Читать книгу By Her Side - Kathryn Springer - Страница 14

Felicity tried to concentrate on her next assignment but the image of the Cadillac’s slashed tires stalked her like the paparazzi chasing celebrities on Oscar night.

What if Chris had been right? What if the person who was clearly a prime candidate for anger-management classes was the same one who’d sent the letters?

For the hundredth time, she silently backtracked through the stories she’d written, searching for something that might have triggered her un-admirer’s anger. Other than the mention of the city council meeting, which was open to the public, the letters were so vague it was difficult to pinpoint what might have set him off.

“Go home, Simmons, you’re making the rest of us look bad.” Lyle poked his head around the half wall, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. The cigar had remained unlit for the past six months, ever since his doctor had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse—quit smoking or settle into a long relationship with an oxygen machine. Felicity couldn’t imagine the temptation that dangling, unlit cigar offered, but Lyle had told her that without it he was like a preschooler without his security blanket. He might not be able to smoke it but he needed it close by.

Felicity looked up at the clock on the wall. Almost six o’clock. Because of Mr. Slasher, she hadn’t made it halfway through her to-do list.

“By the way, your ride is waiting for you.”

“My ride?” She hadn’t called a taxi to take her home yet. The mechanic had told Felicity they had to special order her tires and it would take a day or two to get them in. The downside of owning a piece of history.

Lyle shrugged. “So he says. Ask Herman if you don’t believe me. He practically does a background check on anyone who comes to pick up one of his girls.”

Any of the single women who worked in the building were automatically tucked under Herman Gordon’s protective wing. He might have been old enough to be their grandfather, but he was more intimidating than the principal on homecoming night.

“Even Herman can’t kick up a fuss if the guy’s a cop, though, can he?” Lyle chuckled and the cigar bobbed up and down. “See you tomorrow, kid.”

Chris.

Felicity’s heart took a swan dive.

Don’t read into it, Felicity chided herself. Maybe he’d found out something about the person who slashed her tires.

She shrugged on her linen jacket and grabbed the purse she kept stashed under her desk. With her heart still kicking like a stubborn toddler in the candy aisle, she made her way to the lobby.

Herman and Louise had already left for the day and the lobby was empty. Except for Chris. He was leaning casually against the wall and when he straightened, Felicity blinked. He’d packed quite a punch in his uniform, but in faded blue jeans, a white T-shirt and a pair of black canvas high-tops, he was what some women referred to as “eye candy.” His dark hair was slightly mussed, too, giving him an appealing boy-next-door quality. The crooked smile he flashed in her direction sent her nerve endings on red alert.

Something was going on. Her reporter’s intuition shifted into high gear.

“I called the garage to check on your car and the mechanic told me they were keeping it for a few days. I thought maybe you could use a ride home.”

“I didn’t realize it was so late. I was planning to call a taxi.”

“This will be faster.”

In spite of her hunch that there was something fishy going on, Felicity’s toes began to throb in her shoes, reminding her that they’d been stuffed into a funnel-shaped pair of flats all day. Another twenty minutes waiting for a taxi might cause irreparable damage and there was a pair of fuzzy slippers with her name on them right inside the door of her apartment.

“Thank you.”

Chris grinned and gave a funny bow. “Your carriage awaits, my lady.”

She hated the revolving door almost as much as the elevator but at least she could see Main Street through the glass, so it wasn’t quite the same as being confined in a windowless moving box.

She pushed through the door, momentarily shoulder to shoulder with Chris, and saw the carriage he’d referred to. Tim’s lipstick-red Ferrari was crouched in the small parking lot across the street, the one reserved for the Hamilton family.

“Hey, I might never afford one of these but it’s nice to have a brother who can.” Chris jingled the keys. “He’s working late tonight so he told me I could borrow it.”

“Is this yours?” Felicity paused and looked at the motorcycle in the parking space next to the sports car. It was an older model but meticulously cared for.

“When I want to claim it.”

She saw an extra helmet strapped to the backrest. “We can take this.”

If she’d announced to Chris that she’d written the threatening letters herself, she didn’t think she would have shocked him more.

“You’re serious? You don’t exactly look…”

She raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I have three sisters. I know when to leave a sentence unfinished.” Chris’s hands went up between them like a shield.

She didn’t budge. She wanted to know what his first impression of her had been.

He gave in. “You just don’t look like the type who likes the wind in her hair, that’s all.”

Ouch. Felicity inwardly winced.

“Are you kidding? I’m from California. I’ve got two words for you. Highway One.” She decided she liked throwing Officer Hamilton offtrack. He shouldn’t be judging a book by its cover—or a reporter by her business suit!

“My mother taught me never to argue with a lady.” He unhooked the extra helmet and handed it to her. “You might have to…deactivate your hair clip to get the helmet on.”

Deactivate her hair clip? Felicity wasn’t sure if she should be amused or offended. Guys were clueless about what a woman needed to accessorize! She’d worn her hair long since junior high but when she’d pursued a career traditionally dominated by men, she kept it tamed in a sedate braid or confined in a clip. There were countless times she’d been tempted to get it cut short but so far she’d never quite worked up the courage.

“I’ll be fine.” She pulled the helmet on without deactivating her hair clip, just to show him that it could be done.

Chris swung one leg over the seat and put his foot down for balance, waiting for her to get on. When he started up the bike, Felicity tapped him on the shoulder.

“I need to tell you my address.” Her voice was muffled by the face shield.

“You can tell me but I already know it. I have connections.” He grinned.

Sure he did. A central database. He probably knew her height and birth date, too. Talk about your cheat sheet….

“Ready?”

She nodded, thinking that the Ferrari looked a bit sulky as they cruised past it.

He had a speech all prepared. He’d rehearsed it while he waited for Felicity to get off work and it was a good one, dealing rationally and objectively with the reasons she should go along with the whole bodyguard decision.

Then she’d picked his motorcycle over Tim’s Ferrari.

And he just knew—like he knew that Betty’s Bakeshoppe had the best éclairs in Tennessee—that his speech wasn’t going to work on Felicity. Just when he thought he was getting a read on who she was and what made her tick, she surprised him.

His relationship with a pretty redheaded reporter was going to get complicated.

In more ways than one.

He’d pulled up Felicity’s address on the computer and decided he needed to see for himself what kind of security her apartment had. Her Davis Landing address was in a neighborhood known for its older, well-kept homes. That could either work in their favor or against it. Neighborhoods tended to look out for their own and would notice any suspicious activity, but there was also a homey, “leave your doors unlocked” mentality that could be dangerous.

He turned down her street and pulled his bike up to the curb. Felicity’s apartment was an older two-storey brick home, divided into what looked to be upper and lower apartments. He was so busy glowering at the thick bushes that flanked the front door that he didn’t realize Felicity had gotten off the motorcycle.

“Thanks for the ride, Officer Hamilton.” She pressed the helmet in his hands and headed up the sidewalk.

She was on to him.

He sprang off his bike and followed her up the sidewalk, but before he could formulate a new speech, he was suddenly speechless. The front door was propped open with an enormous purple slipper. Praise music poured out of the opening it created.

So much for security. So much for common sense.

“You live here?” He’d been hoping—no praying—she lived on the second floor. Away from a front door flanked by bushes the size of soda machines that practically shrieked, “hide behind me!”

“You tell me.” She smiled. A completely insincere smile.

Right. She was still mad that he’d looked up her stats.

“Just doing my job.” It was going to become his mantra with Felicity.

She reached down and tugged the slipper out of the door. “Stella? We’re home.”

Chris checked out the door as he followed her inside. Old. Hollow. One lock that anyone with determination and a twisted paper clip could get into.

“Hey!” An attractive woman with a curly mane of light brown hair poked her head out of the kitchen. “What’s with the we’re…”