Serving Up Trouble Read online

  That thought made her quiver, but the water slowly turned less warm, then down right chilly. Finally she shut it off, purposely ignoring the deep yearning. It was just that she hadn’t had any sort of physical relationship since Tony, she told herself, and that had been nearly a year now.

  A year without sex. She needed to remedy that.

  Later. For now, sleep, and lots of it. She stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in the lone towel hanging on the rack.

  Definitely laundry day tomorrow. Without a towel for her dripping hair, she combed it back from her face and opened the bathroom door.

  All the steam escaped, and at first she couldn’t see. As the mist dissipated, two things hit her at once. First, the answering machine on her night-stand was blinking like crazy, and she realized she’d for got ten to listen to the messages when she’d gotten home.

  But it was the second thing that rendered her a speech less, trembling mass of fear.

  Her place had been ran sacked. Blankets, pillows and sheets had been tossed every where, her dresser and closet drawers opened and dumped.

  Shock immobilized her. She stood in the doorway of the bathroom, water from her hair dripping down her shoulders and back, still clinging to the towel wrapped around her. Her first instinct was to run back into the bathroom and lock the door. But that wouldn’t do her any good as the door didn’t lock—it never had.

  Grabbing the cell phone, she pushed on the power button and stood in indecision for one horrifying second.

  Was she alone?

  Was someone even now listening to her panicked breathing, just waiting to make their move?

  Oh, God. This couldn’t be happening, not again. She didn’t want to die in a towel, any more than she had wanted to die in a bank robbery.

  Quietly as she could, she backed into the bathroom, pulling the door closed, wincing as it squeaked, desperately wishing she’d bothered to have the lock fixed as she’d been meaning to do for months.

  Somehow she found the wits to crank back on the shower, which would hope fully muffle the sound of her voice. But because it was icy water now, not a drop of hot left, she left it running out of the tub spout as she hopped in and shut the curtain, crouching as far back as she could to avoid the spray.

  She looked down at her cell phone and hoped to God she couldn’t get electrocuted while operating it with her feet in the water. She hit redial, a number she was becoming unfortunately familiar with, and waited with baited breath to be attacked before the dispatcher came on.

  But she got Sam.

  He answered on the first ring with, “Where the hell have you been?” making her realize 911 hadn’t been the last call she’d made after all.

  It had been Sam’s cell phone.

  She let out a shaky laugh, her feet frozen from the water running over them, her little towel that didn’t cover enough chilled skin slipping. “I need you,” she whispered.

  She hadn’t meant to say that. In a million years she wouldn’t have planned to say it.

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” he said right over her. “About those prank calls—”

  “Sam.” She gripped the phone tight and shuddered. “Did you hear me? I need you. I…really need you. Right now.”

  Utter silence. Then in a voice gone soft and regretful, he said, “Angie, you know we can’t. I’m a cop, and you’re a part of the job, and—”

  Okay, damn it, she was not going to cry. So he’d misunderstood. So he’d rejected her out of hand. She’d known he would. “I mean someone broke into my apartment, Sam.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Here.”

  “Here where, Angie?” Now his voice was calm, alert. In control.

  And very professional.

  “In my apartment.”

  He swore. Very unprofessionally.

  And oddly enough, that soothed her more than anything else could have.

  “Get out of there, now.”

  She looked down at her very un dressed self and nearly let out a hysterical laugh. “I…can’t.”

  “Angie, listen to me very care fully. Arm yourself with some thing.”

  “Arm myself?”

  “A vase. A golf club. Some thing.”

  She peeked out the shower curtain and saw a can of hair spray, which she clutched to her chest. “Got it.”

  “Did you call—”

  “Nine-one-one. They’re next on my list.”

  “I’ll do it. Hang tight. I’m on my way.”

  Hang tight. Hanging tight. Knees knocking together, she sank to her knees on the floor of the tub and waited.

  Chapter 6

  I need you.

  Those three little words tore at Sam as he raced to Angie’s apartment. Why the hell hadn’t he just gone over there when he’d gotten her earlier message?

  That she hadn’t answered her phone shouldn’t have stopped him.

  That she scared him shouldn’t have stopped him.

  He drove faster. He was a professional, and as a professional he willingly headed into situations similar to this all the time. It was his job.

  But the cool, calm, professional cop he was inside had vanished and been replaced by a man—a terrified, protective, angry man he hardly recognized.

  Why had this happened to Angie, a woman who deserved hearts and flowers and a white picket fence, not this sheer terror?

  Damn it, she’d already been hurt. Josephine had told him that much. Hurt by a man who’d tried to mold her into his idea of the perfect woman.

  How could someone do that to the vibrant, sweet, open Angie?

  Shame furled in his belly as he remembered his first impression of her. Scattered. Flighty. Naive.

  She wasn’t any of those things.

  Please don’t let her be hurt, he prayed, and vowed right then and there to never add to that hurt of hers. And it wasn’t ego that told him he could do exactly that. Even he couldn’t deny there was some thing…undeniable between them.

  That he’d lost all perspective when it came to her didn’t escape him. He was a man darkly driven and in tensely private. He was a man who had no right to be thinking about hearts and flowers and a white picket fence.

  He was a cop, through and through, and he’d learned the hard way through his mother, then his ex-wife, that no one could get close to him.

  No one ever would.

  How many times had he heard that cops didn’t make good relation ship material?

  Yes, there was more to life than work, he knew this, but he also knew it wasn’t worth the headache. God, please, let her be okay.

  Getting to her place was the longest four minutes in history, but finally he came around the last corner to her building.

  Her entire apartment was ablaze with lights. And no squad car out front, which meant, despite his call to dispatch, she was still alone inside.

  Her front door was ajar. Pulling his gun, he pushed the door all the way open.

  Her book shelf had been dumped, her television and portable CD player broken on the floor. And despite the fact he could hear water running somewhere, there was no sign of life. “Angie?”

  From the small living room he could see into the even smaller kitchen. The cup boards had been opened, emptied. The plants in hand-painted ceramic bins had been purposely slammed to the floor and lay broken among her dishes and glasses.

  He’d seen enough to know that someone had tried to scare her, and undoubtedly it had worked.

  Silent now, with terror chasing chills along his spine, he headed down the hall. Bedroom trashed. And empty.

  The bathroom door was shut, beyond which he could hear running water. With a palm to the door, he shoved it open, gun ready.

  The small room was the only one in the house not messed with. The tub curtain was drawn closed, which was odd, given that he could hear the spout running behind it.

  Battle ready, he yanked the curtain open and steadied his gun.

  Only to drop it to his side a split