And while Carey didn’t trust easily or often, her instincts told her she would be safe with Detective Truman for now. Not that she relied too heavily on her instincts. She’d been wrong about Mark, wrong about her father and wrong about so many things before.
She’d keep her time with Detective Truman short—a few days at most. He’d get her out of the city and make it easier to run without Mark following her.
She trailed him inside the house. It was a bachelor pad, but a clean one. No knickknacks and no pictures. He didn’t have a kitchen table, likely eating his meals at the breakfast bar or in the living room on his black leather couch. She wrinkled her nose. Black leather. Blah.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, catching her expression.
“Nothing.”
“It’s okay, you can tell me. Do you need something? Is your arm bothering you?”
Her arm was fine. Her ribs were throbbing, but she wasn’t fixating on that. “It’s your couch.” She blushed, regretting her criticism. It wasn’t like her apartment would be featured in a home decorating magazine anytime soon.
He glanced into the living room, a look of confusion on his face. “What about it?”
Polite response? “It’s so manlike.”
Detective Truman tossed her a crooked grin. “I am a man.”
Yes, he was. A big one. A handsome one. Impossible not to notice.
He grinned at her. “Try it,” he said, gesturing toward the couch.
Had she spoken aloud? “What?”
“Have a seat. Flip on the TV. You’ll see the magic. I’m going to grab a few things from upstairs. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Okay.” Carey wandered into the living room and plopped down on the couch. It wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought leather couches were for frat boys and playboys, but this was nice. She ran her hands over the cushion and inhaled the smell of it. It was supple and soft. Her nerves shot lust into her veins. Yeah, the couch was magic.
How many women had fallen under Detective Truman’s charms in this exact place? And why did it bother her to think about him spending the night curled up with a woman?
Carey picked up the remote from the coffee table and flipped on the television. Sports network. Of course. She leaned back, letting her body sink into the plush cushions. She nearly let out a moan, somewhere between pleasure and pain. The pain in her ribs intensified when she reclined and since the aspirin had worn off and without adrenaline propelling her, her body caved in to the ache.
“Comfortable?” Detective Truman asked.
Carey opened her eyes and straightened. “It’s nice.”
Detective Truman dropped his bag on the floor and sat next to her. “Perfect place to watch football.”
“My father used to...” She let her voice drift away. It had been a long time since she’d spoken of her father and the mention of him cut to the quick. The rawness hadn’t gone away and the wound seeped inside her chest. She forced down her grief, trying to think about something else as she fought tears.
“It’s okay to let it out,” Detective Truman said, tucking his arm around her shoulder. “You’ve been through a rough time.”
He had no idea. The heaviness in her chest was suffocating. “My father died recently.”
“I’m sorry,” he said into her hair, moving her closer to him.
His hand rubbed her shoulder, providing comfort she hadn’t had in months. She sank against him, needing this more than she’d realized.
“I miss him sometimes.” All the time. A constant yearning she’d only dealt with by ignoring it when she could.
“Is that why you’re alone?” he asked, his voice unbearably tender, his fingers massaging her with the right amount of pressure and gentleness, her body relaxing under his touch.
Tears she’d fought spilled over and she pressed her face into his shoulder, hiding them. After all these months, she should have healed more, should have been coping better. The heart-wrenching grief hadn’t loosened its hold. “Yes. It’s why I’m alone.” Without her father, her world had fallen apart. Her good friend had died in a car accident. The people she had trusted left her. Mark had betrayed her. Her life as she knew it had ended.
Detective Truman stroked her hair gently and reached for a tissue on the side table. He palmed her chin and dabbed at her eyes. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Everything in her responded to his words. Her heart surged and her mind cried out with pleasure. As desperate as it was, they were words she had longed to hear. She didn’t need forever; she needed not to feel this lonely for a little while. So many reasons to keep her distance from this man and yet she reached for him, skimming her fingers down his arm to his hand. He tensed slightly but didn’t pull away. He was too handsome for his own good, said all the right things, and his confidence drew her, awakening her slumbering desire, tempting her to touch him, taste him.
She moved her hand under his. “Detective Truman?”
He looked at their joined hands. “Reilly. Just Reilly.” His voice was gruff. She affected him. It sent a secret thrill across her belly.
“Reilly.” His name rolled across her tongue. “Why are you doing this?”
He swallowed hard. “Doing what?”
She leaned closer to him. “You don’t have to take care of me.” But she loved that he was.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
“Gut feeling.”
She moved her fingers to interlace with his, in part to test his reaction. His jaw flexed and he looked at her. His eyes were filled with emotions she couldn’t read.
A second later Reilly came to his feet, pulling his hand away, and she fell forward on the couch, catching herself on her hands. Her arm burned, slamming her back into reality.
He looked blankly away from her at some point on the wall. “We need to get moving.”
What had she been trying to do? Touching him that way had been a mistake. She was lonely and hurting and she’d made an error in judgment. His rejection stung worse than it should have. She stood, humiliation darkening her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you.”
Reilly waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it again. You’re going through a rough time.”
Carey swallowed hard and blotted out the sense of longing he’d roused. She’d been going through a rough time for too long. She couldn’t explain it, not without sounding like an overemotional lunatic, so she stayed quiet and followed him to his car. Working to put herself together, she focused on getting out of the city and where she’d go and what she’d do next.
Staying with Reilly wasn’t possible, not without one or both of them getting hurt.
Chapter 4
C
arey fiddled with the car’s radio buttons, looking for a station with music that wouldn’t worsen her headache or make the mood in the car too mushy. She was already feeling exposed, having made the mistake of holding Reilly’s hand and being rejected. Setting the wrong tone made her feel embarrassed all over again. He wasn’t behaving as if it was a big deal and she tried to write it off in her mind. Mistake with a capital M.
He was a good-looking man and he wasn’t interested in her. She could handle that. She could move on. She was an expert at moving on.
Her hand froze over the dial when she heard the Vagabond Killer mentioned.
“...known as the Vagabond Killer. The Denver police are questioning a witness who survived one of the killer’s attacks and is reportedly able to identify him.”
Embarrassment rushed out of her and was replaced by fear.
Reilly reached for her hand and moved it away from the radio dial. “Let’s switch to satellite radio. We don’t need to hear the news.”
The contact sent plumes of fire licking at her skin. She set her hands in her lap. A casual touch shouldn’t evoke a heated response. “They were talking about the case. It’s already hit the streets. I’ll bet my picture is everywhere.”
“We knew this would happen and that’s why we’re leaving the city. There’s nothing you can do about the case now, so try to put it out of your mind.”
Carey closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The case she could block. The possibility that Mark was en route to Denver to find her chilled her to the core. Could Reilly protect her? She glanced at him, taking in the rough cut angles of his face and the strength of his body. Good looking didn’t begin to describe him. Carey had trouble pretending her attraction to him was nil. What mattered most was his ability to protect her, his strength, and the street smarts to keep one step ahead of someone tracking her. He seemed to have a surplus of that. The handsome part she needed to forget.
They drove for an hour, the radio playing an endless stream of songs. Carey focused on the lyrics, anything not to think about Mark hunting her. Reilly finally broke the silence between them. “I need to stop and get some coffee.” He turned the car onto the off ramp of the interstate.
“I could drive for a while if you want,” Carey said. He looked tired and she wondered when he’d last slept.
He raised his eyebrow. “Do you have a driver’s license?”
“No.” She’d had a driver’s license and a nice car, but those things were a part of the past. Carey Smith had neither.
“Then, no, you can’t drive.” His voice was tinted with amusement.
They drove into a gas station and he pulled into one of the parking spaces next to the minimart. Only one other car was parked, another filling up their tank at the gas pump.
Reilly turned off the ignition. “You want anything to eat?”
“Sure. I could go for some food.”
He’d grabbed a box of crackers from his house before they’d left and she’d eaten most of them. She mentally calculated how much money she had and figured she could spare a dollar or two from the emergency cash jammed in her duffel bag.
They went inside, Reilly threading through the aisles of snack foods and traveler conveniences to the coffee bar. Carey kept her head down as she followed after him. The store was mostly empty, but she didn’t want to chance anyone recognizing her.
The coffee smelled as if it had been sitting since the morning, brown stains burnt to the side of the glass pots. Reilly didn’t seem to mind and he snatched a gallon-sized jug from the line of cups and filled it, adding sugar and cream. He gestured around the store. “Get anything you want. We have another seven hours on the road.”
Carey’s stomach growled and she took Reilly’s advice, picking up a bag of pretzels and a bag of gummy worms. Reilly added a few items to their order, including some shrink-wrapped subs with wilted lettuce. He insisted on paying. They gathered their stash and returned to the car.
“Thank you for this,” she said, gesturing to the food in her lap.
“It’s nothing.”
But it was something to her. No one had bought her anything in the last year. Not a birthday present. Not a greeting card. Her throat grew tight. His kindness touched her deeply. He’d think she was overreacting, so she turned her attention to the window.
He pulled to the filling station and got out to pump his gas. Carey tore into her gummy worms.
She watched Reilly, his torso visible through the window. He was a magnificent specimen of a man, and beneath his jacket and dress shirt, she guessed she’d find pumped biceps and a tight stomach. What woman wouldn’t take notice? Not that she had delusions about him. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in pursuing a physical relationship with her and she doubted he desired any relationship at all. She didn’t blame him.
She was lonely. Needy. On the run. Her life was a mess. He had his together.
But he had ignited something in her blood. He made her feel alive. And she liked how it felt to be back among the living. She imagined kissing him, running her hands over his bare skin, nibbling on his earlobes. Nothing so detailed that she got lost in her fantasies, but enough to keep tension humming in her veins.
If Reilly kissed her, his lips would be soft, yet firm, commanding and giving, hungry and satisfying. His mouth would close over hers and in that moment, he would own her. And if they made love, she would climb on top of him and then she would own him. She smiled at the idea, at owning a man like Reilly, even for a night. Undoubtedly, it would be amazing.
But Reilly had other ideas. They were witness and detective, plain and simple, and Reilly seemed intent on keeping it that way.
* * *
Carey fell asleep curled against the inside of the car door, another sweatshirt she’d pulled from her duffel across her upper body like a blanket, her empty bags of food on the floor by her feet.
No one had followed them from Denver. For long stretches of highway, they’d been alone.
Reilly took another swallow of coffee and glanced over at her serene face, the red hair falling across it. For the hundredth time that day, he wondered about her, about the man she was terrified of and why she thought running was the only option. In the short time he’d known her she seemed to behave like two different women. Scared Carey, who wanted to flee and hide, was a direct contrast to bold Carey, who had interrupted a stabbing in progress, who’d stroked his arm with delicate fingers, who’d smirked at him in a way that made his mind leap to all kinds of lusty possibilities. His gaze did a slow slide down her body.
She had a “come here and touch me” look. A look he had to ignore. Of course his body had its own ideas about what he should do and most of its suggestions had everything to do with touching her.
Reilly had to maintain his objectivity and getting involved with a woman—especially a witness—would cloud his judgment and compromise the investigation. He couldn’t allow the Vagabond Killer to remain on the streets on a technicality. Like one of the detectives on the case sleeping with a witness.
Carey would be safe with him and his family until they caught the guy and brought Carey in to do a lineup. Only Vanessa and the lieutenant knew he was planning to take her to his parents’ ranch outside Ashland, and Carey had told him she didn’t need to contact anyone before leaving. That hadn’t surprised him. People on the run didn’t make friends and they didn’t trust easily.
But she had trusted him when she’d agreed to come to his family’s home. He wouldn’t take that trust lightly and would do everything he could to keep it.