The Promise He Made Her (16 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

S
AM
WANTED
ALL
of the information he could get before going to Bloom, but he had to make certain that her knock on his door hadn't been an emergency.

Ending the call with the officer who'd called him to report a break-in at Bloom's home overnight, he texted her.

On phone. Business. Problem?

And didn't have to wait but a second for her response.

Not at all.

He knew the house was secure. He'd already been all over it that morning. Checked in with both guards on the premises. And Chantel, who was due in less than an hour.

Until he called her and told her what was going on.

“I think I should stay with her today,” he told his female counterpart.

“Good. I think I should be the one to go to LA and check up on Freelander,” she told him.

He wanted to be the one. But knew she was right. He and Freelander had history. Revisiting it right now would probably not be in Bloom's best interest.

He didn't bother to try to figure out why he thought so. Or why Chantel did, for that matter.

“Keep me posted,” he told her and hung up. Only then realizing that without Chantel there, or Bloom at work, he was going to have to shower with her in his home.

Not a good plan.

* * *

B
LOOM
WENT
DOWN
to the beach path with Lucy.

The grounds were patrolled and safe. Sam had never meant for her to be a hostage.

And she needed some air to clear the clutter from her brain. Make conscious choices rather than reacting to unreliable emotions.

Knocking on Sam's door had been stupid. Plain and simple.

Thank goodness he hadn't answered, saving her from herself once again.

It was time for her to save herself. Past time. She'd thought she'd already passed that point. Permanently.

Lucy started down the path. Bloom looking longingly after her. Pulled her cell out of the pocket of the bright blue cotton capris she'd put on after her shower that morning, and texted Sam.

Heading down to the beach with Lucy. BRB.

Chantel was due in half an hour and she'd be back up by then.

When her phone buzzed, Bloom seriously thought about ignoring it. He was just going to tell her it was fine and she'd look for some kind of hidden message in that, a sign that she wasn't the same as every other victim he'd ever protected.

Some sign that the look in his eyes the other night, the way he'd held her hand and led her down the hall, had meant what she'd known it had meant.

She hadn't dreamed that up.

But she might as well have, for all the difference it made in their relationship. When this was all over, she wasn't going to want him like she did now. Her professional self kept reminding her of that.

Bloom pulled out her phone. She just wasn't the type to ignore a message.

But before she could open it, even start to analyze it, the front door opened and Sam came running out in sweats, a T-shirt and boat shoes.

Bloom froze, too scared even to look around. She shrank into herself, as though if she could make herself small enough she wouldn't be a target for whomever Sam was protecting her against.

She prayed that Lucy was far enough down the path not to hear what was going on. Not to come back up and put herself in the middle of the danger.

“I need you back in the house,” Sam said, not even breathless from his sprint.

She didn't argue. He wouldn't have come running after her if it wasn't important.

To allay panic, she spent the whole way back wondering if he wore tighty-whities under his sweats.

And then, when they were safely inside, Lucy, too, she started to shake. They'd all three made it without being shot.

* * *

“I'
M
GOING
OVER
there with you.” Bloom's words brooked no argument.

Sam stood at the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his T-shirt, facing a fully showered and dressed Bloom who stood across the galley kitchen from him, her arms also crossed.

She'd taken the news of the break-in well, hardly reacting at all. But she'd been a pain in his ass ever since.

He didn't want her to see the place until he had a chance to assess the damage.

“I wasn't planning to go,” he lied. He was going. Not because he didn't trust his officers to process the crime scene just fine, but because he needed a feel for the place. To see the damage, not just hear about it.

Sometimes the way something was slashed was more telling than the slice itself.

He just hadn't figured out his plan yet, with Chantel on her way to LA, he had to find someone to stay with Bloom without her feeling like...

“I have a right to go to my own home, Sam.”

“Not right now, you don't,” he was happy to tell her. “It's a crime scene. You can't go until I release the scene after it's been processed.”

He breathed a silent sigh of relief when that quieted her.

“A crime scene?” she said, seconds later. “How much damage was done?”

Hardly any. Which was part of the reason he wanted to see it. He had to know what Freelander had been thinking. To know every nuance of how that man thought.

Or to find out if he'd been looking for something.

And if he had, whether or not he'd found it.

Was it possible the man hadn't disposed of the drugs to a gang in exchange for protection?

Could his intel have been wrong?

“You'll need me to tell you if anything's missing. I'll wear something over my shoes if you need me to. And I won't touch anything.”

She was right. Professionally, he needed her there. Which meant that his objection to taking her had been...unprofessional.

“I need to shower,” he said, not liking the taste that last thought had left in his mouth. “I'm doing so with my gun on the counter and the door open...”

He started to get hard just saying the words, but knew he'd be fine once under the cold spray.

“Freelander's not the type to show up here unannounced, and we have no evidence that anyone knows where you're staying...”

No indication that anyone had followed them from her office even once over the past two weeks.

“...the grounds are covered. But, humor me, stay away from the doors and windows for the ten minutes it's going to take me.” He'd shave in the shower to save time.

She nodded.

“And scream if you even think you hear anything or if Lucy so much as gives a loud sigh.”

It was overkill.

Because he felt, so acutely, his broken promise every single time something else happened that had anything to do with Freelander. Because he'd failed professionally.

His attention to her might be more than necessary, his attraction inappropriate. But one thing he knew was that he was not going to fail her again. If anything he was going to keep her so safe she'd feel like a prisoner.

If she didn't already.

“Go shower, Sam. I'll sit anywhere you like and stay put until you're done.”

Anywhere he liked?

No. He was not going to screw this up.

“The couch is fine,” he said. Turned his back. And prayed for icy water.

* * *

F
ROM
THE
OUTSIDE
the house looked fine. So did Sam. In his coat and tie, he'd returned to the man she knew. The detective she knew she could hold at arm's length. There was a belt and a holster between her and his whities.

And promises he made that he couldn't possibly keep.

Bloom knew exactly why his underwear was on her mind that morning. She was substituting sexual feeling for fear, focusing on whatever it took to take her away from the panic.

“It doesn't look like it was broken into,” she said as he turned off the ignition in her driveway, and she knew she was going to have to get out.

Or force him to take her somewhere else while he investigated. Because he certainly wasn't going to let her sit alone in his car in her driveway.

She wanted to see the beach from her back porch. That view had seen her through some of her toughest moments. Bolstering her with hope.

“A back door was left ajar,” Sam told her. He hadn't yet opened his door as though he wasn't looking forward to the next minutes, either.

Or maybe he was sensing her hesitation. He'd most likely seen hundreds of crime scenes in his lifetime.

“Why would Kenneth leave the back door open?”

“My guess is someone left in a hurry.”

“But no one saw a car. You said no one saw a car. What would have spooked him with enough time to get away in a car without being seen?”

“He could have parked down the beach.” True.

Public parking was sparse during the day, but at night...

“He also could have pulled into the garage.” She should have changed the automatic door code; she just hadn't thought about it. Not with him in prison. And then her leaving before he got out.

“There's always the possibility it wasn't Freelander.”

She knew that. But didn't want to think about that possibility, either. “Whoever warned Lila and me doesn't think we got the message,” she said aloud. “And knows where I live?” She was only suppositioning. Not sure which scenario she liked better. Kenneth, or a nameless creep?

“It's possible,” he said.

“But you think it's Kenneth?”

“I have a report of the damage.”

That didn't answer her question at all.

She didn't tell him so.

* * *

A
PUNK
OUT
to give a warning messed things up. The whole warning thing. A few paintings slashed... What kind of warning was that?

Even if they were worth a lot of money—which they could have been, Sam acknowledged as he got his first real look at the colorful framed canvases hanging on the walls partially shredded—they were only paintings. Someone who was angry enough to break into a home was at least going to empty the contents of the refrigerator. He could have done a lot of damage with mustard and ketchup and a few other things that had been left in there.

He'd have slit the sofa, not just paintings.

Emptied drawers and thrown them upside down on the floor. Broken dishes. Mixed things up.

He'd have damaged electronics, if he'd left them there at all...

“It was Kenneth.”

Bloom hadn't even walked through the house yet. Now that he had her there, he really needed her to do so but was loath to ask.

Any other victim and he'd talk them through it. Express his concern and understanding of how difficult it was. But he'd make them do it.

“How do you know?”

She was staring at the desecrated painting over the fireplace, her face expressionless.

Her tone lacked emotion as well as she said, “He called me. From prison. He was allowed to call, you know, as long as I was on his list. I was given the opportunity to refuse to speak with him, but I agreed. I'd hoped that he'd have some epiphanies sitting in that cell. That his knowledge would save him. Instead, it had only given him the psychological means to try to manipulate me in new ways. To remind me how much I loved and needed him...”

Sam's jaw hurt as he grit his teeth together. What had the bastard said to her? And what had she ever done to anyone to deserve such contemptible treatment? After two weeks of living with Bloom in the midst of extreme tension, he knew for certain that she was the kindest person he'd ever met.

Maybe a gift from parents who lived in a simpler world and had borne her into it?

“I kept things professional,” Bloom was saying.

Her electric-blue capris and vividly striped shirt didn't belong in this formal setting. Or at least, he didn't want them there.

“I spoke from a therapeutic point of view. Hoping he would understand and just...move...on. At that point I actually hoped maybe we could be friends. Pathetic, huh?”

“I don't think it's pathetic at all.” Her need pulled the words out of him.

She continued without looking at him or in any way acknowledging that she'd even heard him.

“He didn't, of course. Understand, that is. Not any of it. No matter what I said, he had a rebuttal that turned the world on its axis and gave an entirely different meaning to the very same words. In the end, I grabbed at a solid piece of evidence that didn't involve words. Or reasoning. Yet was still based in psychological theory.

“I told him about my paintings. About how they'd helped me access mental and emotional health from the inside out...” Her face was still upturned toward the fireplace, her long auburn hair hanging down her back.

Had she just said
her
paintings?

With a chest that felt as though it had been carrying a ton of bricks all morning, he stood there, looking at the walls, and saw the desecration in a new light. Hoping to God he was wrong about what he was thinking.

It was as though he could feel his shoulders shrinking within his coat. And he knew that he couldn't allow that to happen.

“So you think he destroyed the art you two had purchased together as a way of letting you know what he thinks of the value of art?” He was winging it. But thought his theory held some merit.

She shook her head. “I don't know why he came here last night,” she told him. “Maybe he thought I would be here. Maybe he just wanted to talk in person, without lawyers between us. He'd have been told Friday afternoon that my motion to move out the hearing had been granted.”

He had to give her top marks for calm. For clear thinking. He was seeing red. And not because of the brightly colored pieces of canvas dangling out from the frame.

“What I do know is why he left. He came in expecting to find me and I wasn't here. That would have upset him. But then he saw that I'd replaced all of his carefully sought after and expensively purchased artwork with my amateur attempts...”