John’s hand squeezed painfully tight. Just as quickly, his fingers eased their grip. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. So you beat this bastard, right?”
In a way, she supposed she’d defeated her ex the morning she’d awoken in the hospital and decided that weekend of terror would never happen again. “I got my divorce, sent Danny to prison and had Travis all in the same year.”
The stroke of John’s thumb stopped. This time the curse was audible. “Travis is the product of your husband raping you?”
Maggie nodded. She reached out to hold on to John’s hand with both of hers, easing his temper and rediscovering some of her own strength. “I haven’t told Trav. I may never tell him. It’s not like Danny wants to be a part of his life. Why tell my son he was born out of anything besides my love for him?”
“How long has Danny been out of prison?” John’s fingers danced across the palm of her hand, sending a riot of goose bumps up her arm and kindling a slower, more languid heat inside.
Maggie wondered if John was finding comfort in these simple touches across the table, too. “Long enough for him to show up as a person of interest on the task force’s suspect list. His term in Jefferson City ran about the same time that the Rose Red Rapist stopped his attacks here in K.C.”
“Do you think he’s the serial rapist?”
She’d been wondering that ever since the day of the first task force meeting when her ex’s name had come up. “I never thought he’d hurt anybody but me. But I know that officers from KCPD have talked to him since he was released from prison.”
“So even if he’s not this Rose Red guy, he probably associates you with the police investigating him. That could explain the calls and the late-night visit.”
“Isolation is a classic tactic of abusive men.” She shivered at the idea Danny would have deliberately sabotaged her phone so that she couldn’t have contact with anyone until he was ready to talk to her himself. She knew what she had to do. “I’ll report the calls, the fire—everything—to the task force when we meet tomorrow.” She glanced over at the clock on the stove. “Or rather, later this morning.”
John read the clock, too, and pulled his hand away. “In the meantime, we’re looking out for a man with a shaved head and tattoos.”
Missing the warmth of his touch, Maggie tucked her legs up to her chest again. It was a little unnerving to realize that he’d paid such close attention to the comments she’d made during that first panic attack when he’d been moving in. Still, John was a civilian now. And as much as she appreciated his concern tonight, and how talking things through was starting to calm her fears, she knew she shouldn’t ask for more from him. “
I’m
looking out for a man like that.”
“Without any backup? What are they teaching at the police academy these days?” He leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his hand over the beard growth dusting his jaw. “You got a picture of this guy?”
With a wry laugh, she turned toward the bubbling sounds of the hot kettle on the stove. “Strangely enough, I didn’t want to keep any.”
“Do you have an address on the exterminator company he works for?”
Needing to take charge of something and move, Maggie got up to turn off the kettle before the whistle shrieked and woke Travis. “I’m sure it’ll be easy to find. It’s on my to-do list. I’ll have a chat with Travis to remind him about staying safe, too.”
“I’ll have a look around the building tomorrow. Make sure I’m familiar with all the access points and exits here.” She heard the chair scooting across the tile behind her and knew he was getting up. “I think I’ll follow up on some of Joe’s repair work, too.”
“And what, check for signs of sabotage?” She poured the hot water over the tea bags in each mug before turning. “John, I’m not asking you to do anything like that.”
“You worried I can’t do the job?” he asked.
Why would he think… Oh. Her gaze lighted on his leg at just the wrong time, and his posture instantly changed. In the space of a heartbeat, the warmth and concern and soothing comfort he’d brought with him vanished. “I didn’t mean—”
“Fine.” He’d already backed through the archway and was heading through the living room. “But you get a coworker to walk you to your car and get Standage to make sure the outside doors stay locked. Have him put up a security camera—”
“John.”
Don’t stand there, Maggie. Don’t let him leave like this.
Do it.
Maggie hurried after him. “John Murdock.” The muscles in his forearm bunched beneath her hand when she stopped him at the door. With a gentle tug, she asked him to face her and read the sincerity in her eyes. “I don’t doubt your abilities or your good intentions for one moment. You’re a marine. Wounded or not, you’re not afraid to go into battle. But this isn’t your fight. I’m a cop. I’m trying to protect you.” She wasn’t sure if it was his arm or her fingers quivering where they still touched, but she knew she didn’t want to pull away. “You don’t know my ex. Danny claims he’s changed. But the man I knew was violent and unpredictable. Smart, too. Sometimes, he’d just blow up and lose his temper. Those episodes were shocking and painful, but at least I knew they would end. I could recover from them and move on.”
“What about the other times?”
Damn, the man was tall. And broad. And when he faced her like this, Maggie felt exposed and feminine and vulnerable. But he didn’t need to know the details about Danny’s traps and cruel, calculating games. He only had to be warned. “I don’t want to form a neighborhood watch against Danny. He’ll strike out at anyone who gets in his way. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me.”
“Don’t worry, Sarge. I’m all heroed-out. I just want to do a little poking around. Find out if anyone else around here needs to be worried about what your ex might try to pull. I’d like to know if the things happening around here are deliberate or spur-of-the-moment, and if Danny has any friends in the building.”
She braced her hand at the center of his chest, petting him, gentling him, begging him to understand. “John, I’m not asking you to do anything like that.”
“I’m volunteering.”
“Why?”
He covered her hand with his. “Because some things are worth fighting for. Like the daughter of a fellow marine. The safety of the people where I live. The idea that a woman shouldn’t have to take crap like that from any man. It doesn’t matter whether it’s my battle. It needs to be fought.”
Some things are worth fighting for.
She’d uttered the same words to Chief Taylor when he’d asked her to join the task force. The echo of that sentiment resonated deep inside her, telling her she had more in common with John Murdock than sharing the same address. “I thought you were all
heroed-out.
”
“Maybe I’d just like to be able to sleep at night.”
Her gaze dropped to the clasp of their hands. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to be strong and independent. I never wanted my problems to become anyone else’s.”
A callused finger slipped beneath her chin and tilted her face back to his. “Would he use Travis to get to you? Like he used your daughter?”
Her silence was answer enough. John brushed a rebellious strand of copper hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. And then, after a moment’s hesitation and a catch of breath between them, he dipped his head and covered her mouth with his.
John’s kiss was no-nonsense. There was no tentative exploration, no forceful claim. His lips moved over hers gently but surely. He smelled of smoke and dust and man, and Maggie couldn’t imagine anything more empowering than answering his sensuous request. Maggie’s lips parted, clung, explored with surprising welcome. Her hand drifted up to the strong line of his jaw and she tickled her sensitive palm against the soft rasp of beard stubble there. She hadn’t kissed a man since Danny. Hadn’t wanted to.
But she wanted this. She needed this. She’d had no idea how much she craved this intimate, human contact.
John’s kiss was about trading warmth and support. It was about the surprise of the unexpected tension sizzling between them. It was about talking and listening and understanding each other in a way that only two people so wounded by life could fully comprehend.
It was a kiss that ended so abruptly that Maggie swayed on her feet.
But two strong hands were there to catch her. The room was still spinning when John leaned in to rest his forehead against hers. Her eyes popped open to look up into a sea of deep green flecked with shards of gold.
“I don’t know how you’re doing this to me, Sarge. I’m not ready to feel anything.”
She wasn’t ready to be having feelings for someone either. But ill-timed or unexpected as the tenuous emotions might be, there they were, taking root inside her. So she had no answer for him. The Marines had landed in her life, and she wasn’t strong enough to keep pushing this one away.
“I’m keeping an eye on the place,” he promised. “And on the two of you. Until you tell me otherwise, we’re in this fight together.”
Chapter Eight
“So KCPD’s finest haven’t been able to figure out squat yet.”
He turned the black newsprint to the single lamp that illuminated the dark office and smiled at the news story in the early edition of the
Kansas City Journal.
Hot off the presses. The ink was fresh enough to smell, and if he used his imagination, the paper was still warm to the touch. He trailed his finger along each line of the story.
It started with a historical account of what had been labeled a “troubling chain” of sex crimes attributed to a single, unknown attacker. Then it went on to make mention of his latest conquest, calling her “the stepdaughter of one of Kansas City’s wealthiest businessmen.” Wealthy? Beautiful? Entitled? Then the woman deserved to be taken down a peg. He’d done the city a great service.
The woman’s injuries got less comment than the discussion of her stepfather’s assets and a lame quote about how a “substantial reward will be offered” for any solid leads on the attack. The story mentioned Fairy Tale Bridal Shop and a street name, but there wasn’t even a description of a vehicle or alleged attacker mentioned.
For all the fine writing, there really wasn’t a lot of meat to the story. There was more talk about the commissioner announcing a new task force than there was about anything else. It was a weak story. Far too weak. He read few facts beyond the names of the police officers, advisers and support staff assigned to the investigation.
One. Two. Three women’s names were listed. He stroked his finger across each one. These women had no power over him. They couldn’t touch him, couldn’t hurt him. And this one woman, Maggie Wheeler—make that
Sergeant
Maggie Wheeler—had the nerve to brag that she’d been the first one to break any kind of lead on the case when she’d gotten the witness to open up to her.
A familiar, predatory urge stirred in his loins.
Maggie Wheeler. Worthless bitch. She only thought she’d gotten something useful from her interview with the blonde woman.
There was something extraordinarily satisfying about outsmarting the entire police department, about putting these women in their place. His nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply and savored the triumph coursing through his veins.
“Not a clue,” he gloated. “Not one, single clue.”
Yet a niggling bit of annoyance whispered in his ear. He hadn’t done enough to assuage the hurt yet. The story wasn’t important enough to make the front page.
He
wasn’t important enough to be taken seriously. The Gabriel Knight article was buried on the second page between a political cartoon and an advertisement for a local theater.
“That’s a good thing.”
The voice in his head tried to reason with the rage brewing inside him.
“You can’t hide in the shadows any longer if you’re plastered all over the front page. You made a mistake, had a moment of weakness. But you’re better than that. You can control this.”
That’s right. He was in control. No beautiful damn woman would ever make a fool of him again.
He reached the end of the column and saw that the article was continued on the last page of the section. The last page? He hadn’t even merited a proper headline and now he was just a to-be-continued in the local paper? His breath constricted in his lungs and he rubbed at his chest.
“Ah, hell.” He’d smeared a black mark across his clean T-shirt.
Angrily, he shot to his feet and tossed the newspaper onto the chair. He peeled off the shirt en route to the nearest bathroom and folded it into a neat rectangle before dropping it into the bag beside the sink.
“Easy,”
the voice warned.
“You don’t want anyone to know the truth.”
“Shut up.” He railed against the face staring back from the mirror over the sink. He was a handsome enough man, wasn’t he? He had a job. He’d made a whole damn career for himself. People should respect him. But it wasn’t good enough.
He
wasn’t good enough.
“That’s not true,”
the voice was quick to argue.
“You’ve taken a few hits, but you’re a good man. Take a deep breath. Get a grip before you get yourself into trouble again.”
Get a grip?
He slowly opened his fisted hands and grimaced at the black ink staining every finger. He was dirty. An abhorrent sourness churned in his gut and he nearly retched.
His own thoughts, as well as the voice, went silent as he turned on the hot water and pumped palmfuls of soap into his hands. He scrubbed and scrubbed at the ink until his fingers were clean and the skin was pink. He splashed more soap and water on his face, then reached into his bag for a bottle of hand sanitizer and a clean shirt.
He wasn’t sure how many minutes passed before the fog of his obsession cleared from his brain and he heard a knock at the bathroom door. He froze at the sound. How long had that person been listening in? How long had he been in here, washing away the filth and the rage?
“It’s time.”
His voice sounded surprisingly normal as he answered the summons to the morning meeting. “I’ll be right there.”