AS SOON AS they got home, Sam was going to say good-night, and she’d go to her room. He’d do whatever he did out in the house by himself at night. She’d listen to him moving around.
And then, when he went to bed, she’d lie in the dark and think of him lying in the dark, wondering if, even once, he’d lain awake thinking about her, wondering what she slept in.
Chances were that he didn’t think about her tighty-whities equivalent. He hadn’t seen her laundry.
“Thank you for cleaning up, by the way,” he said as they drove along the mostly deserted road. “I was planning to do it this weekend.”
She’d spent Tuesday evening dusting, cleaning bathrooms and floors. “When, Larson? You’re never home during the day. Though you certainly should be. If we don’t get a break soon, I should probably move home.” Even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t her smartest. She needed Sam and his people. At least until they knew who was behind the Gomez warning.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Doctor.”
Her gaze shot toward him at his use of her title. He’d been different all night. She couldn’t figure out how, exactly, and that unsettled her.
“Besides, it’s not you. I always live at the office when I’m on a case. Then I might have five days at home in a row when I’m not.”
She felt a little better but was still on edge.
“And before you think I noticed all the cleaning, I didn’t. Chantel told me about it.”
“She helped.”
“So she said.”
“She tell you you owe her one?”
“Something like that.”
Bloom envied them—Sam and Chantel. They hadn’t known each other well until recently, and yet, they were part of a whole that made them close. The “brotherhood” that included sisters sometimes, too.
Or maybe it was just Chantel being close to Sam that she envied. She had her own sisterhoods. At The Lemonade Stand. In LA. She didn’t need to envy them that part of it...
“You have parents around here, Larson?” It wasn’t like her, using his last name like that, even though she’d heard Chantel do it. But so much of what was going on wasn’t like her. She needed the distance.
“Nope.”
“You’re not from here?” Why she’d always assumed he was she didn’t know, but...
“I grew up a mile from the beach,” he told her. “In a white house with a big deck out back.”
“And your parents didn’t stay?”
“My mom left us when I was four,” he told her. “My father was killed the year after I graduated from the academy.”
Her professional instincts were right on task—telling her that he was masking. Hiding from the emotions that should have accompanied those words. And they were being interrupted by a heart that felt his pain for him.
“Killed how?” If he’d been murdered it would explain why Sam was so dedicated to the job—because he hadn’t been able to save the single parent who’d raised him.
“In the line of duty.”
She watched him in the darkness. “He was a policeman, too?”
“Yes.” He signaled a turn into his driveway and waved at the guard at the gate as he drove through.
He was calm. Normal.
“We’ll need to let Lucy out,” he said as he stopped his SUV next to her Jaguar.
The scene played itself out for her, as though she was her inner voice watching the whole thing. Or someplace outside herself watching.
They were a normal couple, coming home from a night out. Their dog needed to pee and poop. They had a routine. And they’d sleep. Because that was what nights were for.
Bloom got out of the car. She walked with him to the door and went inside.
But she wasn’t going to sleep. She needed...more.
Needed to know how his father had died.
If she knew that, she’d have...something. Something she’d been needing. She’d be...
More.
* * *
HE NEVER SHOULD have taken her to dinner. Sam had figured out the error of his ways ten steps inside the door.
From there it had only gotten worse.
While he didn’t doubt for one second his ability to keep Bloom Freelander safe from her ex-husband, he was beginning to really disappoint himself. He’d told her about his old man.
How could he do something so asinine?
He could just see the questions swirling around in that psychiatrist mind of hers. She’d want to pick him apart. Make a big deal out of something that happened a long time ago.
When he’d long ago let it go.
Lucy did her business at record speed. Probably wanting the treat she knew was waiting inside for her. He encouraged her to run in the yard for a few extra minutes instead. Bloom was supposed to have headed down the hall to bed, leaving him to his painful penis.
A terminal hard-on was better than delving into things that had happened more than a decade ago. Things that were already laid to rest.
One thing he’d learned over the years was that unless there was something forensically significant to be gained, it was wrong to dig up the dead.
He knew for certain there was nothing—forensically or otherwise—to be gained from bringing his old man’s last incident back to life.
Bloom wasn’t going to bed. He could see her in the living room. Sitting on the arm of the couch with a bottle of water in her hand. She’d left the door open for him.
In more ways than one.
He wasn’t heading into the house until she’d closed the bedroom—and any other—door behind her.
When his phone rang, he was almost relieved. It would be work. Maybe a question on an old case. Or a high-profile one they needed him for, in which case they’d send someone out to sit with Bloom for the night.
Not that he wanted bad news for anyone else, but he hoped it was the latter. He needed to get out of there.
At least for an hour or two.
To focus on the only thing that mattered to him personally. His job. Getting the bad guy. Protecting the community.
“Sam, it’s Chantel.”
He’d known as soon as he looked at his phone. And felt his jaw tighten even before he said, “What’s up?”
“Lila McDonald,” she said and he wasn’t sure at first why she’d called him. “The managing director of The Lemonade Stand. Someone knocked out one of the guards on the perimeter of the Stand tonight, around dusk. No one saw anything. But one of the residents reports seeing a guard she didn’t recognize standing not far from where their normal security detail should have been. She noticed her specifically because she had on a beige uniform. They wear green shirts at The Lemonade Stand.”
He stood still, watching Bloom on the couch and willing her to stay there, within his sight.
“The guard she saw was a female? She’s certain of it?”
“More than that, Sam. Baker and Oxley were the responding officers and they showed her our picture from last Friday. She’s certain it was the same woman.”
His mind raced over hundreds of reports—things he’d read over the past few days. “How many of Bloom’s clients are from The Lemonade Stand?”
He’d ask her himself. As soon as he got inside.
“More than half,” Chantel said.
“Those are the ones we need to focus on. Our perp is there.”
“But why use a female guard? How does she play into all of this?”
“I don’t know yet. But I will.”
“Sam? Everything’s under control for tonight. You stay with her. We can start fresh in the morning.”
“The other guard, was he hurt?”
“He’s a she, and no, she’s fine. Better off than Gomez was. She woke up under some trees in a lovely garden, not in a trash bin.”
“But drugged.”
“Hit from behind. Exactly the same MO.”
“It’s not Ken.” The bastard was focused on screwing Bloom in another arena. Using the court system. His text the night of Gomez’s attack had been a coincidence.
“That it’s not Freelander is my assumption, as well.”
“It’s the abuser of one of Bloom’s clients who is currently at The Lemonade Stand. Not a past one.” Clarity was slow in coming. But it was teasing him.
Bloom had two people after her. Not just one.
“I’ll alert Lila to have every one of the Stand’s residents moved to the main house tonight and kept under guard.”
Which was the only way either of them would get any sleep.
He looked at Bloom. Still sitting there. Watching him. Everyone was safe.
For now.
* * *
SOMETHING WAS WRONG. It wasn’t only the late-night phone call that gave Bloom that indication. It was the way Sam had straightened more and more as he’d listened. The way he’d been watching her nonstop.
She sipped from her water bottle. Not really thirsty, but needing something to do.
Nervousness should be descending on her, but it wasn’t. Maybe it was the wine.
She had a feeling her lack of fear might be tied to Sam.
He instilled...confidence.
Because he was such a respected detective. And so dedicated to the job.
So why, when she watched him walk toward her, was she picturing him in those tighty-whities?
Because she was avoiding reality, she told herself. Thinking she was really doing well for coming up with the plausible explanation ahead of her inner voice.
Because she was emotionally healthy. In sync with herself.
“We need to talk,” Sam said before he was even fully inside the door.
Lucy bounded over to Bloom and put her paws on Bloom’s thighs. Burying her face in the red fur, Bloom hugged her. Madge’s arms wrapped around her.
No, Lucy’s did.
And Bloom wished they were Sam’s.
* * *
SAM STOOD IN front of the couch. He was going to remain standing as he gave Bloom the latest development, answered her questions, assured himself she was as fine as she could be and then excused them both to bed. His plan was firm.
And then she didn’t let go of his dog. Or Lucy didn’t let go of Bloom.
He moved toward her, took her hand, sat on the couch and pulled her down next to him.
Then he didn’t know what to do with himself. He knew his job. What to relay. Questions to ask. He just wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. Or with the rest of his person when he found it sitting so closely beside her.
To jump up—which was what he wanted to do—felt...wrong.
So he sat.
“We need to talk,” he said again. And then, giving her no time to react, or comment, relayed his entire conversation with Chantel.
“So what we need to know immediately,” he continued on without pause, “is which of the clients you’re currently seeing is staying at The Lemonade Stand.”
She opened her mouth and he cut her off.
“Make whatever phone calls you need to make, get whatever permissions you need to get, but we need those names, Bloom. Whoever it is could be in danger. Life and death danger. This guy...he’s going after you, after the shelter, and he’s serious.”
She was shaking. Sitting as close as he was, he could feel her.
Odd, he’d never noticed that reaction when it was herself they were talking about.
“And if you can...it would help me to know your opinion as to who you’d guess might be behind this.”
He tripped over his tongue and felt like a complete idiot. He still didn’t move.
She shook her head. He took a breath, ready to start in again, and she stopped him. Not with words. Her hand was on his arm.
She could have been touching him elsewhere. Privately elsewhere. Completely, 100 percent inappropriate.
And he shook his head. His mind was on the case. So focused he was already formulating plans, hearing questions in his mind as he interviewed potential suspects. And his body had just grown hard again.