Cold Comfort (9 page)

"When she gets back, keep her inside until I get there. Remind her that someone has a big problem with her
—
and I don't mean me." He slammed the phone down and started out the door. He reached for the knob when he remembered the alarm.
Dammit!
He turned back and set it.

Downtown, he circled the block, alert for any unusual activity. So far, so good. He spotted an empty parking place a block away from Mistletoe and jammed the Bronco into the tight space. He squeezed himself out of the car, but didn't want to waste time finding a bigger spot. He needed to see Claire, assure himself she was all right. God, what if someone got to her? He hurried along the sidewalk, leaning into the wind; the cheery little shop shining through the darkness drew him. Inside, several customers still browsed.

Claire stood on a portable step, removing a glittering angel from a tree. He let out a long, slow breath. A little girl stood below, clasping her hands, her face eager with anticipation. Claire bent down to hand the child the angel.
That
dress should come with a warning sign.
Another woman, the mother he guessed, waited patiently beside the child, holding a basket stuffed to overflowing. He concentrated on her.

The lecture he'd planned would have to wait.

Claire led them to the cash register while Riley made his way through the trees and displays to the sitting area where he'd first seen her. Two comfortable chairs and a small table stacked with magazines sat by the fireplace, an ideal spot for a long-suffering husband or father
—
a stroke of marketing genius in his opinion. Focused as she was on her customers, he didn't think she'd seen him. He sat back to observe, his lecture bubbling beneath the surface.

The woman and girl accepted cookies and cider while Claire rang up the assortment of items. The mother filled a small paper cup from the insulated carafe while the child carefully selected a cookie. Claire chatted easily, wrapping each of the fragile purchases in red tissue. She finished and said something to the child, who nodded solemnly. The little girl, after some deliberation, placed two large cookies on a napkin. Then she took a cup of cider from Claire and turned toward him. Taking small, careful steps and watching the liquid with fierce concentration, she brought him the refreshments. Riley glanced up. The woman watched her daughter's progress with a proud smile.

"Here, Mithter Riley. Mith Claire thaid to give you thith." Her smile revealed two missing front teeth. "I picked out the biggeth cookieth for you."

"Thank you," he said, accepting the gifts.
If the guys could see me now. How the hell did I get into this?

Relieved of her burden, the child bounced happily back to her angel, which Claire slipped into a small bag with a string handle for her to carry.

He munched. Something light, maybe Mozart, played softly, barely discernable above the low chatter and bustle of the customers. Not one of those singing dog things or even a carol. If he hadn't been a confirmed Scrooge, this place might have given him the Christmas spirit. Resigned, his anger at Claire mellowed. But he
would
mention it.

As if reading his mind, Mary wandered by. "You must be Scrooge," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm Mary Miller, Ray's sister." She cocked her head.

"Ben Riley." He stood, taking her hand.

"I know. Anything you want me to tell Ray?" Her broad smile and the sparkle in her dark eyes told him she knew how he felt about this job.

"Nothing you'd want to repeat. I'll tell him myself when I see him."

"I'll bet." She chuckled and went to help a man examining a selection of hand-painted tops. "Hi. Do you need any help?"

Riley checked and eliminated him. Strictly white bread. No threat there.

"Yeah." The man squatted down to spin a red and yellow top across the wooden floor. "I used to have one of these. Drove my mother nuts with it." When it began to wobble, he retrieved the top and stood, a satisfied expression on his face. "I'll take this one."

Riley realized Claire sold a lot more than knickknacks and small toys—she sold memories too. Every adult he saw wore a fond, nostalgic expression, even the ones trying to keep up with their excited children. For the children, Mistletoe was sheer magic.

Finally Mary locked the front door behind the last customer. Riley, careful to stay out of sight of the window, wandered over to a train display as the women sank into the chairs. Riley wanted his presence to be a surprise in case anyone waited nearby, hoping to catch Claire.

Both of them let their shoes fall to the floor and, with blissful sighs, propped their feet on the table. Mary's sturdy support shoes lay next to Claire's black heels
—
if she'd been wearing combat boots, he wouldn't have noticed today.

He watched them. Both women leaned their heads back and closed their eyes.
Ah, what the hell.
He filled two cups with cider, held them in one hand, and picked up the cookies in the other. "Here." He thrust them at Claire and Mary.

"Thank you. This has been a busy afternoon, lots of sales." Claire smiled and flexed her feet. "This is the best time of the day."

Both women sipped their drinks, savoring the silence.

After a minute Mary put her feet on the floor and finished her cider in a gulp. "I need to get home. Damien will be starving
—
he's my fifteen-year-old son," she explained to Riley. "Take care, Claire. I'll be here early in the morning to help restock."

"Thanks. Take the rest of the cookies." Claire slid her feet into her shoes and went to the counter for something to put them in. "Riley ate a cake last night and doesn't need any more sugar." She slid the cookies into a red bag and handed it to Mary. "Tell Damien hi and I'll see him Friday afternoon."

Claire let Mary out the front door and locked it behind her. "Damien's working with us on Fridays after school and on Saturdays this season," she told Riley. "He's a nice boy."

"I did not 'eat a cake' last night. Maybe a big piece, but that's all," he said, following her to the back. He guessed she was over her mad spell—good woman. No grudge.

She spun around and walked backward for a couple of steps, facing him with a wide grin. "Okay, half a cake."

The corners of her eyes crinkled when the smile reached her eyes. He caught her arm, afraid she'd stumble. He felt like a cat with a mouse—one hint and he'd have been on her. Shaking his head, he turned her around again and let go. "It was going to waste." God, but he needed to finish this job and get out of here. "By the way, didn't I tell you not to leave the store without me?" He gentled his voice, not wanting to be too hard on her, scare her.

"Yes, I believe you did," she said, stooping to adjust a little tin soldier who kept watch over a glittering ballerina.

Maybe he'd been too easy. "But you went out anyway."

"Yes, I did." She looked up, giving him a guileless smile.

He glared. "I mean it. Don't go out alone."

She straightened. "I'll try not to." She spoke carefully, her tone deliberate.

"You'll
try
?" He couldn't believe her. He definitely hadn't scared her. "Someone is trying to kill you," he snarled.

"Yes, I know." Her gaze met his without blinking. Under the honey lay a note of steel. "You're supposed to find out who, not hide me in a closet."

She
was warning
him
. He stepped out of her path, at a loss, as she sailed toward the restroom with the empty cider carafe.

When she came back, she indicated the cash register. "I need to close out and take the money to the bank. I didn't have time this afternoon. Want to go with me?" The corners of her eyes tilted with amusement.

Riley surrendered. He watched her bustle around the shop, tidying and rearranging. It all looked fine to him. "Okay, then let's go out for dinner. How about Shields Tavern? Unless you have other plans."
Like the guy next door. Or the nerdy lawyer
.

She stopped, a glass ball in her hand, and stared at him. "No, no plans. I'd never have guessed you're a Colonial Williamsburg fan. Shields Tavern? They're always busy at Christmas, and last weekend they celebrated Grand Illumination. At least a hundred thousand people came to town for the lighting ceremony." She hung the ball on a limb, then reached under a table to switch off a little HO gauge train. "We'll never get in."

"I made reservations." A little fun would be good for her. Maybe he'd been a bit rough today. She'd enjoy the colonial atmosphere; he could stand it for a while. She could have stepped out of the past herself—except for the dress.

"Then I'd love to. I'll be finished in a minute." She began counting the money and receipts and stuffing it into a bag.

"We've got time."

"What exactly do you do, Ben Riley?" She paused for a moment and raised her head.

"Not much." He cleared his throat. "Officially I analyze material, mostly on computers
—
sometimes research it."

"What kind of research?"

"Technical information, sometimes the people behind it, like hostile Web sites, fringe groups, sellers of questionable items. I analyze it and write reports. Which reminds me
—
I found this on Elton Burley." He took a paper from his pocket and held it for her—the columnist's speculations about the upcoming presidential election.

"Sounds interesting." She glanced at the article, then lifted her gaze to him, eyes wide. "Elton Burley for vice president! Surely not
—
how could they, after all he's done?"

"You might not like him, but a lot of people consider him an astute businessman, and he spent three terms in the House of Representatives. Not to mention being married to a Mafia princess. He's clean, so she adds to the interest."

"What? Who?" She laid the moneybag on the counter and reread the article.

The light shone on her hair. He resisted the urge to tuck a stray length behind her ear. "Read it later." He took it from her hand and put it back in his pocket. "Let's eat."

"Okay, okay." Her gaze followed the paper to his pocket. "Let me change shoes and get my purse. I'd like to hear more about Elton Burley."

He watched her walk away. High heels today, sexy. He wondered if she'd dressed for the lawyer, if she'd expected him. So what if she did? Riley turned away and studied a selection of greeting cards. Interesting designs. The sign read Kerr Kards.

Within seconds, he heard the sound of her boots on the wooden floor. He couldn't remember a single card. She carried a black coat over her arm and the moneybag in her hand. She looked too damn good. He'd noticed last night, too, when she came downstairs in that blue robe. And tonight he'd planned dinner at Shields Tavern. Jesus H. Christ. By the time he finished this job, he might have to hurt Ray.

They turned out the lights and left by the front door. Riley checked the street before Claire stepped out of the sheltering doorway. "We'll take your car," he said, "and come back later for the Bronco. I don't want to leave the Fiat exposed after the traffic is gone. Chances are they don't know the truck yet."

Riley matched his stride to hers and kept her on the inside near the buildings as they hurried along in the crisp evening air. When they reached her car, he said, "See, the corner next to this building is dark and protected. Anyone could hide there, and it makes the car easy to tamper with."

He circled the car, then dropped to his knees and shined a light under it.

She stopped dead in her tracks. "Are you looking for a bomb?"

"More like leaking fluid
—
brakes, hoses
—
something that would cause the car to break down within a few miles." He stood and unlocked the passenger door for her.

"Oh. If that's all." Her laugh rang a little hollow. "So something would happen along the Bypass, where it's dark and wooded."

He nodded, pleased with her quick understanding. "Just being careful. After this, park—I'd
like
for you to park next to the light on the corner by the street." He brushed off his pant knees and surveyed the parking lot. "It's visible from all sides
—
it would be difficult to do anything without being noticed, at least during the day." He rounded the car, then gazed into the night sky. A few stars shone through, brighter than the glare of the city lights. "There's a front moving in. It'll snow soon and make checking your car a lot easier."

"Tracks and light?" she guessed, tucking her hands under her arms.

"Right." He held her door, then moved to the driver's door and surveyed the small space, glanced down at his legs.

Driving would be tight. He just hoped he could limit his big feet to one of the tiny pedals at a time. The Fiat could pass for one of the kiddie cars his nephews drove at the county fair.

He tossed his coat into the back and slid the driver's seat all the way back. Claire watched with a skeptical expression as he squeezed into the car and started it.

"After the Bronco, this car feels like a sardine tin. Next time I'll follow you. Better yet, we can leave your car somewhere safe, and I'll chauffeur you around for a few days." He turned to her, frowning. "Then I'll know where you are, and there won't be any sudden disappearances. I can pick you up for work in the mornings and again in the evenings."