Читать книгу Criminally Handsome - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 8

Only a flimsy, unlocked screen door stood between Emma and this stranger. In spite of his colorful jacket, he was dark and dangerous. She didn’t need a psychic vision to know that she’d be crazy to invite this man into her house.

He must have noticed her hesitation because he stepped back a pace and politely removed his brown cowboy hat. The band was snakeskin with the rattles still attached. His thinning hair, streaked with gray, lay flat against his skull. His attempt at a smile seemed like an aberration, as if his face were unaccustomed to friendly expressions.

“My name is Hank Bridger,” he said in a whispery voice. “Are you Emma Richardson?”

“Yes.” Still holding Jack on her shoulder, she calculated how long it would take for her to slam the door and race through the house to safety. She had a pistol on the upper shelf in her bedroom closet, but it wasn’t loaded.

“Annie at the Morning Ray Café told me that you’re a psychic. She gave me your address.”

Thanks a heap, Annie. “What else did she tell you?”

“That you can help me.” The attempted smile slipped off his long face. Deep lines carved furrows across his forehead and around his mouth. “Ma’am, I’d be willing to pay for your time.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bridger. Annie gave you the wrong impression. I’m not for hire.”

“I’m trying to find my brother. He’s been missing since January, and I’m at the end of my rope.”

She couldn’t help being sympathetic to Bridger’s cause. Like her, he was searching for a relative who had disappeared.

Jack wriggled on her shoulder and she lowered him to the crook of her arm. He waved his little arms and let out a yell. “The baby is due for a feeding. This isn’t a convenient time.”

“I can come back.” He slapped his hat back onto his head. “Later tonight?”

“Not tonight,” she said firmly. “But maybe tomorrow afternoon. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to help you.”

“How does it work when you get these visions? Annie said you have to touch something that belonged to the missing person.”

“Sometimes that helps. If you’ll excuse me, I—”

Without warning, he whipped open the screen door, grasped her hand and pressed a round disc into her palm. He stepped back immediately, allowing the door to swing shut.

The suddenness shocked her. Who would have thought such a big man could move so fast? Looking down at her hand, she saw a hundred-dollar poker chip.

“Las Vegas,” she said. That explained a lot. Bridger was a Vegas cowboy, not someone who actually rode the range.

“Vegas is my brother’s hometown.”

Was Hank Bridger somehow connected with Vincent Del Gardo, the casino owner? Though it seemed an unlikely coincidence, she firmly believed that everything happened for a reason. Bridger might lead to the next step on the path to finding her cousin.

She turned the chip over in her hand. The outer circle of dark gold was edged with green letters spelling out Centurion Casino. She’d been to that Roman-themed establishment when she visited Aspen. She remembered lots of marble and elephant statues.

Bridger leaned closer to the screen door. “You see something. What can you tell me?”

Jack gave a series of yips—sounds that usually led to sustained wailing. And she couldn’t blame him. He was hungry. “I have to go.”

“Keep the chip,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

As he walked down the sidewalk, she closed the front door and flipped the dead bolt. Though it was possible that destiny had brought Hank Bridger to her doorstep, the fates weren’t always kind. In her early morning vision, the man with the leather necklace wanted to kill her. Bridger—in his fringed jacket and snakeskin boots—wasn’t that man. But there might be a connection. She needed to be cautious.

While she got Jack changed, she considered taking her gun down from the top shelf and loading it. Probably not a good plan. She hadn’t fired the gun in over three years.

Leaning over the changing table, she nuzzled Jack’s tummy. “I’d probably shoot my foot off.”

He giggled in response.

“Yes, indeedy.” She crooned as she picked up his tiny pink feet and kissed his toes. “Yes, I would. I’d probably shoot my footsie right off.”

Having a baby in the house changed everything. If Emma had been alone, she wouldn’t have been so concerned about Bridger. But there was more than her own safety to worry about. She might need help. It occurred to her that Miguel was only a phone call away.

With Jack freshly diapered and dressed in a green-and-yellow footed sleeper, she settled with him in the solidly built, antique rocking chair with the carved oak back. Before the baby came to live with her, she hardly ever used this piece of furniture. But the rocking chair made a perfect nest for bottle feeding. As soon as she plugged the nipple in his mouth, he slurped vigorously.

Her gaze surveyed her eclectic living room. From the clean lines of the beige patterned sofa to the burgundy velvet Queen Anne chair, she’d picked every piece with care, sparing no expense. She focused on the telephone resting on the spindle-legged table. Would Miguel think she was too needy if she called? Or was she being prudent and sensible? Hank Bridger was a menacing character who had come out of nowhere.

After Jack was fed, she paced with the baby on her shoulder. More than an hour had passed since Bridger came to her door. If he intended to return, he would have done so. Unless he was waiting for darkness.

Better safe than sorry. She picked up the phone and punched in the number on the card Miguel had left behind. He answered after the first ring. “Emma. What’s wrong?”

As soon as she heard his voice, she felt like a coward. “I’m probably overreacting. But this guy showed up at my house, wanting me to help him find his missing brother. And he gave me a hundred-dollar chip from the Centurion Casino.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“That’s not necessary. I was just wondering if…”

He’d already hung up. As she disconnected, she felt herself smiling. For most of her life, she’d been on her own—proudly independent and able to take care of herself. This was a change. It felt good to have someone to call—a strong, capable man with intoxicating green eyes. A man who could watch over her and mijo Jack.

Standing at the front window, she watched through the Irish lace curtains as the sunlight segued into dusk. The house across the street had turned on their lights, probably getting ready to sit down to dinner. Should she offer Miguel something to eat? Like what? She hadn’t taken anything out of the freezer this morning to thaw. Her plans for this evening were opening a can of soup or zapping a frozen dinner in the microwave.

His motorcycle thrummed as he swooped up her driveway and parked the sleek, powerful Harley. He wasn’t wearing protective headgear. Not illegal, Colorado didn’t have helmet laws, but she disapproved of the risk. At the same time, she loved the way his black hair was tousled by the wind. Still astride the Harley, he peeled off his dark glasses and stowed them in the pocket of his denim jacket.

Only once in her life had Emma dared to ride on the back. She’d been terrified. And exhilarated.

She scurried to the front door, flipped the dead bolt and opened it wide. Though the fading sunlight was dim, his green eyes glowed with reassuring warmth.

“I’m glad you called,” he said. “I saw what you wrote on that piece of paper where you described your vision.”

She’d scribbled a lot of things. “What was that?”

“You made a note. ‘Aspen got away, but you will die.’” He stepped inside and looked around, peering into the shadows in the corners. “What made you write that?”

She remembered the faceless man with the knife, the darkness, the blade slashing toward her throat. Some of the things she saw weren’t meant to be shared. “You can’t take my visions literally. Sometimes, death doesn’t necessarily mean physically dying. It could be a death of hope. Or well-being. Or a relationship.”

“But I’m a literal kind of guy. You said that you were being chased. Then what?”

“The man with the leather necklace caught me. He had a knife. He said those words.”

“The man who came to your door, was it him?”

“I don’t think so. He’s not the sort of guy who’d wear a beat-up leather necklace. His name is Hank Bridger. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. Kind of a snazzy dresser.”

“Fringed jacket? A hat with a rattlesnake band?”

She gave a surprised nod. “Now who’s the psychic?”

“I saw him in the Morning Ray Café, talking to the waitress.” He lifted Jack from her shoulder and nuzzled the top of the baby’s head. “Hey, mijo, did you miss me?”

Jack gurgled and rewarded him with a great, big smile. He was so sweet, so perfect and innocent. If anything happened to him, she’d never forgive herself. “Bridger claimed to be searching for his brother. He gave me something that belonged to the missing man. A hundred-dollar chip from the Centurion Casino.”

“Del Gardo has financial interests in the Centurion.”

“I didn’t get any particular vibe from the chip.”

“No problemo. I can.”

“Get vibes? How?”

“Fingerprints.” He tucked Jack into the crook of his arm. “Show me the way to your computer. Let’s do some quick research on Hank Bridger.”

She walked through the living room, turning on lights as she went. At the end of the hallway, she opened the door to her office. Very few people had been inside this room. Not the woman who came in twice a month to clean. Not the sitter who took care of Jack in the mornings.

Emma had several reasons to keep her work private. If anyone found out what she was really doing at her computer, her financial well-being would be threatened. This secret couldn’t be shared with anyone. Not even Miguel.

AS HE WENT THROUGH her house, Miguel switched his brain to analytical mode, as if studying a crime scene. His work included more than collecting trace evidence. The greater clues often came from objects or decoration or color. He could learn much about Emma by studying her home. His first impression: feminine.

Even if he had spent way too much time noticing her slender waist and the way her hips flared into a sexy curve, he would have known a woman lived in this house because of the velvet chair, the lampshade with dangling red crystals and the pastel watercolor paintings on the walls. The paintings were signed, maybe originals. Many of the other items looked expensive. He concluded that Emma was a woman of varied tastes and had the money to indulge them.

Her office was different. Apart from the high-tech equipment, it was as plain as a monk’s cell. No plants. No candles. No photos. Papers were stacked and sorted in bins. One wall, floor to ceiling, was solid books. In an alcove that had probably once been a closet, he saw file cabinets and shelving filled with supplies. Two long desks angled to form an L-shape. One side was a workstation with her desktop computer, scattered notes and books. The other held a printer, scanner, fax and copy machine.

Her office was designed for real-life, practical business—nothing psychic or weird. Nothing personal.

“Nice setup,” he commented. “What kind of work do you do?”

“This and that.”

An evasive answer if he’d ever heard one. “The sheriff said you were a consultant.”

“That sounds about right.”

Most people liked to talk about their area of expertise, but her lips pressed together as if holding back. Finding out what she did in this office was the key to understanding a different side to Emma.

He checked out the titles on the reference books. How to Build a Bomb. Encyclopedia of Firearms. Deciphering Codes.

“If I had to guess,” he said, “I’d say you were doing consulting work for the Department of Defense.”

“Why on earth would you think that?”

“Your reading material looks like you’re planning to take over the world. Or training to be a spy.” The idea of Emma—a woman who wore purple leather—taking on the world of espionage tickled him. “Or maybe you want to be macho.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” she said as she swept her notes off the desktop and dumped them in the top drawer, which she closed tightly. “Why do you need my computer?”

He passed the baby to her and took a seat in front of the flat screen and keyboard. “I’ll link with my computer at the lab, using my password. We’ll see if your Hank Bridger has a criminal record.”

Computers weren’t his specialty, but Miguel knew the basics. Hooking up with the lab computer while he was in the field at a crime scene came in handy. He went through the steps, feeding in Bridger’s name—Hank or Henry—for a nationwide search.

“Running this data could take a few minutes.”

He stood and cleared his throat to cover the growling from his empty belly. The last thing he’d eaten was the apple pie at the café. When Emma called, he’d been in the parking lot of the Morning Ray, close enough to smell the rich, hot, spicy chili.

Food would have to wait. First, he needed to make sure Emma and mijo would be safe for the night. “Do you have a security system on your house? Burglar alarms?”

“Most of the time, I don’t even lock the doors. Until recently, Kenner City hasn’t been a hotbed of criminal activity.” Parallel worry lines appeared between her eyebrows. “Can I offer you dinner?”

Mucho gusto. His stomach danced for joy. “I could eat.”

“Let’s go to the kitchen, and I’ll see what I can scare up.”

He followed her, catching a glimpse through the open door of her bedroom. The wood on the four-poster bed matched the dresser and side tables. More high-quality stuff. Even Jack’s bassinette and changing table were classy. Since he knew she hadn’t inherited money, he assumed that whatever kind of work she did in her office paid her very well.

She settled Jack into a baby seat on her kitchen table and flipped the switch on the CD player resting on the countertop. Soft music spilled into the room.

“Classical,” he said.

“Not my favorite, but I read somewhere that Mozart is recommended for babies.”

Not for any of the babies he knew, but Miguel didn’t argue. While she dug through her refrigerator, he surveyed the room from a safety standpoint. The back door seemed solid but didn’t have a dead bolt. The three windows looked like they’d been replaced recently and were double-pane. Not that the extra thickness would stop an intruder. If Hank Bridger wanted to get to Emma, those windows wouldn’t be an obstacle.

“Do you ever worry about getting robbed?” he asked.

“Not so much. If I’m out of town, I pay someone to house-sit.”

The only way for Miguel to guarantee she’d be safe would be to stay here himself. The sheriff didn’t have the manpower to provide a bodyguard, and the same was true for the FBI. Law enforcement didn’t get involved in protective custody until after an attack. Then, it was too late.

She pulled a container from the freezer. “Lasagna?”

He was starving, and it would take hours to thaw that brick of pasta. “I have a better idea. I’ll make a run to the café and pick up a couple of burritos.”

“Great idea. Cooking isn’t really my thing.”

After she shoved the lasagna back into the freezer, she whirled around and beamed an unexpected smile in his direction. The worry in her face disappeared. Her blue eyes shimmered like sunlight on a mountain lake.

The analytical side of his brain shut down. As he stared at her, he forgot the potential danger that brought him here. The soft piano sonata from the CD player painted the air with soft pastels, like her watercolor paintings—colors that suited a gentle, graceful woman with silky brown hair. He almost felt like they were on a date.

“Thank you for coming over here so quickly,” she said.

“My pleasure.” Earlier he’d been thinking he should stay at her house as a bodyguard. Now he had another reason altogether. He wanted to be here, wanted to be with her. “I should get going. To the café.”

Shyly, she bit her lower lip. “Hurry back.”

EMMA WATCHED THROUGH the front window as Miguel climbed onto his Harley and drove away. Calling him had been one of the best decisions she’d ever made.

Humming along to Mozart, she meandered into the kitchen, where she sorted through a few things she could cook for tomorrow. Cooking for Miguel? The thought was both exciting and terrifying. Her culinary talents had never progressed beyond making a salad. Preparing an elaborate dinner for one didn’t interest her.

After a little tidying up, she went into her bedroom, placed Jack on the comforter and stretched out beside him. Since her reading time was limited to short spurts between baby care, magazines had taken the place of books. The glossy pages flipped through her fingers and landed on an article titled, “How To Make Him Hot For You.”

She scanned the checklist: perfume, lip gloss, smoky eyes, flirty clothes. Touch him frequently. Find out what you have in common. “Not much,” she said to Jack. “We’re pretty much opposites.”

And she was far too mature to follow the advice of a magazine article. “But maybe a dab of perfume wouldn’t hurt.”

When she rose from the bed, she saw Grandma Quinn standing in the doorway. Her voice was a thin whisper. “Emma, get out of the house. There’s danger.”

“What?”

“Take the baby and run.”