Hiding His Witness Part 3

Carey shook her head. "I'll be fine. I'll call and let you know where I'll be."

Reilly beat back his frustration. What did it take for her to be not fine? She'd witnessed a stabbing, been attacked by a serial killer and harangued by the media. And she claimed she was fine. Leaving Carey alone in the city wasn't an option. The need to protect her intensified.

"Carey, look at me." Carey swiveled her head from Vanessa to him. Reilly met her terror-stricken expression. "I can protect you. I know you don't believe that, maybe because someone's let you down in the past, but I won't. I'm asking you to trust me, which I know is a lot."

She bit her lip and nodded once. "Okay."

That easy? His gut told him she was planning something. "I'll clear it with the lieutenant," Reilly said, not giving either woman time to argue. Most of the hotels in the area were booked with holiday travelers, and getting far away from the media appealed to him immensely. His parents lived in a remote part of Montana on a plot of land difficult to get to, but with a vantage point almost three hundred and sixty degrees around it.

Twenty minutes later, plans in hand, Reilly hustled Carey toward the rear entrance. He stopped in his office to snag his coat and pulled it over her head. She didn't protest and Reilly was relieved she seemed to finally understand the gravity of the situation. This wasn't something she could handle alone. She needed him. "My car's parked in the gated lot in the back. Vanessa had someone clear the area and we're not letting the media behind the building."

"Won't they see me when we pull out?"

"Not if you're covered on the floor."

She quirked up the corners of her mouth. "Are you suggesting I ride in a car without a seat belt?"

Reilly let out a much needed laugh. "Yes, ma'am, that's exactly what I'm suggesting." Her light joke took the edge off his tension.

This was a nightmare, but a serial killer on the loose and the media hounding her was the least of her problems.

Carey gathered her scattered thoughts and took stock of the situation, trying to figure her next move. Walking out of here unescorted with the media waiting wasn't an option and she knew the ADA wouldn't let her leave without a plan of protection. The easiest option was to agree to their plan, and the moment she could, she'd ditch Detective Truman. If she couldn't get rid of him before she left the city, at least it would be more difficult for Mark to track her from some unknown place. She was reasonably sure Detective Truman wasn't on Mark's payroll. Yet.

Detective Truman had pressed her too hard for her name. If he'd been looking for her under Mark's direction, he would have recognized her.

But if Detective Truman threatened her, if she caught even a whiff of betrayal on him, she was gone. She didn't know how or where, but she wouldn't wait around for him to walk her into Mark's trap. Mark had proven he wasn't afraid to use law enforcement, or anyone else, to threaten and intimidate her. This time she would antic.i.p.ate it. She would be ready.

Her guard was up, and not just for her personal safety. For the safety of those around her she would keep her distance. Mark wouldn't hesitate to hurt someone she cared about in an attempt to get to her. He wouldn't have a problem doling out punishment to those who didn't bend to his will and give him information he wanted.

A pang struck at her chest as memories swept over her. Her good friend Tracy had paid the price for loyalty. Tracy hadn't known where Carey had gone, but she'd known why. When Tracy had shown up in a morgue shortly after Carey went on the run, she'd no question in her mind who was responsible.

Grief and anger burned red hot in Carey's gut. She'd had to run. The life she'd known had been stripped from her, people she'd loved had died, and Mark was living on easy street, running the restaurants and wineries her father had owned.

Carey wouldn't let Mark find her. If he did, she was dead.

The moment Carey opened the door to her apartment, Reilly's senses went on heightened alert. Flour dusted the floor near the entrance, likely a cheap mechanism to know if someone had been inside. An unknowing intruder would step directly into it and leave a print. That flour wasn't for the Vagabond Killer. He'd been right-Carey was running from someone. An abusive ex?

Carey went into the apartment first, taking a wide step over the flour. "Watch your step."

No further explanation about the flour? He avoided the powdery mess and followed her inside.

Her apartment was a tiny closet of a s.p.a.ce with no personal items and nothing unpacked or settled. A ten-inch television sat on a packing crate and a cot in the corner of the room served as her bed. The floor was matted with grime, the vinyl likely original from when this building was constructed in the '70s. The place smelled of citrus, as though she'd used a gallon of lemon-scented cleaner in a futile attempt to make the place livable.

She shrugged off his coat and handed it to him. "I need a few minutes to pack and I'd like some privacy. Do you mind waiting in the car?"

Private person, or was she hiding something?

"Not a problem. I'll wait in the lobby. I can see the stairs from there."

She gave him a thin smile and practically pushed him out the door. He returned to his car and circled the block, pulling into the alley behind the building. No way was she planning to meet him in the lobby of the building. She planned to run, and he would be hot on her trail.

Sure as the sun, ten minutes later, he saw her fling her slim jeans-clad leg over the window ledge and her body drop onto the fire escape. With a large duffel bag slung across her shoulder, she climbed down the rusty ladder to each landing. Her fierce persistence to get away gave him insight into the pa.s.sion and resolve simmering beneath those plain clothes. What was she hiding or who was she protecting?

He got out of his car and jogged to meet her at the foot of the fire escape. "Going on a trip?"

She whirled, fear in her eyes. She wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving behind bits of paint and rust that had stuck to her palms. "I need to go for a walk to clear my head."

He called her bluff. "Great, I'll walk with you."

"I prefer to be alone," she said through clenched teeth. She walked around him and started down the alley toward the main road.

He followed her. "It doesn't matter what you prefer. The lieutenant a.s.signed me to protect you and that's what I'm going to do."

She paused for a moment, stopping in her tracks. She looked over her shoulder at him, her blue eyes narrowed. "Don't make this harder on me than it has to be. I gave you what you needed. You have your sketch of the Vagabond Killer. Do your job and find him."

He chose his words carefully, not wanting to provoke her further. "We need your testimony."

She hefted the bag higher on her shoulder, wincing slightly. "The ADA's smart. She'll figure something out." She kept walking, stopping at the corner to wait for the light to change. "Stop following me, Detective. I'm not a suspect and I'm not required to stay in the city."

He'd known she'd agreed to his protection too easily. "Tell me where you're going."

"It's safer for both of us if no one knows."

Reilly grabbed her elbow, stopping her in her tracks. "Let me help you."

He held her gaze for a long, intense moment. Heat pulsed between them and arousal moved swiftly through his body. What was it about her, a simple touch, one smoldering look that made him ache for more? He wished the fabric of the sweats.h.i.+rt wasn't between them and he could feel the electric press of skin-to-skin contact.

He didn't let go and she didn't pull away. "He'll kill you if you try to hide me. Don't make me live with that on my conscience."

The Vagabond Killer would have to find her first. And Reilly was good at hiding in plain sight. He was even better at it when he had options, places to disappear in the country. And if she was referring to whoever made her put flour by the door coming for him, it was laughable. He welcomed the attack of a woman abuser. It would give him the opportunity to pound some sc.u.m and give him what he deserved. "No one is going to kill me, and if I'm with you, no one is going to hurt you, either." He let go of her arm.

She looked around, her expressive eyes wild. "Look, I'll level with you because I'm in a hurry. Those reporters who took my picture are going to run it in the news, if they haven't already. That means the man I'm running from will see it and come for me. I have to get out of town before he arrives."

Not the Vagabond Killer. She was worried about her abuser. "Tell me his name."

She shook her head. "I can't do that."

Loyalty to the man who hurt her? Nah, she didn't seem like the type. Fear. She actually thought the man chasing her was that powerful. "I'm taking you out of town to someplace safe."

"Thank you, but no." The light changed and she crossed the street.

Reilly heard the fierce determination in her voice. She wasn't going to give in and he couldn't legally force her to comply. He tried another route to convince her. "Once he knows you're in Denver, he'll know you took public transportation out of here. How long before he narrows down where you went? Someone is bound to remember you."

She huffed out a breath. "Stop trying to scare me. I'll change buses and trains fifty times if I have to."

"That's expensive and you can't make that much working at a Laundromat. My family's ranch is safe. My father's a retired Navy SEAL, my mom is ex-CIA, one of my brothers is military and the other is FBI. The ranch is remote, it's protected and we'll see someone coming for you. You'll be safe with us."

He glanced at her face and instantly regretted pressing her.

Carey's cheeks were red and her eyes brimmed with tears. "What if he comes and he hurts you for helping me?"

His protective instinct plowed through him and he kept his hands pinned to his sides, a ma.s.sive undertaking considering he wanted to hold her and offer some measure of comfort. "He won't. He'll be dead if he comes within fifty feet of the house."

She brushed at her eyes with the sleeve of his sweats.h.i.+rt. His sweats.h.i.+rt. He'd gotten it years before, after he'd graduated from the academy. Funny, he had never allowed anyone-not his ex-girlfriends, not his former fiancee-to wear it. Yet seeing Carey s.h.i.+vering in his office, he hadn't thought twice about offering it to her.

"I won't tell you anything about my past."

He shrugged. He got the gist of the picture. Sc.u.m chasing his victim. His beautiful, and at the moment, fragile victim. He guessed under other circ.u.mstances, she was a force to be reckoned with. "I won't ask."

"How do you know I'm not running from the law?" she asked.

Her lips parted slightly and he was momentarily distracted by the lush fullness of them. He forced his attention to her eyes. He found them as mesmerizing as her lips. "Gut feeling. Trumans live by it. You're no more a criminal than I am."

"Come on inside with me," Detective Truman said. He'd pulled his car into his garage and closed the door using the remote on his car visor. "I need to grab a few things. Clothes. Ammunition. I'll make it fast before the media swarm starts."

The media might be tracking her, but Detective Truman would have caught their interest, as well. That a camp of reporters weren't waiting on his porch was a small favor.

He was taking precautions to make her feel safer, but traveling a long distance with a stranger and a gun made her nervous.

She had to be crazy to agree to his plan. Sure, he'd been kind to her thus far, but what did she really know about him? He was a police detective; that in and of itself didn't mean he was trustworthy. If he wasn't on Mark's payroll, he could be added. Finding and exploiting a person's weakness was a specialty of Mark's. It was only a matter of time before Mark got to Detective Truman. Either Mark would buy him off or, if Detective Truman resisted, Mark would kill him. Carey couldn't live with herself knowing she'd caused another person to be hurt. Tracy's face flashed into her mind and Carey braced herself against the wave of grief and guilt that crashed down on her.

Detective Truman was doing this because he needed her to testify against the Vagabond Killer. But that wasn't going to happen. If they both lived to see the Vagabond Killer brought to trial, testifying meant telling the truth about who she was-and that wasn't possible.

"I can wait here if you want. I don't want to intrude." Was this her last chance to run? Could she get out of the car and force open the door to the garage? How far would she get on foot?

"Nah, you're fine. I'll feel better having you in sight."

Carey had nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to for help. If she ran, her limited resources meant Mark would find her. She didn't want to get Detective Truman involved in her personal problems, but witnessing a crime had meshed their lives together, if only for a short time.

And while Carey didn't trust easily or often, her instincts told her she would be safe with Detective Truman for now. Not that she relied too heavily on her instincts. She'd been wrong about Mark, wrong about her father and wrong about so many things before.

She'd keep her time with Detective Truman short-a few days at most. He'd get her out of the city and make it easier to run without Mark following her.

She trailed him inside the house. It was a bachelor pad, but a clean one. No knickknacks and no pictures. He didn't have a kitchen table, likely eating his meals at the breakfast bar or in the living room on his black leather couch. She wrinkled her nose. Black leather. Blah.

"What's the matter?" he asked, catching her expression.

"Nothing."

"It's okay, you can tell me. Do you need something? Is your arm bothering you?"

Her arm was fine. Her ribs were throbbing, but she wasn't fixating on that. "It's your couch." She blushed, regretting her criticism. It wasn't like her apartment would be featured in a home decorating magazine anytime soon.

He glanced into the living room, a look of confusion on his face. "What about it?"

Polite response? "It's so manlike."

Detective Truman tossed her a crooked grin. "I am a man."

Yes, he was. A big one. A handsome one. Impossible not to notice.

He grinned at her. "Try it," he said, gesturing toward the couch.

Had she spoken aloud? "What?"

"Have a seat. Flip on the TV. You'll see the magic. I'm going to grab a few things from upstairs. I'll be down in a minute."

"Okay." Carey wandered into the living room and plopped down on the couch. It wasn't what she'd expected. She'd thought leather couches were for frat boys and playboys, but this was nice. She ran her hands over the cus.h.i.+on and inhaled the smell of it. It was supple and soft. Her nerves shot l.u.s.t into her veins. Yeah, the couch was magic.

How many women had fallen under Detective Truman's charms in this exact place? And why did it bother her to think about him spending the night curled up with a woman?

Carey picked up the remote from the coffee table and flipped on the television. Sports network. Of course. She leaned back, letting her body sink into the plush cus.h.i.+ons. She nearly let out a moan, somewhere between pleasure and pain. The pain in her ribs intensified when she reclined and since the aspirin had worn off and without adrenaline propelling her, her body caved in to the ache.

"Comfortable?" Detective Truman asked.

Carey opened her eyes and straightened. "It's nice."

Detective Truman dropped his bag on the floor and sat next to her. "Perfect place to watch football."

"My father used to..." She let her voice drift away. It had been a long time since she'd spoken of her father and the mention of him cut to the quick. The rawness hadn't gone away and the wound seeped inside her chest. She forced down her grief, trying to think about something else as she fought tears.

"It's okay to let it out," Detective Truman said, tucking his arm around her shoulder. "You've been through a rough time."

He had no idea. The heaviness in her chest was suffocating. "My father died recently."

"I'm sorry," he said into her hair, moving her closer to him.

His hand rubbed her shoulder, providing comfort she hadn't had in months. She sank against him, needing this more than she'd realized.

"I miss him sometimes." All the time. A constant yearning she'd only dealt with by ignoring it when she could.

"Is that why you're alone?" he asked, his voice unbearably tender, his fingers ma.s.saging her with the right amount of pressure and gentleness, her body relaxing under his touch.

Tears she'd fought spilled over and she pressed her face into his shoulder, hiding them. After all these months, she should have healed more, should have been coping better. The heart-wrenching grief hadn't loosened its hold. "Yes. It's why I'm alone." Without her father, her world had fallen apart. Her good friend had died in a car accident. The people she had trusted left her. Mark had betrayed her. Her life as she knew it had ended.

Detective Truman stroked her hair gently and reached for a tissue on the side table. He palmed her chin and dabbed at her eyes. "You're not alone anymore."

Everything in her responded to his words. Her heart surged and her mind cried out with pleasure. As desperate as it was, they were words she had longed to hear. She didn't need forever; she needed not to feel this lonely for a little while. So many reasons to keep her distance from this man and yet she reached for him, skimming her fingers down his arm to his hand. He tensed slightly but didn't pull away. He was too handsome for his own good, said all the right things, and his confidence drew her, awakening her slumbering desire, tempting her to touch him, taste him.

She moved her hand under his. "Detective Truman?"

He looked at their joined hands. "Reilly. Just Reilly." His voice was gruff. She affected him. It sent a secret thrill across her belly.