Night Shift (22 page)

He turned her to him. “You do.”

“I never really believed that things could last. But I was beginning to, before this. I’m not sure I can belong here, or anywhere, until I can stop being afraid. Boyd.” She lifted her hands to his face. Intense, she studied him, as if to memorize every plane, every angle. “I’m not just talking about belonging to a place, but to a person. I care for you more than I’ve cared for anyone in my life but Deborah. And I know that’s not enough.”

“You’re wrong.” He touched his lips to hers. “It’s exactly enough.”

She gave him a quick, frustrated shake of her head. “You just won’t listen.”

“Wrong again. I listen, Cilla. I just don’t always agree with what you say.”

“You don’t have to agree, you just have to accept.”

“Tell you what—when this is over, you and I will have a nice, long talk about what we both have to accept.”

“When this is over, you might be dead.” On impulse, she gripped him harder. “Do you really want to marry me?”

“You know I do.”

“If I said I’d marry you, would you take yourself off the case? Would you let someone else take over and go up to your cabin until it’s done?”

He struggled against a bitter anger. “You should know better than to try to bribe a public servant.”

“I’m not joking.”

“No.” His eyes hardened. “I wish you were.”

“I’ll marry you, and I’ll do my best to make you happy if you do this one thing for me.”

He set her aside and stepped back. “No deal, O’Roarke.”

“Damn it, Boyd.”

He jammed his hands into his pockets before he exploded. “Do you think this is some kind of trade-off? What you want for what I want? Damn you, we’re talking about marriage. It’s an emotional commitment and a legal contract, not a bartering tool. What’s next?” he demanded. “I give up my job and you agree to have my child?”

Shock and shame robbed her of speech. She held up both hands, palms out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she managed. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. I just keep thinking of what he said today. How he said it. And I can imagine what it would be like if you weren’t here.” She shut her eyes. “It would be worse than dying.”

“I am here.” He reached for her again. “And I’m going to stay here. Nothing’s going to happen to either of us.”

She pulled him close, pressed her face to his throat. “Don’t be angry. I just haven’t got a good fight in me right now.”

He relented and lifted a hand to her hair. “We’ll save it for later, then.”

She didn’t want to think about later. Only now. “Come upstairs,” she whispered. “Make love with me.”

Hand in hand they walked through the empty house, up the stairs. In the bedroom she closed the door, then locked it. The gesture was a symbol of her need to lock out everything but him for this one moment in time.

The sun came strong through the windows, but she felt no need for dim lights or shadows. There would be no secrets between them here. With her eyes on his, she began to unbutton her shirt.

Only days before, she thought, she would have been afraid of this. Afraid she would make the wrong move, say the wrong word, offer too much, or not enough. He had already shown her that she had only to hold out a hand and be willing to share.

They undressed in silence, not yet touching. Did he sense her mood? she wondered. Or did she sense his? All she knew was that she wanted to look, to absorb the sight of him.

There was the way the light streamed through the window and over his hair—the way his eyes darkened as they skimmed over her. She wanted to savor the line of his body, the ridges of muscle, the smooth, taut skin.

Could she have any idea how exciting she was? he wondered. Standing in the center of the room, her clothes pooled at her feet, her skin already flushed with anticipation, her eyes clouded and aware?

He waited. Though he wanted to touch her so badly his fingers felt singed, he waited.

She came to him, her arms lifted, her lips parted. Slim, soft, seductive, she pressed against him. Still, he waited. His name was a quiet sigh as she brought her mouth to his.

Home. The thought stirred inside her, a trembling wish. He was home to her. The strength of his arms, the tenderness of his hands, the unstinting generosity of his heart. Tears burned the backs of her lids as she lost herself in the kiss.

He felt the change, the slow and subtle yielding. It aroused unbearably. Strong, she was like a flame, smoldering and snapping with life and passion. In surrender, she was like a drug that seeped silently into his blood.

Lured by, lost in, her total submission, he lowered her to the bed. Her body was his. And so for the first time, he felt, was her mind, and her heart. He was careful to treat each gently.

So sweet, she thought dreamily. So lovely. The patient stroke of his fingers, the feather brush of his lips, turned the bright afternoon into the rich secrets of midnight. Now that she knew where he could take her, she craved the journey all the more.

No dark thoughts. No nagging fears. Like flowers on the verge of blooming, she wanted to celebrate life, the simplicity of being alive and capable of love.

He aroused her thoroughly, thoughtfully, torturously. Her answering touch and her answering kiss were just as generous. What she murmured to him were not demands, but promises she desperately wanted to keep.

They knelt together in the center of the bed, lips curved as they touched, bodies almost painfully in tune. Her hair flowed through his fingers. His skin quivered at her light caress.

Soft, quiet sighs.

Heart to heart, they lowered again. Mouth teased mouth. Their eyes were open when he slid into her. Joined, they held close, absorbing a fresh riot of sensation. When they moved, they moved together, with equal wonder.

***

The booth seemed like another world. Cilla sat at the console, studying the controls she knew so well. Both her mind and body were sluggish. The clear-sighted control she had felt for a short time with Boyd that afternoon had vanished. She wanted only for the night to be over.

He had mentioned going to Chicago the next day. She intended to encourage him. If she couldn’t convince him to be reassigned, at least she would have the satisfaction of knowing he would be miles away for a day or two. Away from her, and safe, she thought.

He, whoever he was, was closing in. She could feel it. When he struck, she wanted Boyd far away.

If this man was determined to punish her for what had happened to John McGillis, she would deal with it. Boyd had been right, to a point. She didn’t blame herself for John’s suicide. But she did share in the responsibility. And she couldn’t keep herself from grieving for a young, wasted life.

The police would protect her, she thought as she cued up the next song. And she would protect herself. The new fear, the grinding fear, came from the fact that she didn’t know how to protect Boyd.

“You’re asleep at the switch,” Boyd commented.

She shook herself. “No, just resting between bouts.” She glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Nearly time for the request line.

Once again the station was locked. There was only the two of them.

“You’re nearly halfway home,” he pointed out. “Look, why don’t you come back to my place tonight? We can listen to my Muddy Waters records.”

She decided to play dumb, because she knew it amused him. “Who?”

“Come on, O’Roarke.”

It helped, a great deal, to see him grin at her. It made everything seem almost normal. “Okay, I’ll listen to Muddy Whatsis—”

“Waters.”

“Right—if you can answer these three music trivia questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Hold on.” She set the next record, did a quick intro. She ruffled through her papers. “Okay, you’ve got three minutes and ten seconds to come up with them. Number one. What was the first British rock group to tour the States?”

“Ah, a trick question. The Dave Clark Five. The Beatles were the second.”

“Not bad for an amateur. Number two. Who was the last performer at Woodstock?”

“Jimi Hendrix. You’ll have to do better, O’Roarke.”

“I’m just lulling you into complacency. Number three, and this is the big one, Fletcher. What year was Buddy Holly and the Crickets’ hit ‘That’ll Be the Day’ released?”

“Going back a ways, aren’t you?”

“Just answer the question, Slick.”

“Fifty-six.”

“Is that 1956?”

“Yeah, that’s 1956.”

“Too bad. It was ’57. You lose.”

“I want to look it up.”

“Go ahead. Now you’ll have to come back to my place and listen to a Rolling Stones retrospective.” She yawned hugely.

“If you stay awake that long.” It pleased him that she had taken a moment out to play. “Want some coffee?”

She shot him a grateful look. “Only as much as I want to breathe.”

“I’ll get it.”

The station was empty, he thought. Since Nick Peters had gotten his ego bruised and quit, there had been no one around to brew that last pot of the evening. He, too, glanced at the clock. He wanted to have it done and be back beside her before the phones started to ring.

He’d grab her a doughnut while he was at it, Boyd decided as he checked the corridor automatically. A little sugar would help her get through the night.

Before going to the lounge, he moved to the front of the building to check the doors. The locks
were in place, and the alarm was engaged. His car was alone on the lot. Satisfied, he walked through the building and gave the same careful check to the rear delivery doors before he turned into the lounge.

It wasn’t going to go on much longer. With the McGills lead, Boyd had every confidence they would tie someone to the threats in a matter of days. It would be good to see Cilla without those traces of fear in her eyes, that tension in the set of her shoulders.

The restlessness would remain, he thought. And the energy. They were as much a part of her as the color of her hair.

He added an extra scoop of coffee to the pot and listened to her voice over the speaker as she segued from one record to the next.

That magic voice, he thought. He’d had no idea when he first heard it, when he was first affected by it, that he would fall in love with the woman behind it.

It was Joan Jett now, blasting out “I Love Rock and Roll.” Though the lounge speaker was turned down to little more than a murmur, the feeling gritted out. It should be Cilla’s theme song, he mused. Though he’d learned in their two days in his cabin that she was just as easily fascinated by the likes of Patsy Cline or Ella Fitzgerald.

What they needed was a good solid week in the mountains, he decided. Without any outside tensions to interfere.

He took an appreciative sniff of the coffee as it began to brew and hoped that he could get to Chicago, find the answers he needed and make the trip back quickly.

He whirled, disturbed by some slight sound in the corridor. A rustle. A creak of a board. His hand was already on the butt of his weapon. Drawing it, turning his back to the side wall, he took three careful strides to the doorway, scanning.

Getting jumpy, he told himself when he saw nothing but the empty halls and the glare of security lights. But instinct had him keeping the gun in his hand. He’d taken the next step when the lights went out.

Cursing under his breath, he moved fast. Though he held his weapon up for safety, he was prepared to use it. Above, from the speakers, the passionate music continued to throb. Up ahead he could see the faint glow of lights from the booth. She was there, he told himself. Safe in those lights. Keeping his back to the wall, skimming his gaze up and down the darkened hallway, he moved toward her.

As he rounded the last turn in the hallway before the booth, he heard something behind him. He saw the storeroom door swing open as he whirled. But he never saw the knife.

***

“That was Joan Jett and the Blackhearts coming at you. It’s 11:50, Denver, and a balmy forty-two degrees.” Cilla frowned at the clock and wondered why Boyd was taking so long. “A little reminder that you can catch KHIP’s own Wild Bob tomorrow at the Brown Palace Hotel downtown on 17th. And hey, if you’ve never been there, it’s a very classy place. Tickets are still available for the banquet benefiting abused children. So open your wallets. It’s twenty dollars stag, forty if you take your sweetie. The festivities start at 7 o’clock, and Wild Bob will be spinning those discs for you.” She potted up the next song. “Now get ready for a doubleheader to take you to midnight. This is Cilla O’Roarke. We’ve got the news, then the request line, coming up.”

She switched off her mike. Shrugging her shoulders to loosen them, she slipped off the headphones. She was humming to herself as she checked the program director’s hot clock. A canned ad was next, then she’d segway into the news at the top of the hour. She pushed away from the console to set up for
the next segment.

It was then that she saw that the corridor beyond the glass door was dark. At first she only stared, baffled. Then the blood rushed to her head. If the security lights were out, the alarm might be out, as well.

He was here. Sweat pearled cold on her brow as she gripped the back of her chair. There would be no call tonight, because he was here. He was coming for her.

A scream rose in her throat to drown in a flood of panic.

Boyd. He had also come for Boyd.

Propelled by a new terror, she hit the door at a run.

“Boyd!” She shouted for him, stumbling in the dark. Her forward motion stopped when she saw the shadow move toward her. Though it was only a shape, formless in the darkened corridor, she knew. Groping behind her, she stepped back. “Where’s Boyd? What have you done with him?” She stepped back again. The lights from the booth slanted through the glass and split the dark in two.

She started to speak again, to beg, then nearly fainted with relief. “Oh, God, it’s you. I didn’t know you were here. I thought everyone had left.”

“Everyone’s gone,” he answered. He moved fully into the light. And smiled. Cilla’s relief iced over. He held a knife, a long-bladed hunting knife already stained with blood.

“Boyd,” she said again.