Page 55 of Joker in the Pack

“You mean there’s some maniac running around with a knife, and you left your door open? Anyone could have got in.”

He kind of had a point there. I shuddered at the thought and found I had a headache. “I won’t do it again, I promise. Please don’t be angry.”

His expression softened. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

“No, you’re right. It was stupid.”

“I didn’t even know you had a bike. Where is it?”

“In the shed out the back.”

“I’ll arrange to have the tyres replaced.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Please, I insist. Shall I stay and keep you company this evening? We could get a takeaway, watch a movie…”

“I don’t have a sofa or a television, so that could be difficult.” At least, I didn’t have a television in the lounge. I wasn’t ready to invite Tate up to my bedroom. Yet.

“Then why don’t you come over to my place? My housekeeper was off sick today, but it’s still reasonably presentable.” He gave me a cheeky smile. “I can take your mind off things.”

Now, that was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Tate did indeed put on a movie, but I couldn’t have told you whether it was a horror flick, a romcom, or a thriller. It might even have been a blank screen. But I could have described every contour of Tate’s face, from his smooth forehead, to his perfectly straight nose, to his angular cheekbones. His lips, with their rounded Cupid’s bow, were pinker than my cheeks went when he started undoing the buttons of my blouse.

He caught my sharp intake of breath. “Do you want me to stop?”

I quickly shook my head no. His touch took me away from everyday life. Well, his touch and the wine, and I relished the trip. Tate might have been clean-shaven, but my lips still stung from overuse by the time he dropped me home again. Despite his previous offer for me to spend the night, he hadn’t got past second base, even though I half wished he’d gone for a home run. I’d need to sit in a bucket of iced water to put out the fire between my legs.

I clutched at Tate’s arm as we walked down the path to my front door, praying there wouldn’t be a repeat of last time. Tate glanced at the window at the same time as I did, and we let out a synchronised sigh of relief when we saw it was intact.

Tonight, I got more than a chaste kiss as he pushed me up against the front door and wrapped his arms around me, leaving me breathless once more. As he made me forget everything, I slipped my hands inside his shirt and ran my fingers over his chest, so warm in spite of the cool night air.

“Goodnight,” he whispered as he pulled away. “I’ll call you tomorrow. And don’t forget to lock your door.”

Words almost escaped me, but I managed to utter, “Goodnight, and I won’t,” in return.

I fanned myself as he climbed back into his car, and it was only once the roar of the Mercedes’s powerful engine faded into the night that I came to my senses and unlocked the front door.

Prickles rose on the back of my neck the instant I stepped into the hallway. Why was the house so cold? I’d definitely left the heating on, and I could feel a draft that was never normally there. The curtains next to me wafted gently in the breeze, casting eerie shadows on the wall. I knew I’d closed all the windows, and I’d checked the back door twice as usual before I left. The chill spreading through the house and my veins told me that somebody had opened one of them for me.

I could hardly run to Bob and Yvonne’s house this time, not after Yvonne’s reaction to me yesterday afternoon, and I couldn’t see the point in calling the police. They’d only send Graham, and by the time he arrived, whoever was here would have had time to bury my body and fly to a non-extradition country. I was still waiting for someone to take my statement after the last episode. My fingers trembled as I dialled Tate, and I cursed under my breath when he didn’t answer. Of course, he was driving and would be for the next ten minutes.

I picked up a chunky china dog from the nicknack shelf and crept forward, inch by inch, brandishing the ornament in front of myself like a shield. When I cracked the living room door open, what I saw made me retch, leaving a stream of recycled wine decorating the already disgusting carpet.

GET LOST, BITCH

The words had been painted in foot-high bright-red letters, the same shade used on my bicycle seat. Drips of paint had run down the wall, and it looked as if the plaster itself were bleeding.

I dropped the dog and snatched up the heavy metal poker sitting next to the fireplace. Remnants of ash in the grate suggested someone had once used the poker for its intended purpose, but for now, it would have to do its duty as a makeshift weapon.

Fear gave way to anger as adrenaline pumped through my veins. I’d had enough. I almost hoped my tormentor was still in the house, because I’d enjoy sticking that damn poker somewhere painful.

My heart pounded as I threw open one door after another, checking every cupboard, nook, and cranny, no matter how tight a fit they might be. But the only evidence of the intruder apart from the wall art in the lounge was the open back door, its hinges squeaking as it blew back and forth.

I slammed it in a fury, and the house rattled. Thankfully, only one small pane of glass had been broken this time, and at least I was now on first-name terms with the glazier. I taped a piece of cardboard over the hole to keep the draft out and balanced a pile of saucepans on the floor behind it. At least if anybody came back, the pans would topple over, and I’d get some warning.

Cold and fear made me shiver as I climbed into bed fully clothed. If I had any more unwelcome visitors, the last thing I wanted was for the crime scene investigators to stand over my corpse and lament my poor taste in pyjamas. Assisted by the alcohol still swimming through my veins, I fell asleep clutching the poker close to my chest.

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