Undercover Father (5 page)

She turned off the car, double-checked the address, then took several deep breaths. She could barely admit it to herself, but what Rafe Diaz had said had scared her more than a little. If he’d intended to do that, he’d succeeded.

She picked up the keys, gripping the one tagged for the front door, then pushed everything else into her briefcase and got out of the car, leaving the boxes for later. Locking the door, Megan set the alarm and practically ran around the vehicle and across the sidewalk to the warehouse entrance.

She pushed the key in the lock, turned it and heard a click, then opened the door. She went inside, closed it behind her and stood for a moment in the barren-looking foyer. Two doors, one to the right and one dead ahead, came off it, and to her left was an old service elevator. The note had said the loft was on the second floor, straight across from the lift. She stepped forward and raised the chain gate on the elevator, then got in, relieved when it began to move.

Reaching the second level, she went to the door directly across the hallway and got out the second key. But before she could put it in the lock, another door off the hallway to her right opened and a mountain of a man stepped out. He had on a leather vest over a massive bare chest, plus faded Levi’s, heavy motorcycle boots, and a skullcap over long gray hair, which was pulled back in a ponytail. There were tattoos on each of his massive biceps and one visible through the open front of the vest. She thought she could make out
Die
as one of the words.

Megan didn’t move, not even able to push the key into the lock. She just stared at him as he came closer, shocked that the floor didn’t vibrate each time his big feet hit it. “You got a problem, lady?” he asked in a voice that matched his size.

“No, no, no,” she managed to reply, and knew that he had to own one of the three bikes downstairs. That meant there were two more like him somewhere around. “I just...I came here...and I was going inside.”

He frowned at her. “I was told that place was empty.”

“I’m just here for a few weeks. I’m with LynTech.”

He eyed her up and down, then actually smiled at her, showing surprisingly white, even teeth. “Well, no offense, but you hardly look like one of those big executives over there at LynTech.”

“I’m an attorney.”

He glanced at the briefcase she was clutching tightly, as if the supple leather could protect her. “Need any help?”

“No, but thank you very much for offering,” she said quickly.

“Well, I’m just next door kicking back, but we’ll try to keep the noise down for you, Miss...?”

“Gallagher,” she said. “Megan Gallagher.”

“Trig,” he said, offering no other name but that. “Now remember, if you need anything, just come on over, or throw a rock at the fire escape window, you hear?”

“Yes...thank you,” she said.

With that he turned and headed back to his loft. But at the door he hesitated, then looked at her over his shoulder, smiling again. “If I ever need a good attorney, I’ll be calling on you, okay?”

She tried to smile and nod, then he was gone, the door closing behind him, and she exhaled in a rush that left her vaguely light-headed. Quickly, she pushed the key in the lock, and when the door swung back, she all but dove into the shadows within. She closed the door, fumbled with the lock, then stood very still. She’d made it.

Exhaling with relief, she reached to the right of the door and found a light switch. Two lamps came on, illuminating the space. She glanced around, at high, shadow-filled ceilings lined with criss-crossed pipes and duct work. The space right in front of her was a sitting area, with two sofas, a chair, tables and a TV on the wall to the right. At the back she saw high louvered windows that ran the width of the loft.

The cavernous space was divided by walls that reached only two-thirds of the way to the twelve-foot ceiling, and from what little she could see, there were two other “rooms” to the left. She stepped farther inside and saw a work area directly under the back windows, with louvered ones over them, framed by long, low windows on either side.
The fire escape exit,
she thought, but knew she wouldn’t be going out there to throw rocks at Trig’s window.

She put her briefcase on one lamp table, then went back to the work area, snapped on a side lamp and saw a full office set up—everything from three computers to a fax machine, to a scanner and two landline phones. Mr. Lawrence had been right about this place—that it could serve as her office when she couldn’t get to LynTech.

A shrill ringing startled her, and she looked at the phones. One of them had a flashing light at the base, and she picked up the cordless receiver. The LED screen was lit, and showed the message Unknown Caller. She realized that Mr. Lawrence was the only person who would be calling her here, so she hit the talk button and said, “Hello?”

“You got inside okay?”

She couldn’t believe the voice coming over the line, and thought for a minute she’d imagined it. “Who is this?” she asked.

“Rafe Diaz. I was just checking to make sure everything was okay.”

She felt tension at the back of her neck, and the headache was becoming a reality. “Excuse me? You’re checking on me?”

“I was thinking about that area, and thought it might be a good idea to make sure you got inside okay.”

“Why?” She asked the question more abruptly than she’d meant to, unnerved that she remembered clearly that look of concern in his eyes in the garage, right before she’d offended him. He’d been angry, but now he was checking to make sure she was okay. His call and concern touched her.

“It’s my job.”

“Maybe you should check that job description,” she said.

“I’m probably being overzealous, and you’re probably just fine, so I’ll—”

She didn’t hear the rest, because right then something flew at her, hitting her hard in the right shoulder, sending her reeling sideways. The phone shot out of her hand, and the next thing she knew, she’d hit the floor, landing on her left side and wincing in pain. She instinctively pushed herself up off the floor to her feet, still wondering what had hit her so hard to make her fall.

She grabbed the edge of the desk and frantically looked around. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she could barely breathe. There was nothing but shadows and silence around her now, however. She saw the phone on the floor and quickly picked it up, gasping into the receiver, “Rafe? Rafe?”

Nothing. She hit the disconnect button frantically, but there wasn’t even a dial tone now. And standing there in the light, she suddenly felt like a target for anyone who might also be in the loft. She dropped the phone on the table, then eased to her left, into shadows for protection, and stood very still. She couldn’t hear anything at all beyond her own ragged breathing, and couldn’t see anything outside the glow of the lamps.

She glanced at the door. It was twenty, maybe thirty feet away, and if she ran, she could reach it and slip out in mere seconds. She could make her escape and call the police from her cell phone. The only thing wrong with that scenario was that her phone wasn’t in her pocket any longer. She’d put it in her briefcase before she’d come up here. And her briefcase was on the lamp table by the sofa. She could grab the whole briefcase as she ran toward the door. She could even use it as a weapon if she had to.

She got ready, then ran as fast as she could to the sofa, all the while expecting someone to leap out and tackle her before she got what she needed. But she made it to the table, grabbed for her briefcase and accidentally sent the lamp flying to the floor in the process. It crashed, shattering on the wooden floors. She ignored the sound and kept running for the door. She grasped the knob, turned it and pulled, but the door didn’t open.

The lock. She flipped it open and tried again, but the door still wouldn’t budge. She looked up and down the frame, then saw a lock near the top that must have automatically clicked into place when she came in. She reached up, turned the lever, heard it snap back and was about to pull the door open when someone pounded loudly on the outside.

Megan jerked back as if she’d been scalded, and had a truly paranoid flash of being attacked from all sides. She stared at the door, unable to say or do anything until a deep, muffled voice called out, “Open the door! Open up!”

She flinched at the sound, then managed to find her own voice. “Who...who’s there?” she called back.

“It’s Rafe Diaz! Open up!”

CHAPTER FOUR

M
EGAN
STARED
AT
the door, not believing her ears, and didn’t move until he called again. “Megan, open up!”

Rafe? She went closer, reaching for the doorknob, but hesitated, afraid of what she’d find. “Rafe?” she managed to call through the door.

“It’s me. Open up!”

She twisted the knob and jerked the door back, and discovered it was him. The instant she saw him, she ran into his arms and held on to him for dear life. “Thank goodness it’s you,” she gasped against the heat and strength of his chest.

“It’s me,” he said in a whispered voice that rumbled in her ears. Then his arms tightened around her and closed out the fear. “I’m here. It’s okay. Just tell me what happened.”

She held him for another heartbeat, letting a sense of safety filter into her being. It was okay. She was safe, safer than she’d ever felt in her life. Then she realized who was holding her, who she’d made her anchor, and she eased back from him. Wrong.
Really wrong,
she thought, but couldn’t make herself totally let go of him. “Someone...someone’s in there. They h-hit me, and I...”

Before she could finish, he was pushing her down the hallway, getting between her and the open loft door. Then he had his gun out, ready, and he said, “Get on your phone and call 911.”

Her phone? “It’s in my briefcase, inside.”

“Just go and find a phone. Knock on doors, anything, but get the cops up here,” he said, then literally pushed her toward the elevator.

She stopped when she reached it, but couldn’t make herself get in. Instead, she turned just in time to see Rafe slip into the loft and out of sight. There was silence, nothing, and she found herself slowly going back to the open door. She cautiously peered inside, but saw only darkness. No sounds. No movement. It was as if Rafe had vanished.

She looked down the hallway to Trig’s loft. She could get him. He was bigger than anyone she’d ever seen. And she started to turn, but stopped dead when she heard something from inside her loft. A thud, another thud, then a scuffling sound. Raw fear shot through her, and she screamed, “Rafe!” and ran toward the sounds, but didn’t get very far.

She literally ran right into Rafe as he came toward her out of the side room. He had her again in his arms, but this time he’d been the one to reach out to catch her, to hold her against him and keep her from falling. The hug was fierce, intense, then he whispered hoarsely, “I told you to go, to get help.”

“I heard...I thought...” She bit her lip. There was no way she could tell him how afraid she’d been or why she’d come in when she heard the noises. No way at all.

“No, you
didn’t
think,” he practically growled, and eased her away from him, though he kept a tight hold on her upper arms. “You didn’t leave.”

She stood there, enduring the connection, then did something she seldom did. She apologized. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

She felt the tension in him, the unsteadiness, and saw fear in his eyes. Then, without warning, he leaned closer, kissed her quickly and fiercely, and the fear was gone. Megan was left wondering if she’d imagined it or if it had been real. She was free and standing on her own in the loft, with a good two feet of space between herself and Rafe.

Nothing made sense to her, and she couldn’t even get out the words to ask him what had just happened and why. She saw him close his eyes, take a deep breath and release it, then he was looking at her again. “You’re so infuriating,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

She tried to come up with some way to make sense of all that had happened since Rafe Diaz walked up to her the night at the ball, and couldn’t. Her mind refused to focus on what he was or wasn’t, except that he was married. “Sorry,” she heard herself saying, a stupid response when all she wanted to do was demand to know why he’d just kissed her.

“So you’ve said.” He ran a hand roughly over his face, and his wedding band gleamed.

She swallowed hard, then looked down and saw that his gun was holstered at his hip.

“You—you didn’t have to...hurt anyone, did you?”

“I tried, but he was too fast for me.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “There was someone...?”

“Some
thing,
” he said, and motioned to the partial wall of the room he’d just left moments ago. “There’s the culprit.”

She didn’t understand what he was talking about until her gaze followed the direction he indicated, at the top of the partition. Then she saw her attacker. A huge orange cat was perched calmly on the ledge there, a massive ball of fur with dark eyes watching them inscrutably. “A cat?” Megan’s relief was overwhelming.

“You’re lucky it was just a cat,” he muttered. “If it had been—”

She turned on Rafe, her nerves frayed beyond measure. “Okay, I didn’t go to the next-door neighbor, who happens to be a biker the size of the state of Texas, and I came back in here. It’s okay. Nothing happened. It’s a cat. Even I can deal with a cat.”

He unexpectedly reached out and cupped her chin, making her keep their eye contact. “But it could have been someone the size of Texas in here,” he muttered.

They should both be laughing at the way she’d overreacted to a cat attacking her. They should maybe be having a drink and rehashing how foolish she’d been, how it would make a good story when they told it to others. They definitely shouldn’t be inches from each other, with him still angry at her, and her so confused by everything that her headache was coming back full force.

“Well, I’m glad it’s just a cat,” she said, and looked at the animal. The cat calmly licked one paw, then proceeded to clean his face, all the while staring at the two humans below. “How did he get in here?”

“There’s an open window,” Rafe said.

She looked at the windows and saw what he meant—open louvers over what she thought was the fire escape window. “He got in through there, but jumped at me from behind when I was over by the computer.”

“Looks like he comes and goes as he pleases. You probably intruded on his privacy. He was startled, tried to get away, maybe to get to the window, and hit you.”

It made sense to her, but that was about the only thing that did at that moment. She turned, looking past Rafe to the still-open door, then the broken lamp on the floor. She moved away, going to the lamp and picking up the pieces.

“He did that, too?” Rafe asked from behind her.

“No, I did it trying to grab my briefcase and get out of here.” She looked at the cracked lamp base and the dented shade, then put them back on the table. “It’s ruined,” she said.

“You’re lucky that’s the only casualty,” he said from right behind her.

She spun around. “Just stop. You’ve tried to scare me about everything to do with this place, and I’ve had enough.”

“I’m out of here,” he muttered, and started for the door.

But before he got to the exit, she realized something. “What are you even doing here?”

He stopped and spoke without turning. “You screamed on the phone, then it went dead. I came over to make sure you were okay.” She didn’t remember screaming, but she probably had. “I thought you were calling from LynTech, then you showed up on my doorstep.” Another thing hit her. “And you got through the security door.”

He stood still for a moment, then turned back to her. “I was going past and saw your car, and thought I’d call up to make sure you got in safely. Then you screamed and...” He tugged at the tie of his uniform, unfurling it, then undid the top button of his shirt. “The security door—and I use that term loosely—opened when that big biker you were talking about came out. Seeing my uniform, he actually held the door for me.”

She heard what he said about the door, about Trig actually letting him in, but she was still hung up on one of the first things he’d stated. “You were going past this place?”

The past few minutes blurred together for Rafe, melding the shock, the fear and the feeling of Megan shaking in his arms. He tried to separate everything, to focus, but all he could remember was her scream, then being here and thinking that she was in real danger. The raw terror that surged through him, the suffocating need to save her, the fear that he would be too late... Then going inside, finding the cat, letting himself breathe again, only to discover Megan back in the loft without going for help...

It was like reliving a nightmare, that horrible feeling of doing everything he could, and it not being enough. The feeling of helplessly watching a horror, and having no ability to protect anyone. He hadn’t been there with Gabriella, hadn’t been able to tell her to get out, to run. But he knew that she hadn’t run. She’d never had a chance. But Megan had. She’d had the chance but hadn’t taken it.

He exhaled harshly. “You know, you could thank me, instead of putting me through twenty questions.” He heard the tension in his voice and knew it was time he left. Before he did something he’d regret. “And the next time someone tells you to get help, do it.”

He turned; the door was right there. But she spoke and it stopped him again. “It was a cat,” Megan repeated.

Yes, it had been a cat. He turned back to her and watched her lift her chin slightly.

“We both overreacted,” she added. That was when her tongue touched her lips, a fleeting action, but enough to make his world start to tip again.

Overreacted? He’d kissed her. He didn’t know why. Out of anger? Frustration? Need? “And you’re lucky that’s all it was,” he countered.

“You know, it’s your fault,” she said out of the blue.

Just when he thought he had her figured out, she pulled something like this. “
My
fault?”

“Sure. If you hadn’t scared me about being in this area, I never would have reacted the way I did.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” he said sardonically, focusing on the fact that she probably never took the blame for anything. “That’s brilliant, Counselor. It’s my fault.” He’d left his hat in the car. Otherwise, he would have saluted her and left. As it was, he did the next best thing. He simply said, “And now I’m really out of here.”

He turned again and stepped through the door, but she wasn’t letting him off that easily. “I’d really stop and check your job description sometime if I were you,” she called after him.

Against his better judgment, he turned again. She was still by the sofa, an aloof, sarcastic woman who bore little resemblance to the one who had run into his arms for protection. He found sarcasm to match hers. “Are you always this rude, or did you go to some private school to teach you how to do it properly?”

“Are you this obnoxious naturally, or were you self-taught?” she countered.

He stared at her long and hard, thankful that his emotions at that point were clear cut: anger. Then she crossed her arms and the diamond on her finger flashed in the light. “Heaven help your fiancé,” he muttered, then strode across the hallway to the lift.

He was inside, turning to pull down the chain-link door, when he saw her again. She was standing in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, leaning out toward him. “You...you’re married. Does your wife know what you do on your way home?” The next instant, the door slammed shut and what should have been relief only shook him more.

His wife.
He jerked down the barrier and jabbed at the down button. He braced for the searing pain that always came with those words...
his wife.
But all that followed was anger. Searing anger. Anger at Megan, and anger at himself for ever calling her in the first place. He could be home with the boys, and Megan Gallagher wouldn’t be part of any equation. But he wasn’t home. Instead he was here, getting out of the elevator and heading for the exit.

He was raging at himself as he went out into the balmy night and toward his car, feeling as if he’d been hit in the gut by an iron fist. He had no idea why he’d driven by the loft, let alone called up there to check on Megan. He’d been heading home, but found himself going in the wrong direction. Then he’d looked up and noticed he was passing the address he’d seen on the letter from Wayne Lawrence. He’d spotted her car parked between heavy-duty motorcycles and a psychedelic van. Instead of just driving past, the way he should have, he’d pulled to the curb beyond the bikes, then used his cell phone to call Zane, and in two minutes he’d had the phone number for the loft and had called it. Then he’d heard the scream.

He crossed to his SUV, parked in front of the bikes, got in and started it up with a roar. A cat had attacked her? He drove off with a squeal of tires. If he was a cat he’d probably attack her, too. Right now she had likely forgotten how foolishly she’d acted, and was worried about cat hairs on her clothes.

His cell phone rang, and he took it out and glanced at the screen before answering. “Zane?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What’s up?” he asked as he forced himself to slow the car and drive in the right direction toward home. Hopefully by the time he got to the boys, he’d be calmer.

“You hung up so fast when you called, I forgot to ask why you needed the phone number at the loft.”

He thought about lying, just saying it was for his own reference, but the last person he’d lie to was Zane. “I found someone in Legal going through Mr. Lawrence’s desk when I made my rounds tonight.”

“You what?”

“It was a false alarm,” he said. “She’s the lady I told you about, the one I thought was crashing the ball. The one meeting up with Wayne Lawrence.”

“What was she doing there? Waiting for him?”

“No, going through his desk.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it got my attention, too. But it turned out she’s new, and she wasn’t on the list yet. She’s working in Legal with Mr. Lawrence.”

“Jack Ford mentioned something about Mr. Lawrence getting someone from our West Coast office to fill a temporary vacancy in the company. Why was she going through the guy’s desk?”

“She was getting something that she’d left in his office earlier. It turned out it wasn’t anything subversive.”

“That’s a relief. But what does this have to do with you needing the phone number for the loft?”