8

 

 

“MIRANDA?” NOT GIVING a shit about her modesty, Jackson didn’t waste time on the doorknob when it was faster to hold his Glock at the ready, then kick the door open.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but this unthreatening scene wasn’t it.

Nothing seemed out of place in the upscale bathroom with its oversized soaking tub, glass-walled shower and private toilet room. Then he saw Miranda curled into an upright fetal position in the space beneath a built-in makeup vanity where the askew frilly chair would have normally been.

“Hey…” Crouching, holding out his hand to her, he coaxed her to him. “You’re all right. Everything’s okay.”

Eyes wide and panicked, she shook her head, pointing to a spot behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder but found nothing out of order save for her neat pile of clothes on the marble-tile floor. Looking back to Miranda, she was still pointing. Insistent.

“Babe, what am I missing?”

“The mirror! The open window. He was here. Here, while I was in the shower. How could I have not seen him? He is a ghost.”

Jackson pivoted his gaze to the mirror that was just foggy enough to read the single word that had been written for Miranda to see… Whore.

From the mirror, he looked to gauzy curtains waving in a gentle breeze. And then he fought the urge to retch. What the actual hell? He’d never been superstitious or a firm believer in the supernatural, but given this monster’s ability to be in all places at all times, Jackson was beginning to doubt everything.

He went to the window, finding it more than large enough for a grown man to slip through from the adjacent flat roof. The grounds were well lit, serving as an elegant backdrop to a glowing sapphire pool, yet there wasn’t a single soul to seen. As was the case with most of his kind, this monster must be keeping to the shadows. After closing and locking the window, Jackson used a hand towel to wipe the offensive message from Miranda’s sight.

“Come on…” Kneeling beside her, he again offered his hand. “Let’s get you dressed.”

“H-he’s gone?”

“Yes.”

She inched out her hand. When he took it, she followed with her body. Despite the muggy night air left by the once open window, she shivered. He helped her stand, and when her towel began falling, he held it in place.

“I’m scared.” He hated how her voice sounded small and defeated. He stood behind her, almost holding her—make no mistake he wanted to, but not this way. Not with her half out of her mind with fear.

“Everything’s going to be okay…” From a towel rack behind him, he took a thick terry cloth, blotting the water droplets on her shoulders and back. He tenderly dried her arms, and knelt to smooth the towel up her legs, stopping midway up her inner thighs.

A glance up showed her silently crying.

He rose, pulling her against his chest, holding her until her tears subsided.

When she finally stilled, he dressed her as if she were a life-sized doll, helping her step into clean panties, unwinding the towel from her hair and dropping the towel around her chest to draw a stretchy sports bra over her full breasts. All the while, he waged a battle within himself to keep his movements clinical. Now was not the time to view her as a woman, but a wounded bird in need of care. Next came a T-shirt, and then he was kneeling again to help her step into yoga pants. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, grazing the sides of his index fingers up her smooth outer thighs.

Spying a ponytail holder on the counter, while she stood staring, expression weary and what he could only guess was numb, he combed his fingers through her damp hair, then fastened it into a long, loose braid, fastening the ponytail holder around the end.

“There you go,” he said, trying to force cheer but finding none. “All set.”

“I-I still can’t believe they’re all dead…”

“I’m sorry.”

Swallowing hard, she nodded. “Please don’t tell Mom and Dad the arsonist was in my room. I don’t want them worried.”

“But they could be in danger. They need to know.”

She sighed. “This is all too much. I can’t think.”

“I’ll tell them, but as gently as possible. And look, I know this is the last thing you want to think about, but I still need that list of any man in your present or past who might be doing this to you.”

Again, she nodded.

“I also need to wash off this soot, so help me find clothes, then I want you to sit with me in the bathroom while I shower. I’m going to give you my gun. We’ll lock the door and window.”

“Yes.” As if on autopilot, with him trailing behind with his gun at the ready, Miranda led him to her parents’ master bedroom that was bigger than his Denver apartment. She began to enter a closet, but he dodged ahead of her to turn on the light and ensure they were alone.

She found him a starched Nike golf shirt and matching pants.

“Boxers?” she asked.

“Thanks, but I’m okay going commando.”

They returned to her bathroom where he made good on his earlier promises. After locking the doors to her bedroom and the bathroom, he showed her the window was closed and locked, then handed her his gun. “Safety’s off. I’ll let you decide the appropriate moment to pull the trigger. Have you ever used a gun?”

“Sure. But just for target practice.”

“Good enough. Hang tight. I’ll be done in a sec…”

He made quick work of washing his hair with Miranda’s floral shampoo, them soaped off with an equally girly-smelling soap. Anything was better than the fire’s stench. It had taken forever to leave the scene. So many questions with a promise from the fire chief of many more to follow. The arsonist had used four homemade bombs made of diesel and fertilizer. He would have been clearly seen on the bar’s exterior security cameras had they not been destroyed in the explosions.

Finished, he turned off the faucet and emerged dripping to find Miranda clutching his gun, aiming it toward the door. “Good to know you take your job seriously.”

“Realistically, though, what good will a gun do when this guy blows things up? For all we know, this house could be next.”

“True.” He toweled dry before dressing in her father’s too-small clothes. “What do you think?” he asked after striking a cheesy pose, desperate to coax even a small smile before the reality of their potentially dire situation consumed her. “Sexy, right?”

“You’re a kook…” Hands still trembling, she set the gun on the white marble counter, grinning through silent tears. “I still can’t believe they’re gone. And for what? Some whack job’s perceived grudge? So senseless and stupid.”

“Agreed. Which is why you need to not forget your grief and fear but replace them with resolve to get this job done.”

Taking a tissue from a purple and black rhinestone leopard print holder, she blotted her eyes, blew her nose and nodded.

“I already mentioned being a fan of the canopy bed, but I’m drawing a line at that sparkly tissue box.”

As if just now noticing the garish decoration, she was smiling again. “I disagree. No one can ever have too many sparkles in his or her life.” Glancing down, then up, she said, “Thank you for being my own personal bright spot. There’s no way I could have handled what went down—the explosions, the endless fire department and police questions—without you.”

“No biggee. All in a day’s work.”

“I doubt that.”

“Granted, maybe not every day, but I’ve seen some twisted shit—pardon my French.”

Nodding, blowing her nose one last time, she rose. “Let’s get all of these clothes in the washer, then get started on that list.”

“Good call.” Before she had a chance, he dropped one of their used towels over their soot-covered clothes, then wrapped them into a ball. “With my hands full, can you temporarily handle gun duty?”

“I’d rather handle the laundry.”

“Nah…” He grinned. “A badass-in-training like you needs a gun.”

“I like the sound of that. Badass-in-training. If I survive this, my next mayoral campaign will be a cakewalk.” They left the bathroom and then the bedroom to head into the dimly lit hall.

“Wait—when is your next election?”

“November.”

“Could this all be about politics?”

She started down the stairs. “At this point, anything is possible.”

“We’ll make another list for political rivals.”

“Sir—let me help with that.” A petite brunette wearing a black maid’s uniform with a white collar dashed up the stairs to meet him. “Hello, Miss Miranda.”

“Betsy,” Miranda said, “how many times have I asked you to stop calling me that?”

“Sorry, ma’am. But you know how your mom likes to keep a formal house.” She eyed the gun. “I-is everything okay?”

“Not really,” Miranda cleared her throat. “But I’m working on it.”

Once Jackson transferred the laundry bundle to the maid’s outstretched arms, he gently took the gun from Miranda.

“Are you hungry?” Miranda’s mother exited the living room to pause at the base of the stairs.

“Yes,” said Jackson.

“No,” said Miranda.

“Randi, hon,” her father joined them. “You need to eat.”

“Thank you, Betsy,” Genevieve smiled at the maid as the younger woman passed by. “Would you mind letting Chef Morgan know our guests need a light meal.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I see my Randi found you fresh clothes,” Robert said to Jackson once he reached the bottom step. “Wish I had the muscles to fill them out like you.”

Jackson shrugged. “My boss—your friend, Harding—likes our team in top-notch condition.”

“Understood. Anything else you need?”

“If you have one, a legal pad and a pen or pencil. I’d like to get started on a couple suspect lists.”

“Of course. Great idea. Betsy!”

The maid appeared just as the doorbell rang.

Genevieve said, “Robert, send Betsy on your task. I’ll get the door.”

“Let me.” Jackson darted in front of her, holding his gun out of her sight, but at his side.

He pulled open the heavy wood door to find Mark Wells—the city councilman he’d met earlier at Miranda’s meeting.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Mark said.

“Until the arsonist is caught, wherever Miranda goes, I go.”

“Interesting…” Dismissing Jackson, Mark brushed past to embrace Genevieve. “Looking gorgeous as usual.”

“You’re such a charmer.” Miranda’s mother flushed with pleasure. “What a nice surprise. We didn’t expect to see you until this weekend at the club.”

“Sadly, I’m here on official city business. Miranda, Lenny said I could find you here.” Lenny was the fire chief. Jackson didn’t understand why he’d have talked to Mark over Miranda? He nodded to her. “I’m sure you’re understandably exhausted, but this can’t wait. Robert, would you mind lending us your office for a brief chat?”

“Help yourself,” Robert said.

When Jackson followed Miranda, Mark held up his hand. “This is a private matter.”

“As is Miranda’s safety. She goes nowhere without me.”

“Ridiculous,” Mark said. “She’s a grown woman who—”

“Mark—anything you need to say to me can be said in front of Jackson.”

“But—”

“I’d feel better with her protected.” Genevieve placed her hand on Mark’s forearm.

“Me, too,” Robert said. “Jackson works for a longtime friend of mine. Anything said will be held in strictest confidence.”

Mark shrugged. “A threesome it will be…”

“Sir. Your supplies.” Betsy returned with the legal pad and pen.

“Thanks,” Jackson said.

“Ma’am,” he overheard the maid say behind him. “If you don’t mind, could I please leave?”

“Now?” Genevieve raised her brows. “We have guests.”

“Mom,” Miranda stopped to turn around. “Let poor Betsy go. She has a special date night planned.”

“Oh?” There went Genevieve again with her brows.

“Remember? I told you she and David are a couple. Tonight’s their first anniversary.”

“How did you know?” Betsy asked.

“Jackson and I ran into David at the hardware store. David mentioned it. He seemed very excited for your big date. Think he’s going to pop the question?”

Mark sighed. “Miranda… This issue really can’t wait.”

“Sorry.” She ambushed Betsy in a hug. “I’m happy for you. David has always been a favorite of mine.”

After her release, Betsy fumbled with her hands at her waist. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“By all means, go.” Genevieve shooed the maid on her way. “And if you do get engaged, be sure to let us know. Of course, we’ll host your ceremony at the wedding venue.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I don’t think David and I will—”

“Nope.” Wagging her index finger, Genevieve said, “No negativity allowed on the topic of love.”

Forcing a tight smile, Betsy nodded, thanking the lady of the house once more before darting off into the kitchen. Poor gal. This was straight out of an English manor scene from any given night on PBS—not that he was a fan, but since so many of his friends were now hitched, it was nearly impossible to get to any given man cave without passing by a chick flick or historical duke and duchess show.

“Finally…” Mark muttered under his breath. “Miranda, this can’t wait.”

“Of course.”

With Jackson following, she left the black and white-marble tiled entry to turn left down a wide hall like the one upstairs. They passed a formal dining room with a table that seated twenty. A billiards room. Library. And then Miranda entered a dark-paneled room with an antique wooden desk worthy of royalty and more burgundy leather seating than Jackson had previously seen outside of a furniture store. The air smelled faintly of lemon oil and cigars.

Once inside, and Miranda sat on the end of a sofa and Mark in the chair opposite her, Jackson closed the door and stood with his back against it.

“Please tell your man to sit.” Mark looked away with a sneer. “He and his gun make me uncomfortable.”

“Having four dear friends murdered in one night makes me uncomfortable.” A proud smile tickled the corners of Jackson’s lips when Miranda raised her chin. “He can stand.”

“As you wish. Getting to the matter at hand, we have a situation.”

“I should think that’s obvious.”

“Not quite…” Leaning forward, Mark rested his elbows on his knees. “Lenny wants to call the incident at your bar arson, but to do so would—”

“Of course, it was arson. Jackson and I heard four distinct explosions.”

“The point I’m trying to make is that it doesn’t have to be. If we make this a criminal matter as opposed to say… a simple grease fire, all of our lives will get a whole lot more complicated.”

“Four. People. Died. These men were my friends. I’m not going to sweep their deaths under the proverbial rug so an oil company feels more secure setting up shop in our town.”

“What if I told you that the decision has already been made?”

Miranda shook her head. “Excuse me?”

“The rest of the council and I met an hour ago, and in light of this deadly fire, we’re prepared to impeach. I will become the acting mayor until a special election can be held.”

“On what possible grounds could you impeach me?” Miranda stood to pace. “Far from doing anything wrong, I’ve been a victim in all of this.”

“Moody has spoken with his father, and if you agree to our terms, we will make this process as harmless as possible to your reputation. Instead of impeachment, you may prefer to resign, stating you need more time to run your remaining business.”

It took every shred of Jackson’s willpower not to slam this bastard into the next parish.

“Know what I think?” Miranda asked.

Mark shrugged. “Wouldn’t have a clue.”

“I think you set off the bomb at my bar. I also think you arranged to have Jackson’s car bombed in some sick attempt to run him out of town.”

“That’s ludicrous. Keep talking like that and we’ll have you impeached on the grounds of mental instability. But you know what? Even if I did arrange for your dive bar to be blown to kingdom come, it would have been for a noble cause. You think you know how to run this town, but you don’t have a clue. Time to step aside and let a grown-up tackle the job.”

“I think it would be best if you leave,” she said.

“The council and I will expect your decision in the morning.”