The Promise He Made Her (15 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A
S
SOON
AS
they got home, Sam was going to say good-night, and she'd go to her room. He'd do whatever he did out in the house by himself at night. She'd listen to him moving around.

And then, when he went to bed, she'd lie in the dark and think of him lying in the dark, wondering if, even once, he'd lain awake thinking about her, wondering what
she
slept in.

Chances were that he didn't think about her tighty-whities equivalent. He hadn't seen her laundry.

“Thank you for cleaning up, by the way,” he said as they drove along the mostly deserted road. “I was planning to do it this weekend.”

She'd spent Tuesday evening dusting, cleaning bathrooms and floors. “When, Larson? You're never home during the day. Though you certainly should be. If we don't get a break soon, I should probably move home.” Even as she said the words, she knew they weren't her smartest. She needed Sam and his people. At least until they knew who was behind the Gomez warning.

“Don't be ridiculous, Doctor.”

Her gaze shot toward him at his use of her title. He'd been different all night. She couldn't figure out how, exactly, and that unsettled her.

“Besides, it's not you. I always live at the office when I'm on a case. Then I might have five days at home in a row when I'm not.”

She felt a little better but was still on edge.

“And before you think I noticed all the cleaning, I didn't. Chantel told me about it.”

“She helped.”

“So she said.”

“She tell you you owe her one?”

“Something like that.”

Bloom envied them—Sam and Chantel. They hadn't known each other well until recently, and yet, they were part of a whole that made them close. The “brotherhood” that included sisters sometimes, too.

Or maybe it was just Chantel being close to Sam that she envied. She had her own sisterhoods. At The Lemonade Stand. In LA. She didn't need to envy them that part of it...

“You have parents around here, Larson?” It wasn't like her, using his last name like that, even though she'd heard Chantel do it. But so much of what was going on wasn't like her. She needed the distance.

“Nope.”

“You're not from here?” Why she'd always assumed he was she didn't know, but...

“I grew up a mile from the beach,” he told her. “In a white house with a big deck out back.”

“And your parents didn't stay?”

“My mom left us when I was four,” he told her. “My father was killed the year after I graduated from the academy.”

Her professional instincts were right on task—telling her that he was masking. Hiding from the emotions that should have accompanied those words. And they were being interrupted by a heart that felt his pain for him.

“Killed how?” If he'd been murdered it would explain why Sam was so dedicated to the job—because he hadn't been able to save the single parent who'd raised him.

“In the line of duty.”

She watched him in the darkness. “He was a policeman, too?”

“Yes.” He signaled a turn into his driveway and waved at the guard at the gate as he drove through.

He was calm. Normal.

“We'll need to let Lucy out,” he said as he stopped his SUV next to her Jaguar.

The scene played itself out for her, as though she was her inner voice watching the whole thing. Or someplace outside herself watching.

They were a normal couple, coming home from a night out. Their dog needed to pee and poop. They had a routine. And they'd sleep. Because that was what nights were for.

Bloom got out of the car. She walked with him to the door and went inside.

But she wasn't going to sleep. She needed...more.

Needed to know how his father had died.

If she knew that, she'd have...something. Something she'd been needing. She'd be...

More.

* * *

H
E
NEVER
SHOULD
have taken her to dinner. Sam had figured out the error of his ways ten steps inside the door.

From there it had only gotten worse.

While he didn't doubt for one second his ability to keep Bloom Freelander safe from her ex-husband, he was beginning to really disappoint himself. He'd told her about his old man.

How could he do something so asinine?

He could just see the questions swirling around in that psychiatrist mind of hers. She'd want to pick him apart. Make a big deal out of something that happened a long time ago.

When he'd long ago let it go.

Lucy did her business at record speed. Probably wanting the treat she knew was waiting inside for her. He encouraged her to run in the yard for a few extra minutes instead. Bloom was supposed to have headed down the hall to bed, leaving him to his painful penis.

A terminal hard-on was better than delving into things that had happened more than a decade ago. Things that were already laid to rest.

One thing he'd learned over the years was that unless there was something forensically significant to be gained, it was wrong to dig up the dead.

He knew for certain there was nothing—forensically or otherwise—to be gained from bringing his old man's last incident back to life.

Bloom wasn't going to bed. He could see her in the living room. Sitting on the arm of the couch with a bottle of water in her hand. She'd left the door open for him.

In more ways than one.

He wasn't heading into the house until she'd closed the bedroom—and any other—door behind her.

When his phone rang, he was almost relieved. It would be work. Maybe a question on an old case. Or a high-profile one they needed him for, in which case they'd send someone out to sit with Bloom for the night.

Not that he wanted bad news for anyone else, but he hoped it was the latter. He needed to get out of there.

At least for an hour or two.

To focus on the only thing that mattered to him personally. His job. Getting the bad guy. Protecting the community.

“Sam, it's Chantel.”

He'd known as soon as he looked at his phone. And felt his jaw tighten even before he said, “What's up?”

“Lila McDonald,” she said and he wasn't sure at first why she'd called him. “The managing director of The Lemonade Stand. Someone knocked out one of the guards on the perimeter of the Stand tonight, around dusk. No one saw anything. But one of the residents reports seeing a guard she didn't recognize standing not far from where their normal security detail should have been. She noticed her specifically because she had on a beige uniform. They wear green shirts at The Lemonade Stand.”

He stood still, watching Bloom on the couch and willing her to stay there, within his sight.

“The guard she saw was a female? She's certain of it?”

“More than that, Sam. Baker and Oxley were the responding officers and they showed her our picture from last Friday. She's certain it was the same woman.”

His mind raced over hundreds of reports—things he'd read over the past few days. “How many of Bloom's clients are from The Lemonade Stand?”

He'd ask her himself. As soon as he got inside.

“More than half,” Chantel said.

“Those are the ones we need to focus on. Our perp is there.”

“But why use a female guard? How does she play into all of this?”

“I don't know yet. But I will.”

“Sam? Everything's under control for tonight. You stay with her. We can start fresh in the morning.”

“The other guard, was he hurt?”

“He's a she, and no, she's fine. Better off than Gomez was. She woke up under some trees in a lovely garden, not in a trash bin.”

“But drugged.”

“Hit from behind. Exactly the same MO.”

“It's not Ken.” The bastard was focused on screwing Bloom in another arena. Using the court system. His text the night of Gomez's attack had been a coincidence.

“That it's not Freelander is my assumption, as well.”

“It's the abuser of one of Bloom's clients who is currently at The Lemonade Stand. Not a past one.” Clarity was slow in coming. But it was teasing him.

Bloom had two people after her. Not just one.

“I'll alert Lila to have every one of the Stand's residents moved to the main house tonight and kept under guard.”

Which was the only way either of them would get any sleep.

He looked at Bloom. Still sitting there. Watching him. Everyone was safe.

For now.

* * *

S
OMETHING
WAS
WRONG
. It wasn't only the late-night phone call that gave Bloom that indication. It was the way Sam had straightened more and more as he'd listened. The way he'd been watching her nonstop.

She sipped from her water bottle. Not really thirsty, but needing something to do.

Nervousness should be descending on her, but it wasn't. Maybe it was the wine.

She had a feeling her lack of fear might be tied to Sam.

He instilled...confidence.

Because he was such a respected detective. And so dedicated to the job.

So why, when she watched him walk toward her, was she picturing him in those tighty-whities?

Because she was avoiding reality, she told herself. Thinking she was really doing well for coming up with the plausible explanation ahead of her inner voice.

Because she was emotionally healthy. In sync with herself.

“We need to talk,” Sam said before he was even fully inside the door.

Lucy bounded over to Bloom and put her paws on Bloom's thighs. Burying her face in the red fur, Bloom hugged her. Madge's arms wrapped around her.

No, Lucy's did.

And Bloom wished they were Sam's.

* * *

S
AM
STOOD
IN
front of the couch. He was going to remain standing as he gave Bloom the latest development, answered her questions, assured himself she was as fine as she could be and then excused them both to bed. His plan was firm.

And then she didn't let go of his dog. Or Lucy didn't let go of Bloom.

He moved toward her, took her hand, sat on the couch and pulled her down next to him.

Then he didn't know what to do with himself. He knew his job. What to relay. Questions to ask. He just wasn't sure what to do with his hands. Or with the rest of his person when he found it sitting so closely beside her.

To jump up—which was what he wanted to do—felt...wrong.

So he sat.

“We need to talk,” he said again. And then, giving her no time to react, or comment, relayed his entire conversation with Chantel.

“So what we need to know immediately,” he continued on without pause, “is which of the clients you're currently seeing is staying at The Lemonade Stand.”

She opened her mouth and he cut her off.

“Make whatever phone calls you need to make, get whatever permissions you need to get, but we need those names, Bloom. Whoever it is could be in danger. Life and death danger. This guy...he's going after you, after the shelter, and he's serious.”

She was shaking. Sitting as close as he was, he could feel her.

Odd, he'd never noticed that reaction when it was herself they were talking about.

“And if you can...it would help me to know your opinion as to who you'd guess might be behind this.”

He tripped over his tongue and felt like a complete idiot. He still didn't move.

She shook her head. He took a breath, ready to start in again, and she stopped him. Not with words. Her hand was on his arm.

She could have been touching him elsewhere. Privately elsewhere. Completely, 100 percent inappropriate.

And he shook his head. His mind was on the case. So focused he was already formulating plans, hearing questions in his mind as he interviewed potential suspects. And his body had just grown hard again.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

B
LOOM
COULDN
'
T
GIVE
him what he was asking. But she could ask her clients to do so. She could speak with them, in private, by phone or in person, give them her impressions and talk to them about speaking to Sam.

She couldn't force them to do so.

And would not coerce them. Or even suggest that she thought they should. But she could inform them.

Thinking of the twenty-two women she was currently counseling from the Stand, she couldn't think of one who wouldn't meet with Sam.

She was about to tell him so when his phone went off again. It vibrated against her hip. “What's up?” he was saying into his phone, still right beside her.

As close as she was sitting, she couldn't hear the voice on the other end of the line. And Sam was only listening, saying nothing. So she waited and petted Lucy who was on her other side.

“Thanks for letting me know. I'll be in first thing.”

Bloom had just about talked herself into believing the phone call was about another case, something completely unrelated to her, and then Sam said, “That was Chantel.”

And she knew it wasn't good.

“What's going on?” she asked. He was going to tell her anyway; might as well be proactive.

Because she was going to stand up to anything that confronted her from then on and for the rest of her life.

She'd promised.

And she didn't make promises she couldn't possibly keep.

“Lila McDaniel's car was broken into tonight. The guard who'd been attacked was guarding the back lot at the Stand. Where employees park.”

Where Bloom parked. But she didn't say so. What she did say was, “There are security cameras back there.”

“They were disabled.”

“The ones at my building weren't.”

“I'm guessing this guy's getting smarter.” Only it wasn't just one guy. And it wasn't all guys.

“So they'll get fingerprints. Or a hair with DNA or something, right?”

“Forensics will go over the car, but real life isn't like on TV, Bloom. There's neither the money nor the facilities to tie up for a vandalized car.”

She wanted to lie down and cry. “Is this because of me, too?”

“No!” He took her hand. Held it. And she slid softly back to reality, remembering who she was. A good woman. Intelligent. Capable. Well intentioned.

“This is a sick bastard who, like your ex, is reacting to his loss of control. He's attacking, and we're going to stop him.”

“How?”

“He left a note in Lila's car. A warning.”

Feeling his warmth seep through her entire body, she held on to his hand, looked into those serious brown eyes and was okay as she asked, “What did it say?”

“That she better learn to mind her own business or more than her car would be hurt.”

It wasn't her fault.

It wasn't her fault.

It's not your fault.

“Bloom?”

Sam's voice was different. He was different.

“It's not my fault,” she said aloud. “Ken's text...it
was
just a coincidence. Still meant to mess with me, but not because of the attack on Gomez...”

“That's right. Gomez, the other night, it wasn't because of Ken,” he told her.

But she could help.

“I need to get to the Stand in the morning. To talk to my girls.”

She knew the way out of hell. And had the professional tools to share it with them.

“I'll talk to them, Sam. And then they'll talk to you. I can pretty much guarantee it.”

He nodded and the look in his eyes changed.

Which changed everything inside of her.

“Sam?”

“Shhh.” His finger touched her lips. And she knew.

It was happening to him, too.

* * *

H
IS
ARM
FELT
weak as Sam stood and pulled Bloom up behind him. She wanted him. He knew it. Without doubt.

By God, she wanted him.

He wasn't the only one feeling the attraction between them. Wasn't just a workaholic cop harboring unwarranted desires for a beautiful woman.

Lucy looked up at him as she jumped down to join them. He didn't say anything to her. Or to Bloom, either.

He just walked. Down the hall. To his bedroom door. She'd left it closed, as she generally did.

He opened it. Saw her inside, and told her good-night, closing the door without taking a breath.

* * *

B
LOOM
SPENT
THE
first half of Wednesday night listing the reasons why she was glad Sam had rejected the opportunity to explore a personal situation between them. Knowing she was lucky that he hadn't taken advantage of her vulnerability.

Respecting him more than ever.

And the second half was spent diagnosing herself. Clearly there was more of a transference thing going on than she'd realized. With Ken back in the picture, she was turning to Sam, her protector, so that she didn't fall back into the fear-based woman she'd been.

She was seeing Sam as her own personal savior.

And...maybe...a replacement for the father figure she'd found in Ken. He'd been fifteen years older than she and she'd realized, sometime shortly after the end of the marriage, that she'd been particularly vulnerable to his charms because of her own lack of a father figure. Her lack of any true parenting guidance.

Sam wasn't as old as Ken. He was maybe only a few years older than she.

But still, there was merit to the theory. Clearly it couldn't be any more than her emotional upheaval prompting her feelings for him. He had one failed marriage under his belt because he was married to the job. He made promises he couldn't keep.

And she'd already been fooled enough.

She slept a little. But woke up feeling ready to tackle whatever the day would bring. She was healthy.

Capable.

And was in control of all of her own choices.

Thanks to Sam.

* * *

B
LOOM
HAD
REALLY
come through. All but one of her clients agreed to speak with law enforcement. Because she was familiar to some of the victims, and knew all of the full-time employees at The Lemonade Stand from prior cases she'd worked, Chantel spent all day Thursday at the Stand conducting interviews. And calling Sam who followed up with investigations of every single abuser, looking for priors, for any kind of police or traffic violation. Over the next two days he spoke to every one of the abusers himself. All but the three who were in lockup.

From that, he had three he liked for the harassment of Bloom and Lila and the taking down of two guards, who did not have alibis for the two nights in question—the previous Friday and Wednesday of that week.

On Friday Bloom called him at work to let him know that she'd spoken with her attorney and due to the situation in Santa Raquel, the court had granted her request for a stay on the show cause hearing scheduled for the next week. They'd been given a month.

It was the first Sam even knew she'd made the motion for the stay—she'd been in her room when he returned to the cottage just after ten Thursday night. But he was more than a little glad her motion had been granted.

Glad beyond what a detective would feel regarding a victim on one of his cases. Glad that she'd been given a reprieve. Glad that they could take care of one dangerous situation before heading into another one.

Glad that she'd taken charge of the situation and had taken care of it. He knew how much that meant to her.

And glad for how far she'd come from the woman he'd known two years before.

The rest of the afternoon was spent investigating his three suspects in Santa Raquel, looking for anything that ruled two out or made one stand out. Looking for a female connection to any of them. A sister, maybe.

Most likely. Someone who'd be willing to commit a crime because she loved him enough to do so. And not a girlfriend, since the targets were those influencing his wife to stay away from him.

Two of the three he liked had sisters who fit the age range. Both had dark hair. Could have been the woman in his grainy picture. Neither had alibis. Both denied ever owning a guard uniform. And Sam didn't get a particular feel either way that either one of them was his perp.

But he didn't feel like they weren't, either.

On Saturday, while Chantel and Bloom shopped for groceries and whatever else two women shopped for, and to give himself enough of a breather to get his instincts back in check, he went for a long run on the beach. And then turned his focus back to the drug case against Freelander. He'd been granted a month's reprieve to find a way to prove that Freelander had purchased illegal drugs with the intent to harm—a month to ensure that Bloom never had to go to court, to show cause or to ever be in the same room as Kenneth Freelander again.

With nowhere else to turn, he pulled up the list they'd already obtained of Freelander's class rosters for the year before his indictment. And on another screen, pulled up a joint task law enforcement list of known gang members in the LA area. The second list was a hell of a lot longer than the first, but he went through them, one by one, looking for the same name on both lists.

It didn't appear. A headache did.

To go along with the almost continuous ache in a lower part of his body. He hadn't been able to do anything the past couple of days without knowing, in the back of his mind, that Bloom wanted him.

He wasn't going to sleep with her, of course. If he hurt Bloom he'd hate himself for the rest of his life, and he couldn't live with that.

So he started checking first and last names, first names only and then last names only, from Professor Freelander's rosters, against the joint task list of gang members. Thirty-six first names were a hit. Four last names were.

He knew he was really in deep, spinning wheels just to keep from having to face real thoughts, when he set about investigating the students with those four random last names.

Somehow he was going to have to get Bloom Freelander out of his system.

* * *

A
FTER
TWO
FULL
weeks of living moment to moment, and curtailing most of her activities outside of work so as not to inconvenience those who were giving up their normal daily lives to protect her, Bloom was getting cabin fever.

It wasn't that she had any particular hankering to leave Sam's cottage. To add color to it—okay, yes—but not really to leave. What she needed was to go home. Home to who she was. Home to herself. And she woke up Sunday morning knowing what she had to do.

She knocked on Sam's door—forcing herself not to think of tighty-whities and doing just that—intending to tell Sam that before he went to work, she needed him to pick up some things from her house.

Painting was something she'd done, on a lark, during the first year after her marriage had ended. She hadn't known she could actually paint. She'd just craved the ability to throw color around however she wanted to.

Sara Havens, the full-time licensed professional clinical counselor at The Lemonade Stand, had suggested that she buy a couple of canvases and some paint and see what happened. Kind of an offshoot from the collaging she'd done with Talia Malone, an artist who volunteered at the Stand. The exercise had been suggested as a means of finding her inner self. She'd ended up with an inner voice that was painful in its honesty and some colorful prints on her home and office walls.

It was taking Sam a long time to answer her knock. Maybe he was on the phone. It wasn't until then that it occurred to her that she could have texted him.

But maybe she'd wanted an excuse to knock on his door. Even if only for innocuous business conversation.

She didn't knock again.