No One Left to Tell (19 page)

A low gasp escaped her lips when the water doused her skin, reddening the surface. As she stuck her head directly under the hot blast, the water tingled her scalp and massaged her body with its scorching pressure. She closed her eyes and let the steady stream pummel her. Hot water poured down her face and shoulders.
God, it felt good.
It almost made her forget she had a guest coming.

Almost.

Spaghetti sauce was set to a low simmer on her stove. Bubbling pockets of tomato sauce infused fresh herbs all through the ingredients. A simple salad cooled in her refrigerator. All that remained was to cook the pasta and to pop garlic bread under the broiler.

Her father had taught her the sauce recipe, handed down from a mother who died when she was too young to cherish any real remembrances. It had been her father's way of sharing the woman he loved. So with every ingredient, her mother's devotion now filled her family home with a heady aroma.

Cooking for one had always been a challenge. It'd been a long time since she'd invited someone for a home-cooked meal. Too long. Her small dining table was set for two. And thus far, she had successfully resisted the urge to place candles as a centerpiece. This wasn't a date, she reminded herself. The last time she checked her manual on police procedures, candles were not a necessary formality for an interrogation. Under normal circumstances.

A smile touched her lips—a man like Christian was anything but routine.

Night had robbed the sky of light. Logan loved the anonymity of the dark. The modest neighborhood was now steeped in shadows. Only the occasional security light at a side door or the glow from a living room window would give him away if he were silhouetted by it. He parked on the next block over. Now on foot, he slowly crept closer to her bungalow, careful not to be noticed.

He had the tools he needed to break in. Now all he needed was a dark corner to work. He sneered when he found it. A tall evergreen shrub would give him cover, protection from any unwanted attention from a nosy neighbor. Carefully, he unscrewed an overhead light bulb by the carport, his hand insulated by a black leather glove. Cops were just as vulnerable to home invasion. Their egos probably made them feel invincible.

After carefully peering through a small window in the door, he made sure he wouldn't be walking into a gun and began his work on the lock. The entry gave way without so much as a creak to announce him. Sliding into the kitchen of Raven Mackenzie, he smelled the aroma of her dinner. By the amount of food, she expected company. The thought of getting caught only heightened his exhilaration. But if she walked in on him now, he'd have to kill her. That would spoil all his fun. After all, he had plans for her.

With his gloved hand, he grabbed a wooden spoon and sampled her spaghetti sauce. It tasted homemade, not just a lame facsimile out of a bottle like his men ate.

The flavor piqued his taste buds—and his interest in the woman. Good looks and she cooked. What a waste, considering what he had in mind.

The sound of the shower made his body react. He pictured the woman naked, her skin covered only sparingly by soapsuds. The thought aroused him. With even greater audacity, he skulked down the hallway toward the sound. Blood coursed through his veins at breakneck speed. Passing through a hallway of framed mementos, Logan felt powerful and bold, even in sight of her family's smiling faces. His intrusion made a mockery of it all. Then his eyes were drawn to an old photo of a cop in uniform.

"Fuck you, asshole," he whispered. "You're gonna regret messing up my life." Logan felt certain the man heard his curse, even from the depths of hell. "You and every cop that dares to screw with me."

Over his shoulder, he spied the bathroom door and opened it slightly.
So damned easy.
Lurking in the shadows, beyond the light, he peered inside. With a gray eye pressed near the opening, he caught the cloudy reflection of her body.

She moved seductively under the water. Dark strands of hair clung to her skin. Curves of flesh wafted in and out of focus with the billowing steam. The tantalizing image made him hard as a rock. Then, a devilish thought took hold.

He knew what he had to do.

Reaching for the shampoo in her shower caddy, she poured the creamy lotion into her hand, then lathered her hair. Tiny bubbles popped in her ears and tickled her skin, muffling the sounds from her bathroom. Suds trailed down her face. She loved the scent and didn't bother to wipe away the lather. Besides, with eyes closed, she could better imagine Christian.

The motion of her hands slowed to a crawl as she slathered frothy shampoo across her face and down her arms. The sensation magnified and focused her thoughts on the man.

She relived the instant she'd frisked him. Once again, her fingertips felt the muscled texture of his belly, entwined in the soft curls of body hair. His warm skin smelled so good. With him leaning against the wall, she had caught only a brief glimpse of the small of his back. But that part of the male anatomy always enticed her hands, beckoning them to play. Her imagination embellished the taut sinews of his back and broad shoulders. She found her breathing escalating. The man was an inspiration. The mental picture spurred her blood until—

An obscure shadow dimmed the bathroom light. Even though soapsuds covered her eyes, she still detected the movement. A dark shape eclipsed the light fixture. The sensation shocked her. This couldn't be happening— not in her home. Every instinct in her body screamed a warning. Her heart seized in panic. Had she only imagined it? Then, a rush of cold air brushed her skin.

Imagination be damned!
This was real. Naked, Raven had never felt so vulnerable. She had her gun in the other room. And she couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't alone. In a rush, she doused her head with water and cleared her eyes to a blur. She had to do something—
NOW.

Not wanting to waste time rinsing off, she turned off the shower and let the soap creep down her skin. It felt like an unwanted touch, spiraling chills over her body. Squinting back the sting from her eyes, she pulled at the sliding door and fortified herself for a fight. Her cop instincts kicked in. But the steam in her small bathroom had parted like the Red Sea. To her shock, the bathroom door gaped open.
Oh, God!
She wasn't alone.

An eerie silence mocked her. Maybe she'd imagined the whole thing. Her house was stone-still now. Even its usual creaks and groans were mute. Raven strained to hear anything out of the ordinary. Then the familiar sound of a simmering pot of spaghetti sauce on her stove reminded her.
What time was it?
For her, time ground to a halt. She found herself praying that Christian would forgo his usual promptness to be early for a change.

Alert to anything, she caught a motion at the corner of her eye. Her jaw dropped at the sight, sucking steamy air down her windpipe. A bloodless pallor—her own reflection stared back through streaks on the mirror. The bastard had left her a message.

You aren't safe—ANYWHERE!

Mickey learned the bard way.

Printed on the fogged glass, his warning ridiculed her. Mickey's killer was in her home, unimpressed with her authority. Naked as she was, she conceded his point. But she couldn't allow herself to be distracted now.

Easing out of the tub, Raven kept her eyes focused on the open door. Every muscle tensed. She waited for a faceless attacker to make his move—prepared for the intruder to rush her while she'd be most vulnerable. Step by step, she inched toward the door. Fear massed into staunch self-preservation. Holding her breath, she listened. But in the pit of her stomach, reality gripped her.

A killer stalked her, violating her home. She wasn't safe. Not anymore.

Raven reached for the robe hanging on the bathroom door. Her hair was soaked, strands stiffened from lingering soapsuds. Water dripped off her body, making the floor slippery. Throwing the garment around her shoulders, she didn't take the time to dry off. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She felt the chill in the air seep through the pores of her dank skin. If she was attacked here, in her condition, only her training and mental toughness would keep her alive. Her mind focused on the location of her weapon, willing it to her hand. She prayed her intruder wasn't armed, or an even worse scenario, that the coward might use her own weapon against her.

With her back to the wall, she crept through the house, dodging floorboards that would give her away. Her eyes darted down the length of the hall as she made her way to the bedroom—and her Glock nine-millimeter.

A faint sound, somewhere deeper within the house, forced her to stop where she stood. Sweeping past her, a draft of cold air made her teeth chatter, her body betraying the pretense of courage.
Why was it so cold?

Peering over her shoulder, she used the mirror on her bedroom dresser to improve her chances. No one was behind the door. And with her closet open, just as she'd left it, it would be impossible for someone to hide in her small room.

Quickly, she stepped toward her nightstand and inched open the top drawer, not taking her eye off the doorway. Letting out a sigh of relief, she found her Glock
still
in its holster. Releasing the safety, she gripped the weapon, its heft steeling her for a confrontation. Now the odds were even.

Time to hunt in earnest.

"Junior? You better be brushing your teeth. I'm coming up for an inspection."

Yolanda Rodriguez raised her voice, calling upstairs. Even with her precocious child out of sight, she knew little Tony would still be playing his Game Boy. The ten-year-old had their nightly ritual down to a science, her warning part of the routine. By the time she got midstair, he'd shoot to the bathroom and conjure up a mouth full of froth for her benefit, practically rubbing the enamel off his teeth. It didn't matter that his little feet sounded like a herd of wild animals dashing down the upstairs hallway. A glint of satisfaction would shine in his dark eyes, like he'd fooled her once again. In those moments, he looked so much like his father.

That glint reminded her. Little Tony had been conceived on a night when she saw that exact look in her husband's eyes. Shaking her head, she continued her chore as a smile fought to break free.

Wiping down the kitchen counter, she made the room sparkle, a far cry from the condition it had been earlier. Make-your-own-chalupa night was a Thursday dinner ritual in the Rodriguez household. And as far as she knew, the first peanut butter and pineapple chalupa had been invented tonight, under her very roof.

"Celia? Time for bed,
mi hija."

Even though her daughter slouched in one of the living room chairs watching a muted television, she still had to raise her voice to get above the music blasting on the young girl's headset. She supposed that flipping through TV channels fast enough produced some semblance of an MTV video. Not having cable, it was Celia's only option. According to her daughter, she was the only one in school not allowed to watch MTV—a social disaster.

"But Mom, Dad is still not home. Can't we wait up for him?"