The Hunk Next Door(38)

That sultry smile still teasing her lips, she pulled it out of her pocket and placed it in his palm. He added his name and number to her contacts and returned it.

“Keep your phone close.”

She nodded her agreement before pulling away from his touch. He waited while she went inside. Walking backward, watching her at the window, he crossed over to his back door. Every gut instinct he had said leaving her alone was the wrong thing to do.

Whatever was happening, whoever was behind all this, it felt as if they were getting closer to the goal of destroying her with every passing hour.

She gave a little wave as she locked her back door. He returned it just before she dropped the curtain back in place. He noticed she’d left her coat on the back step to air out. Following her example, he removed his vest and slung it over the handrail.

But when he went to pull his screen door shut, it wouldn’t latch. Something was caught under the door near the hinges.

Squeezing through the narrowed opening, he used his phone as a flashlight and saw the problem: a wool scarf.

It looked familiar, but it didn’t smell like Abby’s bright citrus fragrance and he’d never seen her wear anything in the soft pastel colors. Mrs. Wilks would know who it belonged to, she had the pulse of the whole neighborhood, but Riley didn’t want to disturb her at this hour. He had more pressing matters to deal with.

He grabbed a beer, sipping at it slowly while he waited for his laptop to warm up. As much as he wanted to stare out of the side windows toward Abby’s house, he resisted. Director Casey had tasked him with protecting her and Riley wasn’t convinced Filmore was the end of the threat. The violent messages on the sign had promised a more expansive fallout for Abby as well as the citizens of Belclare. A few acts of vandalism, he suspected, were only the beginning.

While they would certainly be affected if their police chief was injured, killed or simply removed, most people of Belclare wouldn’t suffer specifically. What in the hell was the ultimate plan and who was so damned determined to make Abby pay?

* * *

AT ELEVEN HE WENT OUT and turned off the Christmas lights. The patrol car drove by on the cross street as he lingered at the front door, watching as the displays winked into darkness up and down the street.

Only Abby’s lights stayed on. He thought of her upstairs in her bathtub, her skin warm and rosy under the layer of bubbles. A quick rush of troubling what-if scenarios flashed through his mind and just when he’d decided to grab his pistol from the kitchen, her door opened and she stepped out into the cold night air to turn off her lights.

She was cute as all get out in a thick robe, her hair piled high on her head. It was too easy to imagine how she’d emerged from the tub, dried off that amazing body and tucked herself into that warm robe. Only his training kept him in place when every fiber of his being longed to race across the short distance, scoop her into his arms and carry her up to bed—hers or his, didn’t matter.

That would be one way to be sure no one hurt her tonight. He needed to protect her. Protect the city. Better not to blow the long game with a shortsighted leap that could backfire and hurt them both. Between her trust issues and his lies, the odds were stacked against them, even without the people trying to oust her or murder her.

After she’d gone back in, Riley did the same and finished his report, bringing Director Casey up to speed. Feeling like a slacker for not making more progress identifying targets, he ended the email with a recommendation to take a closer look into Filmore’s past. His sources in Belclare hadn’t given him much to go on, though that might change as news spread of the man’s arrest.

On the den floor, Riley laid out maps of the city given to him by the decorating company. What value did Belclare offer terrorists? It was a friendly community. Small and close-knit. Putting a sleeper cell here didn’t make sense.

There was the proximity to Baltimore and even Washington, D.C. The docks on the Chesapeake Bay offered easy access up and down the Eastern Seaboard, but that only explained the drug traffic.

“Why plant terrorists here?” Riley laced his fingers behind his head. “What’s the attraction?”

The docks? The Christmas Village? Other than those two things, the only claim to fame was the recluse artist who’d been devoted enough to Belclare to speak out on the morning shows urging people to visit the Christmas Village.

Riley let out a frustrated groan. He was going in circles. His best guesses were getting him nowhere. He considered Filmore nothing more than a whiny snob, but the man had set fire to an historical landmark.

“What am I missing?” He mulled over the question as he put away the maps and tossed the beer bottle into the recycling bin. His best hope at this hour was a revelation in his sleep. The boss wanted him down at the warehouse early tomorrow and showing up sluggish would do more harm than good. For both of his jobs.