Madigan's Wife. Linda Winstead Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ For dogs, he’d said, but she knew Ray too well, she knew how he thought. He saw danger everywhere, and this time he was right.

      If she waited much longer it would be too late. If the man in the trench coat caught her from behind he could very well snap her neck just as he had that poor man who lay on the sidewalk. If she turned too soon, he’d have time to prepare. She waited—a few more steps, let him come a little closer—and then she plucked the pepper spray from her waistband and turned to face her pursuer.

      The move surprised the killer, she could tell by the way he suddenly slowed his step, and by the startled widening of his eyes. No time to think about those pale eyes, she thought as she raised the canister and sprayed directly into his face.

      The murderer came to a halt with a howl, covering his face with two beefy, strong hands. While he had his hands over his eyes, Grace kicked him between the legs, as hard as she could. He screamed again, louder, and hunched down to shield the newly attacked area with both hands. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her knee and snapped her foot out to kick him once more, in the face this time. The big man went down hard.

      She turned and ran, picking up speed with every step. Her heart pounded furiously as she listened for movement behind her. If he got up after taking those two kicks, the best she had to offer, she was lost. She was dead.

      Chapter 2

      Ray rolled over in bed and glanced at the alarm clock. Who the hell was ringing his doorbell at this time of the morning? It was barely light outside. He mumbled a curse as he swung slowly out of bed, grabbed his Colt from the bedside table and made his way to the door, flicking off the safety with his thumb as he yawned. Whoever was out there didn’t let up on the buzzer.

      He cursed again as he threw open the door, but stopped as soon as he saw Grace standing there, trembling, sweating and much too pale. He took her arm and pulled her into the room, and she fell into him.

      Still half-asleep, he intuitively cradled Grace protectively. She lay almost limp against his chest, a surprising and somewhat disturbing place for her to be. For a second, maybe two, he closed his eyes and just held her. Didn’t he dream about this? The way she felt lying against him, soft and shapely, strong and still yielding. The way she smelled, so sweet and warm.

      He had to force himself fully awake, he had to remind himself that something was terribly wrong. Grace breathed much too laboriously, as if every time she inhaled it hurt. Her entire body shook, from head to toe. Much of her dark hair had fallen out of its ponytail; sweat dampened tendrils fell across her face and shoulders.

      Forcing himself to clear his mind and face reality, he kicked the door shut. “Okay,” he said calmly, “tell me what happened.”

      She took a deep breath and tried to talk, but couldn’t. Not just yet. Her lips trembled; she still wasn’t breathing right.

      “Take your time,” he said, struggling to remain calm, tightening his arm around her. There was nothing else he could do; he practically had to hold her up. If he let go she’d probably fall to the floor. He held her tight with one arm, placing his hand against her spine. His other hand, the one with the Colt in it, hung at his side. He clicked the safety into the on position.

      He could feel and hear Grace’s breathing return to near normal. She took one deep breath and then another, inhaling slowly, exhaling warmly against his chest. The trembling subsided, but her heart continued to beat against his chest; too hard and fast.

      Grace was fragile, feminine and delicate, but she’d never been helpless. It wasn’t like her to fall apart. She was falling apart now, right here, with her head buried against his chest as if she were trying to hide from the world. Still, he found the time to note, again, that she smelled like heaven, that she was soft and sweet and alive. And here.

      Suddenly he wished he’d taken the time to step into a pair of jeans, maybe a shirt as he made his way to the door. All he’d grabbed as he left his bed to the jarring ring of the doorbell was his pistol. Standing here practically naked, wearing nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts while he held a woman he’d tried his best for the past six years to forget, was almost more than he could stand. For a moment his mind flitted to impossible notions; about kissing her to calm her nerves, about holding her close long after whatever had scared her into his arms was gone.

      And then he noticed the canister of pepper spray in her hand.

      “Gracie,” he whispered hoarsely. “What happened?”

      She lifted her head, stared warily at him, and stepped back; as if she’d just realized where she rested. “I saw a man murdered,” she said, her voice so soft he could barely make out the words. “The killer, he just…snapped this poor man’s neck like it was nothing.” She swallowed hard and lifted her hands to look at them, as if she couldn’t understand how anyone could have so much strength, or could use their hands in such a way. “He chased me, when he realized that I’d seen what happened. I thought he was going to catch me, so I used the pepper spray, and then I kicked him. Twice.”

      “Good girl,” he whispered.

      “And then I ran.”

      Here, she didn’t say. She didn’t run home, didn’t run to the nearest phone to call the police. She ran here.

      “First things first,” he said, gently taking her arm and leading her to the couch. She apparently didn’t need to hang on to him anymore, but he wasn’t sure she was ready to stand on her own, either. Not just yet. As she sat, tense and shaky still, on the edge of the couch, he grabbed the phone and dialed Luther’s home number.

      “Did he follow you?”

      She shook her head frantically. “No. I didn’t look back for a long time, but when I did…he wasn’t there. Not the man or the car.”

      He nodded. “That’s good. Now, where was the murder?” Luther still hadn’t picked up the phone.

      “The corner of Magnolia and Lincoln on the park side,” she said. “He just snapped the guy’s neck and let him fall to the sidewalk.” Once again, she numbly stared down at her own hands.

      Luther finally answered with a low growl.

      “Meet me at the corner of Magnolia and Lincoln,” Ray said curtly.

      Luther mumbled into the phone. “When?”

      “Now.”

      He hung up while Luther complained, profanely, into the phone.

      “Luther’s been in the homicide unit for almost two years now,” he said, watching as Grace relaxed until she looked nearly catatonic. He almost preferred the fear. Right now she looked like she could feel nothing, like what she’d seen had numbed her.

      But then she turned clear, intelligent eyes to him. Her brown eyes were so dark, so warm, there were moments he wanted to fall into them. He’d always loved her eyes; he’d never told her so.

      Sometimes the years melted away. When he said something funny at lunch and she laughed, when they argued about her working for Dr. Doolittle, when she smiled in a certain way or looked at him…the way she looked at him right now. It was, for a moment, as if she’d never left him, as if nothing had changed.

      She took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ