Irresistible Force (A K-9 Rescue Novel)(46)

Yes, she'd spent too much of her final Halifax check on food but she  didn't care. Next week, probably, would be a different story.

She slammed the trunk and turned toward the cabin, still preoccupied  with menus. How funny was that? She'd never thought of herself as the  domestic type. She could cook, sure, yet longing to impress a man with  her kitchen skills seemed so old-fashioned and subservient, until now.  Now, she wanted all the schlocky moonlight and madness of a real  romance. Go figure.

She was still mad as hell at James, sure. But after storming around the  cabin for an hour, she had realized that he had been fighting back when  she told him to get lost. He said he wanted this relationship. He said  they were in this together.

That was a part of the argument that she hadn't considered the first  hundred times she refought their phone call in her thoughts. He thought  there was a "them."

She might not have a lot of experience with men in relationships but she  had instincts. Her intuition told her that James was willing to fight  for her, and that was worth something.

That didn't mean she was going to let him off easy. She wasn't going to  text him or tell him where she was. He'd have to figure that out. He'd  have to go into Raleigh, realize that she wasn't home, and then figure  out where she went to shelter when her world collapsed, as it seemed to  be doing on a regular basis these days.

Shay smiled to herself as she climbed the two shallow stairs to the  porch. With all her problems unsolved, and worried as she was about the  rent, at the moment there was only one thing on her mind. She expected  to be pursued.

James would pursue her. She had no doubt. He wouldn't expect her to make  it easy. That's why she had taken Perry's offer to leave at lunchtime,  citing a lack of work for her. James might be furious that she was  making him jump through hoops to prove his interest. But she needed him  to make this final jump so that she'd know he meant what he'd said. They  were worth fighting for.

When he arrived, and they had fought it out all over again, she would reward him with smiles and food, and love.

Shay bit her lip. Too soon to use that word. She didn't want to come off  all needy. It was another of those milestones in her life she had never  before reached: the possibility of loving.

Maybe she was being foolish. Or maybe she was suffering from a new form  of dissociative behavior. Whatever. The feelings inside her were a  welcome alternative to fear and anxiety.

As she put down her bags to search for her key, light from the  NightWatcher on the post near the front door fell across the bag nearest  her. There was microwave popcorn and salsa and chips, and  chocolate-covered raisins in that one. All the things she could think of  that she liked but would never buy to eat alone. It was single-girl  loser food. But not when shared with a boyfriend.                       
       
           



       

It took her a while to turn three keys in three locks but the knob  turned easily enough. She picked up her bags. One shove and she was  through.

Standing by her cozy chair near the fireplace with her only bottle of  liquor, a cheap tequila, gripped in his fist was a man. He was big. Not  tall but solid. Built like a cement block on end, balanced on a pair of  hams.

She saw how he'd gotten in. Through the entrance to the kitchen she  could see the battered back door leaning open and off one hinge. So much  for locks and keys.

Her gaze came back very unwillingly to him. Homeless? Druggie?

He must have seen her gaze slip sideways or her right foot begin an  instinctive back step because he raised the barrel of a gun he'd been  holding at his side until it came to a stop aimed at her midsection.  "Get the fuck in here."

Shay froze. That voice. She knew it from the phone calls.

Her stalker. The man who'd carved that ugly word into her car door. The  man who'd tossed a cat under her wheels. The man Eric had sent here  to-what?

A fist of fear closed over her stomach. She moved backward automatically.

"Stop!"

Her feet stopped their backward motion.

Grinning, he waved her in with the barrel. "I said get in here."

She thought of running anyway, but she knew the instant she saw him that this man would use his gun.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Useless questions but they were all that came to mind.

He looked at her as if she'd spoken to him in a language he didn't  understand. Finally he shrugged and set the tequila bottle down by the  chair. "Stupid bitch."

This time he beckoned to her with his free hand. "And shut the door," he added as she hesitated.

Shay pushed it to with her foot, wondering what time James would show  up. She had no doubt now. He and Bogart would show up. They had to.  Tonight. She just had to stay alive until then.

She walked over to the living room table on legs that had gone stiff as a  pair of chopsticks, and placed her canvas grocery bags down. She had  reached for the lemon sorbet ice cream to put it away, buying a moment  to collect herself, before she realized she was testing the patience of a  man with a gun. She turned around slowly.

He was still there, only he was no longer by the easy chair. He was much closer.

Fear set fire to her senses. Unlike when James had burst in on her, and  she could see nothing but gun, this time her senses bombarded her with  vivid detail. The red-and-black plaid shirt over a greasy tee, the  jeans, the sneakers that were much more expensive than anything else he  wore and, finally, his face. It was big and round and red with a fringe  of black stubble, like a beet that had just been dug up. Black hair  sprouted from his scalp like monkey grass. Eyes black and intense as a  hawk's sat above a squashed nose. And then there was the gun.

She didn't know guns but she thought fleetingly that this one had had a  hard life. Compared to those on TV, so shiny they vibrate with light.  The one he fisted was dull and grazed with use. It seemed deadlier.

She chased around in her head looking for an attitude to adopt. Because  it was all she really had, she chose pissed off. "You're making a  mistake. I know who sent you."

"You don't know shit." He moved toward her, but not too close. "I been  watching you all week. You didn't know that, did you? Stupid bitch!  Watched you go to work and come home. Lucky thing I showed up in time to  follow you out here. Saved me trying to snatch you."

Several responses whip-snaked through her thoughts but only one seemed  pertinent. "If you've been stalking me then you know my boyfriend is a  cop."

He grinned. It revealed a shantytown of bad teeth. "You like to fuck?"

She didn't shrink back in revulsion but beneath her sweatshirt her  muscles contracted, ready to fight for her life. Her phone was in her  purse. Impossible inches away.

She strained to keep her gaze from shifting toward it. Even so, he  seemed to know what she was thinking. He waved her away from the table.  "Over there, by the chair."

She moved in a half-circle around him to reach the oversized stuffed chair he pointed to.

As she moved, her overstimulated gaze raked every inch of their  surroundings for weapons. Logs stacked by the fireplace. The poker  leaning against the hearth. The kerosene lamp on the mantel. The tequila  bottle by the chair. She would have to be fast to grab any one of them.  And then what? None of them were more dangerous than a loaded gun.

When she reached the chair it suddenly seemed like a trap, something  that would restrict her ability to move. Instead, she perched on one  arm, her body tensed for flight though where or how seemed to face  insurmountable obstacles at the moment.                       
       
           



       

Buy time. Keep the assailant talking. Learn something. Anything. She'd  watched crime shows. That's what all law enforcement professionals told  hostages to do.

A shudder rolled through her. "Did Eric send you?"

He snorted, as if she'd said something funny. "Who the fuck is Eric?"

She glanced away in confusion. She had been so cocky, so certain she  knew who her enemy was. Had she missed all the signs that it might have  been someone else? No, it was Eric. It had to be. Maybe this man didn't  know who'd hired him.

One thought chased another through her overloaded brain. Eric was a  dick. But he was no fool. He had hired this man to torment her, to  embarrass and frighten her. But he wouldn't send anyone to kill her. So  then, her life was safe. Although she wouldn't feel safe until James and  Bogart arrived. They would come. They had to come.

She looked up and swallowed the burn of acid at the back of her throat. "Why were you hired?"

"You think I'm stupid, don't you? I ain't stupid!" He took two steps  toward her, staring hard as if he were trying to gauge where to place a  shot.