra in her brain. A body,
badly burned.
Kat shivered, recalling how the fire spread from the center of the living room outward. Deliberately set. God, she’d missed the killer by a matter of moments. Who would do something so horrible, and why? She hoped the police caught the monster fast, but the sad fact was they might never find the answers.