Confession (7 page)

She slowed.

The padding slowed.

She sped up.

The footfalls sped up.

As the fine hairs on the back of her neck made their presence known, her mind began to race. What had she learned in class?

Do not wait to be attacked.

That's what her Krav Maga instructor always said.

Trust your gut.
Don't be the gazelle. Be the lion.

She stopped, crouched, readied herself to spin and face her stalker with raised fists.

Get back!
she'd yell.
She'd be the lion, not the gazelle.

Her hands came up as she pivoted and found herself facing a wall of well-­dressed, muscled chest. Brute strength and a starched collar. Wild possibilities flashed across her mind, but none made sense. A mob enforcer? Secret Ser­vice? In the nanosecond that passed before she could jerk her chin up and look him in the face, the man deflected her fists and spun her around. When he grabbed her by the waist, her breath rushed out. She dug her nails into his arms and stomped on his instep, but he lifted her off the pavement, leaving her feet kicking helplessly in the air.

Help!

She screamed. But as in a dream, no sound came out of her mouth. Her heart roared in her chest like the lion she wanted to be, but her vocal cords had frozen. The man took several giant strides forward. With blood rushing to her head and storefronts passing by, her stomach lilted in protest. The sun, reflecting off a long, black car, hit her in the eyes, all but blinding her. The man opened the car door. Dumped her inside.

“Help!” At last her voice returned.

Snap.

She heard the sound of doors locking.

 

EIGHT

Tuesday, July 23, 11:00
A.M.

I
t'd been a crime of opportunity . . . and a monumentally bad idea. Luke had never anticipated bumping into Dr. Faith Clancy on his way to meet Detective Johnson at the police station. If he had, maybe he would've run through the scenario in his head a few times and thought of a different way to handle matters—­a way that didn't have the potential to land him behind bars. But he hadn't anticipated, he hadn't planned, and when he saw the woman who'd turned his brother in to the police, sauntering down the street, smiling at the flower girl, and chatting up the sax guy, enjoying life without a care in the world, his core temperature had started to rise.

Injustice was a repeating theme in Dante's life, and Luke had had enough of standing by and doing nothing while his brother suffered. So he'd followed her, and when she turned, fists up, ready to pummel him, he'd lost it. No other way to describe how reason had fled and animal instinct had taken over. His skin had grown clammy. His pulse had bounded in his neck, and his body had charged off on its own ill-­considered mission without a care as to consequence.

He never decided to scoop her up and carry her to his limo; he'd simply acted on impulse. He'd grabbed her in broad daylight on a public thoroughfare, and now here she was bucking in his arms in the backseat of his limo, screaming at the top of her lungs like . . . like a woman who'd been abducted off the street.

Nice going, Luke.

He should find a way to calm her down—­fast. His arms released her. Maybe an apology to start. “I—­”

She drew back. A hard slap across his jaw shut that idea down, and he didn't have a Plan B, but at least she'd stopped screaming. Apparently, she couldn't slap and scream for help at the same time. Or maybe she'd finally gotten a good look at him and realized he wasn't the bogeyman. He thought he'd seen a flash of recognition in her eyes just before she'd slapped him, and her terror seemed to have been replaced by fury.

Her hand came up for another whack. His blood still simmering, he clasped her by the wrists, yanked her against his chest. The tremor in her arms sent vibrations through his own, and her heart beat wildly against his. He took a gulping breath. Her skin smelled like flowers. Her breasts rubbed against him as she struggled. Arousal, as unreasoned as the act of swooping her up in the first place, shot through him. He looked down at her, and her breath caught. Her eyes widened. He knew she could feel his erection growing against her belly.

“Oh, man.” He dropped her hands like he'd been zapped with a cattle prod. Maybe he should start by calming
himself
down before calming her.

Breathe. Try not to throttle her,
and whatever the hell else you do, do not kiss her.

“Let me out of this car immediately.”

“It's not a car, it's a limo. And no one's stopping you.” Could he be charged with kidnapping if the vehicle never moved? After all, they were parked on a public street, a mere stone's throw from the police station.

She reared back, as if preparing to head-­butt him, then seemed to change her mind. Holding up her wrists to display the red marks his grip had left, she said, “The doors are locked.”

“My bad. That's an automatic safety feature. Autolocks when a passenger gets in the back. Cuts down on carjacking, kidnapping . . .” His voice trailed off lamely. His hand went to his heart of its own accord. “I'm honest-­to-­God sorry if I scared you.”

Her eyes flashed. “You're always honest-­to-­God sorry for scaring me, and I honest-­to-­God don't give a damn about your apologies.”

Seemed she remembered the first time they'd met all too well.

So did he.

“Fair enough. But I just want to talk you. I have no intention of holding you against your will.” He turned his palms up. Maybe a silent
sorry
would get around her defenses. He pressed a button and the privacy glass whirred down. “Unlock, please.”

The privacy window whirred back up, and the locks snapped open.

Faith grabbed her door handle, and he shook his head. “Just hold on one second. You don't need to go jumping out into traffic. I'll get out first, then you can slide out this side. The sidewalk's safer.”

“The sidewalk
used
to be safer.” Her voice seethed, but she let go of her door handle, the tremor in her hands dissipating with each passing moment.

“Or, if you like, I'll have my driver take you wherever you're headed. I won't be going along for the ride, so you don't have to worry. I've got an appointment with a police detective.”

There was a moment of cold silence. She continued to eye him warily. “I'm free to go?”

“You always were.”

“Except when I wasn't.”

“I explained about the locks.” But she had a valid point. “I never should have grabbed you like that. But I've seen my brother hurt so many times, and you're his psychiatrist. You're supposed to help him, not call the cops on him. Surely you can see how I could get wound up enough to forget my manners.”

“Forget your manners?” she intoned through gritted teeth. “Technically speaking, you assaulted me, maybe even kidnapped me. I could press charges against you if I wanted.”

“Technically speaking, I scooped you up off the sidewalk about a half second before you put that fancy toe of yours in doggie doo. Then I placed you in a luxury vehicle and offered to have my chauffeur drive you home. And don't forget, you had your fists up in a very threatening manner. I feared for my safety. I honest-­to-­God did.” If he laughed at himself, maybe she'd laugh with him.

The corners of her mouth curved ever so slightly. He caught the briefest flash of pretty white teeth. “You feared for your safety?”

“You looked positively ferocious.” If she hadn't forgiven him yet, it was only a matter of time. He was on a roll. “It would've been a shame to ruin those great shoes.”

Her foot wagged, her heel slipping in and out of her stiletto. He could swear those were the same shoes she'd been wearing at the gallery, and he was up for saying anything to distract her from his bad behavior. This might be as good a topic as any. “Those your only pair of stilettos?”

“Yes, if you must know.” Her tone was granite, and her shoulders were steel.

Maybe he'd overestimated his charm, or maybe he'd inadvertently insulted her. He chose to believe the latter. Most of the women he knew had closets full of Jimmy Choos, Ferragamos, and Louboutins. He knew because he was usually the one who paid the bill. Women he dated never wore the same pair twice. “These are lovely.” He pointed at her foot.

It jittered faster. “You can't possibly be interested in my shoes.” By now, the pink had returned to her cheeks, and she seemed to have successfully gathered her composure—­or maybe that was just what she wanted him to think.

“What can I say? I noticed your shoes because I like your legs. I mean generally speaking, I'm a leg man.” How much worse could this conversation get? He wasn't distracting her. He was pissing her off. He hadn't been this off-­balance with a woman since high school. “Look, I'm not asking for a medal here although I did save your one pair of fancy shoes, but maybe you could cut me enough slack to hear me out.”

“Mr. Jericho, I can assure you that these Rambo tactics . . .”

Rambo. Not a compliment. He retrieved white wine from the limo's bar, poured a glass, and pressed it into her hands. So what if it was before noon?

Her jaw dropped, and she stared at the goblet. As she sat beside him in the limo, back ramrod straight, eyes gleaming with both a hard determination that made him believe in her will and an underlying vulnerability that softened his heart, it struck him: Faith Clancy could be a powerful ally.

Besides, his brother trusted her, and that meant Luke needed her help. “I've got red if you'd rather.” He was back in Luke-­mode. If anyone knew how to win a woman over, it was him.

She slid farther away from him. “Mr. Jericho, I can assure you that you needn't resort to either force or seduction to have a conversation with me. If you want to talk to me about your brother, all you have to do is call my office. I've got Dante's signed consent to speak with you on file.”

“And I can assure you I don't need to resort to seduction. I don't seduce women. Women seduce me.” He sat back, enjoying the way his words made the color deepen in her cheeks. “I only gave you wine to settle your nerves.”

“I'm not nervous.” She steadied the hand that held her wine and took a slug. “And I happen to agree with you.”

“Great,” he said before he'd fully processed her remark. Then, “You agree that women seduce me, not the other way around?”

She tossed back another sip of wine. “I agree with you that it's my job to help your brother.
First do no harm
is the doctor's credo after all.”

“And yet you turned him in to the police.”

“He confessed to horrible crimes.”

“He's fragile. He can't always distinguish what's real from what's not. You must know his confession can't be taken at face value.”

“I get what you're saying. I truly do. But I can't afford to risk someone else's life on my working diagnosis. I'll do what I can—­”

Suddenly, a loud
pop
sounded, followed by the crackling of breaking glass.

He saw Faith flinch as her window's safety glass fractured but didn't dump into the backseat. A lurch of the limo jolted them both, spilling Faith's wine and knocking her head against the window.

Goddamnit.

Reaching across her, Luke locked Faith's seat belt in place. His breath was coming in short angry bursts. He lowered the privacy window, and growled, “Drive like hell.”

F
aith's eyelids fluttered open and the room—­scratch that—­the interior of the limo came back into focus. Through the fog in her head, she heard the driver's voice. “Sorry, Mr. Jericho, I had my eye on a pretty girl across the street when I saw a man dart into the road with a rock in his hand. I didn't have time to pull away before—­”

“You sure it was just a rock?” Luke asked.

Faith noticed Luke's arm around her shoulders, supporting her, and shoved it away, then straightened out of her slump.

“Yes, sir. I'm sure of it. May I slow down, sir?”

Luke pressed his face in front of hers. “Let's get Dr. Clancy to the nearest hospital.”

In his eyes, she saw genuine regret, and her body relaxed. She proffered a weak smile. “No. Just take me home, please. I'm perfectly fine, and I don't want to spend my day in an emergency room.”

A deep wrinkle formed between Luke's brows.

“Please. I'd like to go home.”

He gave a reluctant nod, and she gave the driver her address.

“By the time the limousine pulled into Faith's driveway, the lump on her head had started to throb in earnest. The driver came around, opened the door for her, and she climbed out, still clasping the small blue ice pack Luke had given her against her skull. Turned out the limo contained not only a well-­stocked minifridge, but a well-­stocked first-­aid kit, too.

“Thanks for the lift . . . I think.” She gave Luke an
adios
-­
amigo
smile, but as she'd anticipated, he was already shoving out of the limo and waving off his driver. “No. Really, I'm perfectly fine. There's no need to trouble yourself any further on my account,” she added hastily.

He took a step toward her, and the look on his face made her take a step back lest he scoop her off her feet for the second time that day.

“I'd like to see you inside, make sure you're okay if you don't mind.”

“Not necessary.” Her vision grayed, and she bent her knees slightly to steady herself.

“But it's not offensive? Just for my own peace of mind. You look like you might faint.”

“Fine.” She kept her tone matter-­of-­fact. Her head might be light and her legs soupy, but she had no intention of fainting. Still, it wouldn't hurt to let him walk her inside. Yesterday, she'd nearly interrupted a thief in her house.

A thief who took nothing.

Because he'd seen her spot him and hightailed it out of there before the police arrived.

She had little of value, certainly not anything that would entice a criminal to risk a return visit. But slice it any way you like—­Luke's presence made her feel safe.

Which was the last thing she should feel around a man like him.

Her breath released, and she tossed the ice pack back to Luke's driver, who caught it with ease. “Don't go anywhere. Mr. Jericho'll be right back.” Luke placed his hand on her elbow, but she shook him off. “I can walk.”

But her next step was unsteady, and her knees threatened to buckle.

“Either I help you inside, or I carry you inside. You make the call, because you're not whacking your head again on my watch.”

She gave him the eye roll, but let him steer her slowly up the steps and into her home, where she promptly sank backward onto the couch, splaying her limbs like one of those chalk outlines on
CSI.

“I still think we should get you checked out at the hospital. You might have a concussion.”

“Nothing to do for a concussion but watch and wait. What's known in the biz as COMI, catlike observation and masterful inactivity.”

“Then I'll observe you.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “Damn it to hell. I missed my appointment with Detective Johnson.”

“Just go.”

“It's too late anyway. He mentioned he had to leave by noon. I'll have to reschedule.”

Luke continued to fuss with her between making phone calls, during which he presumably rearranged his day's appointments and rebooked with Johnson. She closed her eyes, reviewing the day in her head. First, she'd sat in that hot, smelly interrogation room over two hours, then she'd been forced to view that awful picture of poor Nancy Aberdeen. Next, she'd been dumped in a limo against her will and banged her forehead on the window when said limo blasted off to escape what might've been bullets but turned out to be a hurled rock instead. Now she had a goose egg the size of a Chihuahua forming on her parietal bone, and an impossible-­to-­ignore man in her living room. A man who would not stop bossing her around:
Put this pillow under your head like so. Prop your feet up here. Don't take that bag of frozen peas off your noggin for another fifteen minutes.