Christmas Angel (6 page)

“You mean your cowboy friend?” she asked, catching a dribble of water on her chin.

Shado gave her a puzzled look. “Right.” Surely, the hat was a dead giveaway he was a Texas transplant, because he hadn’t mentioned it to her. “Are you okay?” She nodded.

He drew his hand down his cheek as he stepped from the room to find his “cowboy friend.” He found him seated in the waiting area.

“How’s she doing?” Gleason stood.

“She wolfed down that sandwich like nobody’s business. But she’s scared out of her mind she’s going to jail.” He blew out a frustrated sigh. “There’s no way I can let her stay in some holding cell. Besides, what if she happens to remember something? You heard the doc. She needs to be supervised for at least twenty-four hours.”

Gleason tilted his head and eyed him. “Boy, what is rattling around in your head?”

Shado rolled his shoulders and ran his hands down his face, mentally exhausted from his day. Truth was, he’d been battling a gnawing feeling in his gut ever since he laid eyes on the woman. Her clothes. Her story. Her perceived innocence. None of it added up. He was partly to blame for her predicament. What choice did he have? He felt responsible. He’d seen her fear. She might not immediately remember the killer’s face, but he sure as hell knew hers. If Espinoza had any part in this, she’d be like a sitting duck in a public cell. She needed to disappear. Get off the streets. Stay under the radar. Shado glanced toward Jack. “What if I take her to my place? At least for twenty-four hours. She might have her memory back by then.”

Gleason snorted. “Oh hell, yeah. The captain’s going to go for that. Get serious.”

“She doesn’t belong in a cell.” Shado spoke in a low voice, throttling his frustration. “Right now, we don’t have much choice.”

“Not one you can live with anyway. Right?”

“I live like a mole. She’d be safe with me.”

Gleason raised a brow, releasing a deep sigh. “I can’t argue. You’re worse than my Aunt Lucy, and we haven’t seen her in twenty years.”

“I thought you said she died.”

“She did, and it took weeks to find her.” Gleason eyed him. “I’m not sure about this harebrained idea of yours.”

“I work undercover. I’m gone all the time. What do you expect? It’s perfect.

We’ll bring the books to my place.”

“It sounds like you’re setting yourself up for a mess of trouble.”

The doctor walked from the room with the woman at his side. She held her coat and nodded as he spoke to her. He escorted her to where the two men stood and handed Shado a white bag. “Tell whoever is watching over her that she should take these for the pain. I would advise that she needs to be awakened every few hours.” He looked from one man to the other. “Would you like me to write everything down?”

For a moment, Shado considered how risky his idea was, given the stirrings in his belly, but he only had to remind himself of why he was housing her to sober up his libido. He glanced at Gleason and took the white paper sack from the doctor. “Nope, thanks, Doc, I got it.”

“And this is for the abrasion on your cheek. Twice a day. Make sure you cleanse it thoroughly first.” He handed him a tube of ointment. Shado had nearly forgotten about the asphalt burn from the street.

“Thanks again.” He turned to the bedraggled woman. “Are you ready?”

She plucked the bag from his hand. “I’ve decided to go back to the hotel.”

Gleason spoke up then in a calm Texas drawl. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m afraid we can’t let you leave alone.”

“What do you mean?” Irritation prickled in her response.

Shado cleared his throat. “The thing is,” he paused, “you’re coming home with me.” He took her coat and held it for her as she slipped her arms inside.

“I think I would rather go back to the hotel.”

Her fur coat, once elegant and white, was caked with dirt and matted blood.

She resembled a homeless alley cat trying to keep it all together.

He zipped up his coveralls against the bitter cold as the doors whooshed open. He wasn’t giving her any options. “Can you drop us off?” he called over his shoulder to Gleason.

“Sure. Frederickson went back to the station with the captain. I can drop you off.”

He felt a tug on his arm. “Do
I
have a say in this?” Her blue eyes flashed fire.

His brow rose. “Sure. Jail or my place. It’s your call.”

She straightened, pushing back her shoulders with a defiant air. “Listen, mister, I don’t know what you think of me, but I don’t go home with strange men.”

He eyed her, part of him wanting to ask her why then she was cavorting around one of Reno’s premier escort services, but the subject was probably moot in light of her bout of amnesia. He turned her face to his, pinning her with a no discussion-required look. “I’m afraid until we get whoever killed the man at the hotel, you’re our star witness. Even being on the street right now is very dangerous.”

Her attention darted to his superior. “Isn’t there anywhere else I can stay?” Gleason sighed. “Unfortunately, he’s right. Your choices appear to be limited.

It’s either his place or jail.”

“But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Ma’am, it’s a matter of your safety,” Gleason urged. “It isn’t wise for you to be seen in public. We might be able to get you into a safe house, but under the circumstances, I don’t know how long that would take. To be honest, Detective Jackson’s is the most isolated place for your safety right now. And I guarantee, his behavior will be stellar or else he’ll have to answer to me.”

The shrill sound of tires peeling out on pavement squealed though the silent parking lot, and a black car, spraying bullets from its dark windows, roared up the curved emergency drive. Shado grabbed the woman and pulled her behind a concrete planter box, covering her with his body. The sound of breaking glass and gunfire echoed around them. He lifted his head in time to see the red tail lights turning the corner at the base of the drive.

“Gleason!” Shado shouted, but he stayed in place, his eyes darting around the near empty parking lot.

“Dammit. It’s my arm,” his superior answered. “Get her out of here. I’ll be okay.”

“You’re sure?” He cautiously drew the woman to her feet and tucked her against him. Staying low, he made his way to where Gleason lay on the ground clutching where a bullet had grazed him. Emergency room staff was already at his side assessing the situation.

Gleason shoved the keys in his hand. “Watch yourself.”

He nodded, and steadying her, made his way to the waiting van.

“Are we going to your home?” she asked, gingerly climbing into the passenger seat.

His guess was someone had waited and tailed them from the hotel. More disconcerting was that they’d been watching the hospital, waiting for the chance to leave a deadly calling card. “Soon,” he replied. Just as soon as he was sure they weren’t being followed.

She huddled inside the fur coat, the stench of dried mud and blood curling up around her nose. Shivering between fear and the cold, she stole glances at the man behind the wheel. Despite the black spots in her memory, the name “Sweet Magnolia,” this man, and a handful of other memories seemed real, tangible, while other things—the dark streets, the tall buildings with rows of glass, and the neon signs beckoning people to “eat” or “play slots” were completely new to her.

If the uncertainty of her situation and the strange surroundings weren’t enough to tie her stomach in knots, she felt certain if the man didn’t slow this contraption down he was going to kill them both and neither one of them would ever get home. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the edge of the seat. She allowed her gaze to rise to the window, growing more nauseous at the blur of buildings in the murky night shadows.

“You mentioned the Magnolia.” His eyes clung to the road, for which she was grateful. “Were you involved in the society that bought the old bordello called the

Sweet Magnolia?”

She frowned. Why would she be involved in preserving a house of ill repute?

“Maybe you know someone who was involved with the transition of the Magnolia to the Imperial?” He gave her a quick glance. “Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Espinoza?”

Her head was spinning with the rapid fire of his questions. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you mean. Yes, the Sweet Magnolia does sound familiar, but I don’t know why. And as far as this Espinoza gentleman, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of him, at least not until I’ve regained my memory fully.”

He emitted a quiet snort and then straightened, leaning forward to stare at the road ahead. “Hang on,” he stated flatly and gripped the wheel. The carriage stopped with such force her body rose up out of the chair, drawing her toward the window. His strong arm reached out, slamming against her chest, preventing her from going headfirst through the clear wall of glass. She fell back in the seat, his arm acting to barricade her in place. Breathless and horrified, she darted him a look. “Are you certain you’re quite familiar with how to steer one of these?” She took a deep breath and looked ahead. In the lights emitting from the front of the carriage, she saw a mother cat and her kittens amble across the road.

He glanced at her. “Sorry.” Then in the next instant leaned forward and reached for a strap near her shoulder. Her body reacted of its own accord to his all-male musky scent mingled with the crisp winter air. “You forgot your seat belt.” His gaze flitted briefly to hers and there it was again, that thunderbolt of attraction she remembered from the first time they’d met. He hesitated, but only briefly, before pulling the strap toward her hip and latching it in a buckle. He settled back into his seat and drew a similar band over his broad chest. He tossed her a side look
and shifted the rod sticking out from the wheel.

The carriage lurched forward, quickly gaining speed. She swallowed hard, digging her fingers into the soft leather seat. Her body’s reaction to his unmistakably rugged, masculine presence and the speed at which objects whirred past the window challenged her equilibrium. Closing her eyes only made matters worse. “Are we almost there?” she asked, unsure if going to jail might not have been the wiser choice.

“Not too far, but I want to make sure we aren’t being followed.”

“By those people who shot at us earlier?” She peeked open one eye to look at him.

He nodded in response. She watched him scan the road ahead. Periodically, his attention darted to a small mirror attached to the outside of the fast-moving carriage. There was little to do except hang on and pray those men, whoever they were, didn’t return. “What do you call this?” she asked, attempting to make conversation to dissuade her fear of the speed at which they were going.

He looked at her. “Do you mean what type of vehicle is it?”

She wasn’t sure exactly what she meant. This was a new and utterly strange experience.

“It’s our precinct’s van.”

The curious look on his face prevented her from asking him to explain what a precinct was. “It goes very fast.” Her breath caught as he sped up to get through where two roads intersected. The lights on the tops of the tall poles seemed to turn magically from red to yellow to green and he gave little regard to flying right through every color. They drove through streets that seemed alive with hundreds of lights, which made it seem like daytime. All at once, their journey took them farther away from the colored spectacle and into the darker streets with dim lighting.

“Home’s just around the corner.”

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. A few short moments later, he pulled to a stop alongside a tall building. Nothing around her appeared familiar. It was all brick and stone. She hadn’t seen a blade of grass since she’d come out of the music hall. Perhaps more confusing, she didn’t understand why not seeing grass would bother her. Why this place should feel so foreign to her. Yet when she was near Detective Jackson, she felt secure. Believing like he said, everything would work out. She ran her hand along the side of the door, marveling at how smooth the metal was, how detailed the upholstery. Her detective appeared on the opposite side of the window, startling her. He pulled on the handle and the door opened with a noisy squawk.

“Let’s not dawdle out here.” His eyes were alert, watching the street. “It’s much too cold for you in those clothes.”

She knew it was more than the chilly night air that concerned him. She swung her legs around, wanting to comply and not stay out there any longer than necessary, when the air caught in her belly and the strap across her chest pulled her back into the seat, holding her bound there.

“I can’t seem to move,” she muttered, searching for how to unfasten the oppressive strap. He leaned over her lap, sending her pulse shooting as he wedged his body against hers in the small space.

“There’s a small button down here that you push, like this.” Thankfully, he didn’t tarry.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Her feelings were scattered in so many directions she didn’t know whether to hug him or try to get away. He offered his hand and helped her to the running board and then to a wide hard path. They seemed to wind throughout the city like a great stone snake. Rattled from the ride and her wayward emotions, she stepped out and stood for a moment staring up at the towering structure of brick and stone. “
This
is where you live?”

“Well, in an apartment, but yes. We’ll take it slow.” He gently took her elbow and led her up several flights of steps, pausing whenever she needed to rest.

It was not unlike a hotel, but with shorter halls. Only three doors appeared on each landing as they moved slowly upward. “Is everyone who lives here a detective?” she asked. Her legs grew weary. It was like climbing up the steep side of a mountain.

He chuckled quietly. “I guess I never thought about it. Nobody from my precinct anyway. Though as nosy as my neighbors are, some of them would be pretty good at it.” When they reached his floor, he unlocked the door, flipped on a light, and ushered her inside.

He helped her out of her coat. “I can take this to the cleaner’s if you’d like, but I’m not sure there is much hope left for it.” He hung it on the hook next to the door.

It’s all I have
. “Thank you. That would be kind of you.” Though she had no concept of what a “cleaner’s” was, by virtue of the name and as long as he offered, she was willing to give it a try.

He hooked his cap beside her coat and began to unzip his coveralls. Having shrugged off the top half to reveal a thin, white undershirt that left little doubt to the taut muscles beneath, he was about ready to push down the pants when he stopped and glanced at her. She waited in breathless anticipation, her heart pounding. Had she ever seen a man in this state of undress before? His hands froze. “Sorry, habit.” He stopped then letting the coveralls dangle enticingly at his hips.

She tried not to let her disappointment show. “Your wife won’t mind me staying here?” she asked tearing her eyes from where the undershirt bunched around his firm waist. If he had a wife, she certainly didn’t seem to keep an orderly house.

He sighed and shrugged. “No wife. No girlfriend. Which seems rather apparent, I guess.” He began picking up papers, shuffling clothes together, and moving used dishes, leaving rings in the dust. “My apologies for the clutter. I don’t have much company…my job keeps me busy.”

Her head had begun to ache again, and she was suddenly very tired. “Would you mind if I sit down and rest awhile?”

“Oh, of course.” He yanked at his coveralls, holding them up with one hand as he grabbed a stack of papers off a chair and tossed them aside. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to change, and I’m sure I have something you can wear so we can at least launder your clothes.”

Tired and confused, she watched as he moved swiftly around her and hurried down the hall, flipping on the light to another room. For one man, it seemed like a large house. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she immediately searched for a place to sit. A large brown tweed settee invited her to cross the room. Sinking into its welcoming comfort, she grabbed a pillow with a yellow crocheted flower on it and hugged it, hoping to quell some of the sudden and painful loneliness she felt. Was there anyone, somewhere, looking for her? Was there anyone who missed her? She squeezed the supple cushion; it didn’t really suit him—flowers and such. Perhaps it had sentimental value, a gift from a favorite aunt, or something passed on to him from his mother. Physically and emotionally drained, she laid it down beside her and stretched out, putting her head on its welcoming softness.

“I have a sweatshirt and…,” he called from down the hall. His voice grew dim as a foggy cloud passed over her consciousness and blocked out all else.

***

She stumbled, scrambling back to her feet. Her boots echoed within the dark canyon walls. Great gusts of snow drove against her, pelting her with frozen bites against her exposed flesh. A wintery blast wrapped its icy fingers around her, swallowing her whole. She fought to stay warm, but she had only the threadbare dress she’d worn to her piano lesson. Icy fingers gripped her throat. Someone chased her. Her lungs felt frozen from running. She wanted to scream for help, but there was no one near, only tall buildings with their black silent eyes staring down at her. A pair of hands grabbed at her, trying to hold her back, and she fought to get away.

“Wake up. Come on, wake up. You were having a dream. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

A deep, gentle voice drew her out of her nightmare. Her heart raced. Her limbs felt confined.

“That’s it. Come on, wake up.” A hand softly nudged her shoulder. “It’s okay.

You’re safe.”

She cracked one eye open, aware first of a muted light and then of a man’s hands resting on her shoulders. She shoved at them and sat upright, confused as to where she was.

“Doc suggested I wake you every few hours. I don’t think he took into consideration you might have a nightmare.”

She blinked, and his face came into focus. A man with eyes the color of a desert summer sky knelt in front of her.

“It’s Detective Jackson. I brought you here after you were attacked and hit on the head.”

She drew the blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chill and realized her feet were bare. “Where are my boots?”

“I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of removing them. I thought you’d be more comfortable.”

“And my coat?” She looked around, her brain still in a fog from sleep.

“By the door.” His deliberate demeanor calmed her uncertain emotions. “You came home with me after your stay at the hospital. Do you remember?” He searched her face.

Slowly, a few memories emerged, though her head ached with a dull throbbing. She touched her forehead, discovering the bandage at her temple. The flash of a memory—a man’s arm clamped around her neck—sparked in her brain, followed by the image of the detective on the floor, his gun poised at her, just before everything went black. “I hit my head?”

“In a manner of speaking. You were clocked pretty good. Any of that sound familiar?”

“I was being held against someone—a man. He wouldn’t let me go, and then

you were there.” She paused and searched her rescuer’s patient face. “I felt a blow to my head and then woke up in the infirmary.” She looked at him. “And you were there. Detective Jackson, is it?”

He nodded. “Yes, but please, call me Shado. Are you feeling better?

She rubbed her hand over the back of her neck. “I think so.”

“Good. Give yourself some time.” He held her hand, gently brushing his thumb across her knuckles and setting her mind at ease. Reality emerged quietly in her brain. She recalled a ride in a strange mode of transportation.

“You brought me here to protect me.” Instinct prompted her to touch his cheek. He eyed her briefly then took her hand and placed it back in her lap.

“Just until your memory returns and we find the guy who did this to you.” His fingers lightly skimmed her forehead.

She couldn’t count solely on her emotions, but there was a keen awareness between them she could not deny. The fact he seemed a little uncertain of her being there somehow made her feel as though she had nothing to fear. He made her feel safe.