Hiding His Witness Part 7

He pulled his hand away and set it on his fork. He had to stop touching her.

Witness, he told himself. She was a witness to a crime. She wasn't his to comfort. His job was to keep her safe so she could do a lineup and then testify after they'd caught the Vagabond Killer. He couldn't lose objectivity, and that was precisely what would happen if they got involved.

Carey paused when Reilly's hand touched hers. The first two times he'd touched her at dinner, she'd brushed the contact aside as casual. But the third time, it started to feel deliberate. Never had a man's hand felt so warm, so encompa.s.sing. He was commanding, capable and protective. And she, no doubt, had brought out the fiercest guardian in him. She'd been secretive about her past and she was involved in tracking a serial killer. She had "pile of mess" written all over her.

Yeah, Reilly Truman definitely thought he'd struck White Knight gold when he'd found her. She had problems and he was a troubleshooter.

The Trumans could too easily lure her into a false sense of security. They were nice people, who appeared genuinely interested in helping her, but everyone had their price. Her father had proven that, Mark had proven that and her mother had proven that. For the right dollar amount, a person would do anything.

Mark had plenty of dollars to use for convincing, which was why Carey had to break free before he tracked her here, before he found her living with the Trumans. The Trumans didn't deserve to be pulled into her messy life. They'd be collateral damage and she'd never forgive herself. Mark already had two of his men trying to track her down, probably more.

Reilly pa.s.sed her a plate of chicken, and despite her stomach twisting in worry, she took a small piece from the platter.

When had she last been offered a home-cooked meal? She might as well eat until she was full. Carey took a forkful of chicken. She'd been eating mechanically for eleven months, usually peanut b.u.t.ter and bread or a cup of ramen noodles, and she was unprepared for her taste buds' reaction to fresh food.

She let out a moan and quickly took another bite.

Jane smiled at her. "I'm glad you like my food. My family wolfs theirs down so fast, I never get compliments."

"Asking for thirds is a compliment," Reilly said and took another bite of potatoes.

Carey's face heated. "I'm sorry. It's been a long time since I've eaten anything home-cooked."

"You don't cook?" Jane asked.

Sadly, she didn't have the chance. "I don't have a kitchen in my apartment," she said. For a brief moment she worried she'd given away too much. Reilly had seen her apartment though, so she hadn't given anything away he didn't already know. But she had to be more careful. A few hours with the Trumans, one thoroughly arousing kiss, and several of Reilly's heated touches, and she was spilling details about her life. Big mistake.

Doc's brows furrowed. "I thought you were a little skinny. Not enough protein. When you return to the city, Reilly will make you a meal fit for a king. Or queen."

Carey expected Reilly to protest. Instead he chewed and nodded at her. He swallowed and took a sip of water. "My dad's not kidding. I love to cook. My work schedule means dinner is sometimes at midnight, but I don't mind."

For one minute she let herself buy this fantasy, that she was actually returning to the city with Reilly and they'd have a friendship of some sort. Or the chance to explore the persistent attraction between them. "I don't get off work until midnight, either." Where was the filter over her mouth? Again, Reilly probably knew she worked late based on the time of the crime, but still...

"Perfect," Jane said, her eyes shining as she looked between her son and Carey.

Carey knew that look. It was a mom look, one that said she wanted to know more about the relationship between her son and the woman at his side. It was the same look Mark's mother had given her when they'd met. At the time, Mark's mom had wanted an in to the lifestyle that organized crime afforded-great parties, fancy clothes, expensive jewelry. Carey had been her ticket into that life and Mark's ticket to the head of it. Carey shivered. She hadn't seen it coming.

"Are you cold?" Reilly asked.

Carey brought her attention back to the table conversation. "Sorry, my mind drifted."

"What do you do for a living?" Doc asked.

"I work at a Laundromat," Carey said, checking every word. She couldn't tell them any more than Reilly already knew.

Harris. .h.i.t the top of the table. "Match made in heaven. Reilly can't understand the difference between a light load and a dark load. You can show him."

"I do understand the difference, I just don't have time to bother," Reilly grumbled with a small smile on his face.

"When we lived at home, no one would let him touch their laundry. If one of my socks got mixed in with his stuff, it came back pink or grey. Terrible," Harris said, shaking his head.

Jane interrupted. "Carey, I don't want you to think I didn't raise my sons to know how to take care of themselves."

"This is why I never bring women around," Reilly said, grinning at his family. "You guys love to embarra.s.s me, like by telling how I turned orange and turned my socks pink."

Reilly volleyed back a few bombs on his family in return. Watching them, listening to their teasing, she felt like an outsider intruding on a place she didn't belong. This was the family she'd wished she'd had. Laughter. Smiles. Jokes.

Nothing like her own.

Sitting with Reilly and his family, loneliness descended. She'd never have this life. The ache in her chest intensified. The sooner she left the better. Not only would the Trumans be safer, she wouldn't have the reminder of what she'd never have.

"I'll run out to the woodpile and grab a few logs for the fire," Reilly said, shrugging into his jacket.

"Do you want help?" Harris asked.

Reilly shook his head. "Nah, I can handle it." A few pieces of wood were all they needed to have a fire in the hearth for the evening. He trudged out the back door into the cold to the chopped woodpile on the porch. What else could he do to make Carey feel more secure? He could sense her fear and her distance, as if she were holding herself back. Their family banter and attempts to rea.s.sure her hadn't calmed her.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, he glanced at the display. Unknown number. It could be Vanessa or the lieutenant calling with an update on the case. He answered, "Truman."

"Detective Truman, how wonderful to speak to you."

Reilly's stomach torqued too tight, the same gut reaction he had whenever something was about to go very, very wrong. "Who is this?" He was grateful the phone was department issued and untraceable. Using his credit card had given away too much as it was.

"I'm the man who's been looking for your witness. I saw the two of you on the news today and it's been far too long since she and I have chatted."

Not the Vagabond Killer. This was the man Carey feared. Anger swelled in Reilly's chest and he tamped it down, fighting for control of his temper. "If you come near her, if you attempt to touch her, you will regret making such a bad decision."

The man had the audacity to laugh. "You have no idea who you're up against. Don't threaten me. Tell me where she is and no one will get hurt. I'll make it worth your while. Name your price."

Reilly couldn't be bought. Everything in him rejected the notion of accepting a bribe. "Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you." He'd give this sc.u.m nothing to go on.

"Reconsider. I know you left Denver. It was an inconvenience to have two of my men questioned by the police, thanks to your call. I don't want to be inconvenienced again in this silly cat-and-mouse game. Bring her to the city, anywhere- You can even pick the place. I'd hate to see someone you care for hurt over such a silly thing as protecting a runaway."

"Leave her alone," Reilly said. He'd give nothing away, and the longer they spoke the more words this sc.u.m had to a.n.a.lyze looking for clues about Carey's location. He disconnected the phone.

Reilly slid his phone into his pocket. He'd call this into the DPD and see if they could run a trace post facto or get any information about the number who had called him.

Two psychopaths were after Carey. She had been right not to be lured into a sense of safety.

Carey couldn't draw a full breath. Mark had contacted Reilly. How long before Mark traced her to the Trumans' ranch using property records? For a few hours, she had been comfortable. She had believed she'd be safe.

She knew better. She wasn't safe anywhere. She was a risk to anyone with her.

"He wanted to know where Carey was hiding. He doesn't know where she is," Reilly said, taking a seat the kitchen table. "He's bluffing about his reach."

Cold fear froze Carey's insides. "Yet. He doesn't know where I am yet. It's only a matter of time until he tracks us here."

Jane shook her head. "We have this place registered under a false company name, and that company name isn't a.s.sociated with us directly."

Harris drummed his fingers on the table. "It's pretty bold for the killer to call you."

Reilly hadn't told his family the call had come from Mark and not the Vagabond Killer. But Carey knew by the description of the voice and the words. Mark was arrogant and controlling. He expected to hand out tasks and for people to follow his instructions.

Doc stood and retrieved a notebook from the counter. "He might a.s.sume Reilly escorted you to a safe house in Colorado. Using a detective's personal connections to house a witness is unusual. You're safest here. Going on the run and looking for another place to stay puts you on the defensive. Better to work on the offensive. If someone comes here, we'll be ready. We won't take chances. We'll schedule patrols during the day and keep our eyes and ears open. No one will make it onto the premises without our knowledge."

As the family discussed options to ensure her safety, contingency plans, and additional protections, Carey watched, not able to keep up with the conversation. The Trumans were going to disrupt their lives and their holiday for her. They were putting themselves at risk. Mark wouldn't hesitate to hurt someone to get to her.

Carey looked at her feet. It wasn't right other people should suffer because of her decisions. "I never meant to drag anyone into this. This is my problem. Maybe I should go."

Reilly came to his feet and then knelt in front of her. She met his gaze and their high-voltage connection charged through her. Excessive energy and longing escalated in her body. A sense of connection, a rightness with him tempted her to open up and share the part of her life she'd been running from for months. If only she could tell him and not risk his life, she'd make room for him inside her heart. Their physical attraction could be so much more. If only.

"I don't want to hear any more talk of you running again. I was a.s.signed to protect you and I'm going to keep you safe," Reilly said.

The surge of excitement from his nearness was immediately replaced with a chill of fear. She didn't know if anyone was strong enough to protect her from Mark.

Carey sat perched on the edge of the couch, watching Reilly play with the fire in the hearth. He added another log to the roaring blaze. After talking for a few minutes in the family room, the Trumans had left her and Reilly alone, each making excuses about ch.o.r.es and plans they had after dinner.

Should she make an excuse and go to bed, as well? A heightened sense of antic.i.p.ation clung to the air. Did Reilly want to talk to her about the case? Pry for more information about her past? Discuss Mark's phone call?

Closing the screen around the fire to catch the sparks of ash, Reilly took a seat on the floor. The firelight flickered across his face, the warm glow illuminating the room. The smell of wood burning brought back memories of summer camp and cold winter nights curled on the couch with a blanket and a book. Comforting memories.

"How are you holding up?" Reilly asked.

She sensed he wanted to ask questions and was holding back. Because of the promise he had made not to dig?

She touched her side. "My ribs are still a little sore and my arm hurts if I move it a certain way. But dinner was great." At least until the point when Mark had delivered his threat. "It's been a long while since I've eaten that well."

Reilly smiled, making his handsome face even more beguiling. "My mom loves to cook. When she retired, she discovered entire television channels devoted to cooking and now it's her pa.s.sion."

Carey focused her attention on the fire. It was dangerous to feel anything for him or to let her imagination play with possibilities. Even grat.i.tude created dangerous connections. She couldn't think about Reilly. She had to focus on getting out of here. She couldn't stay here and wait for Mark to find her. The Trumans might have their ranch well hidden, but Mark had the resources and money to buy the information he wanted. "Your family has been wonderful to me."

Reilly set the poker on the bricks lining the hearth. "They're pretty great. What about your friends or family? Isn't someone wondering where you are?"

Carey slid to the floor, letting her back rest against the couch. She stretched her legs in front of her, her feet in reaching distance of Reilly. She should tell him in no uncertain terms she wasn't going to talk about her life. He'd promised he wouldn't press her about her past and she wasn't naive. They couldn't share secrets. Their relationship needed boundaries. He was a detective, committed to working on the right side of the law, and she was the daughter of a crime lord. If she told him about her family and the things they had done, the crimes they'd committed, Reilly would look at her with disgust on his face. That was something she could live without. "You mean, is anyone looking for me besides two criminals?"

Compa.s.sion softened his face. "You're safe here, Carey. I'm going to take care of you."

Carey shifted. This was the reason she hadn't gotten close to anyone in the last eleven months. It created too many complications, like trusting someone, relying on them to help, opening up to them. Carey worried constantly that sharing something could get her or someone else killed.

Her father had trusted Mark with his life. Her father had bestowed his blessing on his only daughter to marry Mark, and then Mark had betrayed him.

Not that her father was an innocent who'd been forced into the life he'd led. In the endless hours of solitude, Carey had tried to resolve the logical side of her brain that understood her father was involved in a violent lifestyle and the emotional side of her brain that loved her father and couldn't imagine him doing harm to anyone.

"I don't want to talk about the case." At his nod of agreement, she continued. "I've been alone for a long time. I've gotten used to it," she said. A lie. She was numb to it at times, refusing to cry over her fate. But she wasn't used to it.

"How long have you been running?" Reilly asked.

She didn't want to give exact times. He was smart. He'd dig around until he could put the pieces together, missing persons who looked like her from a given time frame. "Longer than I thought possible. But now that I'm far away from that life, I realized, in one way or another, I've been alone most of my life."

Reilly inclined his head and remained quiet, his focus on her, encouraging her to continue. It felt good to talk to him, to talk to someone who wasn't trying to get something from her or use her to get closer to her father or Mark.

She could stick to the ancient past. Before Mark. That was safe. "My mother left us when I was two. She moved to Las Vegas to dance in a show on the strip. I definitely did not inherit her gracefulness. I took dance lessons once in high school and I bruised my partner's feet."

"Everyone's awkward as a teenager. I bet you're much better now. I bet you dance beautifully."

Carey clamped her mouth over her reb.u.t.tal. Mark had taken her to dance lessons in a rare display of romantic interest, in preparation for their wedding. More times than not, he had stormed out of cla.s.s in frustration because she couldn't remember the steps, she didn't move in the right direction and she counted off beat.

Reilly reached for a remote sitting on the side table behind him. He pressed a few b.u.t.tons and the speakers in the corners of the room piped soft holiday music. He came to his feet and extended his hand to her. "Dance with me. Please."

She frowned and shook her head, even as she found herself reaching for his hand. "A man who grew up in a house with music in the living room will put me to shame."

He pulled her upright, bringing her body close to his, his hips inches from her stomach. Every nerve ending in her body tingled in awareness.

"It's just you and me. No one will see."

Her heartbeat skipped, faltered.

He tucked her into the circle of his arms, holding her around the waist and clasping her left hand in his, pressing her hand to his chest. Reilly swayed slightly, his body in time with the music. "Just relax," he whispered. "Close your eyes and let me lead you."

His eyes were closed, so she shut hers and let his strong arms guide her. She was no Ginger Rogers, but at least she didn't step on his feet. He wasn't planted in one s.p.a.ce, either. He moved, his hips brushing her body, his knee touching the inside of her thigh. Her skin p.r.i.c.kled with sensation and her pulse scrambled to catch up with her racing heart.

He did the work and she was along for the ride. As Reilly moved, he hummed quietly, and she leaned closer to hear him, basking in the heat of his body. The deep timbre of his voice shivered along her spine and he adjusted his arms around her, closing the inches between them. Achy, hungry desire amplified inside her.

"Carey," he said, each syllable catching on the music.

Opening her eyes, she met his gaze and fell into her l.u.s.t-charged emotions. The fire in his eyes matched the heat in his voice.

She'd let herself have this one song, just this one to blot out Mark and the Vagabond Killer, and then she'd jolt herself right back into reality. One song wouldn't cause any harm, would it?

Her body was completely turned over to him. She lifted her mouth, her lips parted in invitation. He wasn't any more immune to her than she was to him. She saw the kiss in his dark eyes before he lowered his head to deliver it. His lips fell onto hers, brushing, light, giving.

A deep, burning need sliced through her. He brushed his lips over hers, soft and unhurried. He stopped dancing and threw his complete attention to what they were doing, his lips sending shockwaves over her body, his kiss making promises she knew he couldn't keep. I'll protect you. I'll keep you safe. You're mine.

His hands reached into the back of her hair and angled her head to kiss her more deeply. She melted against him, her body to his, his arousal pressed into her stomach. The sensual slide of his hands urged her on, more, faster. She wanted to scream because what he was doing felt so amazing.

His hands moved to her sides. "Is this okay?" he asked, lifting his mouth slightly from hers.

"What?" she asked breathlessly, pressing her lips to his, desperate for his touch, wanting to savor every moment. How long had it been since she'd been in the warm embrace of a man? She knew for certain she'd never kissed a man like Reilly. It had never felt this way.

"Your ribs. Does it hurt when I touch you here?" he asked, brushing his hands down her back.