"I'm just gonna rinse off, get the soap out of my hair," she called to him. The idea of a cold-water rinse gave her a shiver, but the message on the mirror had to be preserved. More steam would cover it up. Maybe a blast of ice water to her scalp would jump-start her brain.
Stepping back into the bath, she found Christian staring at her mirror, his jaw tense. He'd started his search of her house where the whole thing began.
"So this wasn't a random break-in. The bastard killed Mickey." He stared at Raven, trying to make a point. "And he tossed a photograph into your dinner plans. Any connection? The man in the photo was a cop in uniform."
"You're observant. A photograph of my father."
She crossed her arms, amazed how he'd noticed so much in his short walk through the kitchen. A wet strand of hair fell across her face. With a finger, she tucked it behind an ear.
"If this wealthy bachelor gig doesn't work out, maybe I can find an opening for you in law enforcement."
"Not exactly my thing, but thanks." With his green eyes fixed on her, he pressed, "Now answer my question."
"Not sure I can. Just give me use of my bathroom and fix me that hot tea you promised. It'll give me time to think." She led him by the arm and switched places in the cramped quarters.
Christian's stoic expression returned, as if she'd just given him the brush-off. But to his credit, he didn't interrogate her any longer. He turned toward the kitchen. A tinge of guilt gnawed at her, for what she'd thought about his intentions. Before he was out of eyesight, she called to him, peeking around the bathroom door.
"Christian?"
He looked over his shoulder, the concern for her safety still in his eyes. God, she hoped she wasn't imagining it.
"Thanks, for everything. I'm glad you're here." And she meant every word.
A faint light from her bedroom painted his handsome face with warmth. His expression softened. A lazy curve to his lips broadened into a seductive grin.
And time stopped. Oh, that smile! Downright lethal.
His eyes locked on to hers in knowing silence. Suddenly, she became aware just how naked she was beneath her robe. She clutched the collar of her garment and inched farther behind the door. Her cheeks flushed with need. Maybe he wouldn't notice.
In an awkward gesture, she cleared her throat to ward off the emotion. He seemed to read her mind. Without a word, his smile faded, and he quietly resumed his trek down the hall.
Just like that, the moment came and went between them. Slowly, she closed the door behind her, struggling with a grin of her own.
His smile. Just like she remembered. Damn it! She wanted to be right about him.
Pulling into his driveway, Tony knew Yolie would not be pleased with his late hour. He'd missed dinner and tucking the kids in bed. Admittedly, Celia and Junior would be mortified if their friends knew they were still getting tucked in for the night. But this was a family ritual that Tony wanted to keep sacred for as long as possible. A parent didn't get these years back.
As usual, his front porch light was on, as well as the living room lamp. Yolie always told him it represented her burning love for him. He liked that idea, very much.
His shoulders ached with tension from the long day, but the warm welcome home lifted his spirits. Parking the vehicle in the drive near the front of their house, he turned off the ignition and flung open the car door. The Latino radio station abruptly came to an end. Stepping out of the car, he fumbled with his key ring, looking for the one for the front door. Slipping from his grip, the keys hit the ground with a clink. His eyes followed the sound, then he stooped to pick them up.
In that instant, a shadow eclipsed the streetlight, casting its length along the driveway. He looked up, half expecting his Yolie to be standing there, something she did on occasion. But a darkened silhouette stood before him. A man.
He narrowed his eyes, ready to speak when a muffled scream jolted his attention. Looking over his shoulder, toward a second-story window, Yolie pounded the glass. Her face distorted in terror.
"Run! They have guns. Run!" she cried.
In his mind, the scene slowed as if he were mired in quicksand. Part of his brain knew it was already over. Too late. He reached for his service revolver, pulling it from his shoulder holster, instinctively releasing the safety.
The stranger didn't flinch. Calmly and without a word, the man raised his hand, then slowly pointed a finger.
A signal. A series of red lasers launched from the trees and hedges across the front of his house. A deadly light show. Five. There were five others. He was sorely outnumbered.
"What the hell—" It was all Tony got out.
Thud! Searing pain tore through his left shoulder, spinning him to the ground. As he fell, a ricochet sparked off the sidewalk. The bullet pierced his chest. Oh, God! This was bad.
Yolanda shrieked. "No! Tony, noooo!"
Suddenly, the side of his house erupted. Bullets came from all directions. Rounds shattered his front window and ripped apart the brick on impact. Careful with his aim, he fired two rounds, then rolled for cover behind a brick planter. Shards of stone nicked his face and hands. The man who'd given the order was long gone, becoming a part of the deepening shadows. He'd lost his best target.
Silenced gunfire? The precision of the attack, the hand signals, the stealth. It all pointed to one thing— mercenaries. What the hell was happening?
The front of his shirt grew wet and sticky. And he knew the tang of blood when he smelled it. He had to remain calm. For now, the shooting had stopped. But he still felt them out there, waiting for him to make a mistake. Keeping his head down, he shoved nearer his porch. His chest on fire.
None of this made sense. But it didn't matter. Now, he had only one thing on his mind—to protect his family. Ever the pragmatist, with his cop instincts he envisioned the worst. He pictured himself pinned down while others broke into his home from the rear. The imagined screams of his children overloaded his head like an insidious migraine. Only one thing left for him to do. Reaching into his pocket, he found his cell phone and dialed 911.
He recognized the dispatcher's voice. After giving his address, he added, "Officer d-down. I repeat, officer down. Proceed C-Code Three." He wanted sirens loud. Lights flashing.
"ETA five minutes. Tony, are you okay?" The female dispatcher broke protocol.
"No, Sara, I'm not. Just t-take care of my f-family, okay?" He ended the call.
Tony still heard Yolanda crying upstairs. He blocked out her agony, flashing on memories of his beautiful wife holding their firstborn child, Celia, in her arms, a tiny pink bundle. Tears filled his eyes. He was powerless to help her and the kids now. Their safety would be in the hands of others—and God.
He tasted blood in his mouth. The chest wound was nasty. A numbing sensation inched across his body. Before long, he'd lose consciousness. Picking a target, he carefully squeezed off another shot, and was rewarded by a grunt. Maybe that would give them something else to think about. The howling dogs in the neighborhood nearly masked the sound. Tony had never been so thankful for all the mangy mutts in his "hood." The more noise, the better.
His breaths came in short wheezes now. He was losing his fight. Choking up blood, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"Please, God. H-hold my family s-safe—in your arms," he whispered his prayer.
Slowly, he slumped with his back to a brick wall, so near the front door of his home. The numbing cold began to claim him. Streetlights blurred, warping into a series of shimmering rings around the bright globes. In the distance, sirens teased his ears, becoming louder as the night was set on fire. Flashing beacons of red and blue circled the night sky, streaking their message. The cavalry bad arrived—Code 3.