Exposed (15 page)

“How are you going to close that gaping hole in his leg if you’re not going to let me stitch it closed?”

Sydney smiled at the pair and held up her hand. “Superglue.”

Jontae laughed.

Frank looked appalled. “No way.”

“Actually, it’s a medical adhesive I found online. It’s perfectly safe,” she said patting him on the knee. “I saw a documentary a couple of years ago about how they were using it to close skin incisions in surgeries these days, and considering all the travel I do and to some pretty weird places—”

“The wilds of Vermont?” he asked, looking more relaxed.

“Yes, like the wilds of Vermont. I figured I ought to carry some with me. Just in case.” She leaned a little closer. “It’s this, or Jontae quilts you back together with neon thread.”

Still looking dubious, he swung his gaze between her and her friend, then back again. “Glue it.”

She smiled and patted his knee again, like a mother comforting a child who’d just agreed to get a shot at the doctors. Only, she wasn’t his mother, and no way would anyone mistake this big, gruff lawman for a child.

“Jontae, can you get me some material to bind this after it’s sealed?” she asked.

“Sure, I have some scraps upstairs,” she said, and headed out of the kitchen.

“Nothing flashy,” Frank called out after her.

“I’ll be sure and get some gold lamé,” she yelled back.

“Your friend is sassy.”

“She likes you to think she’s way tougher than she is. Down deep inside, she’s still the kid who lost her mom way too young.”

“Still mouthy.”

“You give as good as you get, Marshal.” Sydney shook her head as she opened the little box and pulled out a packet with a plastic capsule inside. On one end of the capsule was what looked like a little sponge.

“How does it work?” he asked, more curious than suspicious this time.

Peeling back the paper, she opened the packet and pulled out the capsule. “You hold it with the tip down and pinch the tube part until it pops.” She proceeded to demonstrate. “The liquid soaks the tip. Then we just rub it over the edges of your wound, which I’ll just pinch together.”

She reached her free hand for his cut. He caught her hand inches from his thigh.

“What?”

“You’ve used this before?”

“Yes.” She lifted her arm so he could see the scar on the outside of her lower arm, inches from her hand. “This one was in the Cayman Islands on a bathing suit shoot.”

He lifted the corner of his mouth. “Tough assignment.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Taking pictures of models in skimpy outfits in exotic locations? A little.”

He chuckled, a low rumble of mirth. “No. The stuff you’re about to put on my skin.”

“Oh. No. It starts out cool, gets a little warm, then nothing.” She grinned at him. “Don’t tell me the big, bad lawman is afraid of a little pain?”

“No. Just wanted to be prepared. I trust you.” He still held her hand, rubbing his thumb over the little scar a moment. Then he released her arm and leaned back in the chair, focusing that intense dark gaze of his on her. He swallowed the shot of vodka Jontae had poured earlier, then nodded. “I’m all yours, Syd.”

An image of her crawling up onto his lap and having her way with his body flashed in her mind. Heat flooded her. She swallowed hard.

Get a grip, girl.

Quickly, she lowered her eyes, breaking the odd connection between them, and focused on the task of mending his wound. Her fingers shook as she reached for the cut on his thigh. She stopped and wiped her suddenly sweaty palm on her jeans, then reached for him again. His skin was warm beneath her fingers as she pinched the far edge together. It was the part with the most oozing blood.

“Try not to move,” she said, as she dabbed the tip of the adhesive tube to his skin, holding it in place a moment, then moving farther inwards along the cut. The edges sealed up as she pinched and dabbed. Finally, it was completely closed, and no new blood flowed from the cut.

“All done,” she said, sitting back just as Jontae came back in the room carrying a pile of cream-colored fabric.

“Figured new muslin was probably the best choice,” she said, handing the bundle to Sydney. “But only because I didn’t have any lamé. I’ll go check on the jeans. Can’t have some half-dressed, wounded man sitting around my house. I have a reputation to uphold.”

She disappeared down the stairs again.

“Sassy,” Castello grumbled again.

“She likes you,” Sydney said as she wrapped the muslin around his leg, trying not to think about the intimacy of touching the inside of his thigh.

Silence hung between them. Only the sound of the material rasping as she layered it over the wound. Finally, she tore the end, pulled half around, and tied the ends to hold the makeshift bandage in place. “That should do it,” she said, tucking the ends inside the material.

Frank’s hand laid on hers, stopping her movement. “Sydney?”

She looked up at him again. “Yes?”

He leaned close. “Thank you,” he said, a moment before capturing her lips in his.

Soft. Warm. Tender.

It sizzled her from her head to her toes and back up again.

Then it was over.

Feet stomped up the stairs. Sydney stood and began gathering up the cleaning supplies as Jontae came back into the kitchen. “What do we do once Jontae has your jeans fixed?”

“We need to figure out why someone has targeted you.”

“I thought it was the police after you?” Jontae sat at the table and threaded a needle with an ease that said it was second nature to her.

Sydney rinsed out the bowl of dirty, bloody water, then met Castello’s eyes over her friend’s head. She shook her head. She hadn’t said anything to Jontae.

“Seriously?” Jontae said, stitching the jeans without raising her head. “You’re here hiding your car. No one is calling the police about this car that tried to run you down, and we’re patching up Mr. Strong and silent instead of taking his ass to the hospital. So want to tell me why someone, who may or may not be the police, is after you?”

“We don’t know.” Sydney opened up the fridge and held up a can of pop, glancing at Castello. He nodded. She grabbed three, headed to the table and handed him one. She popped the top to the others, setting one in front of her friend, then sitting in one of the cushy chairs. She pulled her non-digital camera out and focused the lens on her friend. “It all started last night. Frank was bringing me home—”

Jontae’s head shot up. “You were on a date?”

“No.” The denial shot out of her. A quick glance at Castello showed one of his brows arched at her, but otherwise he was doing his best imitation of part of the furniture in the room. She snapped an image of him, mostly just to irritate him, then focused on Jontae once more. “No,” she said again, more calmly. “He kindly gave me a ride home from the wedding we were attending of mutual friends.”

“Sounds like a date to me,” Jontae muttered as she stitched.

“It wasn’t. Anyways, when we got to my street we could see a fire.” She swallowed hard, tears burning her eyes at the memory and loss. “It was my house. Then…”

“It blew up,” Frank finished for her.

“Was anyone hurt?” Jontae asked, her fingers holding the needle half into the denim.

Sydney shook her head. “Not that we know of. I’d been worried Ian might be inside, but the firemen said the house was empty.”

“Ian? Why would your brother be in at your house?” She held up her hand, shaking her head. “Never mind, I know. He was crashing with you, the freeloader.”

“He’s not a freeloader,” Sydney automatically came to her brother’s defense. “He was in town, and since I was going to be gone, I gave him permission to stay at my place.”

“And eat your food and use your computer and television and electricity and water. He probably set the place on fire.”

“You don’t like her brother?” Castello asked, then took a long drink of the pop.

“Like him as much as getting poison ivy and encephalitis from mosquitoes. The guy uses Sydney—”

“No, he doesn’t—” she interrupted, then stopped when her friend gave her the slant-eyed-don’t-even-defend-him look.

“Borrows money and never pays it back. Crashes at her place whenever it suits him, even if she’s busy, and then stays out of contact for months at a time. Yeah, there’s so much to like about him. The seven plagues in the Bible would be more likeable.”

“Well, he’s missing again,” Sydney said, staring out the window at the darkness. She pulled up the camera, staring through the lens out into the night. The feel of the familiar camera in her hand easing some of the tension flowing through her.

“What happened today?” her friend asked.

“We met with a police detective. He wanted to know about the fire, if I’d been there. Which I told him, no, that I’d been out of town for a week. Then information on Ian, since he was the last one in the house.”

“Why do you think the police tried to run you over?” Jontae finished stitching and tied off the string. She cut the string and tossed the pants at Frank, who caught them midair.

Dropping the towel, he stood. Sydney refocused the camera on him.

He paused. “No.”

“Yes,” she said, laughing as she clicked an image of him, half naked and looking pissed.

He scowled at her, then stepped into his pants, working them up over his muscular legs, past the nylon sheath on one knee and the muslin wrapping on the other thigh. He hitched them up over his butt and fastened them. She caught each movement on film.

Mmm, the man definitely had nice legs and one fine ass.

“Sydney, quit ogling the man and taking porno shots. Answer my question.” Jontae tried to sound aggravated, but humor at Castello’s discomfort laced her order.

Heat filled Sydney’s face. She had been ogling the marshal, the memory of that quick kiss still in her mind and on her lips. “What was your question?”

“The police? Hit-and-run?” Jontae asked.

“The sedan that tried to hit her was the same one the detective drove,” Frank answered, coming to her rescue. Again.

Jontae put the needle, thread, and scissors back in her sewing basket, closed the lid, then sat back in her chair. She took a long sip of the pop, then fixed Sydney with that steady, no-bullshit stare of hers. “So, let me get this straight. Ian comes to town and you let him stay at your place. You come home to find it not only on fire, but watch it blown to pieces. Ian is nowhere to be found, and I assume you can’t contact him. Then some police detective comes to talk to you and after you tell him about Ian, the guy tries to run you over. Is that it?”

“That about sums it up,” Castello said, walking to the window to watch outside.

“Sydney, you know what the one common denominator is in this whole mess is,” Jontae stared straight at her.

She shook her head. “You think Ian is behind this? That he destroyed my home and has the police trying to kill me? What purpose would he have?”

“I don’t think he would do anything intentionally to hurt you,” Jontae said. “But your welfare has never been his first priority. Face it, Sydney, you’re an afterthought in your brother’s life. And we both know he’s made some enemies over the years in order to get his story. Not to mention his gambling addiction.”

“He’s a gambler?” Castello asked.

He’d been so quietly watching out the window that Sydney had almost forgotten he was here. Almost. Like you could almost forget a tiger was in the corner. Dangerous no matter how still they might be.

“Yes, Ian gambles. Recreationally,” she qualified. It felt wrong telling someone of her brother’s issue. Like it was disloyal.

Jontae snorted. “The little old lady next door buying her weekly lottery tickets recreationally gambles. Your brother owing bookies all around the world is a whole other level.”

“That’s why he borrows money from you?” Castello asked.

“No,” Sydney denied.

“Yes,” Jontae said at the same time. “She was always an easy mark for him.”

Laying her camera on the counter, Sydney leaned back and crossed her arms tightly beneath her breasts to glare at her friend. “Was is correct. Last time he asked me for money, which was last fall by the way, I told him the bank of Sydney was closed. He didn’t even broach the subject this time when he visited.”

“Good. I’m proud of you. And as much as you love your brother, you need to face the fact that Ian is probably hip-deep in this mess,” Jontae said coming over to hug her.

She hugged her friend back. “I know. I just can’t imagine him doing something so awful that someone would come after him like this.”

“They’re not coming after him,” Castello said from his spot by the window. “They’re coming after you, and he didn’t even warn you.”

Anger rolled off his voice. Sydney and Jontae exchanged looks. The marshal sounded like he was taking her brother’s actions personally.

Jontae hugged her closer, whispering in her ear. “Don’t know where you found the big hunk of rugged man-flesh, but I definitely like his protectiveness for you.”

“He’s just doing his job,” she whispered back, not taking her eyes off the male in the room.

“Yeah, right,” her friend said with a laugh as she pulled away. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

Headlights flashed in the side window.

They all froze.

“You two go down stairs a minute.” Frank broke the silence in the house, drawing his gun from the holster beneath his jacket.

“Whoa! You didn’t tell me he was armed,” Jontae said over her shoulder as she opened the basement door.

“Duh, government agent.” Sydney grabbed her camera and followed behind her, giving Frank a quick glance as she went.

He nodded. The reassuring kind of nod that said,
I’ve got this. You’ll be safe
.

The door closed behind the women as Frank moved to stand near the back entrance. A quick rap-rap knock sounded on the door. “Mac sent me.”

When he’d seen the Caddy pull up, he’d known it was Charlie MacGregor’s car. The gun in his hand was reflex. Until they figured out who was behind the attacks on Sydney, he wasn’t assuming anyone was who they said they were.