Catherine Coulter - Split Second

Wesley Heights

Thursday night

I’m lying on cement. Well, maybe the mattress wasn’t quite that hard, but with her bumps and bruises and aching muscles from being thrown around her Range Rover, it sure felt like cement.

She finally got up, stiff and hurting, and went into the bathroom to pop some aspirin and move around a little. After she’d taken three aspirin, she managed a few stretches from side to side until she felt a zing of pain in her shoulder and had to stop. She stood straight again and, unfortunately, happened to look in the mirror. She saw a woman with ratty hair, her skin the color of oatmeal, with a big purple bruise on her jaw. Where had that beauty come from?

Lucy hadn’t unbraided her hair before she’d fallen into bed. She did so now, and finger-combed her hair, not bothering to get her brush from the small overnight bag she’d quickly packed at her grandmother’s house. At least the butterfly strips Coop had pressed down over the cut on her scalp looked better than the bandage she’d worn home from the hospital. Her eyes kept going back to the bruise on her jaw.

Of all things, she’d forgotten a sleep shirt, and so she was wearing one of Coop’s white Tshirts. She’d never before worn a man’s T-shirt, and thought she looked rather cute, at least from the neck down.

She said to the pasty-faced pathetic woman staring back at her, her eyes stark and hard, “You’re alive, so no more whining. At least you look kind of sexy in Coop’s T-shirt.”

“I’d say you do. I like the way it falls off your shoulder.”

She turned slowly to see her host standing in the open bathroom doorway, shirtless, wearing only a pair of slacks, zipped up, the top button unfastened. How could she see all that in a millisecond? She’d never seen Special Agent Cooper McKnight without a shirt before, not even at the gym. He had a nice chest, really nice abs and pecs, and that open top button on his pants—

Stop looking at his open trouser button. “Hey, you want your T-shirt back? Looks like you’re in need here.”

He absently scratched his chest. “I heard you moving around. You in any pain, Lucy?”

“I took some aspirin; it’ll kick in soon. Look at this bruise on my jaw. Was it there before?”

He walked to her, lightly cupped her jaw in his hand, and lifted her face to the direct light. But he didn’t look at the bruise, he looked at her, and he knew immediately it wasn’t a good idea.

Who cared?

He leaned down and kissed her.

Lucy forgot about her bruises, forgot about the pain in her head, forgot about every sore muscle. They’d been circling each other for months now, despite what she’d heard about him, despite her distrust of him, and, to be honest with herself, she’d thought about this kiss for a long time. It wasn’t the right time to come in for a landing, but here they were in the guest bathroom, of all places.

Who cared?

She was here and he was here, kissing her with lovely enthusiasm, and she had her arms around his back, her hands stroking him, learning how he felt, and she discovered he felt quite wonderful.

Not a single red alert flashed in her mind. When he tried to pull back, she held on tight, kissed his chin, his nose, his neck, and went back to work on his mouth, hers open now, and so was his, and she poured herself into this awesome madness.

“I’ll let you have your T-shirt back.”

Where had the words come from? Surely from her own mouth, but wasn’t her mouth in very close contact with his?

“Yeah, that’s a fine idea,” he said, and he pulled it over her head. There was a good thing about beginning not more than a dozen feet from the bed, Lucy thought. When they fell on it together, Coop cushioning her as best he could, she let out a yip of pain, and laughed. “I guess it’s going to have to be easy going tonight, Agent McKnight. I’m still a mess.”

When she at last fell into a dazed sleep, pressed against his side, her head on his shoulder, her palm flat on his belly, she slept deeply, without nightmares, without pain, and with a sense of rightness she didn’t think she’d ever felt before in her life.

The mattress felt as soft as a cloud.

Friday morning

At exactly seven o’clock in the morning, Lucy danced barefoot into the kitchen, already showered and dressed, her hair still damp and tucked behind her ears to hang loose down her back.

Two people had tried to kill her yesterday, but today she felt buzzed and happy, thinking of the huge smile on her face when she’d looked at herself in the bathroom mirror thirty minutes before. She smelled coffee, nearly shuddered with pleasure at the thought of it, and laughed, marveling at how the most special moments in life came at you out of left field. It took nearly getting herself killed to finally take the big step with Special Agent Cooper McKnight.

She called out, “You’re a coffee god. I will worship at your feet if I can have some.”

He was speaking on his cell. He looked up at her and smiled, but it wasn’t the kind of smile she was expecting, it was a distracted, perfunctory smile, one that didn’t say anything like Wowza, that was great, let’s do it again, right this very second. He was saying, “Sure, Savich. Hold on a second.”

He picked up a pen from the kitchen counter and scribbled on his grocery pad as he listened. When he punched off his cell, he said, “Savich said they traced the VIN of the burned van to the last registered owner, a woman named Claudette Minsk. She lives in Welling, Maryland—actually, just about four miles from your grandmother’s house in Chevy Chase. She was a florist, owned several shops, but her family is selling them now. She’s seventy-nine years old, and unfortunately, she’s developed Alzheimer’s.

“The son said he sold the van and one just like it to two men he’d never seen before a couple of days ago, for cash. The vans still had his mother’s florist logo—a big bright sunflower with MINSK’S MARVELS in gold script written beneath it—so they must have painted over them.”

“What about the dead man, Coop?”

“Forensics got a hit on his partial fingerprints, and then matched some tattoos on his neck to the same man’s mug shots. His name was Ben Eddy Dukes; he’d been in jail for attempted murder, so why not step up to first-degree? He was thirty-seven, on parole out of Briarwood State Prison for a couple of years, and had been suspected of a spate of robberies in upscale neighborhoods in cities all over Maryland.

“Savich is getting his photo over to Welling to confirm he was one of the men who bought the van. It sure looks like they were hired to kill you. Ben Eddy Dukes was a real badass professional. As for the other man, they’re trying to get a description of him from Minsk.”

Lucy said, “Yeah, we knew that was the case. It will be harder to find out who hired them. It’s progress, though.”

His eyes were fixed on her face. He reached out his palm and lightly cupped her bruised jaw. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair down before last night. I like all the cool shades. No more bandages on your head. You almost can’t see those little butterflies covering the wound, and the bruise on your jaw looks like it might be fading. I think you look good to go, Lucy.”

He dropped his hand, turned, and said over his shoulder, “Here’s your coffee, no cream, no sugar.” He waited until she took a sip, and asked, “How are all your sore spots doing this morning?”

Sore spots? You voodooed them right out of me. “A little sore here and there. Better, though. Ah, the coffee’s delicious, maybe as good as Dillon’s.”