C.J. Carmichael - Seattle after Midnight

“I’m here, Georgia. I wanted to say that I really liked that song. Can’t you play just one more tune?”

“I’m sorry, but we’re out of time tonight—”

“Well, is it possible to see you after the show?”

For the first time that night, possibly all day, Pierce smiled. The guy had nerve, at least.

“After the show there is no more Georgia. Like Cinderella’s stagecoach, I turn into a pumpkin. Come again tomorrow, Seattle. When the midnight hour strikes, you’ll know where to find me.”

Georgia shared a final bit of poetry before signing off. Pierce had no interest in the radio after that, preferring silence to the insipid programming that followed Seattle after Midnight.

He leaned his head against the seat rest, his eyes burning from fatigue. Logic told him to start his car and go home. But he didn’t. He eyed the outdoor parking lot next to the KXPG office tower and wondered which of the handful of vehicles sitting there at five in the morning might belong to Georgia.

Not one of the cars seemed to fit. The dark sedan was too conservative, the lemon-colored VW too bubbly…

Oh, for Pete sake. Just go home, would you?

He didn’t. And fifteen minutes later his tenacity was rewarded as a woman, who could only be Georgia, dashed out of the building.

She wore a knee-length trench coat and held something that might have been a briefcase over her head to protect her hair from the rain. She was shorter than he’d imagined. And slightly more rounded, but it was hard to tell for sure with that bulky coat. In the glare of an outdoor streetlamp, her hair glowed like soft gold.

The security guard had held the outer door open for her and continued to watch after her as she raced for her car. Pierce opened his window in time to hear her call out, “Thanks, Monty. I’m fine—really.”

The security guard waved, then returned to his post inside the building. No sooner had the door swung shut behind him, than Georgia let out a scream.

GEORGIA LAMONT felt like a fool for screaming. It was only a rose tucked into the handle of her car, but when her fingers had closed over it, she’d felt one of the thorns dig deep into her thumb. She supposed she’d already been a little emotionally sensitive thanks to that last caller.

Over the years she’d been in this business, both here and in South Dakota, she’d developed a sixth sense about the people who phoned in to talk to her. She could tell when someone was a bit off, or had been drinking, or was just the obnoxious sort. But Jack tugged at her heartstrings. She intuited deep sorrow in him. Too much sorrow for someone so young.

Georgia brought her injured thumb to her mouth and tasted blood, then froze at the sound of footsteps slapping on pavement, moving fast, moving closer.

A quick glance toward the street revealed a tall man in dark clothes running toward her. He didn’t seem to care about the rain, which drizzled down his hair and face, unchecked.

She thought of screaming again. But the building’s security guard would never hear her out here. No time to unlock the door and scramble inside her car—she’d have to face him….

The man, as if sensing her fear, stopped a good ten feet away from her. “Are you okay? I heard you scream.”

He was coming to save her. Not attack her. Fear turned to relief, then to intrigue. Who was he? What was he doing here?

“I’m fine, thanks. Just cut my finger.” She nodded toward her door, where the rose was still jammed under the handle.

He stared at her a moment, then smiled. “Sorry. That voice. It’s just strange to hear you in person.”

He had an attractive smile, but there was a bleakness in his eyes that suggested he didn’t use it often. “Do you listen to my show?”

She wondered what he was doing out on the streets of Seattle at this time of night…actually, morning. Something about the way he carried his body made her think he might be a cop, but she’d seen the car he’d sprinted from and it wasn’t a patrol car.

“I listen most nights,” he said.

Lots of people told her this, and she always felt complimented. But this man’s confession gave her a different, much more unsettling reaction.

Ignoring her throbbing thumb, she held out her hand. “I’m Georgia Lamont.”

“Pierce Harding.” He stepped closer, took her hand tenderly and let it go almost immediately. “I see you’re juggling a few things. Can I help you into your car?”

When she hesitated, he dug a business card out of his wallet. “I’m a private investigator,” he said. “I was just on my way home from an assignment, when I happened to hear your scream.”

How had he heard her scream from his car? Surely his window hadn’t been open in the rain? She tucked his card into the pocket of her trench coat and looked at him thoughtfully.

He was still maintaining a respectable distance, his manner completely nonthreatening. He was also slowly, but surely, becoming drenched. As was she.

She turned back to the car door and that silly flower jammed in the handle.

“Should I remove that for you?” Pierce Harding offered again.

She nodded. “Thanks, that would be great.”

It took him only a moment. The thorns seemed to have no effect on him.

He looked up at her with surprise on his face. “There’s a note.”

“Really?” She hadn’t seen anything earlier.

He unraveled something from the stem, then handed her a piece of paper, punctured in one place by a thorn. Then he removed the keys from her hand and unlocked the door and held it open. With the added light from the interior of her car, she could read the message easily.

Georgia—A dozen roses…then you’ll be mine.

“Oh, my.” She thought of the guy who’d called her tonight. Jack. He’d asked to see her after her show. Was this from him?

“From your boyfriend?” Pierce asked the question casually, but his dark eyes narrowed as he waited for her response.

She didn’t have a boyfriend, but she wouldn’t tell him that. Not yet, anyway. There was something very attractive, almost compelling, about this man. But he was, after all, a virtual stranger.

“This is probably from one of my listeners. Kind of sweet of him to come out in all this rain,” she said, trying to convince herself that it was, that there was nothing sinister in the phrase then you’ll be mine.

Pierce Harding brushed a sheen of water from his face. “Seems a little suspect to me. How do you think he knew which car was yours?”

“A lucky guess?” It occurred to her that for all she knew, the rose had been left by this very man in front of her. In fact, he could be the guy who’d called himself Jack.

But no. Jack had sounded young and insecure, nothing like this self-assured stranger.

“Maybe,” Pierce allowed. He stepped aside and gestured for her to get into the car. After a brief hesitation, that’s what she did, dropping her case to the passenger seat, along with the rose and the note.

Pierce leaned inside to pass her the keys. His hand was wet and cold, just like hers. She smiled up at him briefly, uncertainly.

“You’re soaked,” he said. “You’d better get going. Drive carefully, Ms. Lamont.”

He stood back for her to close the door, but she didn’t. Instead she peered up at him. He looked even taller from this vantage point. She noted his long, lean legs, and broad, powerful shoulders. If he’d intended to hurt her, he could have done so long ago.

Besides, she was new in town and working nights made it difficult to meet people. How was she going to broaden her horizons if she wasn’t willing to take the odd chance or two?

One thing she knew for sure. If she drove off now, she would never see Pierce Harding again. Somehow she couldn’t stand the thought of that.