Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series) (13 page)

Tucker sat on his bed, gripping his phone as he stared into the dark. His conversation with Owens left a ball of dread in the pit of his stomach. They had problems—big problems.

Sighing, he dialed Ethan. It didn’t matter that it was after one. He would want to know now.

“Cooke,” he said groggily.

“Sorry to call so late.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I just got off the phone with Owens.”

“What’s going on?” Ethan’s voice tightened with concern.

“Owens concluded his investigation into Rex Richardson. He’s not our man. They’re one hundred percent sure.”

Ethan sighed.

“A couple of officers responded to a call at Cooke Interiors right around closing time tonight. Apparently after Patrick got off the phone with Wren, he went to lock up and found a dead black cat on the front step—decapitated; the guts were scattered all over the damn place. Patrick reported the incident immediately. He was pretty shaken up. He’s not going to tell Wren.”

“Good. She doesn’t need to know; it’ll only upset her. We’ll send Collin over to install cameras around the building first thing in the morning. Son of a bitch. I never should have let her talk me out of putting them up. She said they messed with her ambiance or some shit like that the last time we had the conversation.”

“Sounds about right.” Ambiance was going to have to take a backseat to practicality now that the stakes were higher. Tucker rubbed at the painful tension squeezing his shoulders. “There’s more. The cops went over to Wren’s house after they finished at her office, just to check things out. They found another dead cat—guts everywhere again, but he wrote ‘MINE’ all over the siding in blood. Her tires are slashed. He drove over to my apartment, took care of the Jeep too. Left another carcass on my hood; keyed ‘YOU’RE NEXT’ along the side.”

“He’s ballsy and escalating.”

“That’s for damn sure. He can’t find her, and it’s pissing him off. He’s no longer running the show.” A dangerous combination. Tucker clenched his jaw. “We can be certain he knows she’s still with me.”

“Looks like it. We’ll get the paint and tires fixed and have someone bring your vehicles to my place.”

“Thanks.”

“Owens is
positive
Rex isn’t behind this?”

“His alibi is solid for the bricks and break-in. And he’s not in LA right now. He left for Australia after his police interview.”

“Damn. I don’t even know where to start on this one. She’s my sister, and I don’t know how to help her.”

No one understood better than Tucker the helplessness of not being able to protect someone so important. “I’m at a loss myself. I’ll talk to Wren when she wakes up and ask her if she’s had trouble with anyone else. There has to be something. This guy knows her—maybe a former client or someone she dated. He feels betrayed. We just have to figure out who the bastard is.”

“If we don’t know who the hell we’re looking for, how can we be sure you’re safe where you’re at?”

“Honestly, we can’t, but we could say that about any place. He could track us down in Hawaii, at any one of my family’s resorts, or in Europe. The only place safer than Park City is your house, and it’s being ripped to shreds for the next few weeks. No one knows about the house here in Utah—or hardly anyone. Everyone assumed my father sold after Staci’s murder. Dad would have, but Mom wouldn’t let him.”

“You’re right. It’s just—”

“She’s your sister.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Keep me up to date if Owens gets anything new.”

“You’ll be the first. Not that you won’t be checking in yourself.” Ethan’s hacking skills had broken through many firewalls before. “I’ll keep her safe, Ethan.”

“I know you will.”

Tucker disconnected and stood, looking out the window into the endless dark, listening to the wind howl as Park City was pounded by the worst of the storm. The pretty falling flakes of hours before now fell in torrents, while violent gusts tossed them about mercilessly.

The power was out—had been for a while. Tucker flipped on his flashlight, walked to his closet, and grabbed his duffel bag. He unzipped the side, pulled out his Glock, and pushed a loaded magazine into the clip. For the first time since they arrived, he felt the need to keep his weapon close. They officially had no idea who they were messing with and how this man was connected to Wren’s life. It was highly doubtful Wren’s stalker would find them here, but nothing was out of the question.

He slid the gun into the band of his pajama bottoms and stepped from his room, ready for his nightly walkthrough of the house. With his flashlight in hand, he wandered about, inspecting the windows and doors, hesitating when he reached the forbidden hallway. Reluctantly, he started down the endless corridor.
Last one to their room is a rotten egg. Go! I’m the fair queen and you’re her enchanted stallion. Get down so I can ride on your back.
He clenched his jaw, moving faster as painful memories consumed him. He checked the glass terrace doors, giving them a firm tug, and turned, stopping at the second door on the right, placing his unsteady hand on the knob. He wanted to turn it as much as he wanted to run away.
Love you, Tuck
. Staci’s last words echoed in his mind, and he stepped back, continuing on to the living room, hating the hell out of this place.

A swift wave of anger washed through him as he made his way to the stack of logs by the living room fireplace. Why did he insist on torturing himself by heading down that fucking hall every night? The house had a fully functioning alarm system—or it did when the power was on. If someone tried to get in, the damn thing would let him know. But that wasn’t how he did things. Wren was depending on him to keep her safe. Part of his job included routine inspections of their surroundings, whether he loathed them or not.

Ready to put the worst behind him—for tonight anyway—he grabbed an armful of wood and brought the load with him to his parents’ old room—Wren’s room now. Quietly, he closed her door, locked it, and brought the logs to the fireplace. The house would lose most of its heat before too long.

Within minutes, he had a fire crackling in the grate. He pulled the throw from the back of the chaise lounge he, Staci, and his mother had piled on more times than he could count and made himself comfortable. He set the gun on the floor, well within reach, covered up, and stared at Wren asleep in the firelight. She was beautiful, stunningly so, as the flames cast shadows over her breathtaking face.

He focused on her lush lips, and his pulse quickened as he thought of their tender embrace. He’d wanted a taste of that sassy mouth since the moment he saw her barrel into Sarah’s hospital room all those months ago. Wren had been everything he’d imagined and then some.

It had been hard stepping back from her when all he’d wanted to do was carry her to his bed. Wren would have been his willing partner for one night, then she would have had the perfect excuse to push him away. He would have been nothing more than exactly what she’d expected—a guy looking for a meaningless roll in the sheets. He had no intention of being what Wren expected. He wanted more. He wanted it all. He wanted her surrender.

The log shifted in the fire, casting embers around the grate. He reached out, touching his gun again as he glanced from Wren to the dark. Eventually she would understand that he was different. He had every intention of proving it so while he kept her safe.

Chapter 10

W
ren opened her eyes, startled by another strong burst of wind battering the windows. If this kept up, the glass was sure to break. She’d never heard such powerful gusts before. And the snow—it fell in frenzied sheets. She stared out at the winter wonderland, fascinated by the billowing pines and the drifts as tall as she was. The forecasters had said a storm, but this was a blizzard—her first. Park City was being pummeled.

She rolled to her back and sat up, frowning at the small flames licking the remains of three logs in the fireplace and Tucker asleep in the chaise lounge. When did he come in and how did she not hear him start a fire? She studied him as he slept. He looked uncomfortable with his long, powerful legs hanging off the edge and his head resting against his arm in the crook of the chair. He had to be freezing; his blanket lay pooled on the floor. Her eyes wandered over the dark scruff of his beard and mile-long lashes, his chest and stomach—all that smooth, muscled skin. No one had a right to
look
like that.

Her gaze trailed back up, locking on his mouth, and a rush of heat washed through her belly as she remembered his firm lips pressing against hers and the unhurried way their tongues tangled. No one had a right to
kiss
the way he did.

Tucker Campbell was lethal—more so than she’d first imagined. He’d destroyed her with a few teasing swipes of his thumb and a sensual meeting of lips. What would he do to her if she let him have his way? She shuddered out a deep breath as the liquid pull of desire started between her legs. She blinked and shook her head, shocked by where her thoughts were roaming. What was her problem? Yanking her covers back, she stood.

This was ridiculous.
She
was being ridiculous. Tucker had kissed her. So what? She was acting like a teenage girl with hearts in her eyes. At wits’ end, she shoved the sheets up, then the comforter, smoothing out wrinkles with violent swipes. It was just one lip-lock, and her unexpected reaction to it didn’t have to mean anything. It
didn’t
mean anything. It’s not like Tucker was the only man who’d ever rung her bell…sort of. Okay, so maybe he was the only guy who’d ever turned her into a puddle of sexual mush, but that was beside the point.

She grabbed the pillows and tossed them to the head of the bed. She needed to get laid, that was all. But
not
by him. Perhaps the thought had crossed her mind while she clung to him during their stupid embrace, but she was over that. It had been a while—a long while—since she’d allowed someone to take her to bed. Work hardly left her time to think of her libido, and none of the men she’d dated lately had been worth the emotional investment. Respect and some level of affection were necessary in a partner. She respected Tucker and on many levels liked him a lot, but she wasn’t going there. She had little doubt he would more than scratch her itch, but he was so damned complicated. She had enough to deal with right now.

So that was it. Tucker Campbell was a hell of a kisser, and she’d been more affected than she expected due to her sexual drought. She just needed to keep her distance, make sure he kept his lips to himself, and her problems would be solved.

In the dim light of the early morning, she tossed the pretty blue shams among the pillows, relieved that this little issue had a simple solution. Now she needed to get to work. The Movenbecks would be expecting Patrick at eight with the truck-full of furniture and the accents arriving moments later. She picked up her laptop as she glanced at the bedside clock, and swore. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” No electricity meant no Internet. She sure as hell didn’t have time for this. Yanking up her phone, she slid her finger over the screen and stared in disbelief.
No Service
. This was not happening. She sat on the edge of the bed as a rush of panic surged through her system. How was she going to check in with Patrick and make sure everything was going as planned?

Rushing to her feet, she hurried over to Tucker, barely registering the warmth of the fire as she scanned the hardwood floor, looking for his cellphone. It wasn’t there. She settled her knee on the edge of the chaise lounge, peeking into the dark recesses of the areas his solid body didn’t fill, then she patted at the pockets of his pajama pants.

Tucker eyes flew open as he suddenly sat up. “Cooke, what the hell are you doing?”

She pulled the blanket up and kicked something solid beneath the chair. “Ow.” She dropped into a crouch, catching sight of the black item. Bingo. “I need your phone.”

“Huh?”

She grabbed hold and pulled out a gun. Her smile of triumph vanished.

“What are you doing with my pistol?” He plucked the weapon from her hand.

“What are
you
doing with your pistol?” Her communication issues with Patrick ceased to matter as she stared at the Glock. “Why do you have that?” A wave of terror washed through her as she glanced over her shoulder toward the huge panes of glass. “Is he here? Did Rex find me?” A warm hand gripped her wrist, and she gasped.

“Relax, Wren.” He tugged her down next to him. “As far as I know, he has no clue where we’re at.”

“Oh.” Her heart still thundered as she pushed herself more fully on the seat. “Then why?”

“The power was out when I went to sleep. The alarm has a battery backup, but they don’t last forever. Like I said—better safe than sorry.”

“Oh,” she said again and took a deep breath of relief as she pressed a hand to her chest. “You scared me. I was half expecting to turn around and see Rex out the window.”

“Wren.” He sighed and took her hand.

She eyed him as her stomach pitched. Tucker never used her name, but he had—twice in the last three minutes. “What?”

“I got some news early this morning. Rex Richardson isn’t the guy messing with you. He’s not your stalker.”

She shot up from her seat. “Yes he is. Of course he is.” Of all the things she’d been expecting him to say, this wasn’t it.

Tucker shook his head. “No, he isn’t.”

She balled her hands into fists and rested them on her hips. “I
knew
this was going to happen. I knew they were going to sweep this whole thing under the rug.” Rage and a sharp sense of betrayal drowned any remaining embers of fear. “So much for protecting the innocent.”

“Rex is as much a victim as you are.”

Her eyes widened in her shock. “How can you look at me and say that?” She turned to leave.

He snagged her wrist. “Wait a minute, Cooke.”

She yanked her arm, trying to break free. “Not right now.”

He gave her a hard tug, pulling her down next to him. “Sit down.”

“I don’t enjoy being manhandled.” She tried to stand again. “I said not right—”

“Shut up and listen for five damn seconds,” he said as he wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her in place.

She pressed her lips firm, sending him the look of death as he sidled himself closer.

“Some stuff happened yesterday.”

Immediately the sinking feeling came back. “What?”

“My car was vandalized, as was yours. They found a couple more dead cats. Rex didn’t do it. He’s been out of the country.”

“But it has to be him. Who else could it be?”

“That’s what we need to figure out.”

“I don’t…” She shook her head, struggling to wrap her mind around the latest turn of events. “I have no idea who else would want to send me messages, kill cats, and ruin our cars.”

“So we’ll make a list of all the men you’ve had contact with over the last six months.”

“Six
months
? I can’t even tell you all the men I’ve had contact with over the last six weeks. I’m a business figure in Los Angeles. I interact with men every day.”

“Okay, so three months. Start with the people you see on a regular basis: Patrick, the date you brought to Ethan’s party…Mike, JT. Start with people like that and move back from there.”

“Why do you keep bringing up Patrick? It’s not him anymore than it is JT or Mike.” She smiled as she thought of boring Michael Collins. “The only things Mike obsesses about are stocks and bonds.”

“Probably, but the name of the game is elimination. We’ll give Owens and Ethan your list. If the individuals on it have nothing to hide, they’ll be cleared. I want everyone, Cooke, even if you think it couldn’t be them.”

“What about you? I’ve been spending a lot of time with you lately, and things keep getting worse.”

His brow rose. “Are you implying I’m your stalker?”

“Suggesting Patrick, JT, or Mike is is just as absurd.”

“They’re just names to check off; it’s that simple.”

“All right. I’ll make you a list.” The idea of including people she loved and trusted on that list left her unsettled. The possibility that it could actually be one of them made her ill.

“Precautions.” He slid his thumb along her jaw. “That’s all.”

Nodding, she moved back. The last thing she needed right now was Tucker tying her in more knots. “He could be—he could be a stranger, right?”

“Could be.”

“But it’s not likely.”

“In most cases victims know their stalkers.”

“Sarah didn’t know Ezekiel.”

“I said in
most
cases.”

She rubbed her temple. “I truly don’t have any idea.”

“We’ll start by eliminating who we can, then we’ll go from there.”

“Figuring out who he is could take months.” She closed her eyes and sighed, overwhelmed by the realization. “Somehow I thought this was going to be simpler.”

“If Rex had been our man, it would’ve been a little easier.”

The beautiful pine walls suddenly felt as if they were closing in around her. “I can’t stay in this house indefinitely. I have a business to run and a life to live.”

“This is a temporary solution to a problem. Once the renovations are finished at Ethan’s, we’ll get you settled in there.”

“Okay.” There was no point being upset with Tucker; he was just doing his job. But what about now? “I’ll make you the list, but first I need to use your phone. I have to get a hold of Patrick. The Internet is out, and my cell suddenly has no service.”

“The cell tower’s are probably down too. The wind is howling like a bitch.” He handed her his cellphone anyway.

She slid her finger over the screen and read
No Service.
“Damn it.” She shoved the phone back in his hand as she stood. “I don’t have
time
for this.” She walked to the window, utterly frustrated, and watched the snow fall and the wind blow. “I can’t run Cooke Interiors like this.”

“I’m sure we’ll be up and running in a couple days.”

She whirled. “A couple days? I don’t have a couple days, Tucker. I have right now. Today’s the big install at the Movenbecks. We have half a million dollars’ worth of furnishings and accents to place before the charity event tonight. Brice and Mindy are expecting perfection, and for what they’ve paid me, they damn well should get it. Patrick and I should be dealing with this together. I should be there handling the majority of this. But I’m here while some sick bastard ruins our cars and kills poor, defenseless animals because he can’t get to me.” She turned back to the chaos out the window—a perfect representation of her life as of late—and pressed her forehead to the glass.

“Hey.” He pulled her away from the window and took her chin between his fingers. “I know this sucks, Cooke. I know it does, but everything’s going to work out fine. Patrick can handle today. Cooke Interiors means just as much to him as it does to you. He’ll pull this off.”

“I hope so.”

“He will. As to the rest… We’re going to get this figured out. I want you to feel safe. You
are
safe here with me. No one’s going to hurt you; I’m promising you that.”

Her life was falling apart. Somewhere out there, an obsessed, crazy man hunted her, but as she stood in front of Tucker, staring into his determined eyes, she’d never felt more secure. She rarely believed the promises of others, but she believed his. “Okay.”

The snow had finally stopped, and the sun was attempting to peek out from behind the clouds. Tucker had seen his fair share of winter storms in Park City, but this one had been a doozey. They would be lucky if they got plowed out by tomorrow. Thank God he’d been able to get the Jeep in the garage before the worst of the blizzard hit. He set down his card. “Draw two, Cooke.”

She took two cards from the deck. “So how much longer until we have power?”

Tucker shrugged and played a yellow eight. “Uno. Could be an hour, could be days. The electric company will take care of downtown before they get to us up here in the boonies.”

Wren glanced at her phone. “How long do you think it will take them to fix the tower?”

He grinned. She’d asked him the same question at least twice since this morning. “The answer hasn’t changed since the last time—probably a day or two. I’m sure Patrick’s fine.”

“I just wish I could check in.”

This was eating her alive. Mother Nature couldn’t have picked a shittier day to flex her muscles. If the phone and Internet situation were any better downtown, he would find a way to get her there, but the residents of Park City were on their own until the road and utility crews were able to get their jobs done—and they sure as hell had their hands full. “I wish I could help you, but unfortunately we’re out of luck.”