Out of Control (3 page)

“I was practicing kung fu, not karate,” he clarified.

She rolled her eyes, turned her back and marched for the door.

He lunged ahead of her to block the exit, without thinking, and she shrank back, startled. “Hey! How'd you do that?” she said sharply.

The sheer variety of colors in her eyes was distracting. “Do what?”

“I didn't even hear you move, and whoosh. You appeared right in front of me.” She stabbed his solar plexus with her finger and yanked her hand back at the shock of contact with his skin. “You scared me!”

“Uh…” He groped for any kind of response. “Dragon spirit, maybe.”

Aw, shit. He regretted the words the instant they left his mouth.

“Dragon who?” She regarded him with deep suspicion.

“According to legend, a practitioner of Shaolin can, uh, use the spirit of the dragon to misdirect his opponent into thinking an attack is coming from the opposite direction,” he said lamely. “Theoretically.”

Margot's pointed chin lifted. “Oh. I see. Are you going to attack me, then? Since when am I your opponent?”

“You're not. You're absolutely not,” he assured her. “I just said that, without thinking. It was stupid. I didn't mean to imply…wait. Please. Don't go yet.” He moved to block her as she sidled around him.

Her brow furrowed. “Hey. Are you deliberately trying to creep me out, or are you just naturally weird?”

He thought about it, and rapidly concluded that he did not want to creep her out. “Just naturally weird, I guess.”

She rolled her eyes. “OK, that's enough,” she announced. “Out of my way. I've got stuff to do.” She dismissed him with a commanding wave of her slender hand.

“Meet me after your class. You can tell me about your problem. Over dinner. If you want.” He blurted out the unpremeditated, ill-considered words, and held his breath for her response.

Her eyes widened, defenceless in her surprise. She wrapped her arms across her chest, and her cleavage deepened. She had a sprinkle of red freckles on her tits. He dragged his gaze away from her chest.

“Who said I had a problem?” Her voice was belligerent.

“People who go looking for a detective always have a problem,” he said. “Tell me. At least the short version. Please.”

Margot stared down at the floor for a long moment, and let out a long, unsteady sigh. “Well…it's just that I've got some sicko stalking me, and it's freaking me out.” The words came out in a quick, nervous rush. “I just wanted to tell someone. You know. To get another point of view. I'm chasing myself in circles, thinking about it.”

“What happened?” he demanded. “What's he done so far?”

She twisted her hands together. “I started finding red rose petals on my doorstep, which was strange, but whatever, right? Secret admirer, whoop-di-doo. It's happened off and on for the last two weeks. Then I got burgled six days ago. Don't know if that's connected. But then the other day…” Her voice trailed off. She swallowed.

“What?”

The rough impatience in his voice made her flinch. “The dog. I found a dead dog on my porch. Throat slit. Blood everywhere.”

A cold, dark hole yawned open, somewhere deep in his gut. “What did the police have to say about it?”

She hesitated, and shook her head. “I, um, didn't call them.”

“Why not?” he demanded. Though he knew damn well why not.

The shadow over her face deepened by imperceptible degrees. Her eyes flicked away. The faint, bluish smudges beneath them made her look haunted. “Look, uh…never mind, OK? I shouldn't have bothered you in the first place, and I'm late for my class, and you're not in the business now anyhow, so thanks for your time, but I have to—”

“Tell me the rest of it over dinner,” he urged.

She gave him a long, searching look. “You know…something tells me that wouldn't be such a fabulous idea.”

Here it was. His chance to back off with his dignity more or less intact. You win some, you lose some, and God knows it was just as well.

“Why not?” he asked baldly.

She looked flustered. “I have to pick up my dog at the kennel—”

“I can wait,” he said. “Do you like Mexican?”

“Sure, when I can get it, but there's no point in flapping my jaw about my personal problems if you don't—”

“I've changed my mind about not taking on any more cases.”

Startled silence stretched out after his words. Her subtle shadow weighed on him, teasing him like a painful dream that slipped out of reach of conscious thought, leaving sick dread lingering in its wake.

It was a familiar feeling. The cases that he gave a shit about always haunted him. But the haunting didn't usually start so quickly.

Her throat moved as she swallowed. “Actually, I wasn't proposing to hire you. The plain truth is, I'm too broke to pay you. I just wanted to bounce it off somebody. My dog is tired of hearing me talk about it.”

“So bounce it off me,” he said. “While we eat.”

She bit her lip, her eyes big and apprehensive. “Your vibes are really intense, McCloud. And it's been a long day, and I'd just like to relax and hang out with my dog tonight. So thanks for the dinner invite, but no thanks. And you can get out of my way now. Any time.”

“I'll tone my vibes down,” he said. “I'll get takeout while you get your dog, and meet you at your place.”

She shook her head rapidly. “Not. You will do no such thing.”

Her withdrawal made him feel desperate, as if a boat he should have boarded was pulling away without him. She tried to slide between him and the wall. He blocked her with an arm in front and one behind.

“Wait,” he pleaded. “Just a second.”

“What the hell?” She lashed out.

He snagged her flailing hand out of the air before she could smack him with it. “Calm down,” he urged. “This is serious. I want to—”

“Don't you dare touch me!” She flung her knee up.

He spun sideways in an automatic reflex to protect his balls, and ended up pinning her against the wall. It happened so fast, and suddenly his nose was full of her scent, her soft hair tickled his mouth, and her lithe curves were pressed against the full length of his body.

She was trembling. Scared of him.

He let go instantly and backed away, horrified. “Jesus. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I swear.”

She stared at him, panting. She put one hand over her mouth, then pressed both hands against the hectic blush that stained her sharp cheekbones. He prayed for her not to look down. Tried to hold her gaze like a tractor beam, willing her,
don't look down, don't look
—

She looked down. He was busted. Heat surged up into his face.

“Holy cripes,” she whispered. “You freak.”

“I'm sorry.” He held up his hands. “I didn't mean to grope you. I don't know what got into me.”

Her gaze flicked back down to his crotch, and she snorted. “Oh, I think I could maybe take a wild guess.”

He floundered around in his mind for a justification for his bizarre behavior, and found none. “I just didn't want you to, uh, go away mad.”

She shook with a burst of dry laughter. “Smooth, McCloud. Very smooth. I've got a little social tip for you. Remember to take your anti-psychotic meds on schedule from now on, OK?”

The glass window with
McCloud Martial Arts Academy
stenciled on it rattled in the door frame with the force of her parting slam.

M
ikey was going to make her pay for leaving him at the pet hotel. The extent of his hurt and outrage was evident in the rigidity of his small body as she carried him up the steps to her porch. She braced herself against sick dread as she peeked into the shadows to make sure that something horrible wasn't draped over her doormat.

Nothing today. Snakey the Sicko Maniac was taking the day off.

Air came slowly back into her lungs as she unlocked the door. She flipped on the urban blight light, a naked dangling bulb specifically designed to highlight water damage and plaster cracks, to say nothing of undereye circles and assorted facial blemishes. She loathed the thing, but her nice lamps had been smashed in the break-in. She was stuck with the urban blight light till she got her act together. Though the way her life was going, that day seemed to get more distant all the time.

She set Mikey gently on the floor. He shook himself and sniffed around with remote puzzlement, as if to say,
What is this place? I scarcely remember it…or you.
He turned his back on her and limped, slowly and pitifully, towards the kitchen.

Of course, he'd always limped, since the day she'd found him. She'd found him half-dead on the side of the road seven months ago, after her flight from California had finally landed her in Seattle. A car had fractured his back legs. The vet had recommended putting him down immediately, but she'd never been known for her propensity for following sensible advice. She'd nursed him through it with her own intuitive version of dog physical therapy, taking on the task of saving Mikey as if he were a symbol of everything in life worth saving. And if she pulled it off, things would eventually be OK for her again, too.

Silly and superstitious, maybe, but it didn't matter, since Mikey the Wonder Mutt was his own reward. Smart, devoted, and the most shameless manipulator she'd ever known. His hitching gait made her heart hurt. He was probably playing it up to make her feel bad, but she knew from experience that aches and pains were worse when you felt depressed and abandoned. Why should it be any different for Mikey?

Besides, if he was faking it, she forgave him the ploy. He was a little dog. Old, too, in dog years. He had to use what weapons were available to him. Now there was a concept she could relate to.

She peeled off her clammy workout gear as she trailed into the kitchen after Mikey, and ran a basin full of water with a capful of laundry soap. Mikey climbed into his basket, did his compulsive three and a half turns, and flopped down with a dejected sigh.

She let out a dejected sigh herself as she dunked her spandex into the suds. A quickie shower in her mildewy bathroom was next, after which some sloppy sweatpants, her big Superman T-shirt, and she felt almost human. She rummaged for her comb in the basket on her dresser. Her fingers closed around the heavy gold snake pendant.

She pulled the thing out and tried to stare down the sense of dread it gave her. She wished the thief had taken this instead of her laptop. It was worth more money, and she would have been grateful to be rid of it. She should pawn the nasty thing. The money would be tainted, but she'd get over it. Vet bills had to be paid somehow.

She knew why she hung onto it, though she didn't like to admit it. The pendant was the only key she had to the nightmare puzzle her life had become. It was like a magical talisman. If she got rid of it, she might be trapped in this lonesome gray nowhere forever. No way out.

Whoops, don't go there. She couldn't let herself think that way, even briefly. The only way to keep her sanity was to stay focused on the present moment. Breathing in, breathing out, and grateful to be alive.

She headed into the kitchen and hunkered down next to Mikey's basket, fully prepared to grovel. He'd curled up into a ball, graying muzzle buried between his paws. Eyes tight shut. No wags, no licks, no yips, no friendly interaction of any kind. It was the doggie deep freeze.

“Hey. Mikey. Don't you want some dinner?” she asked.

Mikey was far above such obvious bribery. He didn't twitch so much as a whisker. Margot got up and rummaged through the cupboard for the dog treats. She waved one in front of his nose.

He opened one slitted eye and gave her his patented “as if ” look.

“This isn't fair,” she told him. “I'm leaving you at that kennel to protect you from Snakey, you ungrateful little snot. I can't afford it, either. I'm still in hock to the vet for your last fight. That dog was ten times your size, but did you think about that before you got mouthy?”

Mikey indicated with a snuffling grunt that dogs will be dogs, and she could stick her budget problems where the sun didn't shine.

“Besides, you owe me,” she reminded him. “You'd be roadkill if it weren't for me, fur-face.”

No go. Mikey wasn't coming down off his high horse tonight.

Margot sagged down next to his basket and concentrated on petting him the way he liked best, a gentle stroke from brow to nape with an extra against-the-grain rub around the ears on the upswing. He allowed her touch, but refused to respond to it. She ran her fingers through his silky hair, careful to avoid the shaved spots around his stitches. A relic from his run-in with a bad-ass stray in the park.

Mikey was a scrappy little guy. She admired that about him, even when it cost her money. He didn't know when to shut his big mouth. A lot like yours truly, so it's not like she could point fingers.

She was whipped, but she really should work on her web design business, or plod away at her private amateur murder investigation.

The thought zipped through her mind before she remembered that she no longer had her laptop. The rat bastard thief had it now.

Gah. She was squeezed dry tonight anyhow. Nothing left but pulp. Up before dawn to get Mikey to the pet hotel before her waitressing shift, then she schlepped downtown to do a lunchtime body sculpting class and aerobics class at a health club that catered to corporate types, and then the evening classes at Women's Wellness. She was woozy, too, after a week on the new crash diet. The kennel fees and vet bills had bitten deep into her already lean grocery budget.

And yet, her butt still hadn't gotten any smaller. Go figure.

Time to start foraging. It took character and a sense of humor to make a meal out of what was left in her kitchen. She heaved herself to her feet and opened the cupboard. Crumbs in the bottom of the cornflakes box. Whatever she might still be able to scrape out of the Skippy's jar. There was a third of a bag of peeled baby carrots in the fridge, and she was hungry enough to actually eat them tonight, not just tell herself that she should. God, it would be great to just pick up the phone and order in something wickedly high-caloric and delicious.

That made her think about Davy McCloud's offer of Mexican food. A whoosh of something potent and scary shivered up her spine.

She'd been checking the guy out ever since she'd started teaching at Women's Wellness. Your typical stern, taciturn Nordic warrior type; studly, gorgeous and as cold as ice. Apparently uninterested in her, but oh, so fascinating. The lure of the unattainable, and all that crap.

She stared at the black pepper and the teabags while the images played through her mind; McCloud's powerful body moving over the tatami with the swift, lethal grace of a thrown spear. He was so well-proportioned, you didn't notice how huge he was until he was right in your face—and then, whoopsy daisy, it was too late.

He was way too big for her, though. Big guys made her nervous. On those rare occasions that she did indulge her baser instincts—that would be way back in prehistory when she still had the nerve—she picked mellow, scrawny guys who made her laugh. Guys she could put into a hammerlock, if need be. Craig had fit into that category.

Her mind shied away from poor Craig. She focused her attention back on the far more appealing image of Davy McCloud's half-naked body. Nobody could put McCloud into a hammerlock. She had a tough time imagining him laughing, either. The thought of those piercing eyes made heat rush into her face—and various other parts of her body.

Strange, to have such a raw sexual reaction to a guy she barely knew. She'd been off men for months. Waking up naked and bewildered in a strange hotel room after witnessing a brutal murder could do that to a girl. Real libido crusher. Turned those hormones off like a faucet.

And God, she would really,
really
rather not think about that tonight, or she'd start feeling slimed, and have to take another shower.

A hot, juicy sexual fantasy starring Davy McCloud and her trusty vibrator would be a fab distraction. He was pure fantasy, though, and she'd better not forget it. With his angular face, his grim mouth, his hair cropped off into that sweat-stiffened brush cut, he looked almost military. Too severe for her. Once his hard-on was taken care of, she would drive a guy like that bonkers with her smart mouth.

Must be the old opposites-attract cliché. His attitude of rigid discipline and authority rubbed her the wrong way. Made her want to goad him. Like,
hey, who died and made you boss of the universe, pal?

Then she'd strip him naked, rub him down with oil, knock him onto his back and ride him off into the sunset. At a hard gallop.

Whew. She opened the fridge, fished a carrot out of the bag and chomped it. Might as well give all that extra saliva an honest job to do.

She should cut herself some slack. Lusting over McCloud was a lot more fun than fretting about Mikey's big, hurt eyes when she left him at the money-sucking pet hotel, or feeling like she was going to urp with dread every time she peered into the shadows of her own porch. It was better than worrying about Snakey lying in wait for her in the dark. Or obsessing about what had happened to poor Craig and Mandi.

She grabbed the Skippy's jar and the bag of carrots and flopped down next to Mikey's basket, curling up tight around the cold, sick ache in her belly. Sometimes curling up helped. A little bit, anyway.

She ran a carrot around the rim of the jar and crunched it with grim determination. She needed a new brillant scheme, but Snakey was hogging all the RAM in her brain. There wasn't enough room left on the hard drive to run the kapow! knock-your-socks-off creative solutions program. She'd just started to drag herself out of this tar pit a few weeks ago, when she'd landed a job in a new graphics design firm in Belltown. The fake references she'd bought for her new identity had eaten up months of meager savings, but it had seemed well worth it at the time.

It had lasted exactly ten glorious days before the studio had burned to the ground. It was like she was cursed.

Screw this. She was going to hunt down this joker who was playing tricks on her, and rip his limbs and any other loose appendages off his body. Then she would spring Mikey from the joint, clear her name, and get her act definitively together. The details were fuzzy, but that was the plan. Having a plan was a good first step, right? Right.

She stared at the phone, tempted for the gazillionth time to call Jenny, or Christine or Pia, her best girlfriends from her old life. Just to let them know she was alive, and that she missed them.

Fear and guilt squelched the impulse. She couldn't put her friends in danger, after what had happened to Craig and Mandi. Loneliness was not a good enough excuse. No matter how awful it got.

She wished she could talk to Mom. Mom had been gone for eight years now, almost nine, carried off by lung cancer. Maybe she was floating around in the ether somewhere, keeping an eye on her luckless, clueless daughter. A vaguely comforting thought. If a wistful one.

She must have been insane to go over to McCloud's gym today. Desperate to unload at least a highly edited chunk of her tale of woe onto someone who wasn't a dog. Mikey was a good listener, but not much for feedback. The kickboxing teacher, Sean—she could hardly believe that laughing, dimpled clown of a guy was the scarily gorgeous Davy McCloud's brother—had waved aside the no-money issue like it was no big deal. Besides, she'd been trolling for an excuse to get a good long look at Davy McCloud up close. Food for fantasy. She needed it bad. The nights were long when a girl was scared to go to sleep.

It was a damn shame he was so big. Couple of cans short of a six-pack, too. The bizarre things he said. Dragon spirit, her big ol' butt.

Mikey lifted his head to growl. Every hair on Margot's body stood up. Then she heard the sharp, commanding
raprap-rap
, and the terror that had spiked inside her eased down, leaving her wobbly.

Snakey would never knock like that. In fact, Snakey wouldn't knock at all. He would slither through a sewer pipe like a foul vapor. Slide out the bathroom drain with a wet-sounding pop.

Oh, ick. Nice job, lame brain. Now she'd grossed herself out.

Rat-tat-tat
, there it came again, crisp and businesslike. Mikey clambered out of his basket, barking. Margot looked down at herself as she followed him towards the front door. Boobs flying wild and free under the Superman T-shirt. Hair damp and snarled and all over the place. Her face, naked of all cosmetic enhancers or concealers, left to fend bravely for itself in the unforgiving urban blight light.

She couldn't be more at a disadvantage if she'd deliberately tried.