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CHAPTER 22
Kara double-checked the lock on the bathroom door of Tate’s condo, then stepped into his small shower, where hot water was already running and steaming up this small space, a corner of his high-ceilinged loft. The needle-like spray felt good, relaxing muscles that had been tense ever since she’d spied Merritt’s body, then nearly been given a heart attack with her brother appearing in her car. After that, there had been the accident and waking up in the hospital where she escaped and now was . . . was alone, naked, in the home of a man she barely knew and didn’t trust at all.
Good one, Kara. Now what? You’re trapped here without a phone, or a car, or even a damned friend you can call. There’s Aunt Faiza.“No!” she said aloud, startling herself.Well, then, how about the police. You need to talk to them, explain about finding Merritt’s body and how Jonas stowed away in the Jeep and how the semi came at you, sliding sideways.
She blinked. Thought of the driver of the truck and her heart twisted. She knew the accident wasn’t her fault and Jonas would back her up, but he was a convicted felon, believed to be a liar and a stone-cold killer, not exactly the best witness, and there were the vodka bottles that would be found in the wreckage, tiny little bits of evidence that she might have been under the influence.
But certainly they’d checked her blood in the hospital . . . God, it was all so complicated.
“Hey!” She heard two sharp raps on the door. “You okay in there?” Tate called through the panels.
“Yeah, yeah. Just a minute.” She used his shampoo, lathering and rinsing, then applying a conditioner that smelled decidedly masculine, but really, who cared? Certainly not her and not Wesley Tate.
Rotating her shoulders and neck, wincing slightly at the pain that lingered, she warned herself about him again. Sure, he’d stirred up the fans at the hospital so she could make good her escape, but he was still the same guy who put himself in harm’s way as she backed out her driveway, all for the sake of getting her story, an exclusive interview. As she turned off the water, the pipes creaking slightly, she reminded herself of that important fact. Oh, sure, he could be charming and helpful, and was handsome in that rugged, I-don’t-give-a-damn way, but that wasn’t good enough. Not anymore. She’d always been interested in the totally wrong type of man for her. It was her romantic MO and probably had roots in the damned tragedy she’d suffered through.
Dr. Zhou hadn’t said as much, but it didn’t take a psychologist to connect those particular dots.
And she wasn’t going to end up depending on him. Uh-uh.
No way was she going to stay here even though she’d agreed to use his condo as a landing place, a spot where she could shower, change, and get her head together. Tate was, as they say, the only port in a storm.
A temporary port, she reminded herself as she dried her hair with a towel he’d provided, then after swiping away the moisture that had collected on the mirror mounted over a small, utilitarian sink, checked the stitches on her forehead. The flesh surrounding them was tender, but she’d survive, and she could part her hair and hide the tiny would-be scar that was probably forming. Makeup would help on her face, but she was stuck with the long bruise that had developed across her shoulder and down her chest compliments of her seat belt.
That discoloration would take weeks to fade.
Nothing she could do about that, and she didn’t have time to think about it as she pulled on a pair of clean jeans and an oversize sweatshirt. Then, still rubbing her hair briskly with the towel, she stepped barefoot into the main living area, a wide room with soaring ceilings, exposed pipes and windows that stretched along one wall and offered a killer view of the river where it bent back on itself.
She reminded herself again, this wasn’t a place to stay. Not at all. Just a quick landing spot where she could hopefully get her head together and screw up her courage so she could talk to the police.
When she was ready.
Whenever the hell that might be.
Rhapsody, though, had made herself right at home, even settling onto Tate’s bed with its navy-blue quilt and military-tight corners.
As she dried her hair, Kara thought of her own messy bed with its wrinkled duvet and wine bottles left on the nightstands in a cozy if messy bedroom. This huge, stark room was certainly at odds with that.
Tate didn’t seem to mind that the dog had pawed his pillows into a different position before curling into a ball and staring at him as he worked. He’d ditched the jacket and flannel shirt, but was still in a long-sleeve black T and battered jeans, his hair unruly. Leaning over the table, a cell phone jammed to his ear, he was staring at an open laptop, his eyes scanning whatever he was reading on the screen.
He didn’t look up but must’ve sensed she was in the room because he motioned with his free hand toward the kitchen area, where she spied a coffeemaker complete with pods for different flavors and types of coffee or tea or hot chocolate.
But no bottle of wine had been left open to breathe.
No bottle of vodka or whiskey set on a bar with an ice bucket and chilled mixers at the ready.
She told herself she didn’t need a drink, but a tiny voice inside her head insisted she was a liar.
Just a taste,it urged.
Come on.
Something to calm your nerves, that’s all.
No big deal.
However, there was no evidence of any liquor visible even though she took another quick look and scanned the shelves and countertops, mentally calculating where, if he had alcohol, he might stash it.
Since she couldn’t very well root through his cupboards, she settled on black coffee and eavesdropped as she took one of the cups set out, selected the strongest blend and pushed a button. As the water gurgled, steamed and streamed into the cup, she heard Tate’s end of the conversation. “Yeah, okay . . . text the addresses and phone numbers . . . That’ll work . . . We’re heading over to Margrove’s place . . . I know, but I called. She’s got copies. Digital . . . uh-huh . . . don’t worry; she’s no fan of the police.” A pause, then, “Yeah. Fine. Just make sure the addresses are still valid. Yeah . . . tonight. We need to get a jump on this ASAP . . . What?” A beat. “Right, right. Start with anyone still around. Face-to-face is best.”