A High-End Finish(44)

“That was smart.”

He grinned. “I used that little trick in a book a while back.”

“Oh.” I thought about it for a moment. “Wasn’t that in Dead Shot? I loved that book.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You read it? Hey, thanks.”

“You can’t be surprised. You must know that everyone loves your books.”

“Not everyone,” he said, his lips twisting ruefully. “But I am surprised. I’ve been writing for fifteen years and I still react with shock when someone tells me they liked one of my books.”

“You must live in a constant state of astonishment.”

His laugh rumbled out, full and deep. “It never gets old—that’s for sure.”

He hefted the bicycle up with one hand and we slowly crossed the field. Now that I was walking—or, rather, limping—I realized how badly I’d banged up my left knee. Both knees had been bloodied in the fall, but now I was concerned that I might’ve wrenched something.

Mac slowed down to match my pace and finally wrapped his arm around my back to support me. “Looks like you’re in worse shape than you thought. Where does it hurt?”

“My left knee, mainly.” I was unable to keep from hissing when I took my next step.

Without warning, he set my bike down and lifted me up in his arms. “If you wrap your arms around my neck, you’ll be more comfortable.”

“Oh no,” I protested, mortified by his intimate move. I wasn’t overweight, just tall and healthy and pretty much the opposite of petite. But he seemed to hold me with little effort. Either that, or he was really good at masking his own pain. “Please, this isn’t necessary.”

“You shouldn’t walk on that leg,” he said sensibly as he headed for his car. “Besides, it’s faster this way.”

“I’m perfectly fine to walk on my own.”

“No, you’re not. You’re injured. The sooner I get you back to town, the sooner you’ll be able to see a doctor.”

“It’s probably just twisted or bruised.” I wasn’t sure why I was complaining. He smelled wonderful. Not from cologne, but more like he’d gone walking through a redwood forest and had captured its essence. I caught a hint of bergamot and leather, too. I gave up protesting, wrapped my arms as he instructed, and just breathed him in until we reached his car. When he let me go, I almost whimpered.

“Thank you,” I managed as I regained my balance.

He smiled. “You’re welcome. My pleasure.” Pulling out his keys, he clicked the doors open. “Go ahead and climb inside. I’ll get your bike.”

His car was a big black SUV, so it was a little tricky sliding into the passenger’s side with my left knee beginning to throb badly. I finally turned around and faced the back of the car, and tried to lift my right leg instead. I managed to get my foot onto the running board and then I reached inside and gripped the overhead security belt with both hands to hoist myself up. When I had both feet on the running board, I rotated slightly and dropped into the seat. It was exhausting, but I gave myself a mental high five for my own ingenuity.

Mac returned and lifted the tailgate, slid my bike into the space, and slammed the tailgate shut. A few seconds later, he was in the driver’s seat, starting the engine. As he eased onto the highway, he flashed me a quick grin. “We’ve got time now. Feel free to tell me all about your enemies. Don’t hold anything back.”

“I don’t have any enemies,” I said, and tried to change the subject. “Isn’t this a beautiful day?”

“Yeah, beautiful.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. His touch was light, but I felt a definite connection. “Shannon, I don’t want to scare you, but I think someone tried to hurt you deliberately. I’d call that person an enemy.”

I wasn’t willing to accept it. “Maybe it was an accident.”

He glanced at me sideways.

“All right,” I grumbled, knowing he wouldn’t let up until I told him my story. Maybe it was because he was a writer and used to wangling all sorts of deep, dark secrets out of people. Not that I minded sharing the gruesome facts with him. After all, he had just moved to town. He was one person I knew didn’t have a grudge against me. It was more than that, though. I could tell instinctively that he was one of the good guys. Still, I had a feeling he would be relentless if he needed to be.

“I went on this date last Thursday,” I began, and went through the whole sordid history of threatening Jerry Saxton and later finding his body. And of calling the police, only to wind up a main suspect in the murder.

“You were lured to that house, Shannon,” he said after listening to my entire account. “And you were lured down to that basement. You were meant to find his body. Somebody planned that.”

I rubbed my stomach, feeling like I’d taken a blow. “I hadn’t thought about it like that, but . . . yes, I guess you could make the case that I was. What do you think it means?”

He came to a stop on the northern edge of the town square and turned to meet my gaze. “It means you have an enemy.”

? ? ?

When we got to my house, Mac parked, but instead of getting out of the car, he spent a full minute staring up at my refurbished Queen Anne house. “Wow, this place is fantastic. That bay window is something else.”