Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

Tears pricked her eyes, and she turned quickly back to the tub. She flipped off the shower, then mopped up the water that had sprayed on the floor. She glanced over her shoulder at him. He hadn’t moved.

“You can go,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“You have a friend you can stay with tonight?”

“No need for that.”

“The door-”

“I’ll nail a board over it. It’ll be good for tonight.” She smiled grimly at his concern. “Besides, I’ve got my old friend Mr. Glock to protect me.”

“You always been such a hard-ass, Killian?”

“Pretty much.” Stacy wrung out the towel and laid it across the edge of the tub. “It made me popular around the DPD. Ball-buster Killian, they called me.”

He didn’t smile at her attempt at humor. She made a sound of exasperation. “He’s not coming back, Malone. He may intend for me to die, but not tonight.”

“Invincible, are you?”

“No. But I’m figuring this guy out. It’s a game. He’s engaging me in a battle of wits. And will. His cat to my mouse. If he’d wanted a quick kill, he would have orchestrated it that way.”

“If you won’t go, I’m staying.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

A part of her was touched by his concern for her. Warmed by it.

But the sensation reminded her of Mac. Her partner and friend. Her lover.

Liar. Betrayer.

He’d broken her heart. And worse.

And the way he’d hurt her.

She steeled herself against the memory and crossed to stand in front of him. She met his eyes. “What are you thinking here? That I’m going to fall apart and need a big strong man? You thinking you’re going to get lucky?” She cocked up her chin. “I’ll save you the rude reality check, Malone. You’re not.”

As she stepped around him, he caught her arm, stopping her. “Nice try. But I’m staying.”

She opened her mouth to argue; he cut her off. “The couch will be fine. No sex required, expected or, frankly, desired.”

Her cheeks heated. She knew he could see the color in them.

“I can’t force you to let me stay, but sleeping in the car will be damn uncomfortable, so I’m asking for mercy. What’s it going to be, Killian?”

She folded her arms across her chest. He would do it, too. The man was more pigheaded than she was, for heaven’s sake. She’d done surveillance detail, and spending the night in a car ranked up there with cold showers and stepping in shit with bare feet.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll show you the guest bedroom.”

She found an extra blanket, a never-been-used toothbrush and travel-size tube of Crest.

“A toothbrush, too,” he said when she handed him the things. “I’m overwhelmed.”

“I didn’t want you to stink up the place.”

“You’re all heart.”

“Just so you know, I’m going to lock my bedroom door.”

He removed his shoulder holster and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Have at it, sweetheart. I hope you and Mr. Glock have a great night.”

“Arrogant,” she muttered. “Pigheaded, stubborn, know-it-”

She bit the words back as she realized they all described her. As she shut her bedroom door behind her, she heard him laugh.

Friday, March 11, 2005

2:10 a.m.

Spencer opened his eyes, instantly awake. He went for his weapon, tucked under the mattress, curled his fingers around its grip and listened.

It came again. The sound that had awakened him.

Stacy, he realized. Crying.

The sound was thick, as if she was trying to muffle it. No doubt, she perceived tears as a sign of weakness. She would hate it that he had heard her. She would be embarrassed if he checked on her.

Spencer closed his eyes and tried to block the sound out. He couldn’t. Small, hopeless-sounding, her grief tore at him. Both were so foreign to the woman she wanted him to think she was.

He couldn’t simply wait for her crying to stop. That was foreign to the man he was.

He stood, stepped into his jeans and fastened them. Taking a deep breath, he went to her bedroom. He stood outside the door a moment, then tapped on it. “Stacy,” he called, “are you all right?”

“Go away,” she called, voice thick. “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t. Clearly. He hesitated, then tapped again. “I have a pretty good shoulder. Best in the Malone clan.”

She made a strangled sound, one that sounded part laugh, part sob. “I don’t need you.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

“Then go back to sleep. Or better yet, go home.”

He grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The door eased open.

She hadn’t locked it, after all.

“I’m coming in. Please don’t shoot me.”

As he stepped into the dark bedroom, the light came on.

Stacy was sitting up in bed, blond hair a wild tangle, eyes red and puffy from crying. She gripped the Glock with both hands, the weapon aimed at his chest.

He stared at it a moment, feeling like a cat burglar caught in the act. Or a deer in the headlights of a truck. A big one, traveling too damn fast for comfort.

He raised his hands over his head, fighting a smile. Pissing her off would be a bad idea.

“The chest, Stacy? You couldn’t aim for a leg or something?”

She inched the barrel directly south. “Better?”

His nuts ran for cover. “That’s equipment I’d rather die for than do without, sweetheart. Do you mind?”

She grinned and lowered the Glock. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry. It’s genetic.”

“Good. Meet me in the kitchen in five?”

“Sounds good.” He started through the door, then stopped. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“You made me forget,” she answered simply.

He left her bedroom, mulling over what she had said. The turn of events. She had surprised him. The invitation. Her honest answer to his question.

Stacy Killian was one complicated, high-maintenance woman. The kind he made a practice of steering clear of.

So what the hell was he doing meeting her for a midnight pajama party?

She joined him in the kitchen. “What do you like to eat?”

“Everything. Except beets, liver and brussels sprouts.”

She laughed, crossed to the fridge. “Don’t have to worry about those, not with me.” She peered inside. “Enchilada bowl. Leftover Peking duck. Though I’d give it the sniff test first. Tuna. Eggs.”

He peered over her shoulder, made a face. “Pickings are slim, Killian.”

“I was a cop, remember. Cops always eat out.”

It was true. His refrigerator was emptier than hers.

“How about cereal?” she asked.

“That depends, what’ve you got?”

“Cheerios or Raisin Bran.”

“The O’s are good, definitely. Whole milk or skim?”

“Two percent.”

“That’ll do.”

She took the carton of milk from the fridge and closed the door. He saw her check the date on the carton before she set it on the counter. She took two bowls from one cabinet and two boxes of cereal from another.

They filled their bowls-she took the bran, no surprise there-and carried them to the small café table by the window.

They ate in silence. He wanted to give her time. A little space. A chance to become comfortable with him. And to decide if forgetting was enough, or if she needed someone to talk to.

She hadn’t asked him to the kitchen because she was hungry. Or because she was worried that he was.

She had needed company. Another’s support, even if that support only came in the form of a cereal buddy.

One of his sisters, Mary, third oldest of the Malone brood, was like that. Tough as nails, stubborn as a mule, too prideful for her own good. When she had gone through a divorce a couple of years ago, she had tried to keep it all in, handle everything-including her hurt-by herself.