Page 38 of Deadly Attraction
“That’s amazing,” Emma said, smiling at him and Will. She stood on the lower rung of the railing, her arms propped on the top, looking over at the horses. “You two make a good team.”
Will blushed and hustled off, muttering, “Better go do my perimeter check. I’ll be back in twenty to see about her.”
Mitch needed a shower. As he backed out of the stall, he also wished for a decent change of clothes.
“You ready to head in?” Emma said.
“More than ready.”
Night had fallen once more. Mitch readied his weapon and kept Emma behind him as they made their way to the house. Salt and Pepper waited on the porch.
He let her follow him through the house, her tiny gun in her hand as they made sure the place was clear. In her bedroom, the last room they went into, she stared at the nightstand and rubbed her gun arm with her empty hand.
“You okay?” Mitch asked.
She nodded without looking at him. “Why don’t you grab a shower. I’ll make us some food.”
His stomach seconded that idea. A beer would be good too. “Stay clear of the windows, don’t open the door for anyone but Will.”
Turning on her heel, she headed for the stairs. “The clothes I laid out for you are still in the bathroom. You’re smelling pretty ripe. Might want to wash the clothes you have on. Toss them out the door and I’ll throw them in the wash.”
It had been a damn long time since a woman had taken care of him. “I appreciate it.”
A simple dip of her chin and she disappeared down the stairs, slow and deliberate as if she were descending into the depths of hell. Salt and Pepper sat on the landing, watching her. Both dogs turned in unison to look at him.
“Go,” he muttered and jerked his head toward her.
In a scramble of toenails, wagging tails, and panting, the two Labs took off.
In the bathroom, he stripped down, turned on the shower, and eyed the clothes neatly folded on the sink. Who did they belong to? Unanswered questions made him nuts.
Why do you care?
He tossed his dirty clothes outside like Emma had instructed, then leaned his forehead against the closed door. He hadn’t cared about much of anything or anyone in long, long time. He’d buried himself in work to keep from thinking about the things—the people—he didn’t have. Could never have again.
Loneliness swamped him. Irony too. All the places he’d been in recent years that would have been great spots to settle down and grow roots, yet he’d run from every one of them.
Dupé and Harris had offered him a permanent spot on the taskforce, which was the perfect job for him, but he’d turned them down. Need, impulse, drive…something kept him on the move. Now here he was, stalled on his latest case and needing to get Emma off the ranch and to safety so he could get back to finding the arsonist, and all he wanted at that moment was to stay.
The water was hot, the soap smelled like Emma. Citrusy. But now that he was rubbing it on him, he realized it was lemongrass—which was far better than something girly.
He made quick work of cleaning himself up, not wanting to leave Emma for long. Even though Will hadn’t seen anymore of their stranger, the guy could still be out there.
The clothes were too tight for his liking, but they would do until his own were clean and dry again. A hunger pang struck and he finger combed his wet hair.
He hadn’t had time to go through the Goodsman file or work up his own profile of the guy. Was Emma right? Was Goodsman just a damned good actor, or was there merit to the idea that he was psychologically unbalanced enough to buy into his fictitious identity as Tom Monahan? His motivation to break out of jail was viable, except wasting his freedom to come after her seemed out of character. Like Will had mentioned, a spoiled, rich actor on the lam didn’t suddenly turn into a survivalist who traipsed through forest fires to get revenge on the psychologist who’d petitioned against his release.
On the other hand, if Goodsman truly believed he was Tom Monahan, leader of the Resistance, he just might.
Mitch jogged downstairs, the smell of a home-cooked meal filling his nose. Meat, potatoes, yeasty rolls. Damn, he hadn’t had anything that good since his last Sunday meal with his mother.
Which had been at least three years ago.
The dogs were stationed by the back door, Emma humming over a cutting board where she chopped vegetables and threw them in a skillet with beef tips. A glass of wine sat on the counter by her side, a soup pot filled with cut-up potatoes simmering on the stove. The light inside the oven revealed the rolls he had smelled.
“On the TV show,” Mitch said, snagging a carrot from the cutting board, “did Goodsman have a trainer? One of the articles I read said he did some of his own stunts.”
Emma didn’t miss a beat, sipping at her wine as dinner cooked and the washing machine churned in the corner of the mudroom. “It’s rumored he did some of his own stunts until he was injured in Season Six. The producers deemed him too important to the show to allow him to take any further risks, but his fans loved it. I think it made him feel more like a man when he could say he did his own stunts.”
