Читать книгу: «Hiding His Witness»
“Reilly, kiss me.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
The rejection stung but didn’t stop the need. “Kiss me.”
“Carey,” he protested, only halfheartedly.
“One kiss. One innocent kiss. It’s been so long, and I…”
“You what?” he asked, his eyes searching her face.
Wanted him. Couldn’t pretend otherwise. “Need you to kiss me.”
His eyes darkened and when he surrendered, his mouth capturing hers, the kiss was anything but innocent.
He tried to pull his lips away, perhaps to apologize, but she clamped her hand around the back of his head, holding him to her.
He tasted like mint and he smelled spicy, like a man, a real man.
He finally tore his mouth away. “We can’t do this.”
Still reeling from the impact of his kiss, she blinked in confusion. “Why? Why can’t we?”
“This isn’t right. You’re the witness in a case.”
About the Author
C.J. MILLER is a third-generation Mills & Boon® reader and the first in her family to write professionally. She lives in Maryland with her husband and young son. She enjoys spending time with family, meeting friends for coffee, reading and traveling to warm beaches around the world. C.J. believes in first loves, second chances and happily ever after.
C.J. loves to hear from readers and can be contacted through her website at www.cj-miller.com.
Hiding His Witness
C.J. Miller
MILLS & BOON
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To Brook, for always reading and believing.
Chapter 1
After the streetlights came on, traveling alone along the empty sidewalk was a very bad idea. But Carey didn’t have money for a cab and the bus didn’t run at this late hour. She had no choice but to walk home. Most of the time she didn’t mind being one of the nameless, faceless inhabitants of the city. City meant anonymity, avoiding eye contact, and a life so fast-paced most people didn’t remember her name or when and where she moved.
And Carey moved quite frequently.
What she did mind were the rotten jobs she’d had to work the last eleven months. Without a social security card—or at least not one she was willing to share with her employers—the jobs were monotonous, low paying, and the hours terrible, hence her walk alone in the dark at midnight.
Carey pulled her jacket tighter around her, staving off the cold and clutching her Vogue magazine to her chest, and looked over her shoulder, left then right. With the news media blasting details of the grisly serial killings committed in this neighborhood, she prayed with every step she’d make it home safely.
She kept the hood of her worn gray sweatshirt tugged over her head, her baggy clothes disguising her gender, and stepped up her pace. Steam poured from the grates along the sidewalk and the streetlights that weren’t broken illuminated her way. Her landmark was the twenty-four-hour convenience store located across from her apartment building, its bright white lights and red-and-green sign shining into her windows. Three more blocks.
In the distance, police sirens wailed, sending a shiver up her spine. Another mugging? A murder?
“Shut up. I told you to shut up,” a voice bit into the night.
Carey froze, her muscles tightening, every instinct she had going on the alert.
Grunts and the dull thud of fists on flesh escaped from the alleyway ahead. Kicking into survival mode, she reached into her oversize jeans and grabbed her pepper spray, flattening herself against the brick building at the corner of the alley. Her heart hammered against her rib cage, threatening to reveal her presence. What should she do? Scramble into the entryway of the building and hope she went unnoticed? Turn and run in the other direction? Call for help? She didn’t have a cell phone and pay phones had long since disappeared from the street. If she knocked on any of the doors along this row, would anyone answer?
Probably not. This late at night, a knock on the door brought trouble.
Peering into the alley, she made out the shadow of a man, the glint of his knife blade catching in the streetlight. A drug deal gone bad? Had she stumbled on a mugging? The man with the knife shifted, bringing into view another man cringing on the ground against the wall, his arm shielding his face.
Her father used to tell her there came a moment in every person’s life where courage was tested. Fight or flight.
Rage charged in her veins. Fight. Definitely fight.
Screaming, “Fire! Fire!” at the top of her lungs, hoping the word brought attention to the alley, Carey bowled herself into the attacker, blasting her pepper spray in his face. The liquid caught on her finger and burned like fire. A hit to the eyes had to be worse.
The man swore at her, stumbled backward, and slammed her into the wall behind them. Her spine hit the brick with a hard crack, absorbing the impact, making her teeth clatter. She hadn’t quite gathered her wits when the assailant grabbed her shoulders, throwing her to the ground like a rag doll. Her head banged into the cement, jarring her vision. The attacker wiped at his eyes, swearing every curse word she’d ever heard, swinging the knife in his hand wildly.
His face was one she would never, ever forget. Dark hair, beady eyes, a hawklike nose and thin lips. Launching himself at her, he slashed his knife through the air, and she rolled, almost managing to avoid the blade. She ignored the sharp sting on her arm as his knife brushed past her. Letting out a bellow of anger, he kicked at her, missing once. He kicked again, connecting with her rib cage.
Curling to protect her head from his blows, she tried to scramble away from him, still shouting, “Fire! Fire!” She’d been on the run for nearly a year and she wasn’t about to die in a cold, dark alley at the hands of a knife-wielding thug.
A police siren howled closer, and with a final litany of curses aimed at her, her attacker took off in the opposite direction, barreling through a line of trash cans and disappearing into the night.
Carey groaned as she moved onto her hands and knees, her body battered, her left arm stinging. She set her hand over the cut and pressed down, hoping it wasn’t too deep and wouldn’t need stitches. Dragging herself to her feet, she limped toward the man slumped against the wall, unmoving. She touched her fingers to his neck, looking for a pulse. Her hands shook so violently, she couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. She had to get him help.
A woozy feeling passed over her and she fought for focus and control. If she lost consciousness, there was no telling where she would end up. Taking several deep breaths, she moved toward the opening to the alley. Leaning against the corner of the building, hand still pressed over her arm, she cried out again.
Mercifully, the flash of red-and-blue drew closer and an unmarked car with a dash light drew to a hard stop less than fifty feet from her.
Two men leapt from the car, drawing their weapons. “Police. Get your hands in the air.”
They weren’t in uniform and she quashed the impulse to run. Could she trust they were who they claimed? How could she be sure they weren’t dirty and corrupt?
Making a quick decision to believe them, at least for now, she held up her hands obediently, wincing as her arm and ribs cried out in protest. “Don’t shoot. There’s a man in the alley. He needs an ambulance.” She pointed behind her with her left index finger, keeping her hands in the air.
One of men raced into the alley and the second holstered his gun, rushing to her. She let her hands drop, the pain in her left arm unbearable.
He towered over her, close enough to touch her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes raked over her and she could scarcely draw a full breath under his scrutiny, her rib cage aching with every inhale, her heart skittering frantically. Fear clashed with her desire for comfort and the sudden urge to lean into him. She was losing it. She must be losing it if she was thinking about turning to this stranger for help of any kind.
He had the slightly dangerous look of man who was a little bit reckless and lived life on his own terms. His hair was dark, worn longer than most men, and a shadow of a beard covered his jawline. With broad shoulders and slim hips, he captured her interest and that was troubling. She didn’t have the time or energy to be interested in anyone.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his dark eyes singeing her with concern.
Carey shook her head, the lie a necessary one. The fierce cold bit into her hands, her chin stung and her arm throbbed. She turned to keep him from seeing her injury. Panic swept over her. She had to get out of here. She couldn’t stay a moment longer. She’d clean and bandage her arm herself later. The convenience store sold bandages, didn’t they? “I’m fine.”
He narrowed his gaze on her as if he didn’t believe her. “What happened?”
“I wasn’t involved. I just screamed for help.”
“I need you to come with me to the station.”
Her terror grew stronger. She needed a plan of escape. She couldn’t go with him to the police station. He couldn’t force her, could he? “I just want to go home.” Black spots dotted her vision. She needed to lie down. Soon.
He shook his head and a lock of hair fell over his forehead. “I need to take your information and a statement about what happened here.”
Her gaze drifted to that lock of hair, then to his eyes. Surprised by the smoldering heat she found in them, she felt the look as if he’d touched her. A warm shiver moved down her spine and her stomach tightened. This guy had charisma and raw, sexual magnetism in spades. A man with whom she wouldn’t—couldn’t—lower her boundaries even a fraction of an inch for fear he’d get inside.
Another siren drew closer and an ambulance turned onto the street. Carey said a mental thank-you for the quick response time and hoped the man in the alley would be okay. She needed to beat feet.
“I didn’t see anything.” The lie made her ears burn. She could see in his face he didn’t believe her.
“You saw enough to call for help.”
Why had she stopped and interfered? Why hadn’t she kept her head down and kept walking? “I don’t remember.” What a terrible excuse. Dizziness swept over her and she struggled to remain standing. Home was three blocks away. She could make it.
“Do you have ID?” he asked.
“Do you?”
He lifted a brow, never taking his eyes off her, then reached into his back pocket and drew out his badge.
“May I?” she asked, extending her right hand.
Shooting her a wary look, he handed over his badge for inspection. She opened the wallet, his ID tucked inside. He wasn’t a plainclothes police officer—he was a detective. He didn’t look older than thirty-five. Impressive that he’d made the ranks that young. Assuming he wasn’t dirty, her respect for him ratcheted up a notch. “Detective Reilly Truman. I’m sorry, Detective, but I’ve got to go.” Carey threw the badge behind her for all she was worth and took off in the other direction. She made it two steps and then collapsed, a black hole closing off her thoughts.
Reilly watched his badge sail over her shoulder. He swore under his breath, but his irritation was doused when the witness crumpled to the ground. A moment later he was at her side, rolling her onto her back and checking for a pulse.
She’d passed out beneath a streetlight, giving him a better look at her. Reilly brushed the hair off her face, looking for injuries. Except for the unnatural red color of her hair, her beauty was enthralling, her features small and delicate, and her clothes much too big for her petite frame, as if she were trying to hide her figure. Women this beautiful didn’t normally go out of their way to conceal their good looks.
He continued his assessment: a scrape on her chin, a cut on her forehead near her hairline, and her left sleeve was covered in blood. Uneasiness flooded through him. The victim’s? Or hers?
The emergency response team converged on the scene, three men treating the victim in the alley, one EMT waiting by the ambulance.
“I need some help,” Reilly called over his shoulder.
Pulling away the fabric of her sweatshirt, he saw a cut ran in a narrow slice across her upper arm. It was a recent injury and still bleeding. The urge to help her, the need to make her better, torpedoed through him, as strong as it was unexpected. He never behaved this way on a scene. Reilly was known for keeping his cool, yet his fleeing witness was making him lose it.
The EMT jogged over, kneeling down on the other side of her, spreading open his orange bag. The name “Lou” was stitched on his jacket. “What happened?”
“She passed out. Her arm is bleeding.”
Lou pulled on a pair of gloves and Reilly tore away the sleeve of her ratty sweatshirt. The sweatshirt was speckled with pieces of asphalt and the sleeve brushed with red. Her arm was thin, free of track marks or bruises. She didn’t have the look or smell of a homeless person. What was she doing on the street at this hour?
Lou examined the wound. “Nasty scratch. Maybe a knife?”
“Could be,” Reilly said. Why had she lied when he’d asked if she was hurt? Her serene face was such a contrast to the grit and attitude he’d seen a few minutes before. Reilly took another long look. Yeah, she was pretty all right. Good-looking in a way that would drive a man crazy to kiss her, touch her. In other words, Reilly needed to keep his distance times ten and remember the bad things that could happen when a detective overstepped his bounds. His former partner had taught him that.
Tearing open a packet of alcohol swabs, Lou cleaned her wound and then applied pressure to her sternum with his knuckles to elicit a response. Her cobalt eyes fluttered open then clouded with confusion.
“Hey there, stay with us this time,” Reilly said, trying to orient her. He set his hand on her right arm.
She spoke not a word and a moment later, she was kicking and fighting like a wildcat. Reilly held her shoulder and hip to the ground, pinning her body before she kicked him or Lou somewhere sensitive.
“Hey! Calm down. We’re helping you,” Reilly said.
“No, let go!” She bucked her hips in the air and tried to twist her arms free.
Did he need to call someone in for a psych evaluation? Why were the most attractive ones the most trouble? His breath clouded in the cold night air. “You need medical attention.”
“No, I don’t,” she said through clenched teeth. She stopped fighting him and instead glowered at him as if he was her worst enemy. Spunk; he liked that in a woman. Another time, another place, Reilly would find her tremendously appealing. But today, she was part of an investigation, one that required his full attention.
The air between them vibrated with tension. Reilly forced his focus on the case. “This is Lou. He’s an EMT. He’s going to fix your arm.”
He could see her working the information over in her mind. “Fine,” she replied through gritted teeth. She turned her head toward Lou. “Thank you.”
The polite words were out of place with the rest of her behavior. But Reilly was on the tail end of a thirty-hour shift, his last before a two-week vacation, and he was in no frame of mind to diagnose the mood swings of a temperamental, yet very pretty, witness.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Lou asked her as he cleaned and bandaged her arm.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Same lie she’d told him. What was her opposition to medical treatment? Reilly wouldn’t let her go home without being sure her injuries had been taken care of and she wouldn’t pass out again.
Lou lifted her chin with his fingertips. “You’ve got some abrasions on your face.”
She didn’t reply, but flinched when Lou dabbed her chin with another swab. He pressed his hand along her torso. “Does that hurt?”
“No,” she said, though tears sprang to her eyes.
If she was hurt, why not say so? The less she said the more Reilly wanted to know about her. He cursed his inquisitive nature and checked his interest. Witness. Firm boundaries.
“Do you think you can stand?” Lou asked. “I’ll get the stretcher if you can’t. We need to take you to the hospital to get checked out.”
The flash of indignation in her eyes told Reilly she would never allow that. “I can manage without the stretcher, and I’m not going to the hospital.”
She got to her feet, Lou on one side, him on the other. He wrapped his arm around her slender waist and every muscle in his body flexed in awareness. He ignored the heated rush of sensation. Thin women weren’t usually his thing, but as much as he tried to shut it down, an invisible force attracted him to her.
“Are you okay? Dizzy? Woozy?” Lou asked.
“I’m fine. I don’t need help.”
Reilly was tired of her saying that. She was not fine and he wanted to know why she was lying. If she was in trouble, he could help her.
“Can you tell me your name?” Lou asked.
She ignored him.
“Ma’am, you need to tell us your name,” Reilly said, realizing he personally wanted a name to put with this woman even more than he’d need one for his report.
“I don’t have one,” she said.
“Maybe she has a concussion. You really should allow us to take you to the hospital. You need a CT scan,” Lou said, furrowing his brow, stepping closer and pulling a penlight out of his pocket to check her pupils.
Reilly’s police instincts—which were never wrong—told him she was lying. What was she hiding? “She doesn’t have a concussion. And if she refuses medical treatment and doesn’t tell us her name, then we’re going to go down to the precinct and talk that over. Maybe a night in the county jail will refresh her memory.” An empty threat. He wouldn’t put this woman in lockup. He just wanted her to come clean.
The woman sighed and leveled a look at him. “My name is Carey.”
Another lie. He could see it in her eyes. “Okay, Carey. Do you have a last name?”
“Smith.”
He’d give her credit for boldness. She didn’t even pretend she was being honest.
“And what is your address, Ms. Smith?”
“I don’t have one,” she said.
Lou smirked.
Reilly maneuvered to stand in front of her, keeping his hands on her waist. She didn’t appear quite steady on her feet and he didn’t want her passing out again and injuring herself further. “The way you’re behaving, you’re making me think you did something wrong.”
She lifted her scraped chin proudly, meeting his gaze dead-on. “I did nothing wrong. Wrong place, wrong time. I was walking home. I stumbled on something. That’s all I know.”
Reilly jerked his head, indicating Lou should take off. The witness might be more forthcoming with less of an audience. Lou shrugged, quiet laughter in his eyes, and trotted toward the ambulance, looking over his shoulder once at them.
Yeah, she was a riot.
Carey knew something and she was going to tell him what it was. Reilly closed in on her space, knowing crowding her might pressure the truth from her. “So that’s it? Just walking by?” He barely kept the disbelief from his voice, letting her know he was aware she was lying.
“Is the man in the alley okay?” Carey asked, pushing his hands away from her and stepping back.
His palms itched to touch her again. He wasn’t giving her another chance to run. He stepped closer. She hadn’t answered his question. “Not sure.”
She shifted on her feet. “Can you ask someone?”
“We can exchange all the information you want. But I tell you something, you tell me something.”
She glared him and pressed her lips together.
Even when she was being difficult, she appealed to him on some primal level. Best to quash those feelings, especially when he was on the job. He had to treat her like any other witness. If she didn’t want to talk here, they could talk at the precinct. “Have it your way. I’m hauling you in for questioning.”
Sitting alone in the Denver police station in Detective Truman’s office, Carey fought the bile that roiled in her stomach. She wished she’d accepted the cola drink he’d offered when they’d first arrived. The bubbles would have settled her stomach, and the caffeine and sugar would have jump-started her brain and helped her think.
She was cold, hungry and tired.
Detective Truman hadn’t tossed her into the interrogation room, a small consolation. Instead, she was sitting on a metal chair, amidst his stacks of paperwork and disorganized clutter, waiting for him to return. He’d lobbed a million questions at her, then he’d been interrupted by a phone call and needed to leave for a few minutes. They were the first moments of peace and quiet she’d had to clear her head since stumbling out of that alley.
She tucked her hands into the sleeves of the sweatshirt Detective Truman had given her since her own had been torn. Unfortunately, this one had DPD across the front. She’d have to ditch it and get another nondescript one later.
Her arm throbbed, but at least it had been cleaned, butterfly stitched and bandaged better than she could have managed on her own.
She closed her eyes, wishing she could lie down for a few minutes. A fifteen-minute nap would revive her and help her sort her thoughts. How could she convince him to let her leave? If she pretended to be insane and babble incoherently, he might set her up with a psych evaluation. Same for pitching a fit and demanding to be allowed to go home. No, she needed a ploy that didn’t get her into more trouble.
She scanned the room, looking for clues about his personality, something she could use to play to his sympathies. He had no personal items filling the space, no pictures of a wife and children or college degrees mounted to the wall. It looked as though the place hadn’t been dusted in a decade and the trash can was filled with empty energy drink cans.
What was the fastest way to get out of this situation? Flirt with him? Lie to him? Tell him what he wanted to hear?
In her former life, flirting with him would have come easy, letting the fluttering feeling in her stomach dictate her actions. She wasn’t that woman anymore. Carey didn’t allow herself to get involved with anyone, much less a handsome detective who could undo the hard work she’d put into keeping herself hidden.
If she wasn’t running, running, always running, she’d allow herself to daydream about Detective Truman. But daydreaming led to distractions and distractions left her vulnerable.
Staying focused and alert had kept her alive for eleven months and she wasn’t about to let down her guard with anyone. She had a long list of precautions—looking behind her on her way to and from work, leaving flour at her front door entrance so she’d know if someone had been inside and never sharing personal information about her life, past or present. She couldn’t trust anyone. People could be bought. Information could be sold. And if she befriended an honest person, they might end up getting hurt. Or worse. She didn’t want that responsibility.
She begrudgingly admitted Detective Truman wasn’t pure evil. After securing her in the back of his unmarked squad car, he’d taken control of the scene, giving orders and direction. For nearly two hours, she’d watched him with rapt fascination, the way he moved, the way he spoke. The medics, EMTs and other officers on the scene had looked at him with respect and listened to him out of deference, not fear.
He was confident and sure of himself. She was lonely and he made her feel protected. It was an unsafe combination.
Detective Truman had a disarming quality about him, a “come confide in me” face, and a strong, yet gentle nature. He didn’t slam her around or handle her roughly getting her in and out of the car. Giving her the sweatshirt and offering something to drink was nice, but she wouldn’t let that break down her defenses.
If she felt anything, it was the basic need for companionship, the loneliness festering in her chest that craved human contact and conversation. She didn’t own a phone and no one bothered to check on her in her apartment. How long had it been since someone asked how she was doing and truly cared to hear the answer?
She shook her head, throwing the brakes on that train of thought. She had more important things to think about. Like how she was going to get out of this situation.
Detective Reilly entered his office, closing the door behind him with a soft snick. He’d unbuttoned the sleeves of his dress shirt and rolled them to the elbow. It made for a casual, stylish look. She doubted he’d been going for that. He didn’t seem like the type to worry about fashion. Then again, she didn’t know anything about him except that he was a detective. She’d be smart to remember that.
Should she ask for a lawyer? Was this the scene where he played good cop with her, giving her a chance to come clean before he and his partner shook her down? Maybe she’d been watching too many crime dramas on television, but without a social life to speak of, her nights were spent alone with the paperbacks she bought for a quarter at the secondhand store or the shows she managed to watch on the old ten-inch television with rabbit ears and a converter she’d salvaged from the Dumpster.
“Just you again?” she asked.
He rubbed his hand across his stubbly jaw. “Would you prefer an audience?”
His sarcasm made her lips nearly twitch into a smile. Laughter. Smiling. She missed those things, too. She forced her face to remain stoic. The important part was never getting emotionally involved. “I need to go home.”
“You can go home. I’ll take you myself right after we talk. Just tell me your address.”
Carey clamped her mouth shut. If she lied, he might try to verify her address before releasing her. And she couldn’t tell him the truth. She didn’t want her information to go on record and create another thread for Mark to find her. Mark didn’t forget about ugly, unfinished business, and he definitely considered her ugly, unfinished business.
Detective Reilly sat down at his desk. “Ms. Smith, may I call you Carey?
Her first name wasn’t Carey and her last name wasn’t Smith. She didn’t care what he called her. None of the last seven aliases she had used for seven different jobs in seven different cities meant anything.
Detective Truman folded his hands and leaned forward. “Ms. Smith, at this time we’re not holding you as a suspect.”
Magic words. She stood. “I know my rights. I’m leaving.”
The warning look on his face froze her in place. “I said, at this time. If you want to change that, I can make arrangements for charges to be brought against you.”
Outrage flared in her gut. “I did nothing wrong.” Being a Good Samaritan had been a mistake. While she was glad to know that her humanity and compassion hadn’t been stripped away by the last eleven months, it had been a mistake to get involved.
“The man in the alley was stabbed in the chest.” He spoke with clinical detachment, no hint of emotion.
Carey’s stomach twisted. “Is he going to be okay?” An image of the attacker flashed in her mind’s eye and she shuddered, a chill running along her spine. She’d see his face every time she closed her eyes for months. Just what she needed—another living nightmare.
Detective Truman stood and circled the desk, leaning his hip on the edge, staring directly at her. A nonthreatening posture, but one that showed interest, closing in on her. Nice psych trick. But she knew those little mind games. She’d played some of them. She wouldn’t believe Detective Truman gave a rat’s tail about her as anything but a witness.
“The victim’s in critical condition at St. Luke’s Medical Center. It’s important you share everything you remember.”
“I didn’t see anything,” she said, feeling as though she’d spoken those words a hundred times in the past few hours. She’d told Reilly the same thing at the scene and again on the drive to the police station.
He ignored her and pressed on. “The M.O. matches the pattern of several other cases we’re working.”
A tremor of fear coursed over her and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “What other cases?”
“I’m not permitted to discuss specifics at this time,” he said, his eyes holding a cold, distant expression.
Pieces and clips fell into place in a rush. The news programs warning the city. The knife and the alley. The time of night. He was talking about the case that had captured the attention of the police force, the mayor and the entire city. She had trouble taking a full breath as the impact of the realization socked her in the gut. “You’re talking about the Vagabond Killer. You think I fought the Vagabond Killer.”
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