Blow(30)

Maybe she was nervous, or maybe it was because she was barely dressed and had to be freezing. Maybe it was because I was supposed to believe her sister was in rehab. I didn’t. Still, I played along . . . for now. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.” I reached and gently took the small pistol from her hand. “Come on, let’s get inside. We’ll talk there.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to be,” I whispered back.

She was still. I couldn’t tell if she was in shock or if something else was going on in her head.

I opened the screen door and placed my hand on the small of her back. I liked the feeling of it there. I shoved the wayward thought away and focused instead on ushering her inside, on keeping my movements impersonal.

The door opened into the kitchen, which was open to the family room. Once I flicked the light on, I looked at her. She was barely dressed. Impersonal. Keep it impersonal. Don’t worry about how she’s dressed, or not dressed as is the case. I spotted a blanket and made my legs move toward it. Water seeped onto the hardwood floors from my sneakers, and once I’d grabbed the blanket I wrapped it around her. Then I found a towel and cleaned up the water on the floor.

Keep busy.

A to B to C.

I couldn’t let my mind wander.

I had to think with my head, and not the one that was roaring at the close proximity to the unbearably sexy woman beside me.

She seemed to be zoning out as she stared at me.

“How about I make us that coffee?”

She nodded.

Okay.

Pot. On counter. Check.

Water. Sink. Check.

Coffee.

She was watching me. Knew what I needed next. “It’s in the cupboard,” she said, pointing above the pot.

My eyes lingered on her bare legs. They were long and lean.

Coffee. Check. Check. Check.

She sat at the table that divided the kitchen from the living area. She was facing me, but her head was turned toward the door.

The kitchen was somehow new but old-looking at the same time. Obviously it had been recently remodeled with new appliances, but everything else looked old, even the chandelier over the island. The white cabinets and deep-veined marble counters were a stark contrast to the dark floors and redbrick walls. Paintings and photographs of flowers blowing in the wind decorated most of the wall space. They were a mixture of modern and traditional.

I scanned the rest of the area. It was sparsely furnished but looked more than adequate. A single dark gray sofa, white carpet, red pillows, and large wooden tables filled the living room. The open staircase with its Plexiglas guard made it easy to spot the second floor.

I marked the points of entry to the single large room. A door to the south leading to the backyard from the kitchen, a few windows down the east side, a window to the north, and the front door. No other points of entry. Nothing to the west, as another townhome was conveniently located there. If only she didn’t have an end unit. The points of entry would be fewer. I wanted to check upstairs but decided I’d wait a bit.

As I pivoted to see if the coffee was ready, I noticed a door just under the staircase that most likely led to the basement. It had a lock on it but it wasn’t engaged, and as I moved toward the refrigerator, I casually crossed over to the lock and turned it. I eased back and opened the fridge, where I spotted a bottle of creamer. I poured two cups of coffee and brought them, along with the creamer, to the table.

“Sugar?” I asked, like it was my house. Like I knew where it was. Like I was Martha f*cking Stewart. I rolled my eyes at what this girl was doing to me.

She shook her head and then covered her face with her hands.

Distress emanated from her. Without a second thought, I sat beside her and pulled her hands away. I couldn’t help but notice how soft her skin was and how much I liked the feel of it. “What’s going on?”

She straightened her shoulders. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out if that was my sister or just my imagination.”

Looking for answers, I asked, “What makes you think it was your sister?”

My father told me Elizabeth O’Shea was MIA. Was the intel wrong?

“Nothing. It’s just . . .” She stopped and rubbed her hands together in a nervous gesture.

“Go ahead. Tell me.”

She shook a little. “I’d been having dreams about her all night when I finally gave up on sleep and decided to get up, I looked out the window, and I swear I saw her. But now that I’ve thought about it, I’m not so sure if it was my sister or my imagination putting her face on whoever it was.”

I pushed her coffee closer to her. Her face was bare of makeup and her hair wild. She looked utterly beautiful and vulnerable at the same time. The vulnerability scared the shit out of me.

Focus.

I had to focus on finding out what I could, in order to keep her safe. “How about we back up. Why would your sister be lurking around your house in the middle of the night?”

With both hands around her cup, she glared at me. “How about you tell me what you and your father have to do with Michael?”

Well, that was an abrupt about-face. I put both elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Elle, I want to help you, but I can’t do that if you won’t talk to me.”

Lifting the cream, she poured some in her cup and handed the bottle to me. “Why should I trust you?”