Twilight, page 2
“Because I’ve been attacked by an idiot with more muscle than sense. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if half my ribs were cracked.”
“You did break into private property,” he reminded her.
“A technicality,” she insisted.
“Some technicality. You a lawyer?”
“Sweet heavens, no,” she said with such heartfelt distaste that Rick grinned.
“I’m not overly fond of them myself. I guess that gives us something in common, doll face.”
“Doll face?” she repeated with more of that misplaced indignant outrage. “No one calls me doll face or honey or sweetheart.”
“Too bad,” Rick said sympathetically. He decided he could really enjoy deliberately aggravating this woman. “Mind telling me why you dropped by, doll face? Since you chose not to use the front door or to come during business hours, I have to assume your mission is less than legal.”
“That’s not true,” she said.
“The facts say otherwise.”
“To hell with your so-called facts. Are you going to let me up or not?”
“Not just yet,” he said, wondering abruptly if the decision was the security precaution he wanted to believe or merely an attempt to prolong the distinctly provocative contact. Worry over his motives kept him silent for so long that his captive jumped back in with her two cents.
“If you’re figuring on copping a feel, you’d better think again,” she said in that imperious way that amused him so. “I’ll slap you with sexual battery charges while I’m at it.”
Rick chuckled. “Doll face, I do not need to get my kicks from accosting total strangers. In case you’ve missed the point, I am subduing a thief who broke into this building. I’m within my rights, believe me.”
“I am not a thief,” she retorted.
“Maybe not technically, since you never got a chance to lay your hands on anything of value,” he agreed. “But you seem to be in deep denial of the seriousness of your position. Now, how about giving me some answers?”
She hesitated for a very long time, probably evaluating her alternatives, before asking, “Such as?”
“Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“Who are you?” she countered. “For all I know, you’re just a thief who got here first.”
She had audacity. Rick had to give her that. She was the kind of smart-mouthed handful who’d drive a man crazy. He wished he could get a better look at her to see if she’d be worth the trouble, but the lighting in the hallway was virtually nonexistent. The only thing he knew for sure was that she wasn’t local. She had no accent. All of the girls in this neighborhood—and some of them were indeed tough as nails—were Latinas.
Based on her shape, though, this one definitely had promise. His own body had picked up on that without his brain even having to kick in. Another couple of minutes of close contact and he’d be dangerously aroused. Hell, he was already aroused. For a man who’d vehemently sworn to remain celibate through all eternity after his very brief and ill-advised marriage had gone sour, it was a troubling turn of events. He’d better settle this nonsense in a hurry and extricate himself from a dangerous situation.
“Let me assure you, doll face, I belong here,” he said. “I run the place.”
The announcement had an odd effect on her. Though she’d remained relatively still since he’d taken her captive, it now seemed that the remaining breath whooshed right out of her. She was utterly and absolutely motionless. That didn’t strike Rick as a good sign.
“Doll face?”
“You’re Rick Sanchez?” she asked in a broken whisper.
Rick couldn’t tell if her voice was choked by tears or was shaking with some inexplicable anger, but he definitely got the feeling she knew a whole lot more about Yo, Amigo than he’d assumed. He also realized that he was the very last person she’d expected to encounter here tonight.
“That’s me,” he told her. “Which leaves us with you. Who are you, doll face?”
Several seconds ticked by before she answered.
“I’m Dana Miller.”
She said it in a tone so stiff and cold that it sent goose bumps chasing over Rick’s body. Dismay slammed through him as the name registered. Ken’s wife? Dear God in heaven, he’d tackled Ken’s wife as though she were a common criminal. Which, of course, at the moment she appeared to be, but that was beside the point.
He released her wrists at once and leaped to his feet, holding out his hand to help her up. She ignored it and rose with a grace and dignity that belied the situation.
“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to convey a month’s worth of emotions in those two simple words. “For everything. For Ken. For just now.”
“Save it,” she said harshly. “Save it for someone who’ll buy your phony sympathy.”
Anger radiated from her in almost palpable waves. Rick had known she blamed him for Ken’s death. A half-dozen people had told him exactly how bitter she was toward him and Yo, Amigo. In fact, he had stayed away from the funeral for that very reason, out of consideration for her feelings, justified or not. He’d figured Ken’s graveside was no place to force a confrontation. Later he’d tried to see her, but she’d been gone, off in Florida to recover from the tragedy, her best friend had told him.
Now he realized that he should have seen her sooner, should have gone at once to offer his condolences, to explain how deeply he, too, was grieving over the death of her husband. He doubted she would have believed him any more then than she did now, but he knew how wounds could fester unless they were cleansed right away. This soul-deep wound was no different than one to the flesh. It had had more than a month to worsen dangerously.
Ironically, he had anticipated that sooner or later, she might come after him. He just hadn’t expected it to be in the middle of the night.
Gazing into her bleak expression, he tried to tell her now what he would have said weeks ago, if he’d had the opportunity.
“Your husband was the best friend—”
He never got to finish the sentence. Her open hand connected with his face in a stinging slap that rocked him on his heels.
“Don’t you dare say that,” she said. “Don’t you dare.”
Rick fell silent, uncertain how to cope with such anguish and outrage. Used to coping with broken teenaged dreams with words and hugs and timeworn platitudes, he could think of nothing that would touch Dana Miller’s hurt, or calm her fury. Obviously, she needed to lash out at someone and she’d picked him.
Since the topics of Ken Miller and his death were clearly off-limits, despite their obvious connection to tonight’s break-in, he decided to focus on why Dana Miller was at Yo, Amigo headquarters in the middle of the night. It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out.
“You expected to find answers here, didn’t you?” he asked softly.
The direct question seemed to surprise her. Her gaze clashed with his. “It’s the obvious place to start.”
“The police thought so, too,” he reminded her. “They’ve searched through every file, talked with every one of the kids who comes here regularly, questioned every potential eyewitness. They’ve almost destroyed the program in the process.” He regarded her defiantly. “I won’t let you start the whole thing all over again.”
“You don’t have a choice in the matter,” she told him coldly. “I will do whatever I have to do to find Ken’s murderer. You can’t stop me.”
He found her resolve chilling, but it bolstered his own commitment to salvage Yo, Amigo, at any cost. “Oh, but I can. These kids need a safe haven. They need one person who believes in them. That’s me. They had Ken, too, but he’s gone now.”
“Because of you,” she accused bitterly.
“Not because of me or these kids,” Rick insisted. “I’d stake my life on that.”
“Then you’re a blind fool,” she said. “He was here, in this neighborhood, because of you. Week after week, he risked his life by coming here. Eventually the odds caught up with him.” That said, she turned her back on him and headed for the door.
Rick couldn’t let her go, not like this. “Dana?”
Her determined footsteps faltered, but she didn’t look back.
“I will do anything to help you find Ken’s killer, but I will not let you destroy Yo, Amigo. There’s too much at stake.”
“You can’t stop me,” she said again.
“I’ll report what happened here tonight, if I have to,” he said, catching her attention. Her eyes blazed when she turned to face him. He went on with his warning, hoping to scare some sense into her. “I will let the police know that you’re on a vigilante’s mission. They’ll stop you.”
She choked back what sounded like a sob, but her voice was steady when she said, “Do what you have to do, Mr. Sanchez. And I will do what I have to do.”
Before he could think of anything to say to that, she slipped out into the night and vanished even more quietly than she had arrived.
More shaken than he’d ever been by an encounter with a rival gang, Rick sighed at her leaving. She was a handful, all right, everything Ken had ever described her as being.
And he had a terrible feeling that tonight had just been the first skirmish in what was likely to turn into all-out war.
* * *
Dana climbed into her car a half block from Yo, Amigo and leaned back against the seat. Her whole body was shaking, not from the very real danger that existed all around her in this neighborhood, but from that face-to-face confrontation with Rick Sanchez.
How could she have been so stupid, so careless? Obviously she’d lost not only her mind, but her touch. She’d been so anxious to begin her search for answers, so determined not to stay away from the boys one second longer than necessary, that she’d gotten off the plane and plunged ahead on her first night back in Chicago. She’d done it without thinking things through, without so much as a day’s surveillance of how the stupid program operated or who was likely to be in the building. She’d just assumed it would be empty at night. Assumptions had been the downfall of more than one private eye. She knew that, and she’d acted impetuously anyway.
Now Sanchez knew she was after him or, if not him directly, then one of those precious criminals he defended so arduously.
“Blast it all,” she muttered, hugging herself to ward off the chill that came from getting caught on her very first attempt to gather information.
She drew in a deep breath and made a promise to herself that tonight’s foolishness would be the very last mistake she’d make. She couldn’t afford another one, not with a man like Rick Sanchez. Ken wouldn’t have admired him so if he’d been anything less than brilliant and committed. That meant he would be every bit as passionate in his defense of his boys and his program as she would be in her search for the killer.
His offer to help echoed in her head. Of course he wanted to help. He wanted to steer her as far from Yo, Amigo as he possibly could. She couldn’t afford to be taken in by the compassion or the sorrow he’d expressed. He had his own agenda and it was not the same as hers. Far from it, in fact.
For a moment she allowed herself to wish it were otherwise. The next days and weeks promised to be lonely, albeit frantically busy. It would have been nice to have someone with whom to share theories, as she once would have with Ken.
But Rick Sanchez was not that man. She thought of the powerful, barely leashed strength he’d radiated, the taunting arrogance as he’d held her down before he’d learned who she was. The memory made her shiver, this time with unwanted awareness of just how dangerous a man he was.
She shook off the sensation that she was flirting with disaster. She couldn’t afford to be scared off now. Tomorrow, when she’d had some rest, had a chance to compose herself, she would plot out her strategy. And no one—not even the formidable Rick Sanchez—would stand in her way.
2
The greatest act of courage Dana had ever performed wasn’t breaking into Yo, Amigo. It wasn’t fighting off an assailant that had turned out to be the man she held responsible for her husband’s death. It was walking back into the house she and Ken had shared for most of their marriage.
With her heart thudding dully, she hesitated on the tiny cement stoop, unable to push the key into the lock. Her fingers, so nimble earlier, felt stiff and awkward now. Her key ring seemed to have tripled in weight, as if every key had been coated with lead.
“Come on, Dana, it’s just a house,” she told herself sternly. “A few walls, a roof, some putrid gold carpeting you never liked anyway. How can you be scared to face that?”
Because with Ken there, it had been home. It was as simple as that, proof positive that it wasn’t the appearance of a place that turned it into a home, but love. She had felt it every time she had walked through the front door.
Now she faced only emptiness. For one brief second she regretted leaving the boys in Florida. They would have filled the place with noise and laughter. Their presence would have kept loneliness at bay, at least until the darkest hours of the night.
How pitiful was that? she thought ruefully. How pitiful was it to even consider using her kids to buffer the pain? Besides, she had come home for one reason and one reason only: to find Ken’s murderer. That was the best thing she could do for all of them, the only thing that would give them any peace. She couldn’t afford any distractions if she intended to solve things quickly so that they could move on with their lives.
That reminder was enough to stiffen her resolve. Revenge is a powerful motivator. Even though her hand shook, she managed this time to get the key into the lock, even to walk through the front door.
Perhaps it was better that it was the middle of a moonless night, pitch-dark so that she couldn’t see the collection of family photographs sitting on top of the upright piano that Ken had played with more enthusiasm than skill, couldn’t see the eclectic stack of books beside his favorite chair, or the notes he had been making for his last sermon, still scattered across his desk.
But even though the room was cast in shadows, she could imagine it all, could visualize it as clearly as if every light blazed. It was as if he had just stepped away for a moment or an hour, not forever.
She dropped her luggage inside the door, tossed aside her jacket. Guided by pure instinct, she made her way to his chair, the overstuffed one where she had often sat cradled in his lap, content just to be held as the strains of Brahms or Beethoven surrounded them at the end of a long day.
She reached out, traced the butter-soft leather, and smiled at the memory of how appalled he’d been by the indulgence when there were so many more practical things they could have used. It had gone against his frugal nature to waste money on luxuries. But even as he’d protested, he had settled into the chair, sinking into the deep cushions, caressing the leather as sensuously as he might have traced the curve of her hip or the weight of her breast. He had fallen in love with it, just as she’d known he would.
It was a wonderful memory, one to cherish, she thought as she plucked an afghan from the back of the nearby sofa and settled into the chair. The coldness of the leather was a shock, snapping her back to reality like a slap. Even this, it seemed, would never be the same. The warmth was gone.
Still, she craved the sense of connection that sitting in Ken’s favorite chair gave her. It was personal, something he’d used daily, yet it lacked the intimacy of their bed. She wasn’t sure when she’d be able to sleep there alone, if ever. From the night she had learned of his death until she had left for Florida, she had slept in this chair. It had brought her a small measure of comfort.
Now, once again, she wrapped the afghan around her and curled up, cradled by leather now, instead of Ken’s strong arms. Even so, the restlessness that had plagued her in Florida eased. For better or worse, her journey to find the truth behind Ken’s murder had begun.
Finally, as dawn turned the sky gray, then mauve, and at last a pale, winter-weary blue, she slept, more soundly than she had in weeks. It was as if her body were preparing for whatever lay ahead.
Her dreams, though, were disturbing. They were not of the man she’d loved so fiercely, but of a shadowy gunman, his face tantalizingly obscured.
Dana awakened at midday to find her best friend staring down at her, hands on generous hips, a worried frown puckering her brow.
“How’d you get in?” she muttered groggily.
Kate Jefferson waved a key ring under her nose. “I found these in the front door. Even if I hadn’t, I have the one you gave me so I could bring in the mail, remember? When did you get home? You were due in at eight. The plane was on time. I checked. I called until all hours, but you never answered. I finally decided you’d changed your mind or missed the plane.”
“I got here in the middle of the night,” Dana said without elaborating. She struggled awake. Her back ached. Her neck was stiff and she was freezing. She’d forgotten to turn the heat up when she’d come in the night before. It couldn’t be much more than fifty-five in the room, the temperature her father had decreed would at least keep the pipes from freezing.
“Where are the boys?” Kate asked. “Didn’t they come with you?”
“No. I enrolled them in school in Florida for the rest of the year. They’re with my parents.”
Kate stared at her in shock. “You’ve enrolled them in school? Have you decided to move to Florida, after all?”
Dana sighed. “No, not for sure. I haven’t decided anything definitely. I can’t think that clearly. I just wanted them to get some sense of normalcy back into their lives.” She stood up and headed toward the kitchen. “Any more questions will have to wait until I have coffee.”
“It’s already made,” Kate said, proving once again that she had an admirable, take-charge attitude. Dana had often told her it should have been put to use running some company, instead of being wasted on her often unappreciative friends or two typically rebellious teenage daughters.
