Tall, Dark And Wanted
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It wasn’t like the feeling she would sometimes get while working a case, moments before something went very wrong. And it was different from the kind that had saved her skin on more than a couple of occasions in the line of duty. But it was definitely a “feeling.”
Maybe she was tired.
Then again, maybe she was just worried, Molly rationalized. Worried about the kind of reception she might receive from Mitch after all these years.
She lifted a hand to one door and knocked solidly.
She waited.
Nothing happened.
Again she knocked. And again, nothing. The cold, black silence of the night, so different from the bright lights of Chicago, only added to her sense of unease as she reached for the door’s brass handle.
And that unease intensified when the latch moved freely and the door swung open. Maybe it was one of those gut feelings she was having, Molly thought as she took the first tentative step into the house and lowered her knapsack to the floor. Something definitely felt wrong.
What if Sabatini had gotten to Mitch first? The thought sent a hot prickle of fear along her skin. Lifting the bottom edge of her anorak, she unclipped the holster at her hip and removed her duty weapon. The Glock’s grip was cold, and her fingers shivered along the icy nickel as she drew back the slide.
She refused the urge to call out Mitch’s name. If Sabatini’s men had already found the house, there was the chance they were still on the premises. She certainly couldn’t afford to announce herself, she thought, taking another step into the dimly lit foyer and nudging the door closed behind her.
Vaguely, she was aware of the interior, the predominance of pine, the spaciousness of what had initially appeared to be a small house, and the tasteful, expensive decor including huge plants that thrived in the abundance of natural light that undoubtedly flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the several skylights overhead during the day. The curved staircase reached up toward a darkened second floor, and to her right was the living room.
A warm glow flickered across the hardwood floors from the blazing fireplace. The only other light was a reading lamp beside an empty chair. As Molly moved cautiously through the room, she spotted the sketches on the coffee table. Architectural sketches.
Mitch was here. Or, at least, he had been.
Molly tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and looked to the hearth. If Sabatini’s men had found Mitch, it had been very recently. She’d not seen any headlights in her long walk from where the Jeep had finally run out of gas, and the fire had been recently stoked. So maybe they were still here.
Like a sixth sense, the bad feeling gripped her again. It shivered its warning along her spine and caused the fine hairs at the back of her neck to bristle. Tightening her grip around her weapon, she started down the shadow-filled hallway to what she guessed was the kitchen.
But Molly didn’t get far. Barely two steps through the arched doorway, a blinding pain stopped her in her tracks—a pain that seared along the base of her skull and pitched her to her knees. For one wavering moment, Molly was aware of the floor’s ceramic tile, cool against her cheek. And in the next, blackness swallowed her.
ALL OF A SUDDEN the chunk of firewood in his hands seemed unbearably heavy—heavier than it had before he’d swung it high and felt its reverberating, almost sickening contact with the woman’s skull. With a small twinge of guilt, Mitch set the makeshift weapon down next to the body sprawled across the kitchen floor. He hadn’t thought it would be that easy when he’d taken up the piece of firewood and slipped into the kitchen before the first knock at the door.
His grip had tightened around the wood as he’d listened to her move through the front hall, then the living room. And when she’d rounded the corner to the kitchen, stepped through the doorway past his hiding spot, and he’d seen the light from the living room glint along the metal of the gun she held in her hand, he’d needed no more incentive. Mitch had swung.
Maybe he’d brandished the log a little too hard, though, he mused now as he turned on the kitchen lights and knelt beside her unmoving body. Thankfully there was no blood, but what if he’d broken her neck?
Part of him knew he shouldn’t care; after all, she’d come here to kill him. If he hadn’t attacked her first, she would have turned that gun on him. Still, she was a woman, and he had just struck her with a blow beyond anything he’d considered himself capable of inflicting on another human being.
Mitch slipped his hand beneath the collar of the woman’s anorak to the soft skin along her throat. Relief swept through him. There was a pulse.
In the harsh glare of the kitchen’s overhead fluorescents, Mitch was surprised at her small stature. When he’d seen her shadowed figure come through the arched doorway, her back to him, she’d looked bigger somehow. Or maybe it was the gun that had made her appear more formidable. But now, with her face turned away and her arm splayed out across the tiles as though she were reaching for him, she looked almost fragile.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Mitch reached for her. He grasped her shoulders in his hands and slowly eased her limp body over.
He wasn’t certain what came out of his mouth first: a curse or her name. But as he stared into her face, disbelief washing over him, there was no stopping the string of expletives that escaped his lips.
Her complexion seemed pale—almost frighteningly so—and Mitch felt for her pulse again.
“Come on, Molly. Snap out of it.” His voice filled the silence of the house, panic causing it to waver. “Molly, come on. I know you’re tough. Don’t do this to me. You’re going to be all right. Come on, honey.”
But there wasn’t so much as a moan or a twitch. She was out cold.
He should take her to the hospital, Mitch reasoned. But how could he? Even if anonymity wasn’t a crucial factor in his life right now, the closest ER had to be a good hour away at least, and that didn’t take into account the storm.
God, if he’d only known it was her. What was she doing here? How had she found him? Why hadn’t she called out for him? What had possessed her to just walk in with her gun drawn? And then Mitch was cursing her all over again as he unzipped her jacket. He checked her pulse a third time.
Beneath the dark green fleece lining, she wore a form-fitting thermal top tucked into her jeans. It puckered around the leather strap of her gun’s empty holster, drawing suggestively over the gentle swell of her breasts and her delicate rib cage. Mitch watched the fabric pull slightly as she took another shallow breath.
Twelve years…They’d certainly been good ones to Molly, he thought, staring into her face. The rounder lines that had been there in her youth had been replaced with more angular, mature features that accentuated the extraordinary bone structure beneath. Mitch was reminded of all the photos he’d seen of Molly’s mother. And when he looked at the seductive curve of Molly’s slightly parted lips, full and still moist, it was as though the years hadn’t passed, as though it was only yesterday that he’d tasted that tantalizing mouth.
Reaching out to brush back a stray wisp of dark hair, he touched her cheek. So soft. Like silk. He could still remember the feel of her skin…its softness against his, the supple curves of her body molding into his, the eager heat of her passion melding with his until he’d hardly known where his longing had begun and hers ended….
“Come on, Molly,” he murmured again, trying like hell to push the torrid memories back. “If you can hear me, you’ve gotta snap out of this. You’re scaring me, honey. Do you hear me? Molly?”
He leaned even closer to her, not sure what to do next, but knowing that he had to get her off the cold, hard kitchen floor. And that was when he smelled her—subtle traces of jasmine mingling with that intoxicating scent that was undeniably and forever Molly. The years melted away…they were in her father’s house, in Molly’s bedroom. She’d lit candles, while old Elton John tunes played on her stereo. She’d been bolder that night than she’d ever been, knowing her father was working midnight shift at the precinct. In twelve years, Mitch had never forgotten the tantalizing smile that had played on her lips when she’d shed the short, silk kimono, letting it fall to the floor as she stood naked before him, her skin glowing in the candlelight, her dark hair tumbling over her tanned shoulders and the shadows playing along each seductive curve, while he lay on her bed…waiting.
It was the last time they’d made love, one week before fall semester started, the night before he’d had to return to Boston. The last time he’d ever seen Molly…
“Molly, please…” he begged her again, but this time he slid his arms beneath her and gently lifted her delicate body from the floor. “Please, honey…”
God, she had to be all right, Mitch prayed. She had to be.
Chapter Three
Molly was aware of the pain first. The dull throb stemmed from the base of her skull and spiked upward. Then she felt the heat—a radiating warmth against her left cheek—and she could hear the low crackle of fire in the hearth.
The memories came together like scattered pieces of a puzzle. She’d walked through the house, seen Mitch’s sketches on the coffee table, moved down the hall with her gun drawn, and finally there had been the blow and the blinding pain. Silently, she cursed herself. Yes, she’d certainly done a good job of walking directly into someone’s trap.
Sabatini’s trap? It had to be. She pushed back the instantaneous surge of panic. His men must have gotten to Mitch first, then had probably left her for dead.
But…the last thing she remembered was the cold, ceramic tiles of the kitchen floor. Even without opening her eyes, she knew she was on the leather sofa she’d seen in the living room. Why would Sabatini’s men move her?
“How do you feel?”
In twelve years…no, in a million years, she’d never forget his voice. Its deep, resonant tone slipped through the silence, smoothing out the sharper edges of her pain and wrapping itself around her like a lover’s embrace.
The only thing more seductive than that was the sight of him.
Mitch sat less than three feet away, perched on the edge of the coffee table. He leaned forward with his elbows braced against his knees. His forehead creased and those dark eyes narrowed with what appeared to be genuine concern.
Molly blinked several times, gradually bringing him into focus. She had to be dreaming.
It wasn’t the Mitch of the photos she’d seen over the years—always dressed to the nines in hopelessly crisp suits and expensive ties as he endured the limelight his success garnered, or even donning a hard hat at some groundbreaking event for a new Drake construction, still wearing what appeared to be an Armani.
No, this was the Mitch of Molly’s memories, of twelve years of recurring dreams and fantasies. That rugged handsomeness, that overwhelming masculinity, dressed in a rumpled denim shirt over a sparkling white T tucked into a faded pair of jeans…
And his hair…It was cropped short. The mustache and beard were gone as well. The warm glow of the fire softened his sharp features—the square chin, the strong jaw-line, those chiseled lips and that perfect nose with the smallest of clefts at the tip. But it was his eyes that riveted her and seemed to have stolen her ability to speak as she watched them reflect the flames’ dancing light.
This was the Mitch she knew, the Mitch she’d made love to and believed would be with her forever. This was the Mitch she’d kissed goodbye as she saw him off to college twelve years ago. This was the Mitch who had smiled as he’d driven off to Boston, and out of her life….
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She managed a nod, but her eyes never left his.
“Talk to me, Molly,” he prompted again, the lines of worry etching even deeper. “Are you all right? How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been clubbed over the head.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. The simple act sent another shot of pain searing through her.
“I thought I was going to have to drive you to a hospital.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, and attempted to sit up. But the effort was more than she’d anticipated. Her vision blurred again and dizziness swept over her.
She should have expected Mitch to reach for her then—strong hands grasping her, guiding her up and then lingering on her shoulders as though assuring himself that she was all right. More than that, however, Molly should have expected the almost instant physical reaction her body had to his touch.
“I’m fine,” she said again, brushing his hands away.
He backed off, but only briefly. From the coffee table he picked up an ice pack and settled onto the sofa next to her. She could smell the faint trace of aftershave on him—something she’d not smelled in years, and yet it seemed as familiar as yesterday. She fought back the memories.
“How long have I been out?”
“Not long. Fifteen minutes…maybe twenty.”
He reached behind her, attempting to settle the ice pack against the tender and throbbing source of her pain. Molly winced and reflexively reached up to take the pack from his grasp.
“I told you I’m fine.”
She heard the release of his breath before she saw him shake his head.
“How could I forget?” he asked, a frown quivering at the corners of his mouth. “Just as stubborn as your old man.”
She watched him lift a hand and run his fingers through the short-cropped hair, as though he expected to find long locks of black hair still there.
“So I guess I have you to thank for this goose egg?” Molly bit her lower lip as she eased the pack against the injury, feeling the initial burn of the ice.
“What do you expect when you come creeping through the dark? And with a gun drawn, no less?”
Molly caught his quick nod to where her Glock lay on the coffee table. She cringed at the idea that she’d so easily lost her on-duty weapon. Yes, she’d certainly messed up. If it had happened in the line of duty, the incident would have been written up in a heartbeat.
“I did knock,” she said.
“Yeah, well, you should have announced yourself.” There was a definite edge to his tone. But the anger wasn’t at her, Molly realized then. It was more at himself, for having struck her the way he had. And judging by the residual dizziness and the pain hammering through her head, it must have been a damned good swing. She could only imagine what had gone through his head when he’d seen her drawn gun coming through the kitchen door.
“So what the hell are you doing here, Molly?”
“You have to ask?” She shifted the ice pack and tried not to wince again.
“You’re wasting your time.”
“Whether or not you testify is up to you, Mitch. All I want to do is ask that you reconsider what you’re doing.”
“And what am I doing?”
“Honestly? I’d say you’re committing suicide. Thinking you can stay out of Sabatini’s reach. It’s insane. After all, I managed to find you. It can only be a matter of time before Sabatini’s men catch up with you as well, and you’re a fool if you think you can hold your own against them. You’re not safe, Mitch. No matter how much firewood you have,” she added.
“And you’re saying I’m safe in Chicago?”
“Certainly safer than running, yes.”
He stared at her for what could only have been seconds, but caught in those dark eyes, it felt like an eternity.
“Well, I’ll take my chances,” he said at last. “Like I told you, you’re wasting your time.”
In the intensity of his stare she thought she saw resentment, anger, and beneath that…a kind of resignation, a glimmer of defeat that frightened her. When he drew himself to the edge of the sofa eventually, and turned to look at the fireplace instead, Molly studied his profile. But she could still see that sense of hopelessness she’d glimpsed. It was the look of a man who didn’t care whether he lived or died. And Mitch Drake was the last person she’d ever expected to see it in.
No, the Mitch she’d grown up with was a strong man. A man who loved life, who had never let anyone or anything cut him down or hold him back. She’d fallen in love with that strength, that vitality, probably before she was even old enough to understand those qualities. And later, in high school, it was that love for him that had left no question in her mind as to who she wanted to be with, who would be her first lover.
She’d been Mitch’s first, too. Sure, she knew he’d kissed a couple of other girls on occasional dates before she had dared to profess her feelings. But Molly knew, beyond a doubt, that Mitch spoke the truth when he’d sworn that night on a blanket along a stretch of Lake Michigan beach, under a full sky of stars, that Molly was his very first. His first and only, he’d vowed.
They’d dated through his senior year and then Molly’s while Mitch started college in Boston. And in their last summer together—before Mitch went for his second year at Boston and Molly joined the Academy as her father had done—they’d made grandiose plans for their future, even dared to speak of marriage a few times. But Mitch had wanted to finish school first so he could afford to buy her a real ring. Even back then Molly had wondered if there was more to Mitch’s holding off than the cost of a diamond ring, because he knew her well enough to know that she would never have worn something as precious as a diamond.
Then, through their grapevine of friends, Molly had learned of Emily Buchanan, a girl Mitch had met during his second year of college. Molly had learned he was bringing his new girlfriend home during the Christmas break, and she’d made it a point to escape Chicago for the holidays, leaving her father on his own and heading to the slopes with friends just so she wouldn’t have to see or speak with Mitch. And when she returned to the city to start her new life as a patrol officer with the CPD, Molly had vowed she was through with Mitch, through with the dreams and the hopes. She’d returned his few letters unopened, and didn’t respond to any of the phone calls he’d placed to her father.
And then, three years later, when she’d heard the news of Mitch’s marriage to Emily, Molly had at last come to the painful conclusion that it had never been a matter of Mitch not being ready for marriage all those years earlier. It had never been a matter of timing, or money for an engagement ring. It had simply been a matter of her not being “the one.”
Even so, it hadn’t been easy seeing the pictures in the papers and the magazines over the years as Mitch’s reputation grew in Chicago and the architectural world. Harder still to look at that one photo in which he’d posed with his new wife on his arm at some Chicago high society event. Emily had been everything Molly wasn’t—tall, elegant, poised; not some tomboy down the street Mitch had grown up with, pitching stones at old factory windows and racing their matching CCM bicycles through trash-cluttered back streets.
No, she certainly hadn’t been “the one,” Molly resolved yet again as she watched Mitch stand and cross the dimly lit room to the fireplace.
There was no missing the way he favored his left leg, the slight limp seeming uncharacteristic of his obviously sturdy, muscular build. Molly was reminded of the crash ten months ago that could very easily have claimed his life. She should have been used to the guilt she felt now; after all, it had plagued her ever since she’d heard about the accident and hadn’t made the effort to see Mitch. Not that she would have necessarily been allowed in to see him at the hospital or even been able to find out the location of the safe house if she’d tried. And not that she would have known what to say if she had.
She watched him throw another log onto the fire. A burst of sparks sprayed out and up the flue.
“I…I’m sorry, Mitch,” she murmured now. “I’m sorry about the accident. About…your wife.” The words sounded flat, even though she’d meant them.
His back was to her, but she could see the rigid tension that straightened his spine then and tightened his shoulders. And when he turned to her again, there was no mistaking the pain that darkened his face. He rubbed at the gold wedding band, and Molly couldn’t help thinking it was a completely unconscious habit of his.
In the uncomfortable silence that fell over the room, Molly tried to imagine the kind of loss he’d suffered. Yes, she’d lost her mother years ago to cancer, but she’d been only four, too young to have known her, too young to fully comprehend the loss.
And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the dark pain in Mitch’s expression was gone again, as though maybe she’d only imagined it. The wall came up and masked his features in a way only Mitch could manage.
Molly remembered the first time she’d seen him do that—so skillfully construct walls around his emotions. They’d been ten years old when they’d found his dog at the side of the road, killed by a car. Mitch had carried the collie in his arms the whole six blocks home, and it was only days later that Molly had at last seen him cry.
That memory, and many others, flashed before her mind’s eye as Mitch stared back at her. Only when he cleared his throat was she able to return to the present.
“Where’s your car?” She lowered the ice pack and tried to draw herself to the edge of the couch. Another cruel wave of pain surged through her head, and the room threatened to spin again. “About a mile back, at the side of the road,” she answered, remembering the long, cold walk. “I, um, I underestimated. Ran out of gas.”
“Well, you can’t leave it there. With this snow, the plows’ll be through at least once tonight,” he said, turning from the fireplace. “I’ve got a spare tank. I’ll drive you out there.”
SOME OF THE COLOR had returned to Molly’s face before they’d left the house, and she seemed to have regained her equilibrium. But from the moment she’d reholstered her gun and pulled on her anorak and boots, she’d been silent. Even now, in the passenger seat of Barb’s Blazer, she said nothing, only stared out the windshield into the mesmerizing swirl of snow.
Mitch could only imagine her thoughts as he backed the vehicle out the drive and nosed it south along Lakeshore Drive. Was she remembering as well? No, Mitch thought, more likely she was thinking about the years that had separated them. Was it resentment that turned down the corners of her mouth now? he wondered as he snatched another quick side glance. Was it bitterness and anger, harbored over the years because he’d never been able to offer her an explanation?
In spite of the sickly green glow of the dash lights, her features appeared soft and innately feminine. Still, her angular profile had maintained that strong, almost fierce look of determination he’d always remembered. The loose ponytail that drew up her dark hair revealed the delicate curve of her neck, leading to the regal jawline—the same jawline he’d so often watched jut out with that unparalleled Sparling stubbornness.
Another glance and he caught the determined chin, the tight yet exquisite lips, the fine, straight nose, the subtle hollow below her cheekbone, and those gently arched eyebrows. But even with his gaze directed out to the mounting storm beyond the windshield once more, Mitch could see Molly’s eyes. They had long since been burned into his memory—exquisitely wide, and dark…almost black, like a bird’s, Mitch had often thought.
In the confines of the vehicle, it was impossible not to remember the early days of their relationship: the summer evenings at the drive-in theater, when he’d sneaked the same side glances at her and hoped to sneak a kiss as well. The late-night drives home, and then sitting outside her father’s house with the porch light still blazing. That’s where he’d kissed her the first time, at 1:00 a.m. on May 16, in the front bench seat of his father’s old Plymouth.
It hadn’t mattered that he’d kissed other girls before then; with Molly it had felt like the first. From the moment he’d leaned across the seat, buried his fingers in her thick hair and drawn her mouth to his, Mitch had known it was more than just another kiss. Much more. There was no comparing, because that kiss, and every one they’d shared after that, had always felt like…coming home.