Tracks.
Cars.
No killer.
River turned his eyes slightly to the right and waited for the next jolt.
Storm lights exploded in the distant skies, this way and that, but not close enough to cut through the mess and light the immediate area.
Thunder roller over Denver.
A chill worked its way into River’s bones. He was getting stiff. That wasn’t good. He needed to be limber. He rolled over to get the circulation flowing. Just as he got back to his stomach, the world shook with a violent explosion and lit up brighter than daylight.
No human shapes appeared.
River saw nothing he shouldn’t.
Maybe tonight wasn’t the night.
Or maybe it was the night but the attack was something different than River thought. Could the guy have anticipated River coming in on foot?
River crawled out from under the boxcar. The storm pounded him with a wild force but he paid no attention. Every fiber of his being was focused on getting to January. He needed to know she was all right. He needed to know he hadn’t been outsmarted.
Ten steps into the open, lightning exploded.
The yard lit up.
Every inch of River’s face and body lit up.
He dove.
Gravel cut into his face.
The gun flew out of his hand.
70
London was ripe for the taking, that’s what the whole shower-in-sight thing was all about. Wilde could swing up into her bed right now and take her like she’d never been taken in her life. He could turn her into a sweaty, lust-soaked animal. It wouldn’t blow his cover. No one from outside would be able to tell.
The problem was Secret.
She was in his blood.
His blood needed to be sure he didn’t screw things up. An hour of pleasure, no matter how pleasurable that pleasure might be, wasn’t worth turning Secret into someone who trusted the wrong man.
No.
No.
No.
If things didn’t work out with Secret, it wouldn’t be because of anything Wilde did.
That’s what his brain said.
Still, the rest of his body couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to swing up top.
“Are you still there?”
The voice came from above.
It was laced with erotic vibration.
“Yeah.”
“If the floor’s too hard, you can come up here. There’s room.”
Wilde exhaled.
“The floor’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Go to sleep.”
“I can’t,” London said. “I’m too wound up.”
“Try.”
The storm raged against the windows, rattling them to the edge of shattering. In other circumstances, Wilde would have nestled into the MG with a couple of beers and let the weather beat down on the rag inches above his head. Tonight, however, all he could do was try to hear over it, listening for sounds of intrusion.
Something seemed off.
He grabbed the gun and stood up.
“I’m going to check the house,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“Hey, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, what?”
She handed him the empty wine glass. “Can you fill this back up for me? The bottle’s in the fridge-”
He hesitated.
It was a bad idea.
He didn’t feel like arguing though.
“Sure.”
Downstairs, the doors were shut and locked, as were the windows. There were no signs of entry. Outside, nothing showed that shouldn’t. No menacing silhouettes lurked in the shadows.
Wilde filled the wineglass, headed upstairs and took his place back on the floor. The carpet was harder than he remembered.
London propped against the headboard and nursed the wine in silence.
“He’s coming tonight,” she said.
Wilde frowned.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because the storm’s too perfect.”
London set the glass on the nightstand and snuggled into the covers.
“Good night.”
Time passed.
The storm intensified.
Wilde listened to it as London’s breathing got deeper and heavier, then he shut his eyes just to rest them for a second. A slap of thunder forced them open. He listened for sounds, found none, and closed them again.
