Within an hour, Raven rushed home via the neighborhood grocery store—a list of ingredients filling her brain. Before leaving, she heard Tony arrange to hitch a ride back to the station house with one of the crime-scene techs.
Beyond the normal anxiety surrounding her unsteadiness in the kitchen, her pulse raced at the thought of Christian in her home. She'd been trained to defend herself against larger opponents, scored well at the firing range, was proficient in multiple weapons. Yet the idea of this man crossing her threshold, being invited to share her personal space, unnerved her beyond reason. After all, she was no Martha Stewart.
'I made you a promise, Logan. I know where the pretty detective lives.' Vinnie beamed as he spoke into his cell phone, pleased he'd finally satisfied McBride on the subject of Raven Mackenzie. 'And you were right. It looks like she lives alone.'
With the heater in his truck faltering, he recited the address, giving the man a general sense of the location. The small bungalow was situated northwest of Wrigley Field in a quiet neighborhood of neatly trimmed lawns, flower boxes, pruned hedges, and unattached garages set behind cyclone fences. He imagined the quiet suburb would be thrown off its axis when Logan McBride arrived.
'You think she'd be receptive to a male caller?' McBride asked. 'On such short notice?'
Logan's soft laughter sent shivers down Vinnie's spine. He'd been on the receiving end of the man's idea of humor. A small part of him felt sorry for the woman. Fortunately, this weakness was short-lived, as he suspected the detective might soon be.
'She's just been grocery shopping. I'm sure she's up for some entertaining,' he replied. If Logan hadn't been in the picture, Vinnie would have considered paying a social call himself. His blood churned south, giving rise to his show of bravado.
'Good job, Vin. Now get out of there before you draw flies.' Logan ended the call with his usual lack of protocol.
Shifted into gear, his old truck rumbled a protest when it lurched forward. Vinnie grinned, content he'd done what he could to please McBride. He served up the good detective on a platter, ripe for the taking. After tonight, Detective Raven Mackenzie would understand what it felt like to have the Devil cross her path.
As for himself, he wasn't sure if he considered his involvement with Logan a curse or a questionable stroke of good fortune. But he was willing to share the experience.
Dusk resisted the impending darkness with the last-ditch effort of the sun, spewing tendrils of pale orange across a surging night sky. The sheer draperies of his bedroom window flushed in pastel. Yet in the dying light, his sense of urgency mounted. Christian rationalized that the tension stemmed from his habitual reaction to the coming darkness, understanding and accepting the daily occurrence. But his stress was exacerbated by his concern for Fiona. He stopped his pacing and pulled back the fabric, hoping the view of the lingering sunlight would calm him.
But two of his security personnel, dressed in black uniforms and carrying weapons, patrolled along a pathway outside his bedroom window. The reality of his predicament made painfully clear. Despite the beauty surrounding him, the threat of violence existed. It was his life. With a heavy sigh, he let the drape fall. Turning, he stared at the phone on his nightstand.
Christian dreaded what he had to do.
It went against years of trust, built by a bond forged from a fragile and broken childhood. But he couldn't put it off any longer. He had to find Fiona, retrace her movements. Slowly, he moved toward his bed and sat on the edge of his mattress, imagining the sound of her voice. Still, he had no idea what she'd say.
How was she connected to Mickey? To him, she'd admitted a link to the man. If the police discovered that Mickey had killed Charles Dunhill, would the next logical leap be that Fiona had been involved in her husband's death? And what did all this have to do with his family's massacre?
Dread filled him, jarring bile in his stomach. Dialing the number to Dunhill Security, he waited for someone to answer.
'Security. Edwards speaking.'
'Hey, Bill. This is Christian. Any luck on that special assignment I gave you?'
Christian had known Bill Edwards for a number of years. Trusting the man to be discreet, he had asked him to do a preliminary search on Fiona's whereabouts. The connection between Mickey and the Dunhill armory had instigated his initial concern. And after seeing the place, he felt glad he'd assigned the job to this man.
'Not yet, Christian. But something of interest just came up. I was getting ready to call you.'
'Oh? What's up?' He wasn't sure he could handle another complication.
'Someone representing themselves as Dunhill Security has been asking about Mrs. Dunhill. Apparently, they're attempting to do the very thing you've asked from me—trying to find her.' The grave tone of his voice only mirrored Christian's apprehension. 'Whoever it is has contacted the hangar and some of her favorite haunts in Europe. I've determined they came up empty so far, but maybe their luck will turn. What do you want me to do?'
He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Someone else searched for Fiona. It took him a moment to compose himself enough to speak.
'Keep looking for her. When she wants to hide, she's a damned ghost. I just wish she wasn't so good at it.'
'I'll keep in touch, Christian. You'll know something the second I do.'
'Thanks. And Bill, keep this assignment between you and me.'
'I know, boss. Hang in there.'
Without fanfare, the call ended. But he was more worried now than before. Why had Fiona run? And who trailed her now? The part that hurt the worst was her lack of faith in him to help her. He owed her his life. And she hadn't trusted him with her own.
Rising from the bed, he yanked the shirttail from his slacks and unbuttoned his shirt, heading for the bathroom and a long shower. He wanted to talk to Fiona before committing to help the police. But now, his surrogate mother would have to trust his judgment on the matter. The old police files on the assassination of Charles Dunhill might hold the key to this whole mystery—or be the last nail in Fiona's coffin. He had no choice. With someone after Fiona, his instincts told him to push ahead.
And after the way he'd treated the beautiful Raven Mackenzie, he'd have to coerce her into helping him. The thought of pressing her for help didn't entirely displease him.
Steam from the shower billowed in the small bathroom and blurred the mirror in a matter of minutes. Out of habit, Raven cracked the door an inch to let the moisture escape before she stepped in. Her old home had its bothersome idiosyncrasies, offset by the treasured memories crammed into every nook and cranny. Normally more frugal with her hot water, Raven made this concession to relax after a long day. Slipping her fluffy white terry-cloth robe from her shoulders, she hung it on a hook and slid open the opaque shower door. After stepping into the bathtub, she closed the door and breathed in thick steam.
A low gasp escaped her lips when the water doused her skin, reddening the surface. As she stuck her head directly under the hot blast, the water tingled her scalp and massaged her body with its scorching pressure. She closed her eyes and let the steady stream pummel her. Hot water poured down her face and shoulders.
Spaghetti sauce was set to a low simmer on her stove. Bubbling pockets of tomato sauce infused fresh herbs all through the ingredients. A simple salad cooled in her refrigerator. All that remained was to cook the pasta and to pop garlic bread under the broiler.
Her father had taught her the sauce recipe, handed down from a mother who died when she was too young to cherish any real remembrances. It had been her father's way of sharing the woman he loved. So with every
