Motion to Dismiss (21 page)

Tiny shards of glass still protruded from the edges of the window frame. Not a lot of it, but enough to do damage. I could feel myself shrink in protest.

And then the door to the rest room rattled as someone pushed against it from the outside.

I stepped into Marc's cupped hands and scrambled to reach the window. He pushed at my backside, stuffing me through like a down bag into its sack. I twisted around and dropped into the alley at the side of the building, landing awkwardly. My left foot hit first and my ankle gave, sending a shock of pain up my leg. I wasn't sure I could have run even if I'd wanted to.

But I wasn't about to abandon Marc. I looked around for help. The area was deserted.

Hobbling out to the street, I waved at a passing car. The driver swung wide and drove past without slowing. A spray of cold, oil-slick water struck me in the face.

Another gunshot rang out from inside the building. My heart rose into my throat.
No, please. Not Marc
. I felt as though I were going to be sick. Another shot, and then Marc's brown leather loafer slid through the open window, followed by his leg. He hauled the other leg through and hurtled himself to the ground beside me.

Marc's bathroom mirror was tiny, so I caught only a glimpse of his bowed head as he picked slivers of glass from my back. I hugged the towel to my chest and tried to think of something pleasant.

It didn't work.

"Ouch!" I yelped. "That hurts."

"I'm trying to be careful."

"Well, try harder."

"Maybe I should take you to a doctor."

I shook my head. "At this time of night we'd have to go to the emergency room, and you know what that means."

"Yeah," he quipped. "It means you'd get medical attention."

"Only after hours of paperwork and waiting. I'm not in mortal danger, just pain."

"Maybe you need more scotch."

"I haven't finished what I have yet."

"Drink up. It will help."

I took another sip, on doctor's orders. The scotch was smooth as silk. And it
was
helping -- just not enough. I'd finally stopped shaking, but my ankle throbbed, my back and legs were scraped raw, and my insides felt like Jell-O.

"You really didn't get a look at him?" Marc asked for probably the tenth time.

"Only as a shadow in the dark."

Marc hadn't been able to give the police much of a description either. Medium height, medium build, dark hair and complexion. He'd been concentrating on getting away from the guy, he said, not committing his features to memory.

"The only thing clear in
my
mind," Marc muttered, "is the gun. I couldn't focus on anything else."

It had gone off during their struggle, but miraculously, Marc had managed to escape unscathed. "If you hadn't momentarily knocked the wind out of him..." I swallowed the sour taste that accompanied the thought. "I can't bear to think what might have happened."

"Yeah. That makes two of us." Marc worked another sliver loose. "You think the cops will find any prints?"

"I have a sinking feeling the guy was too smart for that."

"I wish I knew what he was after," Marc said, also for the tenth time.

I nodded in agreement. We'd called the police from a pay phone several blocks away, then hung around only long enough to give a statement and walk them through the office. If there was anything missing, it wasn't obvious. But we hadn't taken time to go through all the files yet.

"It almost has to be connected to Grady," I said, thinking out loud.

"But how? There's nothing significant in those files. And nothing we can't replace."

"Maybe the guy thought we had something we didn't," I suggested.

"Like what?"

"You think I know?" I reached for my glass of scotch, then gave another yelp.

"Hold still."

"I thought you wanted me to drink this stuff." I took a double gulp, then held my breath while he worked on another sliver.

Marc worked in silence for a few minutes.

"All done, I think." Marc took a ball of cotton and dabbed at my back with antiseptic. I shivered as the cold liquid touched my skin.

He leaned closer and kissed my shoulder lightly.

"What are you doing?"

"What's it feel like I'm doing?" The words were mumbled somewhere in the vicinity of my left ear and were punctuated with more kisses.

I shivered again, but not with the cold.

Marc slipped his hands around my middle, then up under the towel to my breasts. His fingers were as soft and warm as his touch.

"I'm sore, Marc."

"This will help. Better even than scotch." Easing my body against his chest, he cradled me in his arms. His lips brushed my neck and shoulders.

He was right, I could feel the pain receding.

"Tell me if I hurt you, okay?" His hand slid across my abdomen, dipped into the waist of my jeans.

I heard a voice in my head warning me to be careful. Do you know what you're doing? she called. Are you sure it's what you really want?

But I wasn't listening. Cocooned against time, I no longer cared about the past or the future, about who or what had come before. I wanted to be held. I wanted to feel the warmth and comfort of another body. And I was surprised to realize how much I wanted that body to be Marc's.

We wound up in bed, although I'm not entirely sure how we got there. I remember Marc peeling back the covers, and finding myself smiling inwardly because he's the only man I've even known to make his bed on a daily basis.

I remember him running a finger along the nape of my neck and feeling pleasure all the way down my spine. The warmth of his breath near my ear, the feathery softness of his tongue on my skin. The sound of my name on his lips.

And then only the rising swells of sexual longing that blotted out the pain. No footsteps echoing in my mind, no tightly wound fear in my chest, no awareness of the red-hot fire across my back.

Afterward, I rolled onto my side and nestled against Marc's shoulder.

With a satisfied sigh he traced a finger along the inside of my arm. "Just like old times," he murmured.

I pulled his hand to my cheek. "I hope not."

He laughed. "Right, me too. How's the ankle?"

I kissed his shoulder contentedly. "What ankle?"

Another soft laugh, and then he was quiet. I thought maybe he'd drifted off to sleep until he propped himself up on an elbow. "Kali?"

"What?"

His gaze shifted to the window, where the treetops were illuminated by white moonlight. I saw a tremor pass through the muscle in his cheek. Then he picked up my hand and kissed my fingertips.

"I'm glad you're here tonight," he said finally.

"Me too."

I awoke the next morning feeling as though I'd been run through a meat grinder. My back was stiff and sore, my arm ached, and my ankle throbbed. Every movement caused my skin to pull and sting.

Marc was still sleeping soundly when I hobbled out of bed and into the bathroom. My face had escaped unscathed, and what I could see of my back didn't look nearly as bad as it felt. But my hair was a mess and the remnants of yesterday's mascara had left black smudges under my eyes. I wanted a shower -- in my own bathroom. And I needed to brush my teeth and change into clean clothes.

I splashed water on my face and did the old toothpaste-on-the-finger routine for my teeth. I pulled on my pants, borrowed a T-shirt of Marc's, and rattled around the bedroom in the hope that he might wake up. We'd taken his car home last night, leaving mine at the office, so I was at the mercy of someone else's wheels.

Asleep, sprawled at a diagonal across the bed, Marc had an appealing boyishness that wasn't part of his waking demeanor. His skin seemed smoother, his expression more relaxed. The faintest hint of a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. I felt a tingle of pleasure as I remembered the sensation of his lips on my skin.

Last night had been good. And it had seemed right at the time. But my feelings for Marc were confused, and in the cold light of morning I wondered if I'd just taken the first step down a very slippery slope.

But I wasn't ready yet to think about what it meant -- or what it was I actually wanted.

For the moment, what I wanted was coffee. Marc's kitchen was equipped with all the latest gadgets money could buy. The cappuccino maker caught my eye, but since it had enough knobs and buttons to launch a missile, I was afraid to touch it. I settled for the kettle and a filter cone, and more noise. When Marc still showed no signs of waking, I called a cab.

As I sipped my coffee, I tried to think of some witty, sophisticated message to leave him. Something with just the right tone to let him know that it had been nice, but I wasn't about to let him break my heart a second time. A souped-up version of "Hey, it was fun but no big deal."

I found a piece of paper and a pen, then stared at the blank page. The right words eluded me. Finally, I scribbled a note saying I'd taken a cab home and would see him later at the office. As I finished, I happened to glance at the pen I was using. Purple with pink lettering. The words rapunzel, a full-service hair salon were stamped along the side.

What was Marc doing with a promotional pen from the salon where Deirdre Nichols worked?

The question, which began with a flicker of idle curiosity, gained momentum the longer I thought about it. Most local salons offered cuts for both men and women, so it might well be happenstance. But it felt funny, like a grain of sand inside your sock.

I finished the note, and my coffee, then gathered my stuff and headed for the door. I got as far as the security chain, then went back into the bedroom and shook Marc awake.

He grimaced. "Do they have the names yet?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"Wake up."

I shook him again and he turned with a start. "Huh?"

"Marc, it's morning."

He extracted his arm from under the covers and pulled me closer. "You leaving already?"

"It's almost eight. I want a shower and some clean clothes."

He mumbled something about a car.

"I already called a cab. We should probably call Rose too, and warn her that the office is a mess."

"I'll do it." He reached for my hand and kissed my fingers. "How do you feel this morning?"

"Sore, and still a little shaky." I sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the warmth of his body. "Marc, where do you get your hair cut?"

He propped himself up on an elbow, touched the top of his head. "My hair? Does it look that bad?"

"It looks fine. I was just curious."

"A place near the gym. Why?"

"Not Rapunzel?"

He laughed. "With a name like that? Hardly."

"I found this by your phone." I held up the pen, feeling again the vertigo of uncertainty. "It's from the salon where Deirdre Nichols worked."

There was a slight change in Marc's expression. A tightening of the jaw maybe, or something through the eyes. I couldn't tell for sure what it was or what it meant.

"How'd it wind up here?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. I must have picked it up somewhere."

"But where?" An impatient tone had crept into my voice.

"Who can tell? You know how it is with pens."

"It's odd though. Where would -- "

Marc pulled himself fully upright. "Can't we talk about this later? I'll give it some thought, but right now I need to use the bathroom."

The blast of a car horn sounded out front.

"There's my cab. I'll see you later at the office." I stood and started to leave.

"No kiss?" he asked.

I blew him one from the doorway.

I'd hoped to sneak into my house unnoticed, but Dotty was out front watering the roses when the cab pulled up.

"What happened to your car?" she asked over her shoulder. Then she saw me hobbling up the path. "More important, what happened to you? Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine, but it may take a couple of days."

She turned off the water and rushed to assist me. "Was it an auto accident? Were you in the hospital?" She looped a hand under my elbow as though I were feeble. "Oh, dear. And here we thought you'd spent the night with Marc."

"I did."

"Don't tell me
he
did this to you?"

I shook my head, then I explained about the intruder and our escape through the bathroom window.

When I'd finished, Dotty clasped her hands over her heart. "Marc saved your life, then?"

Or maybe I saved his, I added silently

She sighed. "How romantic."

A long, hot shower, fresh clothes, and a second cup of coffee worked wonders. And with my physical discomforts addressed, I was eager to deal with the uncertainties that awaited me at the office.

Marc was already at his desk when I arrived. "Someone was definitely here," he said, looking up from the files he was busily sorting.

"No shit, Sherlock. We met him."

He gave me a pained look. "That was meant more as a conversational greeting than deep analysis."

"Is anything missing?"

Marc rose and pulled me close for a kiss. "That's better." He brushed the hair away from my face. "You're not having regrets, are you?"

"No regrets." That much was true. I didn't tell him it was the
what next?
that troubled me.

"Good. Me either." His hands rested on the small of my back. "You were in such a hurry to get out of there this morning, I wondered."

"Just anxious about getting to the office."

Marc looked around. "It gives me the creeps to think of some guy prowling around in here."

I nodded. "I sure wish I knew what it was all about. Did he take anything?"

"Not that I've been able to determine so far. But it's clear he went through things. You want some help checking your office?"

I shook my head. "I think it will be easier to check everything myself. One of us should call Nina though." I hated to add to her burden, but I thought she needed to know.

"I'll take care of it. And Rose can check the inactive files against the master log sheet to see if any of them are missing."

"Good idea." I bit my lip, remembering the terror I'd felt last night. Searching for missing files might have been therapeutic, but I wasn't sure anything could erase the memory.