No Rules(8)
Donovan sat hard on the snow beside the body, defeat sweeping over him. Nothing had gone right since that last urgent message from Wally. Jessie damn well better have the answers he needed, because lives depended on it, and this man wouldn’t be talking ever again.
…
Jess nearly jumped out of the leather armchair at the sound of the doorbell. She’d been dozing, but now alarm tingled through every nerve ending as her nostrils flared, senses alert and pulse pounding—the exact sort of reaction that Dr. Epstein explained was a hypersensitivity to the unknown and a tendency to invent threats where there were none. Classic paranoia.
Except she hadn’t invented the attack by a knife-wielding lunatic.
Would a lunatic ring the doorbell?
She rose shakily to her feet and stood there, frozen by indecision, weighing the facts. It was nearly eleven at night. Who would come to her father’s house this late? No one knew she was spending the night at the house, and if Donovan hadn’t been so intent on pillaging her father’s possessions, she wouldn’t be here, trying to figure out which of her mom’s paintings she could smuggle out without him knowing it.
Besides, she didn’t know anyone in Nipagonee Rapids. Even a stranger wouldn’t arrive unannounced at this hour, would they? Unless the sheriff had new information for her. That was possible. Not probable, but…
The doorbell sounded again, a double, insistent ring. Jolted out of her mental fog, she took a deep breath and imagined Dr. Epstein’s advice—stop inventing dangers. Just because something was unexpected didn’t make it threatening. Answer the door.
She did, but stealthily. Peeking through the curtained window beside the door, she frowned at the figure illuminated by the porch light. It was Donovan, wearing that same leather jacket and looking impatient, casting glances at his watch, the surrounding woods, and the closed door in front of him. Also looking cold, with his hands stuffed in pockets, shoulders hunched, and dark hair glistening with melting snowflakes.
Maybe not a lunatic, but not anyone she wanted to see. Making no move to open the door, she yelled out, “What do you want?”
His head whipped toward the door, that piercing gaze fastening on hers at the window. “I need to talk to you. Let me in.”
She almost snorted with laughter at the request. He must be used to giving orders and getting his way if he thought that would work. “I don’t think so. Come back tomorrow.” Preferably after ten, when she’d be gone.
“It can’t wait,” he snapped.
As if a bad attitude would convince her to open the door. “If it’s about the guy who attacked me, you need to speak to the police. And if it has to do with my father’s job, talk to the college.”
“It’s not—”
“Look, I don’t really know you, and I’m not letting you in tonight. Now go away.”
She swished the curtain back in place. He immediately began pounding on the door. “Jessie. Open up, goddammit.”
The sheer forcefulness and command in his tone made her shiver in fear. He desperately wanted in, which only served to arouse her paranoia. “I have a gun, and I’m not afraid to use it.” she yelled.
Sudden silence.
Ha. She should have thought of that sooner. Letting out a shaky breath, she walked back to the chair and huddled into the soft leather, pulling an afghan around herself. Confrontations were upsetting, but overall she thought Dr. Epstein would be pleased with the way she’d handled that one. She’d stood up for herself without panicking, and she’d been just as forceful about it as the man outside. The next sound she’d hear would be his car starting up as he left.
She listened, the ticking of the mantle clock loud in her straining ears.
A soft click sounded, followed by the front door opening, then shutting hard against a gust of wind. Jess jumped to her feet, her heart slamming back into panic mode.
Donovan’s wide, angry stance was imposing in the small entryway. Broad shoulders filled the black leather jacket, and she swallowed nervously when he flexed his gloved hands at his side. His jeans and boots were marked with wet smudges of dirt and what looked alarmingly like blood on one thigh. Everything about him screamed danger.
He scowled at her as he marched across the Oriental rug, leaving wet prints on the hardwood floor before tromping onto the huge Persian rug that covered most of the living room. His gaze darted over her, then her chair. “Where’s the gun?”
She stared, first at him, then a quick glance at the front door, unable to process what she was seeing. The dead bolt had been locked, she was sure of it. She made one false try at talking before her voice managed to squeak past the lump in her throat. “You broke in.”