Drop Dead Gorgeous Read online

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  Wyatt!

  His name flashed in my brain and I paused in my woman-hunt to fish in the tote for my cell phone. This time, damn it, I did nick my finger on the knife. Snarling, I stood the knife, blade down, in one of the inside pockets—why hadn’t I thought to do that before? Oh, yeah, preoccupied with trying to escape a burning building—and stuck my finger in my mouth. When I pulled my finger out to examine the damage, there was nothing but a thin hairline of red on the pad of my finger, so no great harm done.

  I found the cell phone, and when I flipped it open the little window lit up and told me I’d missed four incoming calls. They were probably all from Wyatt, because someone would either have recognized the address and called him, or he’d been sleeping with the police radio beside him. I dialed his cell.

  “Blair!” he yelled furiously as a greeting. “Why haven’t you been answering your fucking phone?”

  “I didn’t hear it ring!” I yelled back. My voice was so hoarse I didn’t recognize myself. “A house fire and all the alarms make a lot of noise, you know! Besides, I was busy climbing out the upstairs window.”

  “God almighty,” he said, sounding shaken. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m all right. My condo’s a goner, though.” I looked across the street at the scene of destruction and a horrible realization sank in. “Oh, no! Your truck!”

  “Never mind the truck, I’m insured. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m sure.” I understood why he was double-checking. With my recent history, he was no doubt expecting me to be in critical condition. “Other than cutting my finger on the knife in my purse, I don’t think I have any injuries at all.”

  “Find a police officer and stick to him like glue,” he ordered. “I’m almost there, another five minutes at the most. I’m betting this isn’t an accident, and the stalker may be right behind you.”

  Startled, I spun around and stared right into the face of an elderly gentleman who had been standing behind me, watching the fire with wide-eyed interest and horror. He jumped back in surprise.

  “That’s why I have the knife,” I said, fury roaring through me again. “When I find that bitch—” The old man’s eyes got even bigger and he began backing away.

  “Blair, put the knife away and do only what I told you to do,” he barked. “That’s an order.”

  “You weren’t in that fire,” I began in hot defense of myself, but the sound of dead air told me he’d disconnected.

  Phooey on him; I wanted some face-to-face time with her. I closed my phone, dropped it in the tote, and resumed my weaving pattern through the crowd of onlookers, staring at their clothes instead of their faces. Men were automatically not in the running. She might not be here. She might have left immediately after throwing her firebomb or whatever through the window, but I’d read that killers and arsonists often hung around afterward, mingling with the crowd of onlookers, so they could enjoy the uproar they’d caused.

  Someone touched my arm and I whirled. Officer DeMarius Washington stood there. We’d gone to school together, so we knew each other from way back.

  “Blair, are you all right?” he asked, his dark face tense under his baseball cap.

  “I’m fine,” I said for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, though my voice was becoming more raspy by the second.

  “Come with me,” he said, taking me by the arm, his head swiveling as he constantly looked around. Wyatt must have radioed in, told them I was in danger. With a sigh, I gave in. I couldn’t very well hunt for a psycho with DeMarius at my side, because he was sure to prevent me from gutting her. Cops are weird that way.

  He led me away from the crowd, toward a patrol car. I tried to be careful where I stepped, because there was so much debris on the ground and I was barefoot, but with him pulling on my arm I didn’t always have a choice. My left foot came down on something sharp and I yelped with pain; DeMarius whirled, his hand moving toward his service weapon as his gaze darted around, looking for the threat.

  “What happened?” He had to half yell, because of the din.

  “I stepped on something.”

  He looked down and for the first time noticed my bare feet. He said, “Oh, hell,” which wasn’t very professional of him, but like I said we’ve known each other forever—since we were six, in fact. I took another step and yelped again as soon as my left foot touched down. Held upright by his grip, I sort of hopped around as I lifted my foot to peer at it. All I could tell was that the bottom of my foot was dark; God only knew what I’d stepped in.

  “Hold on,” said DeMarius, and he half carried, half hustled me to the patrol car. Opening one of the rear doors, he set me down sideways on the seat, with my legs and feet on the outside, and took his flashlight from his belt as he hunkered down.

  The flashlight revealed that the bottom of my foot was red, and wet. A sliver of glass protruded from just behind the ball. “I’ll get the first-aid kit,” he said. “Sit tight.”

  He returned with both a first-aid kit and a blanket, which he draped around my shoulders. I hadn’t been aware of being cold; there’s something about fighting for your life that throws you into high gear. Now the early-morning chill was sinking in as my adrenaline level dropped, and for the first time I was aware of my bare arms and shoulders. All I was wearing was my usual tank top—no bra, of course—and thin drawstring pajama pants that hung low on my hips and showed my belly button. Not what I would have chosen to escape a burning building in, but I hadn’t had time to change clothes; I’d barely managed to rescue my wedding shoes.

  Those were now the only shoes I owned.

  I pulled the blanket tight around me while I twisted to stare at my burning home. The urgency of escaping had taken priority over everything else, but now I realized that I had lost everything: all my clothing, all my furniture, my dishes, my cookware, my stuff.

  DeMarius whistled sharply, and I looked up to see him waving a medic over. I said, “It’s just a little sliver of glass, I can probably pull it out with my fingernails.”

  “Sit tight,” he said again.

  So the medic came over, and DeMarius held the flashlight while the guy—he was neither Dwayne nor Dwight—poured antiseptic over my foot, then extracted the sliver using a pair of tweezers. He slapped a gauze pad over the puncture wound, wound some of the crinkly stuff that sticks to itself around my foot, and said, “You’re good to go.”

  “Thanks,” said DeMarius, leaning down to scoop my feet and legs into the car; then he closed the door.

  For a minute I just sat there, suddenly so exhausted all I could do was slump against the seat, glad to be out of the cool air, not able yet to absorb the complete enormity of the fire and everything it meant.

  I watched a small black car approach the entrance to the condos, roll to a stop as a patrolman held up a hand to stop, then a familiar face appear in the window as it slid down. The patrolman stepped back and waved him forward, and Wyatt zipped my sharp little convertible past him, parking it on the grass a safe distance from the fire. As he unfolded his long legs and got out, I reached for the door handle so I could get out and go meet him. Suddenly I wanted nothing in this world so much as I wanted his arms around me.

  My searching fingers found only smoothness. No door handle, no window control, nothing.

  Well, duh. This was a patrol car. The whole idea was that whoever was put back here wouldn’t be able to get out.

  I knocked on the window. DeMarius turned and looked at me, his eyebrows raised. “Let me out,” I mouthed, and pointed toward Wyatt. He turned and looked, and I swear an expression of relief crossed his face. He signaled Wyatt, Wyatt saw him—and me—and my dearly beloved gave a single sharp nod of his head before turning away.

  Realization left me speechless. Wyatt had radioed in and told them to put me in a squad car and hold me there. That sneak. That complete and utter sneak! How dare he? Okay, so I’d been stomping around barefoot, ar