“I’m not going anywhere until I’ve seen your face and at least know your name.” Willow said taking a step back from him.
“Wouldn’t matter if you looked at me dead on. I’m still a stranger to you.” He moved up to her, making her step back even further.
His features were so perfect, so symmetrical, that any more delicacy would have made him too beautiful to be a man. His eyes told a different story. The sheer darkness of them rivaled the night. Under those twin pools of midnight, she was no stranger. He raked his gaze over her, appraising her, but not the way a man would check her out, but the way a lover would as if to assess any other damage to her. For an instant, Willow was sure she knew him. Not thinking she reached for him and his gaze dropped to her ace wrapped hand. She shrugged deeper into her shawl before she presented her other hand.
“Willow Daniels.”
The man ignored her hand and walked over to the fireman’s gear jump out bag and snagged it.
“Here’s good enough. No doubt you’ll need to be close.” He cut a path through the men standing around. She picked up the hem of her gown and followed.
“I’m not accustomed to being ignored.”
“You’re also not accustomed to being manhandled. Your father taught you better than that.”
“Wait. What did you just say?” She stopped in her tracks. “Just who do you think…Put my bag down. I can find another place. I.”
The man turned and sized her up once more. Only this time, the annoyance in his face made her fix her shawl over her chest.
“Ms. Daniels, the firemen will be finished soon. Do you want to get out of those clothes or what?” He snatched the door open and rested his shoulder against it. His gaze grew cold and assessing. “You can’t do your job dressed like you’re ready for a waltz. Claire!” He yelled into the lobby, his gaze never leaving her face.
A woman in her 30s with a mixture of blonde and pink spiked hair hurried to the door. Before she could speak, he pushed the bag into her arms, but he held onto the straps.
“She needs a place to change.” He stepped back out of the door and waved his hand to show Willow in.
Willow stormed past him and the woman named Claire further into the club. The dog brushed by both of them as he followed her inside.
Claire turned to follow, but Davis yanked on the strap, making her stop.
“Get Matisse some water—put some crushed ice in it. He likes to chew on the pieces. There’s bacon in the fridge. He might be hungry. Make sure she has everything she needs.”
“Okay Boss. Wait how you know what the dog likes?” Claire said as she glanced over her shoulder back into the club.
“Her father talks about her and her dog all the time.” Davis released the bag and touched her shoulder. “Claire, make an ice pack. She’s hurt. Probably won’t be able to lift her arm in about an hour. Can’t tell if it’s sprained. Whatever she needs please.”
Clair started away again, and Davis called to her.
“And Claire if she asks for my name.” He paused as he mulled over what to say next. What little resolve he had left dwindled with each passing second. Going to her made all the sense in the world. Distancing himself, picking a fight he didn’t want snatched him back to center. “Tell her to ask me herself when she comes back out.”
Claire lifted an eyebrow to question, but he released the door, and walked over to the alley. Layton followed him.
“Willow is right—you don’t look so good. You looked like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Davis doubled over and waited for the waves of rage and confusion to subside.
Who touched her? Who was close enough to put their hands on her and hurt her like that? She knew them. She had to if they were that close. Black tie affair, but where? And why didn’t she recognize him? His eyes were the same. Had it been so long that she’d forgotten what his kisses tasted like?
Davis scrubbed the place between his eyebrows as he tried to visualize his day planner. He hadn’t received any invites lately, had he? The last one he’d attended was back around Christmas and even then, he’d only stayed long enough to accept an award from the Chamber of Commerce that he didn’t want. He’d even endured a photo session with the mayor—who’d managed to slip her phone number to him while taking advantage of a photo op with her husband.
“Woman like her should be home in bed,” Davis said willing his heart to slow down. Finally, he looked up at Layton. “At the very least, tucking in her children.”
Layton eyed him suspiciously.
“Willow isn’t married and there are no children to speak of. She’s the best at what she does. Once the feds got wind of this it was out of the old man’s hands, not that he cares. Anything to get his little girl back this side of the harbor put him over the moon.” He paused. “You still look like fried crap. What’s wrong with you?”
“Not the time or place.” Davis looked back in the direction of the club as he ran a shaky hand through his dreadlocks. “She still shouldn’t be out here in the dark. And she damn sure shouldn’t be in there.” He gestured to the burned-out club. “Nobody should. I mean, what about cave-ins?”
“They’re an occupational hazard. Structure isn’t the best, but Willow can get in there and do what she needs to when the time comes. She’s the foremost expert in these types of things. Better than Chris Eggert and he has years. Willow’s got this whole unit under her. Tech heads from what I hear. Name’s Willow Daniels, she’s Will’s baby girl. You know her?”
“You heard her call me a stranger, didn’t you?” Davis stared off in the direction of the club.
The word Heat with its red florescent cursive script pulsed almost in time with the bass music emanating from the building directly across from Killer Beaux’s making the glass shake. Most of the patrons were out on the street watching the festivities while others departed for better scenery and more drinks.
“What is with you, man?” Layton said looking around at the crowd.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Davis tried to take in a cleansing breath that stopped short of its purpose.
Layton folded his arms over his chest as he gave some silent direction to one of his men. “Try me.”
Davis scrubbed his mouth and ran a shaky hand through his dreadlocks once more. “You asked if I’d seen a ghost.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s not the ghost. I am.”