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“Again, it’s in a company name. The only problem you’ll have is if your parents mistake it for a spam call and don’t answer.”
Calder said, “Compton and Perkins will expect Elle to reach out to you in some manner, so there may already be surveillance on your house.”
“I prepared for that. This, uh, gentleman I know will swear to anyone asking that I was with him for several hours this evening.”
“Looks like you thought of everything. Why am I not surprised?” Elle went over to Glenda and pulled her into a hug. “You came through for me again. Thank you. A thousand times over.”
“Same here,” Calder said. “Thank you.” Calder extended his hand.
As they shook, the two appraised each other. To Elle the handshake looked like the sealing of a tenuous truce.
Glenda turned back to Elle for one final hug. “You know where I am. Call me if you need anything.”
Then she was gone, and Elle was left with Calder in an unfamiliar kitchen that suddenly seemed to take on the proportions of a cathedral. She was left with Calder in nothing except a bathrobe.
Pushing aside the forbidden thoughts that surged to mind, she said, “Fetching getup.”
He grinned. “You’re one to talk.” He tilted his head and looked her over. She was wearing a modest pair of flannel pajamas that Glenda had lent her. “Are you in there somewhere?”
“Glenda is more… filled out than I am. In a good way.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
The implied compliment caused her stomach to do a little somersault. “She does have a way of taking things in hand, doesn’t she?”
“She should be marshaling troops.”
“All this.” She raised her arms at her sides. “When we were running through those woods, I didn’t expect for the night to end like this.”
“No. It could’ve been much, much worse. I’m feeling survivor’s guilt all over again.”
“Me too. After Dawn and I went upstairs, you spent time alone with Weeks and Sims. Did they mention having families?”
“They didn’t say. I didn’t ask. But I got the feeling they were looking upon that assignment as a boys’ night out.”
“I hadn’t really thought of them until I was in the shower just now. Then the realization hit me. They were killed because of me.”
“Not because of you. Of any of us. Blame their superiors. Those two were the wrong men for that job. They weren’t qualified or equipped to handle a worst-case scenario. Their higher-ups never should have placed them in that situation. It was a recipe for the disaster that resulted.”
She nodded, sighed, then indicated the bottle of whiskey on the counter. “May I have some of that?”
“Sorry. I should have offered.” He walked over to a bank of cabinets. Beneath the terry cloth robe, his backside was well defined. Last night, when he was grinding his pelvis against her, she’d kneaded those firm glutes, making them contract even tighter as she’d arched up to take him deeper.
When he turned and walked back toward her with a glass, she kept her line of sight well above the robe’s low-slung tie belt. He poured her a whiskey along with a refill for himself. Eyes locked, they clinked glasses, then drank.
Rebelliously, her body made her acutely aware of and responsive to all of Calder’s attributes underneath the robe: his skin and form, his scent, the raw masculinity. She’d experienced it but had been denied time to explore and savor.
His rejection had stung, as did the whiskey now. It burned all the way down, but after the past few turbulent hours, she welcomed the sedation she hoped it would provide. She had escaped with her life. The deputies, and likely Dawn, hadn’t.
As she tried to speak, she realized her voice had been made husky by the bourbon. Or perhaps emotion. “Calder, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But it’s not my whiskey.”
“No,” she said with a soft laugh. “Not for that. For—”
A ding sounded. “The dryer. Hold the thought. I’ll be right back. Better attired.” He set down his glass and left her.
While he was gone, she took a tour of the kitchen, looking at everything, registering nothing. Just as during the aftermath of the shooting, tonight’s happenings seemed surreal. The stuff of outlandish dreams or an episode of someone else’s life. Surely not hers. Elle Portman, escaping with her life, but running from the law? Who was that woman?
