One Wrong Step (12 page)

J
ohn surveyed their surroundings for the fifth time and decided he was being paranoid. There was nobody out here. He’d found a quiet stretch of shoreline without lake houses or boat docks and a giant cypress that offered shade. It wasn’t so much that they needed to cool off—the sun would disappear behind the hills in a few minutes—but the tree’s broad shadow gave them an added measure of security. Even in a red boat, they’d be much less noticeable to the casual observer speeding by.

The problem was the not-so-casual observer.

“Don’t look so worried,” Celie said, reading his mind. She popped the cap off a Shiner and passed it to him. “You said yourself they have no reason to bother me right now. Besides, we’ve been out almost an hour now, and I haven’t seen anyone around but skiers and fishermen.”

She had a point. But after listening to that call this afternoon, John felt anxious. Plus it had been his idea to bring her out here, so he needed to keep her safe.

“Here.” She passed him a sandwich wrapped in brown paper. She’d arranged all the food he’d bought neatly atop a striped beach towel on the floor of his boat. She looked so wholesome sitting there in that white shirt and those blue jeans, with her legs folded under her. This was definitely a first for him. Usually the women on his boat wore barely-there bikinis.

And usually they didn’t waste a whole lot of time on food. Typically, it was knock back a few beers, maybe watch the sunset, take a dip in the lake, and then…well, whatever the mood called for.

He looked into Celie’s trusting green eyes and suddenly felt like scum.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he wasn’t ready for a woman like her. He knew he didn’t deserve her.

He took the sandwich she held out to him. “Nothing.”

She smiled. “Hey, would you mind making me another drink? I’m so thirsty today.”

“Sure, no problem.”

She passed him her empty plastic cup.

Here was the other thing worrying him: she’d gone into his cabinet looking for water and found his nieces’ leftover supply of Hi-C. Which would have been fine, except she’d decided to mix it with rum. He’d watched her make the drink, too, and she’d been extremely generous with the Malibu.

He filled her cup two-thirds with juice and added a splash of rum. The last thing he needed was a repeat of last Saturday night, when she’d gotten drunk and propositioned him.

Leaving her apartment had been the most disciplined moment of his life, his all-time peak in terms of willpower. And he’d been fucking miserable afterward. Walking down to his car had been painful—literally. Did she think he was Superman? He’d been burning for her for years, and he couldn’t just keep walking away. Especially when she looked up at him with those lush, pouty lips.

Like she was doing right now.

Fuck.

He passed her the drink. “So how’s your bodyguard working out?” He lowered himself down next to her and leaned against the side of the boat. There was a good two feet of space between them. If he concentrated on the conversation and didn’t look at her mouth anymore, he’d be fine.

“Okay, I guess.”

John had a vision of some muscle-bound meathead camped out at her place. Maybe
that
was who had been watching TV so late at night this week. Not a fun thought.

“Does he stay with you at night?” He picked at his sandwich but didn’t feel like eating. He took a pull of his Shiner instead.

She nibbled a potato chip. “No, he just comes with me to class mostly. And out on errands.” She grinned. “This afternoon we spent a couple hours in the library. I think he was bored to tears.”

So he wasn’t sleeping over. That was good. But John was jealous anyway.

“Does he know what he’s doing?”

“He seems to,” she said. “I’m not exactly an expert, but Marco recommended him, so he must be good.”

“I bet Feenie wasn’t too thrilled when she heard you needed a bodyguard.”

She rolled her eyes. “
There’s
an understatement.”

What a fucking mess this had turned into. Robert was an idiot. No one stole from Manny Saledo and got away with it.

And what had Celie been thinking? It really bothered him that she didn’t trust him enough to tell him what she’d done with the money.

“Feenie’s freaking out,” she continued. “If it weren’t for the baby, she’d be up here right now trying to set me straight.”

“What does she think you should do?”

Celie sighed. “Last time we talked, she mentioned New Hampshire.”

“New Hampshire?”

“Yeah, my sister Bethany lives in Manchester. She’s got four kids, and her husband runs a private school there. After my divorce, he offered me a job as a teaching assistant. Wanted to help me make a fresh start.”

New Hampshire. He didn’t like the thought of her being that far away, but she’d be safer. At least she’d be far removed from Saledo’s turf. “Maybe you should go.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been giving it some thought.”

What if she actually did it? Out of nowhere, he’d been given a second chance with this woman, and now she might leave.

This was so screwed up. He
wanted
her to leave. She’d be safer somewhere else, and his own life would be a lot less complicated.

John reached across her and opened the cooler to exchange his empty beer bottle for a new one. When he settled back against the side of the boat, Celie scooted closer.

“This is nice,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. “And it’s not too hot after sunset.”

“Yeah.”

She smelled like strawberries again. Maybe if he didn’t do anything to encourage her, she’d sit back up. He looked down and caught a glimpse inside her shirt at the pale swell of flesh disappearing into white lace.

“McAllister?”

He swigged his beer and looked away. “Huh?”

“Did I really kiss you Saturday night?”

God help him. “Yes, you really did.”

“I don’t remember it real well.”

“Thanks a lot.”

She bumped her knee against his. “No, I mean I remember it, just not like that. It’s kind of fuzzy, but…”

“But what?”

“I remember you kissing
me.
”

He laughed. “Nah, that’s just wishful thinking.”

She got quiet then. He couldn’t see her face because she was leaning back against his arm. He’d bet anything she had that look again—the one she always got when she was thinking about sex, which she seemed to do a lot. She had zero aptitude when it came to masking her emotions. Everything she was thinking about was right there, written plainly across her face. He could read her like a book, which was why it drove him crazy when she looked at him that way.

She’d picked up his free hand and was tracing his knuckles with her index finger. She had pretty hands. Her fingernails were always some shade of pink or red, and whatever it was always matched her toenails. Today was something orangey—the same color as her rum punch.

“This must be weird for you, huh?” she asked.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, I keep contradicting myself. Sometimes I kiss you, and sometimes I want you to back off. You must think I’m a tease.”

He took a sip of beer as he considered how to respond. He didn’t think she was a tease. He
did
think she had some serious hang-ups about sex. And that maybe alcohol helped her avoid dealing with them.

Probably not a message she really wanted to hear.

She shifted to face him. Her mouth was inches from his. Her hair was mostly in a ponytail, but the breeze blew little strands of it against her cheek.

“Is that what you think?” she asked softly.

Fuck it. He bent his head down and kissed her. He kept it gentle at first, but then she opened her mouth to him and his control ended. She tasted like rum and cherries, and her mouth was so sweet and hot. Her hands slid up his neck, and he felt her fingers tangling in his hair. Heat shot through him. Did she really want this? Because in a minute there’d be no going back. He put his beer aside and, still kissing her, lifted her onto his lap. She nestled against him, and he knew the instant she felt him because she froze.

He eased back and looked into her eyes. She was having doubts again. He wanted to be angry, but knowing her the way he did, he didn’t want to push. Even if he coaxed her through it, she’d probably hate him afterward.

“To answer your question, I don’t think you know what you want,” he said.

She didn’t answer—just sat there breathing heavily. He shifted her off his lap and stood up.

“It’ll be dark soon,” he said. “I’d better get you home.”

Kate trekked across her yard in the dark and mounted the steps to her front door. She’d forgotten to buy lightbulbs again, and she could barely see as she fumbled with her keys. Her key chain hit the concrete with a jangle.

“Crap,” she muttered, setting down her backpack and her plastic bag of take-out food to grope around in the dark.

“Hi.”

She gasped and fell backward onto her butt.

“Calm down. It’s just me.”

Mike Rowe. His shadowy silhouette stood on her sidewalk.

She scrambled to her feet. “You nearly gave me a heart attack! What’s with the stealth approach?”

“I got your message,” he said, climbing her steps. “You said you had something to show me.”

She finally located her keys and scooped up all her stuff.

“Your exterior light is out,” he observed.

“No kidding? I hadn’t noticed.” She unlocked the door and shoved it open, then stomped into the house and dumped her stuff on the coffee table. Then she turned to face the man who’d just scared the tar out of her. He was ominously attired in a starched white dress shirt, pale blue tie, and khaki slacks. In his right hand he held some sort of pole.

“Sorry if I startled you.”

“Forget it.” She nodded at the thing in his hand. “What’s that?”

“It’s a brace for your sliding glass door.” He handed it to her. “So someone can’t just pop it open and walk in.”

She looked down at the object, bewildered.

“I also made a list of good security companies.” He took a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it to her. “It shouldn’t take long to get someone out to install something.”

“Okay.” She stared down at his neat block handwriting and didn’t quite know what to say. It seemed Agent Rowe was a little paranoid. She looked up into his eyes and saw the earnestness there overlaid with concern.

Kate put the door brace on the coffee table. “You’ve seen some bad things as an FBI agent, huh?”

He gave her a long look, and that was answer enough.

Then he glanced away and cleared his throat. “So tell me about this package,” he said.

The package. Right. She retrieved her backpack from the table and pulled out a padded brown envelope.

“It’s a videotape,” she explained. “Of a Public Storage facility off Loop 620 where a unit was vandalized recently.”

“Sounds like something for the Austin PD.”

“No, you want this. Trust me. I watched the tape at work today, and I think it’s your suspects. I couldn’t swear to it, but I’m reasonably sure.”

He took the envelope and gave her a steely look. “What else do you know about this?”

“Nothing. Oh, except the unit belongs to Robert Strickland’s ex-wife.”

“Kind of an important detail, don’t you think?”

“I’ll lend you this tape on one condition.”

He smirked. “You’ve just handed me a piece of evidence in a federal investigation. I don’t have to agree to any conditions.”

She crossed her arms.

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“If you ID these guys, I need you to tell me who they are.” McAllister had been adamant on this point. He never would have lent her the tape if she hadn’t agreed. “I mean it. The person who gave me this really needs to know their names.”

“Cecelia Wells gave you this, didn’t she?”

“No.”

He shot her a baleful look.

“Look, it wasn’t her, okay? Just promise me you’ll get me IDs. Please?” McAllister was helping her out with this lead, and she needed to keep the tips coming.

“I’ll do my best.” He reached for the doorknob.

“Hey, thanks for the door thingy,” she said, stepping closer. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I was happy to do it.”

Their gazes locked, and suddenly there was something uncomfortable prickling in the air between them. He’d gone above and beyond the call of duty here, and they both knew it.

He pulled the door open. “Lock up behind me,” he said sternly. “And don’t forget to call one of those companies.”

Whoever coined the phrase “TGIF” didn’t work at a shelter. The onset of the weekend invariably meant a stream of women and children tromping into the Bluebonnet House. The worst time was usually close to midnight, when Chantal was forced to turn people away due to a lack of beds. Sometimes she could direct clients to other shelters around town, but, on a rough night, families might end up at homeless centers or even sleeping in their cars.

Celie glanced at the clock and knew it was going to be a rough night. Only 5:40, and already they were at two-thirds capacity.

“Maybe it’s a full moon,” Janice mused, logging the most recent arrivals into the computer. “Everybody’s acting a little psycho today.”

“The boy’s name is ‘Enrique,’ not ‘Eric,”’ Celie said, looking over the receptionist’s shoulder. “He’s named after his dad.”

Janice grunted her disapproval. April Ramos and her two children were back for the second time this month, which meant her estranged husband had shown up, probably looking for money. Friday was payday in a lot of households.

“How’s he doing?” Janice asked.

Celie craned her neck to see into the TV room. Enrique sat cross-legged in front of the television, playing a video game with a younger boy. He’d arrived with a split lip.

“The swelling’s down,” she answered. “I’ll go see if he needs anything.”

As Celie walked around the reception counter, the phone rang. She saw Chantal’s mobile number on caller ID and paused to eavesdrop as Janice took the call. Chantal had had a court appearance downtown this afternoon and had called Celie in because they were short-handed. Hopefully, the director was on her way back. Celie didn’t like being one of only two staffers on duty when things were this busy.