Chapter Eighteen

 

Eating at the dining room table in the glow of candlelight gave Malia the sense that, for a little while, she could be a normal woman having dinner with a friend. But any minute the phone could ring telling her that the killer had struck again, and this moment would disappear.

After they finished eating and moved to the living room to have their coffee, Malia got a towel and her rabbit. She brushed Ivan in long strokes. “I hope you don’t mind, but this needs to be done every day, and I missed yesterday.”

“Why a rabbit?” Damon asked. “Most people don’t keep rodents as pets.”

“Rodents?” She laughed. “Rabbits have more in common with deer than rodents or cats.”

Damon stared at her, searching her face, as though her pet was the last thing on his mind. “Do you have a date for the reunion dinner dance?”

Malia frowned. “What?” It took a moment for his question to sink in. She brushed the bunny a little too briskly, and he tried to wiggle off her lap. She lightened her touch. “No. I’ll be there, of course, but only in a work capacity. With everyone connected to the reunion gathered in one place, it’s a perfect opportunity for the killer to strike again, and—”

“I’d like to escort you.” Damon’s riveting gaze held her in an inescapable time warp. “I could help. I know what the killer sounds like and—”

“That won’t work again. I know what he sounds like, too,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly. “And while I understand why you want––”

“Don’t say no.” The edge to his tone revealed a compelling need. Their gazes held for a long moment, and something quick and hot passed between them. “We made a good team on the boat. Saved lives. That should count for something.” He looked down at his hands, as though searching for a stronger argument.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “This won’t be date night for me. I’ll be busy every second.”

“Don’t make me party-crash. I’m going, invited or not.”

His words didn’t match the raw vulnerability in his face. Her heart pounded so loud she wondered if he could hear it, and when his gaze met hers, everything stilled within, as if her narrowly-focused world had changed irrevocably. She squared her shoulders. “I could lock you up.”

“You could, but one more set of eyes might be what tips the scales in your favor.”

The sharp desperation in his voice negated his point. Still, the hypnotizing quality to his piercing gaze made it impossible for her to refuse him. “I suppose one more set of eyes won’t hurt. I’ll leave a ticket for you at the door.”

“What time shall I pick you up?”

“Watch my lips. This isn’t date night, and I may need my car.”

He studied her as though looking for a weakness. “Ever take a night off and not think like a cop?”

“I take nights off now and then, but I never forget to think like a cop.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d really taken a whole night off. Even her studies and exercise program had to do with the job. But he didn’t need to know that.

“I’m worried about you, Malia. Can’t you see that the killer has zeroed in on you?”

A caring note in Damon’s voice made her examine him more carefully. Her pulse raced. “I’m counting on it,” she said. “Next time I’ll be ready for him.”

“You think a gun and your cop attitude is all it takes to keep you alive?”

She brushed the bunny with long, even strokes, calming herself. “I’m counting on it.” Then with finality in her tone, she said, “No more talk about the case. Tell, me, Damon, have you always wanted to be a writer?”

He gave her a hard, long look, then shrugged. “Yeah. Since my mom read Gulliver’s Travels to me when I was about five. But I had to live a while before I felt like I had something to say that people might actually want to read.”

“You’re lucky. Some people never figure out what they want out of life.”

He laughed. “Luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted, but getting what you have, and being smart enough to see it’s what you really wanted all along.”

Malia shook her head. “And that applies, how?”

“I’ve only recently started figuring it out. But what about you? What made you decide to become a cop?”

Malia frowned. He had maneuvered the conversation back to her life as a cop. Maybe if she told him a little about that life-changing night when a man slipped into the bedroom she shared with her twin, he’d understand. Although no one else did. She never talked about Melody, and she wasn’t sure she could. But the depth of interest in his eyes made her want to try. “My twin ... Melody ... was grabbed right out our bedroom.” Even after all these years, Malia’s throat constricted; she took a long, deep breath before continuing. “Several days later, the police found her – she’d been raped, then brutally killed.”

Damon’s face didn’t reflect surprise, only compassion; he moved closer and took the bunny from her hands and put him on the floor.

Tension tightened her neck muscles. Damon gathered her hands in his large, warm ones. Tears threatened; sympathy got to her every time. She yanked her hands away and sat up straighter. Moments of agonizing silence hung between them, while she struggled to compose herself. Finally, in a tight voice, she managed to say, “They never caught the guy. No one in the family believed the police tried hard enough. I was just a kid and couldn’t do anything, but I vowed someday I’d put men like that behind bars.”

Damon’s only response was a long exhale as though he hadn’t taken a breath during her whole story.

“You didn’t act stunned,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Auntie told me about Melody, but hearing it from you...” He shook his head, his face filled with empathy, sadness. “I’m so sorry, Malia. So damned sorry.” He was looking at her as though he’d read her soul and knew her secret guilt. That it should have been her.

****

Damon’s heart pounded. Like the lightning that flashed beyond the living room window and scrawled the night sky with zigzagging bolts, a tortured expression flashed across Malia’s face. Not thinking beyond his desire to ease her pain, he drew her into his arms and kissed her. She was warm and soft where a woman should be and fit in his arms as though she’d been made for them. He closed his eyes. She tasted like coffee and vanilla. He loved coffee, loved vanilla, loved the fragrance of honeysuckle and rainwater in her hair. What started out as a gesture of compassion turned to a need so strong that, at first, Damon didn’t realize that she was trying to push him away. With a groan, he started to back off and was stunned when she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him closer, kissing him with needy, yet incredibly soft and pliant lips. Heat surged through him. He raked the thick mane back from her face, reveling in the silkiness of it. She was magnificent. He longed to untie the belt of her terry robe, look at her nude body, explore it with reverence, then shrug off his own terry shackles and lower himself onto her smooth skin.

Pressing her into the soft cushions, he kissed her neck, her throat. She whimpered in bliss, heightening his throbbing desire. Their knotted belts dug into him. He ached to untie the puny barriers, brush aside the nubby cotton, and press feverish skin to feverish skin. He caressed Malia’s arms and back, thinking of the other places he wanted to touch, her breasts, her thighs. A blast of need ratcheted his desire up another notch.

The phone rang. They both ignored it, impassioned by the heat of one another’s mouths, one another’s exploring hands.

When the answering machine picked up, Ku’s loud voice boomed into the room. “Hate to bother you on the night of Kiki’s funeral,” he said, “but this is important. Call me ASAP.”

Damon groaned. The night of Kiki’s funeral. God, what was he thinking? With their close relationships to Kiki, they would regret it.

He released Malia, and she scooted back from him trembling. The glazed-over look of desire lingered for several heartbeats, and then her eyes flashed fire. “I have to call Ku. But I need to clear this up. Asking you here was a mistake.” Her swollen lips had darkened to a deep plum from the pressure of their kiss. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “This was my fault. I thought I could handle an evening alone with you. Obviously, I can’t.”

“I take full responsibility,” he said. “Next time—”

She shot to her feet, her eyes large. “There can’t be a next time!”

He laughed without humor and stood. “On that ominous note, I’ll put on my clothes and go sleep in my car until the storm lets up.”

A small, wistful smile tugged at her lips. “Great last line,” she said.

“Would’ve been, but I can’t let it be my last. You’ll still leave a ticket at the door for me, right?”

****

The day passed slowly for Al Lee as he prepared for the big event. Finally, he was ready. The sun hadn’t yet started its westward dip. He’d have preferred darkness to the sunny brightness, but he couldn’t wait. The doors into the bar area outside the hotel’s ballroom where the reunion dinner dance was to be held were about to open, and his dear classmates would pour in, full of reminiscing … and full of themselves.

With a cigarette dangling from his mouth and sweating in the long-sleeved waiter’s jacket, he dragged the doubled yard bag from the alcove at the back of the kitchen to the alley. He moved quickly past the cop stationed at the exit, and gritting his teeth, hoisted the green plastic-coffin onto the rim of the Dumpster. The weight shifted, and he dropped it. He decided to leave the bag on the ground next to the bin. The uniformed cop looked at Al with mild curiosity. Keeping his disguised face turned away from the cop, Al nodded to him. It would’ve been funny if the pig had helped him lift the bag.

Al clenched and unclenched his fists to relax fingers still taut and pulsating from squeezing the waiter’s thick neck. Remembering the man’s last gurgles, Al smiled and finished the cigarette the waiter had started.