The Heart Has Reasons (4 page)

He
immediately began a methodical search of the house.  Keswick claimed his
wife slept with a gun under her pillow, but the only weapon Chase found was a little
.22 Smith & Wesson concealed beneath a stack of neatly folded dishtowels in
a kitchen drawer.  After pocketing the rounds, he returned the weapon to
its hiding place.

In
the refrigerator, he found a glass pitcher of tea and a recorked bottle of wine. 
He added a carefully measured amount of sedative to each.  Of course, she
might not drink from either container, in which case he’d have to subdue her
physically.  With any luck, it wouldn’t come to that.

Now
that everything was in readiness, he took the time to look about.  She’d
painted the walls in deep, sophisticated colors.  The furniture was sturdy
and everything not upholstered, whether wood or metal, was black.  There
was no clutter anywhere, and everything was spotlessly clean.  Curiously,
there were no nudes, so maybe they’d been Keswick’s after all. 

Although
a nice little house, it was a
huge
step down from the mansion in
Chatsworth.  With her looks though, and assuming Keswick would be unable
to convince her to resume their marriage, she wouldn’t have any trouble
latching onto yet another rich man.

In
the sewing room, several pairs of scissors, a wooden rack bearing a rainbow of
thread spools, and assorted other sewing paraphernalia hung within easy reach
on the wall over the large worktable.  Who would’ve guessed that a
gold-digging trophy wife would be so … domestic?  Although, judging by the
abundance of frozen, microwavable dinners and the paucity of pots and pans, her
homemaking skills didn’t extend to the kitchen.  All in all, it was a very
comfortable house, one he wouldn’t mind spending time in, unlike his
girlfriend’s place.

Cheyenne’s
apartment brimmed with overly feminine, delicate, pastel furniture.  The
expensive bric-a-brac covering nearly every surface made him feel like the proverbial
bull in a china shop.  To make matters worse, Cheyenne was a slob. 
Despite the dishwasher, dirty dishes constantly choked the kitchen sink,
discarded clothing smothered the bedroom carpet, and a thick layer of dust
blanketed every surface.  Consequently, they spent their time together at
his apartment, where he constantly cleaned up after her.

According
to his watch, his target should be home shortly.  At the sound of a
vehicle rumbling to a stop in the alley, he peeked over the curtained window
above the sink to see the erstwhile boyfriend climbing down from the black
pickup.  What the fuck was he doing here?  Had his target resumed
their relationship?  Did the two of them have plans for tonight?

Did
the man have a key to her house?

This
unexpected development could seriously complicate matters.  The man strode
down the narrow walk but, rather than coming to the back door, skirted the west
side of the house.

Cursing
under his breath, Chase hurried to the front room and, covertly observing
through one of the front-door sidelights, waited in vain for the man to make an
appearance.  What the fuck was the son-of-a-bitch up to?  He couldn’t
very well go outside and confront the man, so he waited impatiently as the
minutes ticked by.

After
a seeming eternity, his target finally arrived home.  He watched
appreciatively as she exited her vehicle and headed up the front walk.  A
sleeveless turquoise dress skimmed her figure to mid-thigh, then flared out
into a knee-length, trumpet-shaped hem.  The garment displayed her curves
to full advantage while remaining classy, and the spike-heeled sandals put the
sexiest sway into her walk.  He could almost understand why Keswick was
willing to pay a small fortune for her return.

Her
pace abruptly faltered as the man rounded the corner of the house.  Chase
could barely make out her, “What the hell are you doing here?”

The
man spread his hands placatingly.  “Don’t be like that, Larissa.  I
just wanna talk to you.”  Chase couldn’t help but notice that he’d
strategically planted himself directly between her and the house.

The
woman looked more angry than scared.  “If you don’t leave me alone I’ll
file for an Emergency Protective Order.”

“That’d
be a
big
mistake on your part.”  Since he’d have no plausible
excuse for being in her house, Chase fervently hoped he wouldn’t have to
intervene.  However, when the man took a threatening step toward the
woman, he silently disengaged the deadlock, ready to rush to her defense.

Thrusting
a quick hand into her handbag, his target produced a Browning 9mm — not exactly
the sort of weapon one would expect a trophy wife to own — and leveled it on
her stalker, demonstrating that her self-sufficiency extended beyond changing
flat tires.

However
much Chase might admire his target’s ability to defend herself, if she actually
pulled the trigger, then all his well-laid plans were for naught, for any
gunfire would ensure the imminent arrival of the police.  For that matter,
if any neighbors were witness to this little drama, someone might already be phoning
the police.

Faced
with a loaded handgun, any intelligent person would have simply admitted defeat
and been on his way.  This stupid son-of-a-bitch clearly preferred to
tempt fate.  Although his complexion had paled somewhat, he stood his
ground belligerently.  “You won’t kill an unarmed man.”

“You’re
right, I won’t.”  Thumbing back the hammer, she lowered her aim to his
crotch.  “But I won’t hesitate to deprive you of your principle
shortcoming.”

Ouch. 
Now that was hitting below the belt.

The
threat produced the desired result.  Cupping his hands protectively over
his jewels, the man backed toward the corner of the house where he dredged up
enough residual courage to sputter, “Fuck you, you crazy bitch!” before beating
a strategic retreat around the side of the house.

Chase
hurried back to the kitchen, to watch the man stomp through the backyard and
climb up into his truck.  A moment later, he muttered a silent “
Shit”
at the sound of the front door opening.

He
had planned to conceal himself in the sewing-room closet before she arrived
home, but that was now out of the question.  The ex-boyfriend sat in his
vehicle and glared at the house, which precluded him from exiting through the
back door.  Wondering what else could possibly go wrong, he pulled on the
ski mask.

* * * * *

As Larissa headed down the hallway toward
her bedroom, the 9mm still clutched in one hand, a peculiar sensation prickled
the back of her neck, as if a ghost had clasped a chilly hand to her
nape.  Something, perhaps some subtle scent, aroused an intuitive sense
that, once again, someone had violated the sanctity of her home and two years’
worth of stored fear exploded in her chest like a burst balloon.

Was
Sparrow back?

No,
surely not.  The confrontation with Steve had simply rattled her. 
But if that’s all it were, then why was she so certain that someone had been in
her house?  Had Steve hurried around to the back door to beat her
inside?  Was he in here now, hoping to catch her unawares?

Although
he’d turned out to be a bit of a stalker, he’d never given her the impression
that he might be dangerous.  However, if he’d broken into her house, that
cast a different light on matters.  With her heart thumping inside her
chest, she peered out the bedroom window.   Face still flushed with anger,
he sat in his truck, gripping the steering wheel.  Spotting her at the
window, he saluted her with a raised middle finger before driving off.

Blowing
out a sigh of relief, she headed to the kitchen.  Still locked, the back
door bore no sign of forced entry.  Nevertheless, she still had the
unsettling feeling that someone had encroached upon her personal space. 
Crap.  Steve’s unexpected appearance had made her more paranoid than
usual.

That
was okay, though, because paranoia kept her awareness sharp, and Brian Sparrow
was still out there somewhere.  Paranoia had saved her life once
before.  If Sparrow ever returned, it might save her a second time.

She
gazed at the phone on the counter.  If she called 9-1-1, what would she
say to the operator?  That she had a weird feeling someone had been in her
house, despite the lack of any evidence to corroborate that assertion? 
She’d look like a fool, which she definitely wasn’t.  She was a
self-sufficient woman who could search her own house.

Still
clutching the Browning, she thumbed off the safety and started down the hallway
to check for intruders.

* * * * *

Chase stood motionless against the
sunroom’s sole interior wall.  He suspected the house’s designer had
intended it to be the dining room but, as evidenced by the assortment of
exercise equipment, his target utilized it more as a workout room.

Hearing
movement in the hallway, he peeked around the doorframe just in time to see her
disappear into the bedroom, the 9mm held leveled before her.  It appeared
she was going to search the fucking house.

While
she went through the bedroom, sewing room, and bathroom, he weighed his
options.  Worst-case scenario — assuming she didn’t pump him full of lead
— was that he’d have to disarm and subdue her physically.  Judging by the
way she’d stood up to the ex-boyfriend, she’d probably put up a struggle, and
he didn’t want to chance inadvertently hurting her.

Concealed
beside the doorway, he listened as she paused to check the hall closet before
continuing down the hall toward him.  As she came through the front room,
he edged into the kitchen, hugging the wall where the floorboards were less
likely to squeak.  Pacing himself so that a wall always separated them, he
circled through the kitchen into the hallway, into the front room as she moved
into the kitchen, and then back into the sunroom.  Hearing her moving away
from him, he peeked around the doorframe to see her reenter her bedroom, weapon
now lowered to her side.

When
he heard the shower come on, he knew he’d finally caught a break. 
Hurrying down the hallway, he paused just before the open bathroom door. 
She was in the stall, hidden from view by a heavy-fabric shower curtain. 
He was about to move on to the bedroom when the handgun-shaped lump concealed
beneath the folded towel on the vanity caught his eye.

Moving
on silent feet and keeping an eye on the shower curtain, he extracted the
weapon from under the towel.  Back in the hallway, he quickly ejected a
dozen Hydra-Shoks from the magazine.  High-powered ammo for a
housewife.  He pocketed the rounds, then returned the weapon to its hiding
spot beneath the towel.

* * * * *

As Larissa blow-dried her hair, her sense
of uneasiness remained as a small tense knot in the pit of her belly. 
After donning a pair of yoga pants and sport bra, she carried the 9mm to the
kitchen, grabbed the wine bottle from the refrigerator, and filled a glass to the
brim.  She gulped half, and moved into the living room, gun in one hand,
wine glass in the other.  The mixed school of African cichlids rushed to
the front of the aquarium at her approach.  Placing the 9mm on the sofa,
she turned on the tank light, lifted the half-lid, and sprinkled a pinch of
fish flakes on the surface of the water.

Taking
a seat on the sofa, she picked up the remote and spent the next few minutes
channel surfing as she sipped from her glass.  The wine was having the
desired effect, for her jitteriness was quickly fading.  Unfortunately,
with over a hundred different television channels to choose from, she couldn’t
find anything interesting to watch.

Suddenly
tired, her fingers seemed unaccountably slow as she fumbled to press the remote
control buttons.  Tendrils of fog began seeping into her mind. 
Strangest of all, her lips were going numb.  And then realization struck.

Someone
had drugged her.

Blinking
lethargically, she sat the wineglass on the glass-topped end table with a loud
clink,
somehow managing not to spill it.  Someone
had
been in her
house.  Maybe someone still was.

Sparrow?

Despite
whatever drug flowed through her veins, a tentacle of fear slithered through
her.  She fumbled the 9mm into her grasp and lurched to her feet, bumping
the end table in the process.  The wine glass tumbled to the floor,
splashing the remains of the wine across the carpet.

Struggling
to stay conscious and on her feet, she launched herself in the direction of the
kitchen, feeling as though she were slogging through knee-high mud.  As
she reached for the phone with uncooperative hands, there was movement at the
edge of her vision.  In what seemed to be slow motion, she turned to find
a ski-masked man standing before her.

The
9mm seemed to weigh fifty pounds.  With her free hand assisting, she
concentrated her last vestige of strength on the Herculean task of raising the
weapon.  Targeting his chest, she squeezed the trigger.  Instead of
the expected
boom
, however, there was only an empty metallic
click
.

While
she teetered dizzily on the brink of unconsciousness, the intruder casually
reached forward with a black-gloved hand and took the weapon from her. 
Then he spun her around and clamped a gloved hand over her lower face. 
With his mouth next to her ear, he said softly, “Always check that your weapon
is loaded.”