Chapter Five
Monday, April 10 seven-thirty a.m.
Tom woke to a morning that was far too bright and much too early. He rolled his head left, then right, blinking rapidly. The room was wrecked. Not just messed. Not just trashed.
Wrecked.
The only thing in its right place was the round table with his computer and cameras. He sat up, bracing himself on rigid arms. “Catalina?”
No answer.
He hadn’t really expected one. Still, it would have been nice. Morning sex wasn’t a treat he often indulged in. He ran a hand through his hair and laughed. How many times had he pulled a disappearing act in the middle of the night? It wasn’t that he was opposed to staying. It was just easier not to. Fewer questions. No mistakes about what the night did and did not mean.
His body deciphered something sticky against his leg. He flung away the blanket wrapped around him. Confused and then amused. “Chocolate.”
The clock gave him time for a leisurely shower and shave. He dressed in fresh clothes but rummaged through last night’s mess for his shoes. His clothes were thrown everywhere. He found everything but his shirt. Then he smiled. Peeling that dress off that hot, tight body? Definitely in his top ten.
He checked his email, found nothing that couldn’t wait, and stowed the computer in its bag. Next was his voicemail. The old contractor was there, and he didn’t run deep on patience. He hoisted his computer bag to his shoulder, put the cameras and notebook in a courier’s bag, and opened the door. A glance back at the room brought another smile, and then he hung the privacy sign. He would deal with that later.
Business people starting the first meeting of the day and retirees hanging out filled the neighborhood restaurant. Fabrini waited at a corner table. Jim Stinson sat on his right. A younger copy of Fabrini brooded on his left.
“You’re late,” Fabrini said.
He ignored the remark, holding out his hand to the stranger. “Dr. Thomas Riley.”
The man stayed seated and took his hand, looking him hard in the eyes. “Michael Fabrini. I’m here to protect my father’s interests.”
“You didn’t call last night,” Fabrini said.
“I emailed.” Tom unrolled the paper napkin wound around the utensils and spread the thin paper on his lap.
“I called you.”
“Ten times,” he said, recalling the missed calls. There was a fine line between having someone as a customer and as a client. His services were not a commodity. If he let Fabrini minimize his role, he’d be answering the old man’s calls at two in the morning. Drawing a line was important. Not moving it was just as important. “I gave you an overview in the email. You ready to move on?” The waitress stopped with a pot of coffee and a smile. He nodded and moved the mug toward the woman.
“You son of a bitch,” Michael said quickly.
Tom chuckled at the whole set up. Fabrini brought his money man and his muscle? What had changed since Saturday night? What did he think would happen today? Stunts like this one had stopped getting his attention before he turned thirty. “This is a family restaurant. Watch your language.”
Michael snarled, a lion cub ready to pounce in defense of his father. Said father raised a hand and leashed the beast.
“What did you learn?” Fabrini said quietly.
The quiet got to Tom. Somewhere beneath the bravado was the man he sat with Saturday night. “Nothing definitive.”
Stinson leaned in. “But?”
“There are some things that don’t make sense.”
“Sabotage?” Stinson looked like someone just told him Santa Claus wasn’t real.
Michael tugged at the end of his leash again. “Why you no good…if you’re insinuating that my father—”
Fabrini gripped his son’s forearm, stymieing the building rant. He didn’t speak but had lost the little color he had.
“I’m not using that word,” Tom said, responding to Stinson. “Way too early in the investigation.”
“Quit pussyfooting around the facts,” the younger Fabrini snapped.
“The facts are a willful intent finding by OSHA turns this into a criminal investigation for the Cleveland Police, so I advise you be careful of your words. It can take months to finalize a finding.” Tom stared pointedly at his client. “I will not put my name to an opinion based on twelve hours of photos and measurements.”
“Who?” Fabrini spoke in a voice that was more a growl. “Who and why.”
Tom shook his head. “I’m the ‘how’ guy. Whos and whys are for the police.”
“The hell I’m going to let an OSHA finding fuel lawsuits trying to dismantle my company.” He pounded his ham hock-sized fist on the table. The glasses and silverware jumped, landing with a crash. “You find me who, what, where, when, why, and how. That’s your fucking job.”
Tom pressed his tongue into his cheek, considering. Growing up on construction sites, in a family of contractors, it was a daily occurrence for some guy to want to prove he had balls. He was guilty of doing it himself. Hell, even Katie did it, and she didn’t have balls. The thing was to figure out what reaction would get you what you wanted.
So, he asked, what did he want? He wanted to stay on the job and unravel the puzzle of what happened first to cause the chain of events. If this accident was an accident, unraveling how it happened could prevent it from happening again. It was work worth doing. He had no intention of becoming Fabrini’s private investigator…but now was not the time to argue.
“I need to finish doing what I’m doing, then we’ll see what it tells us. I need a better idea of who was where, and I need to interview the men on the site. Get me what I need, and I’ll do what I can to get you what you need.”
With that, Tom stood and walked out. Michael’s curses followed him. He felt bad for the old contractor. The apple hadn’t just fallen far from the tree. It had fallen in another state.
He returned to the loaner truck and left the small parking lot. The thing with the excellent exit was it didn’t come with breakfast. He ignored the GPS and turned away from the highway, aiming for a set of golden arches. A quick run through the drive-thru and he sat in the parking lot, swallowing down the fast, warm food. He thumbed through his notebook, reviewing his notes from yesterday. “There. It started there.” He had sketched the body of the tower. He pointed to a spot about one third up from the earth. “It had to start around here.”
He pulled the digital camera out of the bag and went into the photo library. “Holy shit!” He wiped the grease from his fingers and pressed the buttons to move the pictures back…and forth…and back…and forth. There were ten images, and when he ran them forward in quick succession…Catalina danced for him. Her breasts played peek-a-boo from behind the shirt he couldn’t find. He stretched out his legs and pulled at his jeans, swearing.
He needed to find that woman again.
He played the sequence through one more time and then forced his hand to put the camera back in the bag. He started the truck and, in a few minutes, was back on the highway, barreling toward downtown Cleveland.
His mind was everywhere but in that truck. It was back at the table with Fabrini and his entourage. It was at the site with the crane carcass. It was in his hotel room. On the bed. On the floor. In the shower.
“In a quarter mile, use the right lane to exit.”
The calm voice of the GPS startled him back to the here and now. For the next twelve hours, there was only one thing to think about: what could cause a three hundred-foot crane to topple?
He glanced at his mirrors. An SUV sliced from the high-speed lane toward the right-hand lane where he drove. Instantly, he understood that the two vehicles would be occupying the same space at the same time—a phenomenon forbidden by the laws of physics. He braced himself and stood on the brake. The tools and crates in the bed, the bags and garbage on the seat all plastered itself against the front of the truck. The truck slowed enough that the SUV sailed past. It cut through the lanes like a hot knife through butter then bounced off the parapet. The noise of metal on concrete was assaulting, then the SUV swerved back into the driving lane, leaving streaks of black on the wall. It didn’t exit but raced forward, putting distance between them.
Tom’s hand shook as he reached for his cell phone, his heart racing with the near miss. If he hadn’t looked in the mirror, if he’d been even a second slower…he called 9-1-1 and reported the menace, unwilling to be the reason for somebody else’s bad day.
The site was locked up tight when he finally reached it. His legs were a little shaky, but after a good talking to, they carried him to the gate where he disabled the security system and opened the lock. He drove through and took care to lock up behind him. He was surprised to have it to himself. At the very least, he expected an OSHA investigator to be working.
Quickly enough, the left side of his brain kicked in. Logic, reason, and math left no room for nerves, anxiety, or trepidation. He set up in the trailer and then went to the crane skeleton. The ground had dried, leaving hard cast footprints. It looked as though an army had marched across. He knew just what he wanted to see. A coupling about a third of the way up looked wrong. He searched the ground. Walking at three-foot offsets, he looked for anything that would give him a clue as to why the sections had come apart.
He found things that could be something. He couldn’t collect them—they were evidence that would be needed in the official investigation. Instead, he used orange cones from the trailer to set out like evidence markers, then photographed the hell out of them. He took a dozen shots of each with the film camera and then digital.
The next two hours he worked in the heated trailer, immersed in a computer program that allowed him to build the structure and then knock it down. He wasn’t satisfied with the results. “The simulations indicate the crane should have fallen southwest, based on the position of the load. But it didn’t. It pivoted to the north, clipping the support crane before bending over the steel skeleton. Why?”
Wind was a variable. He needed the data on the wind gusts and direction. He stood and stretched, his back aching from the punishing hunched position. Putting his hard hat back on, he went out to take a closer look. He climbed the ladder that was tied to the stable side of the structure, crossed a thick beam, and made his way to the damaged end.
The structure leaned over the water. Inch by inch, he noted any signs of damage along the steel beams. A shadow flickered by that he dismissed as a bird. He eased out to the very end of the beam. Directly over his head was the pivot point. The two large supports on the bottom had bent—yielded—just above a connection to the section below. The connection itself was in place, bolts the size of his arm holding the two section together. The connection at the top gapped open. There was no deformation of the connection or the supports. None at all.
He set his notebook and cameras down on the wide beam, needing to move freely. Stretching to his tallest height, his fingers probed the intact bolts. Something moved in his peripheral vision; his head snapped toward the motion. Pain crashed across his shoulder. His fingers slipped under a second blow. He frantically fought falling, swinging out widely to grab onto something, anything. A hand pressed on the middle of his back, and he fell.
Monday, April 10 eleven a.m.
Peach stood behind outcropping of scrub brush and watched the man silhouetted on the damaged building. The late morning sun was screened by clouds but was bright enough to blacken features. She knew who the man was by the way he moved, so maybe it was more than curiosity that kept the binoculars pressed to her eyes. After their night together, it was nearly two in the morning when she parked the Beast in her grandfather’s driveway. She set her alarm for seven and fell into bed, fully dressed.
Morning brought anticipation. Her mind sharp again, she attacked the copies she’d made of his investigation. The notebook gave the easiest understanding of where Dr. Thomas Riley was headed. There were notes related to the weight of the lift and the wind speed and direction. He noted the capacity of the crane was greater than the lift weight with the added wind. A heading of operator error was crossed out. “He knows Tío didn’t do it.” A wave of thankfulness overcame her, and she was glad she had decided not to take the equipment with her.
Watching him work, knowing what she did, she considered offering to help. Her skillset could be useful on the non-science part of the investigation. She excelled at finding things people wanted to keep hidden. He examined the large truss that made up the crane tower when a second silhouette stepped into the fame. This new man was not sure-footed, carefully setting one foot in front of the other as he crossed the downward sloping beam. Tom hadn’t acknowledged his visitor. The new man bent down, and when he stood, he had a long, thin rod in his hand. With the sun behind them, the weapon was barely visible.
“Turn around, Tomas. Turn around, turn around.” She screamed as the man raised the rod, holding it like a baseball bat. He didn’t hear her; he didn’t turn. Then the man struck, hitting Tom from behind and sending him into the water.
She held her place. She had no choice until the assailant descended from the structure and disappeared into the trailer. Then she moved. Up the breakwall, across the top, down the other side. The large rocks gave way until it was sand under her feet. She began swimming. For an instant, the cold water stole everything—her breath, her coordination—but she fought through. Tom thrashed just a few yards away, bobbing up and down, not sinking but not making progress. She dove under with the thought of keeping him afloat. If she could get him to the rocks, he could climb out easily. Her hands locked on his hips, which only amplified the thrashing. He kicked and fought until she turned him around and grabbed his face.
His eyes locked on hers, and he froze.
She held her finger to her lips. When he nodded, she kicked the short distance to the surface, bringing them close to the rocks, sheltered from the man above. She squeezed his arm to let him know she wasn’t leaving him and then crawled up the rocks to look for the other man. Hopefully, he had seen Tom fall into the water and left to let cold water do his dirty work.
Camouflaged by the trusses, she broached the horizon. Her hands were tense, her knuckles white and rigid, but she forced them to move until she could see across the site. The door to the trailer opened, and the man walked out with his arms loaded. He went to a black SUV parked next to the trailer, fumbled with the back door, and dumped everything in. He rounded the truck and drove off the site, leaving the gate open behind him.
“He’s gone,” she said, as much to convince herself as to inform Tom. “We need to get you dry and warm. Are you hurt? Can you climb?”
“Yeah. Yeah,” he said but stayed where he was wedged against the rocks.
She climbed back down the trusses and crouched next to him. His lips were blue, and he trembled. She ran her hands through his hair and down his neck and shoulders. There was no blood, no discernable swelling, but she expected that would change once he warmed. “We’ll do this together.” She wasn’t sure how. He outweighed her by at least fifty pounds, but she wasn’t leaving him here to get help. No, he needed to come with her. Now.
Wet and cold as he was, his body was better built for rocks of this size. With a combination of cajoling, pushing, and pulling, she got him to the top. She ducked under his shoulder and dragged his arm around her. Taking what weight she could, they hobbled to the heated trailer. “Almost there. Ten more steps. You can do it. That’s right. Now, up the stairs. There’s only five.” He nearly went down, unable to lift his leg high enough to clear the top step. She swept her free arm under his knee and lifted his leg. “We’re there. Two more steps.”
The door opened into a conference room. She set him in the nearest metal folding chair and hastily rummaged the workspace. In the adjacent room, she found the thermostat and cranked it to eighty. In the same room, she found a flannel shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, and three rain coats. Without permission or apology, she stripped the coat he wore and unbuttoned his shirt. “We need to get you out of here before that asshole comes back. Is that truck out there yours?”
Tom nodded a heavy head. “Loaner.”
“Where are the keys?”
“P-pocket.” He reached for the discarded coat. She snatched it, shoved her hands into the zippered coat pockets. She came out with the keys, his wallet, his hotel key, and a dead cell phone.
“We have to get you dry.” She used the flannel shirt as a towel across his chest and back. A thin red welt stretched from his upper right shoulder to his spine. The skin was intact, and he moved his shoulder without a problem. She did what she could to get him dry and dressed. He looked ridiculous but looks took a backseat to hypothermia. “I’m going to start the truck and get it warm. Just stay here.”
Tom grabbed her arm before she could leave. “My computer. G-gone.” He pointed to the conference table that held only the drawings for the building.
“The son of a bitch who pushed you hauled out an armload of equipment.”
“My notebook. Cameras. H-had them with me.”
“I’ll take a quick look for it but just a quick one. If the asshole didn’t take them, they’re probably in the lake.” She pried his fingers from her arm. “Just stay. I’ll be right back. I promise.”
…
Tom was numb. He never fully appreciated the meaning of that word. Numb. It was not only the absence of feeling, it was the absence of the will to feel. Or to move. He blinked, trying to get his little gray cells to fire on all cylinders. “She said I was p-pushed. What the h-hell?” He reached for the phone on the table. It took three tries to press the right numbers in the right order, but finally it rang.
…
Peach ran out of the trailer, tore open the door to the truck, started it, and blasted the heat. The wind gusted, reminding her that she was wet, cold, and tired herself. The water shoes she wore provided no protection from the uneven ground and debris. Time wasn’t on their side, and since she had copied the notebook and digital camera a few hours ago, she wasn’t wasting time on the cameras or notebook. The originals weren’t worth him freezing to death. She pulled the truck around so the passenger door was at the bottom of the stairs and then hurried back into the trailer. Tom was collapsed over the table. “Tomas. Tomas. Time to leave. Up.”
He woke as she pulled his shoulders back. At her command, he braced his arms on the table and pushed himself up but fell back into the chair. A smaller man she would have had a chance to carry, but he was too long.
“On your feet. Now.” She wrapped an arm around his waist and steered him out of the trailer. Driven by an overwhelming urge to get the hell out of there, she muscled him out the door and into the warm truck. “There’s a hospital close by.”
“N-no. J-just take me to my h-hotel.”
“Are you crazy? Someone takes a baseball bat to your head, you go to the hospital.”
“N-not-t my head. Sh-shoulder. H-hotel.” He kept his eyes open on the short drive and began to shiver, a sign that heat was seeping into his wet body.
“I knew you were stubborn,” she muttered as they tore out of the parking lot. She didn’t stop to close the gate. She didn’t give a damn about it. All that mattered was getting him dry and warm. Going for expedient, she valet parked the truck. The young man came out of the hotel as she raced around to the passenger door and opened it, catching Tom as he fell out. “I knew we should have gone to a hospital.”
“J-just…get me…upstairs.” He took a lumbering step, his arms wrapped around her shoulders.
“Is he okay, ma’am?” The valet quickly covered the short distance from the front doors, concern evident in his wide eyes and helpful hands. “He’s wet.”
“He fell in the lake. I need to get him up to his room.”
The valet took Tom’s other side, and together they walked him through the lobby. “Shouldn’t he be at a hospital?”
“That’s what I said, but you know men.” She used her foot to press the “up” button on the panel. It took teamwork to get his uncoordinated body to the room. She felt ridiculous propping Tom against the doorframe while she settled with the valet but didn’t want to explain the room if he hadn’t cleaned it.
“Come on, honey, almost there.” She opened the door to the aftermath. It was hard to believe that just the two of them had caused the apocalypse before her. “First things first. We need you warm.” She guided him to the toilet, sat him down, and then turned away to start the shower. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”
“That’s what you said last night.”
She lifted her gaze away from the water pooling around the drain. With the urgency of the moment, she hadn’t thought this part through. She didn’t have the energy for a confrontation. She was cold, wet, and tired. She still had to retrieve the Jet Ski and, oh God, she was going to get wet again. If he had a problem with her being there, she’d leave. Simple.
“I know you.” He leaned close, brushing her as he inhaled deeply. “I would know you anywhere.”
She turned—slowly, calmly—and faced him. “What is it you think you know?”
Tom smiled. His frozen lips felt about to shatter, but he couldn’t stop it. “I knew you weren’t a natural blond.” She laughed as he hoped she would. Slowly, because it was as fast as he could go, he lifted the Velcro that hid the zipper on the neck of her wet suit. He would know Catalina anywhere, anytime. He had her taste imprinted on his tongue, her feel an indelible memory.
Her hand covered his, and she turned to him. Those beautifully vivid eyes shone like twin jewels, so pale they practically glowed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m cold. I want to be skin to skin. Like last night.” With trembling fingers, he took the thick material and peeled it from her shoulders. He couldn’t stop the shaking, but he was feeling better, stronger, quicker witted. She withdrew reluctant arms, letting the top of the suit fall limply from her hips. He pulled her rigid body against him. He expected to feel her warmth, but he didn’t. “You’re as cold as I am. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I’m fine. You’re the one who got hit over the head.” She stepped back, but his fingers held tight to the painted-on suit.
“I told you, it’s my shoulder. Take this off.” He tugged it down another inch, but it was going to take work getting over the curve of her hips.
Her gaze met his, and then she dropped her chin, shaking her head slowly. He felt sadness in her, something he hadn’t sensed the night before, and he didn’t understand it. She didn’t regret coming after him. It was something else. Finding the motivation to move, he stripped the wet suit off her legs. She stood in front of him in a floral-print bikini with a heavy rope of dark, braided hair over her shoulder and her arms banded around her stomach. “Get into the shower.”
She shook her head. “You need to get warm and dry. Hypothermia is nothing to mess with.”
He didn’t argue. It took all his energy to stand, lift her off her feet, and set her back down in the bathtub under the spray. She yelped as the water hit her, and she nearly fell. He caught her with one arm, the water searing his skin. He quickly lowered the temperature with his free hand. His movements were jerky and his fingers still hard to control, but it was getting better. He stripped the sweatshirt and then the pants and underwear. “You can lose the suit. I’ve already seen the show.”
“I’m fine.” She started to climb out, and he suspected the tint in her cheeks was from more than the warm water.
He climbed in, trapping her as he groaned from the instant relief the water brought. Warmth, feeling, and control seeped into his extremities as he held her. “No, you’re not. You’re freezing, just like me. Stay here for a little while.” He rested his head atop hers, half asleep, completely content. He knew he was alone in that sentiment. She held herself stiffly, and not from the cold. She had stood under this shower washing his back just hours ago. But this was different. His hands ran up and down her arms. “Then we’ll order some chicken soup from room service. Do you like chicken soup, Catalina?”
She jumped like a scared cat. “I can’t stay.”
“Just for a little while.” He used his most compelling voice, tempting her to stay, not demanding. He took that thick braid in his hand and untied the end. “Now it makes sense. Yesterday you didn’t want to get your hair wet. I thought it was one of those girl things. God, I had wanted to touch all of those golden waves.” He unwound the strands and turned her so the water ran down the length of it. The dark hair, heavy and wavy, belonged with her face and body. He began a slow, sensuous massage. Inch by inch, she melted. The tension in her face evaporated, and her mouth fell open as if the effort to keep it closed was too great. “This is so much better.” She swayed; he stepped closer. He leaned down and spoke in her ear. “I was working on a plan. To see you again. I was contemplating camping out in the hotel lobby to wait for you. But that wouldn’t have worked, would it?”
She shook her head.
“And your name isn’t Catalina Barco?”
She lifted her thick black lashes and blinded him with the intensity of her gaze. “No.”
He dipped his head and brushed his lips across her mouth. “Tell me your name.” He watched as some idea settled across her expressive face, and she tilted that beautiful, cocky chin to the side.
She smiled, the dark, secretive one she’d used the night before. “What do you want it to be?”
He shook his head, an answering smile settling in on his face. “You ruthlessly screwed my brains out last night, and then you save my life today. I want to know the name your mother calls you.”
Her smiled faded, and she pulled away, stepping out of the shower. Something was wrong. She didn’t face him, as he expected, but shut him out. He didn’t like it. He turned off the water and followed. It had done the job, pulling him back from a bleak, cold place. He wasn’t a hundred percent yet. Still weak, shoulder throbbing, and with growing headache, he wasn’t in a mood to be dismissed.
She took two thick towels from a rack, handed him one, and began to dry herself. “I do not think I would like to hear what she calls me coming from your mouth, Tomas. You like Catalina. Let her stay a while longer.”
Back was her flourished accent, lighting a flash of temper through Tom. “I don’t want some damn character. I want the real you. The one who pulled me from the lake and stayed with me. What is her name? Tell me.” He made it an order as her gaze drifted to the bathroom door. She wasn’t running out on him, no matter what she thought. He wrapped his towel around the small of her back and pinned her against him. “Name?”
She squirmed uncomfortably with brows furrowed. There was very little between her and his now-warmed body. “You can call me Peach. I’m not telling you the name on my birth certificate, and any man stupid enough to use that name is one with a death wish.”
It was enough, more than she planned to give. “I still love your eyes. I’ll miss the way you spoke.”
“Does the way I speak turn you on, Tomas?” she asked in Catalina’s lifting accent.
He let out a shuddered sigh as his cock made a valiant attempt to rise. For the moment, having her close would have to be enough. “Yeah…yeah, it does, but I rather have the real you. You’re still cold.” Two more dry, fluffy towels sat high on the shelf. He wrapped one around her hips and the other around her shoulders.
She shivered despite the steamed air and leaned against him. “I have things to do.” The little ice cubes pressing into his hips were her fingers.
A weariness crept into her voice that worried him. The spunk was waning instead of growing. “First thing you have to do is rest. I think you wore yourself out saving my ass.”
“Your heavy ass.” Her eyes fluttered and then closed.
He huffed at the insult and lifted her, holding her tight against his chest. Startled, she held herself stiff. She shivered again; he felt it through the thick towels. She was running on fumes. No way she was going anywhere. Not like this. He carried her into the bedroom. “You like my ass.”
She snorted, her eyelids drifting closed again. “I’ve always appreciated a nice ass. High and tight.” He set her gently on the stripped bed. “I don’t know what your fine ass is thinking, but it’s going to be disappointed.”
“You couldn’t disappoint me.” He retrieved the pillows and tucked one under her head. He picked up the bedspread, arranging it with the chocolate stain on the outside, down by their feet.
“I don’t think I will ever look at a bottle of Hershey’s syrup quite the same,” she said, watching him through narrow slits.
He crawled under the covers and tugged at the towels. “Off with these.” He yanked them away when she shifted her weight and then pulled her bikini-clad, shivering body into his naked one. The heavy rope of her hair was plastered to her back. He pulled it away to rub his hands over her, sharing his new-found warmth.
In the quiet, the afternoon sun brightening the room, his brain began to realize how close to death he had come. Everything he was, everything he worked for would have…he shivered but not from the cold. He hugged Cata—Peach. The name was too simple for a woman as audacious and brave as she was; it was perfect. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you.” She snuggled into him, smiling. “I loved the pictures.”
“You found them.” The grin turned devilish.
“Oh, yeah. Will you dance for me?”
“I can’t stay,” she whispered, but her words fell off. She pressed her face into the notch in his shoulder, gave a long, content sigh, and fell asleep.
He tunneled his fingers into the truly wild strands of hair. He shouldn’t be so happy. Someone had tried to kill him, for fuck’s sake. But right at that moment, he didn’t give a damn. He pressed a kiss to his familiar stranger’s hair and followed her into sleep.