“Much better,” he said softly, encouraging.
When she could, she lifted her head, torn between embarrassment and bitterness. “I’m fine.” But her hands shook as she smoothed down the skirt of her suit, which had risen high on her thighs.
“Are you really?”
That was it. Exploding off the stairs, she wavered for a minute, flinging off the supporting arm he had placed around her waist. “No, actually I’m not fine,” she said, her heart still racing, her palms damp. In the face of her anger and betrayal, the panic had receded for now.
Hunter’s hands were tucked casually in his trouser pockets, his feet planted firmly apart, as if ready for battle. His voice came quietly. “What’s the matter, Trisha?”
She wanted to cry, laugh, scream. “You know what’s the matter. You’re going to sell, after you said you wouldn’t.”
“I never told you I wouldn’t.”
“You moved in here,” she pointed out. “I thought that meant – that you wouldn’t – Oh, hell,” she said softly, pushing her hair from her face. “I’m sorry. I… ” She looked wildly about her, in desperate need of an escape. Her bike, lying against the side of the house, seemed the perfect getaway vehicle. “I’ve got to go.”
Without a thought for the jersey suit and heels she was wearing, she yanked the bike away from the house and got on.
“Trisha, wait.”
The fitted military jacket didn’t pose a problem, nor did the short, snug skirt. But her open-toed shoes gave her a rough moment when they got caught on the pedals. In less than two minutes, however, the house – and Hunter’s anxious, angry voice – had faded from view.
Moving wouldn’t be so bad, she reassured herself as she hit her stride, peddling along the quiet streets of South Pasadena. After all, she should be used to it.
And maybe, just maybe, if she got real lucky, the new owners of the duplex would want a tenant.
Hunter Adams would be just a bad, distant memory.
Right.
Hunter stood there for exactly half a second, rooted in shock at Trisha’s abrupt departure, before he jerked his keys out of his pocket and ran to his car.
He had absolutely not a clue as to what exactly he’d just witnessed, but he’d bet his last dollar it had been a panic attack. “Crazy woman is in no condition to be riding a bike,” he muttered, quickly unlocking the car with the intention of following her.
“Excuse me…” a female voice called from the street. “Wasn’t that Trisha going off on that bike?”
Hunter paused as a woman with bright red hair laced with a white streak shut the door of her car and hastened up the walk. He recognized her immediately from the day he’d visited Trisha’s shop. It’d been the day they’d shared that first volcanic kiss.
“Hello, again,” she said, waving as she came closer, the silver jewelry jangling in and on various body parts.
Hunter was positive that the last time he’d seen this woman, her hair had been jet-black. “Yes, that was Trisha,” he said hurriedly, still wanting to go after her, though he knew she wouldn’t welcome the intrusion.
“She looked upset.”
Hunter didn’t answer, but shut his car door with a sigh. Trisha had enough of a head start now that she could avoid him forever if she wanted to. He’d have to wait her out, and hope she didn’t get herself killed while she rode off her demons.
Celia was staring at him, and for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, he felt like squirming.
“What happened?” she asked, putting her hands on the hips of the shiny black cat suit she wore.
He wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but the torment he’d seen in Trisha’s eyes haunted him. “I told her I might sell.”
Celia’s gaze turned from pleasant to deadly solemn in less than a heartbeat. “I see.” Without a word, she headed back to her car.
“Wait!” he called. “Please, wait.”
“I’m going after her,” Celia said, not stopping. “I’ve got to find her.”
“Please,” he said again.
She stopped but didn’t turn around. “She’s got to be terribly upset.”
“She’s more than just upset,” he said, feeling helpless. “I think she had some sort of panic attack.”
As Celia swore vehemently, Hunter knew that he had to be missing a big piece of the puzzle that made up Trisha Malloy.
“Tell me why what I said upset her so much.”
“That should be obvious.” Celia glared at him. “She doesn’t want to move.”
“I understand that much,” he said sardonically. “She’s told me often enough. What I meant was, tell me why it matters so much. It’s just a house. And a rundown one at that.”
“What’s it to you?”
He couldn’t answer this question, only knew he was suddenly driven to understand the woman he knew he’d inadvertently hurt. “It’s important.”
She glanced anxiously down the street. “But Trisha -”
“Is long gone,” he assured her grimly, every bit as worried as she obviously was.
Celia sighed and looked at the house. Finally, with a resigned shrug, she walked back up the drive, her four-inch heels clicking. She stepped onto the patio, where she sat on the wooden bench beneath the bay window. “Might as well kill two birds with one stone,” she said to herself.
“What?”
“Sit,” she said, patting the bench. “Sit, Dr. Adams, and listen.”
He gladly complied.
Eleven
Two hours later darkness had fallen. Hunter still sat on the bench in front of the house, waiting. Fretting. Worrying. Seething, but not at Trisha.
Celia had left, but only after exacting a solemn promise that he would call her when Trisha returned. There’d been a heavy warning in her voice, one that he understood all too well.
She expected him to make it all better. The responsibility didn’t daunt him; he was more than used to NASA and his family expecting miracles from him. “Call Hunter, he’ll fix anything” seemed to be a motto the people who knew him adopted.
But this was different. Trisha had no family or work ties to him. She certainly hadn’t asked for his help, had in fact done everything in her power to avoid doing so. Which somehow only made the compulsion to solve the problem all the stronger.
But what exactly should he do?
She should have been back by now. Something had happened to her, something horrible. She hadn’t been thinking clearly, she’d been riding recklessly.
His fault, dammit, his fault. He should have gone after her immediately, should have kept her here and forced her to talk about the house. Instead, he’d let her leave. If something had happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.
With the intention of calling the police and every hospital within twenty miles, he stood and walked to the end of the porch.
Then he went completely still as relief flooded through him.
The wheels on her bike squeaked; he knew this because she often rode it to the store and he could hear her coming from a quarter of a mile away. He heard her now.
The minute she turned into the driveway, he was there, holding the bike as she got off. Her hair looked like an explosion in a mattress factory, wild, long strands everywhere. Her eyes seemed huge in her pale and drawn face. Huge and red.
Dammit, she’d been crying. His gut jerked. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Her shoulders automatically squared against him, making him regret his words. Why didn’t he just say he had been worried sick? That he cared what happened to her and wished she hadn’t run off? Women liked that sort of thing, he remembered belatedly, then wondered why the hell he was worried about pleasing her. He was mad as hell at what she’d put him through. “Are you all right?”