He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Someone else searched for Fiona. It took him a moment to compose himself enough to speak.
"Keep looking for her. When she wants to hide, she's a damned ghost. I just wish she wasn't so good at it."
"I'll keep in touch, Christian. You'll know something the second I do."
"Thanks. And Bill, keep this assignment between you and me."
"I know, boss. Hang in there."
Without fanfare, the call ended. But he was more worried now than before. Why had Fiona run? And who trailed her now? The part that hurt the worst was her lack of faith in him to help her. He owed her his life. And she hadn't trusted him with her own.
Rising from the bed, he yanked the shirttail from his slacks and unbuttoned his shirt, heading for the bathroom and a long shower. He wanted to talk to Fiona before committing to help the police. But now, his surrogate mother would have to trust his judgment on the matter. The old police files on the assassination of Charles Dunhill might hold the key to this whole mystery—or be the last nail in Fiona's coffin. He had no choice. With someone after Fiona, his instincts told him to push ahead.
And after the way he'd treated the beautiful Raven Mackenzie, he'd have to coerce her into helping him. The thought of pressing her for help didn't entirely displease him.
Steam from the shower billowed in the small bathroom and blurred the mirror in a matter of minutes. Out of habit, Raven cracked the door an inch to let the moisture escape before she stepped in. Her old home had its bothersome idiosyncrasies, offset by the treasured memories crammed into every nook and cranny. Normally more frugal with her hot water, Raven made this concession to relax after a long day. Slipping her fluffy white terry-cloth robe from her shoulders, she hung it on a hook and slid open the opaque shower door. After stepping into the bathtub, she closed the door and breathed in thick steam.
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.