Cassie Miles - The Girl Who Couldn't Forget

He removed the holster clipped to his belt and placed his gun on the table next to the baubles. Then he peeled off his jacket and folded it into a neat package, which he stuck into a paper grocery bag that Franny handed him. The striptease didn’t end there. He loosened his necktie. “I should probably take off my shirt, too.”

Her already-speeding pulse jolted into high gear. “By all means, take off the shirt. Your collar might be...compromised.”

Being careful to avoid handling the collar, he removed the short-sleeved cotton shirt. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. His nicely muscled chest showed off his tan.

Her fingers itched with an unexpected urge to rake though his black chest hair and slide over those taut pecs. Snap out of it! True, it had been a long time since she’d been this close to a half-naked man, but she wasn’t the type to get all hot and bothered. Self-control was her middle name. With the bowl of milk and dish towel in hand, she approached the chair where he had taken a seat.

“Tilt your head up and to the right,” she said.

His gaze connected with hers and...her heart stopped. Held in suspended animation, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Her ears were ringing. This wasn’t a panic attack; it was something different, something she’d never experienced before. She blinked until her vision was clear and she found herself staring into the most fascinating eyes. They were deep set and gray with glittering facets of silver and green. His angular cheekbones matched a square jaw. His face was saved from severity by an ironic twist of his mouth. He had the kind of lips that were meant for kissing. Not that she was an expert. Her social life was only slightly more interesting than Franny’s.

Her friend spoke up. “I’ll see if I can find something for Sloan to wear.”

“Excellent idea,” Brooke said.

In an uncharacteristically clumsy manner, she swabbed the milk on the red blotches near his left ear. Excess from the dish towel dripped down his chest. She reached out with her bare hand to wipe it away. As soon as her fingers touched his flesh, a jolt of electricity traveled up her hand to her arm, then across her shoulder and down her chest, where it zapped her heart like a cardiovascular defibrillator. She jumped back. The milk spilled.

Breathlessly, she said, “No use crying over that.”

He took the bowl from her. “Maybe I should do this myself.”

“Yes, that would be easier.” Aware that they were alone in the kitchen, she stepped back. This federal agent was a clear and present danger to her mental stability. “Have you spoken to Franny about why she called the FBI?”

“I have.”

“Would you care to share that information?”

“She was trying to contact your mutual friend Layla and couldn’t reach her.” He dabbed at his cheek with the milk. “The text messages to her weren’t answered. The phone calls went straight to voice mail.”

“It’s not unusual for Layla to go off the grid, and it’s hardly a reason to call in the FBI.” Brooke eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?”

“Franny’s fears appear to be connected to what happened twelve years ago.”

She didn’t want to hear about this but had to know. “Tell me.”

“Wait!” Franny dashed into the room with a crocheted poncho that she threw toward Sloan. She turned to Brooke. “Maybe we should forget about this. I’m feeling lots better, and I don’t want you to get all freaked out.”

Too late. Brooke was verging on a full-blown panic attack. She had to get this over with and go home. “You’ve got to tell me.”

“Are you okay? You look kind of feverish.”

“She’s right,” Sloan said. “Maybe you should sit.”

As if she needed advice from a half-naked fed? “Will you excuse us, please?”

Without waiting for an answer, she dragged her friend through the messy front room into the equally cluttered bedroom, where she closed the door. Fearing she might pass out, Brooke lowered herself onto the edge of the unmade bed, trying not to think of this mattress as a breeding ground for bacteria and dust mites. She concentrated on breathing slowly, struggling not to drown in the fierce torrents that churned inside her.

Franny sat beside her. “I was scared about how you might react. That’s why I didn’t call you first. I figured Gimbel could look into stuff and make it all better.”

But Gimbel had retired. Brooke asked, “What kind of stuff?”

“For the past couple of days, maybe a week, I’ve been getting phone calls from a number I didn’t recognize.”

“And?”

“They were weird.”

Extracting information from her was like peeling an artichoke one leaf at a time. Brooke turned her head and focused on the blue of Franny’s eyes—a color that was almost identical to her own. “Why did you think the calls were weird?”

“My voice mail picked up a couple of them. I can play them back.”

“Maybe later.” She didn’t want to spend any more time here than absolutely necessary. Either there was reason for concern or not. “For now, just tell me.”

“His voice was whispery.” Her eyes lowered, and she sucked on her lower lip. “He said that little ladies who didn’t do as they were told would be punished.”

The terrible warning—one she’d heard before—set off a screeching alarm in Brooke’s brain. No, no, no, no, I don’t want to remember. “What else?”

“My finger.” She held up her left hand. The little finger had been severed at the second joint. “He asked if I missed my finger.”

“It wasn’t him,” Brooke said firmly. “Martin Hardy is locked away in prison for life. He can never touch you again.”

“That’s what Sloan said. And he promised to check on the other girls, to make sure they were safe. That’s why I wanted you to come over to meet him.” Though tears swamped her eyes, she forced a wobbly smile. “He’s kind of gorgeous, huh?”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, you did. You were blushing.”

Brooke scowled as she rose from the bed and paced on the small portion of floor that wasn’t covered by a jumble of discarded clothing. Recently, she’d experienced a few odd incidents herself. Twice during the past week her car alarm had gone off, even though it was parked in the attached garage. She’d never found an explanation, but it hadn’t seemed particularly threatening until now. “Was there anything other than phone calls?”

“Should I be scared?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s a copycat?” Her voice went high and nervous. “Our case was written up in the newspapers and online. And there’s that movie guy who wants all six of us to get together for a follow-up story.”

“His documentary is never going to happen.” She’d vowed to sue the pants off anybody who tried to take advantage of them. “Until we have some answers, you should stay at my house.”

“Why?”

Not wanting to get Franny riled up with more criticism, Brooke didn’t mention the lack of security in her apartment or the uncurtained windows that were open to public view or the fact that cats could dart in and out at will. This place was unsafe. “If something is truly wrong, we need to stick together.”

The doorbell rang, and she heard Agent Sloan cross the front room. He called out, “I’ll answer it.”

The fact that there was an armed federal agent in the other room reassured her. She pulled Franny to her feet. “Where’s your suitcase?”

“I don’t want to pack. Do I have to?”

“Not a problem. I’ve got everything at my house that you might need.” With a renewed sense of purpose and a laser focus on home, she propelled her friend through the bedroom door. “Grab your keys and let’s get out of here.”