Identity, page 35
“Maybe. Thanks for doing this. I figured she’d be more comfortable with you than one of the Adventure crew.”
“It was fun.” He took the harness from Miles. “She’s gutsy. You gotta give her gutsy. Before we go over, any more on that asshole?”
“Nothing definite. They’re still following leads out west. Maybe Oregon.”
“Maybe he’ll run out of room and take a dive into the Pacific.”
“I could live with that, but it’s better if they find the bastard. She’s never going to be all the way steady until she knows he’s locked up.”
“He can’t run forever, Miles. Nobody can.”
No, Miles thought, but that was the problem. Sooner or later, Rozwell would stop running and try again.
* * *
At home, he lured her into the shower. Not just because he wanted her, and Christ knew he did. But with the hope the sex would clear his brain, return his balance.
It didn’t.
When she went to work, he wandered around his house wondering how it was she filled so many spaces even when she wasn’t there.
He went into his office, looked out of the turret view that had so captivated her. He sat, worked awhile. That filled spaces, too.
But he kept returning to those moments. The moment at the lookout when he’d felt that slip. Then the moment on the ropes, when he felt the fast fall.
And other moments, he admitted. The first time he’d seen her working behind the bar. That little click inside him he’d ignored. Watching her drive away in that rattletrap excuse for a car and wondering. Just wondering.
Seeing the way she worked out in the gym because she was determined to get strong enough to protect herself.
A lot of moments up to the one he’d stepped outside and seen her standing in his front yard with her tub of cookies.
“So what now?”
Beside his chair, Howl muttered his opinion.
“I don’t need your advice. She’s got you wrapped, or you’ve got her. Hell, I guess it’s mutual.”
He sat back, closed his eyes. “So that’s just the way it is.”
Absently, he laid a hand on Howl’s head, and realized his little brother had it right. He’d pretty much gotten over the pissed part.
“She’ll be home in a couple hours.”
And that was the way it was, too, he realized. She’d be home, and he’d be waiting when she got there.
“You might as well do your last patrol.”
They went down, and while Howl did his last patrol, Miles poured a glass of Cab. Thought of her.
Waited for her to come home.
Chapter Twenty-five
The bitch had ruined his life.
Gavin Rozwell stared at the never-ending rain outside the window of the crap motel stuck off the back roads in Oregon, and thought of sunny Mexican beaches. He thought of luxury hotel suites with down pillows and terrace views of sunsets over blue water.
Of champagne nestled in silver ice buckets.
He thought of how it felt to simply snap his fingers for service, and of strolling sun-washed streets knowing he could have anything he wanted.
Everything he was entitled to.
Morgan Albright—or Nash, as she called herself now—had taken that from him. Temporarily, oh yes, temporarily, but she’d taken from him.
He could feel the fucking federal agents breathing down the back of his neck. Literally feel their breath when he woke in some lumpy bed in some dingy room. Woke in a cold sweat in the dark, afraid and disoriented.
He’d taken to leaving a light on because the dark had too many moving shadows.
He couldn’t shake them, couldn’t quite shake them. No matter how often he told himself they’d never look for him, never find him in some dump of a room in the rain-soaked back of beyond, he felt them inching closer.
Twice he’d hacked into the state cops’ system—once in Idaho, and again in Oregon—and found to his fury and his fear they’d updated his description.
The sketches didn’t hit home, but hit close enough to force him to change his look, again.
He’d restyled his hair, added a beard, both shaggy and nondescript brown. He wore glasses with cheap black frames, and hated the face he saw in the mirror.
With the help of makeup, the lines around his eyes had deepened, and his skin carried the pallor of a shut-in. He’d already gained weight from all the fast food and lack of hotel fitness centers.
He changed locations and vehicles every other day. Rusty pickup trucks and rooms that smelled of must.
And the bitch lived her life on the other side of the country, laughing at him as she sat in that big-ass house.
He heard her laughing even when he left the light on at night.
He imagined killing her countless times, in countless ways. But those sweet, sweet dreams shattered to shards when he heard her laughing, when he felt the breath hot on the back of his neck.
It couldn’t go on. It wouldn’t go on.
He needed a place. Luxury might have to wait, but he needed a decent place where he could huddle in for a couple of weeks, maybe three. A month.
A place with a decent shower, where the rain didn’t pound headaches into his skull. A place where he could think, plan, prepare.
He’d head south, south into Nevada. The desert heat would bake the mold out of his brain and warm his blood again.
He’d leave now, tonight, under the cover of dark and rain.
Excitement rose up as he thought of it. South, toward the sun, while they looked for him in the soggy Northwest. But west first, toward the coast. Dump the banger he’d stolen only the day before, get himself a truck. He could leave the fucking feds some bread crumbs so it looked like he headed north toward Washington State.
But he’d double back south. South toward the sun.
Where he could think, where he could plan.
Now he smiled out at the rain as he brought Morgan’s face into his head.
Sitting in that big-ass house, thinking she’d beaten him. Thinking she’d won.
“Enjoy the rest of your summer, bitch, because I’m coming.”
Now he was the one who laughed.
* * *
Miles reached for her when he woke Sunday morning. When he found the space beside him empty, he opened his eyes, studied what had become her side of the bed, at least on weekends.
And realized he didn’t like that empty space. He’d gotten used to having her fill it, gotten used to the way she slept. On her left side, one hand under the pillow as if she held herself in place.
Annoyed, and more annoyed to find himself annoyed, he sat up and noted the dog had deserted him, too.
He got up, pulled on a pair of gym shorts with the vague idea of working out after coffee—better yet, after sex. Downstairs, as he walked toward the kitchen, he caught the mutter of the great room TV.
One of those home improvement shows, he identified. The woman loved HGTV.
And there she was, in baggy shorts, a baggier T-shirt, standing at the counter she’d littered with bottles, whole and juiced-out lemons and oranges. His grandmother’s big cut glass pitcher glowed a deep, almost purple red with whatever she’d mixed in it.
Now, with one eye on a bunch of people ripping out ugly, shit-brown kitchen cabinets, she sliced an orange.
“What’re you doing?”
Still slicing, she glanced over. “Morning. Why, I’m waxing my surfboard, of course.”
“Ha.”
He went straight to the coffee maker.
“I’m making sangria. The flavors need time to blend. I was going to make it when I got home last night, but you had other ideas, so I’m getting it together now so it’ll have blending time.”
He looked over his shoulder as he reached for a mug. “I had other ideas this morning.”
That got a smile as she dumped the orange slices in the pitcher. And picked up a lemon. “That’ll have to wait. We have a dinner party to prep for.”
Coffee. Coffee. Coffee, he thought as the scent of it brewing made him yearn. “It’s not a dinner party.”
She’d said the same, she remembered. But now she embraced her ladies’ definition.
“We’re having people over for dinner, that we’re making. Hence, dinner party. And I know I’m more wound up about it than you are, but I don’t get to do this kind of thing often. Mostly at all. The last time…”
She slid the lemon slices in, started on the lime. “The last time was when Nina and I made dinner for Sam and the man I thought was Luke Hudson. Today’s going to wipe that one right off the books.”
It mattered, he thought. What he considered just a casual summer evening with family mattered to her. For so many reasons.
He stepped away from coffee, stepped to her, wrapped his arms around her.
“Is that the biggest pitcher you could find?”
He felt her laugh, felt her relax.
“You’re thinking that while Nell may have one glass out of solidarity, the guys are going to stick with beer, because your balls may shrivel up if you drink something you consider too fussy and girlie.”
“That wasn’t my exact thought.”
“Sangria’s neither fussy nor girlie, but a perfect summer adult beverage. And in a few hours, you’ll learn my sangria’s exceptional.”
He stroked a hand along her spine before going back for coffee. “Not fussy says the woman who’s decimated a decent-size orchard and has multiple bottles on the counter.”
“One of the many secrets of my sangria is fresh juice.”
When the doorbell rang, Morgan put down the knife.
“I’ll get it,” Miles told her.
“I’m fully dressed; you’re fully not.”
He held up a hand to stop her before picking up the remote and changing the channel to security.
“It’s my mother. Why the hell is she knocking?”
He switched the channel back and started out of the kitchen as Morgan looked down at herself. And said, “Shit.”
When he opened the door, Drea lifted her eyebrows. “Sleeping in?”
“Why didn’t you just come in?”
“In case you were sleeping in or otherwise occupied.” She handed him a basket of peaches. “The Millers are up from Georgia.”
“How many bushels this time?”
“Two. So I’m divvying up. I know you’re seeing Liam and Nell later. You can share.”
“Maybe. Jesus, come in, come back. We’re in the kitchen.”
“I don’t want to get in your way.”
“In the kitchen,” he repeated, and started back. “Morgan’s making enough sangria for Barcelona. We have peaches,” he said as he set the basket on the counter. “You can’t possibly want to stuff them in there, too.”
“I went red wine and citrus, but if I’d known.” Morgan plucked one out, lifted it to her face, and drew in the scent. “They’re gorgeous. Thanks, Drea.”
“Thank the Millers. Second cousins on my side. They grow peaches in Georgia. And your sangria’s what’s gorgeous.”
“I’d offer you some, but it hasn’t had time to blend, and wouldn’t be right. How about an iced cappuccino?”
“I—that sounds like a lot of trouble.”
“It’s really not.”
While Morgan carried the pitcher to the refrigerator, Howl raced in from the mudroom, wagged his way to Drea for a greeting.
“There he is.” Drea bent down to pet. If she wondered what it meant how easily Morgan worked in her son’s kitchen while he stood in ratty gym shorts drinking coffee, she tucked it away.
“How was the hike?”
“It was great.” Morgan brewed the espresso, got out a bowl. “I didn’t realize how much I missed hiking until I did it again.”
“And the ropes course?”
“You mean the ambush?” Tossing her hair back, she whisked half-and-half, sweetened condensed milk, and a little vanilla with the coffee. “More fun than I expected. Have you ever done it?”
“Family pride demands, and once was enough. Are those coffee ice cubes?”
Morgan shook the bag she’d pulled from the freezer. “Why dilute a good thing with water?”
“She says who adds a little coffee to her milk and sugar,” Miles pointed out. “And maybe I want an iced cappuccino.”
“I’m making enough.”
She got out two tall glasses, added the ice cubes, poured the coffee mixture over.
Drea took one sip, then another. “Maybe you should come live with me.”
“And I’m wondering why this is the first time I’m having this.”
“You drink black coffee,” Morgan reminded him. “Really hot black coffee. I figured I’d make these for tonight, post-dinner. We should probably do something with all these peaches, right? Like make something, for later.”
Miles pointed at his mother. “She says we have to share.”
“Well, that would be sharing, and there’s a lot of them. I don’t have a clue.”
“Peach cobbler,” Drea suggested.
“Even less of a clue.”
“Cobblers are cobblers because you cobble them together. Quick and easy. Not a stretch for somebody who just made a couple of iced cappuccinos in under two minutes.”
“Beverages, no problem. Food’s trickier.”
“I can show you.”
“Really?”
“I’ve got time before I deliver peaches to my parents, then go home and make coffee ice cubes. And you’re going to text me whatever you did in that bowl.”
“Deal!”
“I’m going to go work out.”
Miles deserted the kitchen. And he thought how she fit, just fit in his life as if the rest of his life waited for her to slide right in.
By the time he’d put in a solid ninety minutes in his home gym, showered off the sweat, dressed, he found his mother gone. Peaches filled a bright blue bowl on the counter in a seriously sparkling kitchen.
“I made a peach cobbler.”
“Okay.”
“No, this is big. I made it.” She pointed to the baking dish cooling by the stove. “Your mom just said, now add this, do that. I made a dessert from scratch. We’ll have to warm it up again before it’s served, she said. Maybe with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”
“Okay. I’d’ve given you a hand with the kitchen.”
“Your mom helped. She wouldn’t take no. She said your dad’s going to worship her when she offers him an iced cap after dinner tonight so we’re even.
“I really like your family, Miles.”
“So do I, more than most of the time.”
“It shows. I poked around,” she continued. “I hope you don’t mind, but too late if you did, because I already poked. And I found these wonderful dishes. I forget what they’re called—all different colors.”
“Fiestaware.”
“That’s it. I thought we could use them tonight. They’re fun and casual.”
And what his grandmother always used for backyard parties, he thought.
“And you have perfect glasses for the sangria. Short, thick, colored stems and napkins in bright stripes I thought—”
She broke off when he pulled her in and kissed her.
“I take that as a yes.”
“Use whatever you want.”
“I think we’ll skip the Waterford and fine china. I know I’m obsessing, at least a little.”
“At least. Morgan.” She smelled of peaches. “Let’s sit down a minute.”
“All right. Wait! It’s nearly two. They’re coming around six for cocktails.”
“That’s four hours.”
“Yes, but I have things. A lot of things. I saw this summer table setting idea on HGTV I want to try.”
“Of course you did.”
“So flowers, vases, and candles and all of it. I’m in charge of the potatoes, then there’s serving dishes. And I have to get myself together so I look good.”
“You look good.”
“Please. I’m still dealing with the shame of this outfit when your mother dropped by looking like the cover of a magazine with the caption ‘Casual summer chic.’”
“Are you going to be like this anytime people come over here?”
“I hope not, but I think I have to get over this hump, successfully. It’s your house, your siblings, the chief of police. It’s a big hump for me.”
“Okay then. What’s next?”
She let out a long sigh. “Thanks.”
He shrugged it off as she went to get the napkins to practice some clever fold for the table look she wanted.
It could wait, he decided. What he wanted to say to her could wait. And he’d take more time to think.
* * *
It took damn near the four hours for her to satisfy herself with every detail. Flowers, candles, napkins. Her focus remained intense, though she chatted away while she prepped her potatoes, while he marinated chicken, the vegetables he’d roast, made the barbecue sauce.
And again, as they worked together, it struck how well she fit. How her anticipation of the evening had him looking forward to it all more than he’d expected.
She put on a dress—she sure had the legs for it. Just a breezy number in pale, pale green that made him give thanks for summer.
At last, when she stood outside, giving her tablescape a last, critical look, she nodded.
“It looks good, right? It all looks good.”
“It ought to. You know, you spent all that time fancy folding the napkins, tucking a nasturtium in each one—precisely—and people are just going to open them up.”
“The nasturtiums are pretty, and edible—so there’s that.”
“There’s that. I’m getting a beer.”
“Or,” she said as he started toward the copper tub where, at her insistence, he’d nestled beer and wine in ice, “you could sample the sangria.”
“I thought it was still blending.”
“It’s had six hours, so that’ll do. Just a sample,” she said as she headed inside. “If you don’t like, you don’t like.”
He looked down at the dog, who looked up at him. “I just want a damn beer. I folded frigging napkins. Dragged out the ironing board I barely remember I have so she could press the table runner that’s going to end up with barbecue sauce on it. I deserve a beer.”
