somewhere, she noted. Or had forgotten to put it on in the first place.
She started to dry her face with her sleeve, remembered the jacket was suede, and decided to dig in her purse for a tissue. But she'd set it down somewhere along the tour.
“Doing great so far,” she murmured to her reflection and nearly jolted at the echo of her own voice. “This is where I want to be,” she said more firmly. “Where I have to be. But it's not going to be as easy as I thought.”
Brushing away the excess water on her face with her hands, she turned away from the glass. She would godown, get her sleeping bag, and tune out for the night. She was tired and overemotional. In the morning she would go through the house again and see what she needed to make her stay more pleasant.
Just as she stepped back into her parents′ bedroom, she heard the creak and groan of the front door.
Panic came first, quick and instinctive. Her always vivid imagination conjured up a pack of roving convicts newly escaped from the correctional institution that was only twenty miles away. She was alone, in an empty house, and for the life of her, she couldn't remember one move she'd learned in the self-defense course she and Angie had taken two years before.
Pressing both hands to her heart, she reminded herself she was in Emmitsboro. Convicts didn't tend to roam the streets of tiny rural communities. She took a step forward and heard the creak on the stairs.
Yes, they did, she thought again. Anyone who had ever watched a B movie knew that convicts and psychos always headed for out-of-the-way towns and quiet villages to spread their mayhem.
In the empty room, she looked around wildly for a weapon. There wasn't even a ball of dust. Heart thudding, she searched her jacket pockets and came up with three pennies, a half roll of Lifesavers, a broken comb, and her keys.
Brass knuckles, she thought, remembering how she'd been instructed to hold the keys with the pointed ends sticking out between the fingers of a closed fist. And the best defense was a good offense. So saying, she jumped forward toward the door, letting loose with the most hideous shriek she could summon.
“Jesus!” Cameron Rafferty stumbled back a step, one hand reaching for his weapon, the other gripping theflashlight like a club. He saw a woman with wild red hair and a kelly green suede jacket come leaping at him. He ducked her swing, tossed an arm around her waist, and used his weight to overbalance both of them. They landed with a thud on the hardwood floor.
“Bruno!” Clare shouted, inspired and terrified. “Someone's in the house! Bring the gun!” As she yelled, she tried to bring her knee up between her attacker's thighs and nearly succeeded.
Winded, Cam struggled to pin her arms above her head. “Hold on.” He swore as she tried to take a bite out of him. “I said hold on. I'm the police. I said I'm the goddamn police.”
It finally got through. She subsided enough to look at his face in the slant of light from the bedroom. She saw dark hair, a little curly, a little too long, the stubble of a beard over tanned skin that stretched taut over excellent cheekbones. A good mouth, she thought, artist to the last. Nice eyes, though in the dark she couldn't be sure of their color. There was a light scent of sweat about him, clean, clear sweat, not at all offensive. His body, pressed hard into hers to keep her still, felt lean and muscled.
He didn't seem like a psychotic or a crazed felon. But…
She took her survey while she fought to regain her breath. “The police?”
“That's right.”
Though she was flat on her back, she gained some satisfaction from the fact that he was breathless. “I want to see your badge.”
He was still cautious. Though his grip on her wrist had caused her to drop the lethal keys, she still had nails and teeth. “I'm wearing it. At this rate, it should be imprinted on your chest.”
Under different circumstances, she might have been amused by
She started to dry her face with her sleeve, remembered the jacket was suede, and decided to dig in her purse for a tissue. But she'd set it down somewhere along the tour.
“Doing great so far,” she murmured to her reflection and nearly jolted at the echo of her own voice. “This is where I want to be,” she said more firmly. “Where I have to be. But it's not going to be as easy as I thought.”
Brushing away the excess water on her face with her hands, she turned away from the glass. She would godown, get her sleeping bag, and tune out for the night. She was tired and overemotional. In the morning she would go through the house again and see what she needed to make her stay more pleasant.
Just as she stepped back into her parents′ bedroom, she heard the creak and groan of the front door.
Panic came first, quick and instinctive. Her always vivid imagination conjured up a pack of roving convicts newly escaped from the correctional institution that was only twenty miles away. She was alone, in an empty house, and for the life of her, she couldn't remember one move she'd learned in the self-defense course she and Angie had taken two years before.
Pressing both hands to her heart, she reminded herself she was in Emmitsboro. Convicts didn't tend to roam the streets of tiny rural communities. She took a step forward and heard the creak on the stairs.
Yes, they did, she thought again. Anyone who had ever watched a B movie knew that convicts and psychos always headed for out-of-the-way towns and quiet villages to spread their mayhem.
In the empty room, she looked around wildly for a weapon. There wasn't even a ball of dust. Heart thudding, she searched her jacket pockets and came up with three pennies, a half roll of Lifesavers, a broken comb, and her keys.
Brass knuckles, she thought, remembering how she'd been instructed to hold the keys with the pointed ends sticking out between the fingers of a closed fist. And the best defense was a good offense. So saying, she jumped forward toward the door, letting loose with the most hideous shriek she could summon.
“Jesus!” Cameron Rafferty stumbled back a step, one hand reaching for his weapon, the other gripping theflashlight like a club. He saw a woman with wild red hair and a kelly green suede jacket come leaping at him. He ducked her swing, tossed an arm around her waist, and used his weight to overbalance both of them. They landed with a thud on the hardwood floor.
“Bruno!” Clare shouted, inspired and terrified. “Someone's in the house! Bring the gun!” As she yelled, she tried to bring her knee up between her attacker's thighs and nearly succeeded.
Winded, Cam struggled to pin her arms above her head. “Hold on.” He swore as she tried to take a bite out of him. “I said hold on. I'm the police. I said I'm the goddamn police.”
It finally got through. She subsided enough to look at his face in the slant of light from the bedroom. She saw dark hair, a little curly, a little too long, the stubble of a beard over tanned skin that stretched taut over excellent cheekbones. A good mouth, she thought, artist to the last. Nice eyes, though in the dark she couldn't be sure of their color. There was a light scent of sweat about him, clean, clear sweat, not at all offensive. His body, pressed hard into hers to keep her still, felt lean and muscled.
He didn't seem like a psychotic or a crazed felon. But…
She took her survey while she fought to regain her breath. “The police?”
“That's right.”
Though she was flat on her back, she gained some satisfaction from the fact that he was breathless. “I want to see your badge.”
He was still cautious. Though his grip on her wrist had caused her to drop the lethal keys, she still had nails and teeth. “I'm wearing it. At this rate, it should be imprinted on your chest.”
Under different circumstances, she might have been amused by
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