C.J. Miller - Hiding His Witness

“Reilly, kiss me.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The rejection stung but didn’t stop the need. “Kiss me.”

“Carey,” he protested, only halfheartedly.

“One kiss. One innocent kiss. It’s been so long, and I…”

“You what?” he asked, his eyes searching her face.

Wanted him. Couldn’t pretend otherwise. “Need you to kiss me.”

His eyes darkened and when he surrendered, his mouth capturing hers, the kiss was anything but innocent.

He tried to pull his lips away, perhaps to apologize, but she clamped her hand around the back of his head, holding him to her.

He tasted like mint and he smelled spicy, like a man, a real man.

He finally tore his mouth away. “We can’t do this.”

Still reeling from the impact of his kiss, she blinked in confusion. “Why? Why can’t we?”

“This isn’t right. You’re the witness in a case.”

C.J. MILLERis a third-generation Mills & Boon ®reader and the first in her family to write professionally. She lives in Maryland with her husband and young son. She enjoys spending time with family, meeting friends for coffee, reading and traveling to warm beaches around the world. C.J. believes in first loves, second chances and happily ever after.

C.J. loves to hear from readers and can be contacted through her website at www.cj-miller.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Brook, for always reading and believing.

After the streetlights came on, traveling alone along the empty sidewalk was a very bad idea. But Carey didn’t have money for a cab and the bus didn’t run at this late hour. She had no choice but to walk home. Most of the time she didn’t mind being one of the nameless, faceless inhabitants of the city. City meant anonymity, avoiding eye contact, and a life so fast-paced most people didn’t remember her name or when and where she moved.

And Carey moved quite frequently.

What she did mind were the rotten jobs she’d had to work the last eleven months. Without a social security card—or at least not one she was willing to share with her employers—the jobs were monotonous, low paying, and the hours terrible, hence her walk alone in the dark at midnight.

Carey pulled her jacket tighter around her, staving off the cold and clutching her Vogue magazine to her chest, and looked over her shoulder, left then right. With the news media blasting details of the grisly serial killings committed in this neighborhood, she prayed with every step she’d make it home safely.

She kept the hood of her worn gray sweatshirt tugged over her head, her baggy clothes disguising her gender, and stepped up her pace. Steam poured from the grates along the sidewalk and the streetlights that weren’t broken illuminated her way. Her landmark was the twenty-four-hour convenience store located across from her apartment building, its bright white lights and red-and-green sign shining into her windows. Three more blocks.

In the distance, police sirens wailed, sending a shiver up her spine. Another mugging? A murder?

“Shut up. I told you to shut up,” a voice bit into the night.

Carey froze, her muscles tightening, every instinct she had going on the alert.

Grunts and the dull thud of fists on flesh escaped from the alleyway ahead. Kicking into survival mode, she reached into her oversize jeans and grabbed her pepper spray, flattening herself against the brick building at the corner of the alley. Her heart hammered against her rib cage, threatening to reveal her presence. What should she do? Scramble into the entryway of the building and hope she went unnoticed? Turn and run in the other direction? Call for help? She didn’t have a cell phone and pay phones had long since disappeared from the street. If she knocked on any of the doors along this row, would anyone answer?

Probably not. This late at night, a knock on the door brought trouble.

Peering into the alley, she made out the shadow of a man, the glint of his knife blade catching in the streetlight. A drug deal gone bad? Had she stumbled on a mugging? The man with the knife shifted, bringing into view another man cringing on the ground against the wall, his arm shielding his face.

Her father used to tell her there came a moment in every person’s life where courage was tested. Fight or flight.

Rage charged in her veins. Fight. Definitely fight.

Screaming, “Fire! Fire!” at the top of her lungs, hoping the word brought attention to the alley, Carey bowled herself into the attacker, blasting her pepper spray in his face. The liquid caught on her finger and burned like fire. A hit to the eyes had to be worse.

The man swore at her, stumbled backward, and slammed her into the wall behind them. Her spine hit the brick with a hard crack, absorbing the impact, making her teeth clatter. She hadn’t quite gathered her wits when the assailant grabbed her shoulders, throwing her to the ground like a rag doll. Her head banged into the cement, jarring her vision. The attacker wiped at his eyes, swearing every curse word she’d ever heard, swinging the knife in his hand wildly.

His face was one she would never, ever forget. Dark hair, beady eyes, a hawklike nose and thin lips. Launching himself at her, he slashed his knife through the air, and she rolled, almost managing to avoid the blade. She ignored the sharp sting on her arm as his knife brushed past her. Letting out a bellow of anger, he kicked at her, missing once. He kicked again, connecting with her rib cage.

Curling to protect her head from his blows, she tried to scramble away from him, still shouting, “Fire! Fire!” She’d been on the run for nearly a year and she wasn’t about to die in a cold, dark alley at the hands of a knife-wielding thug.

A police siren howled closer, and with a final litany of curses aimed at her, her attacker took off in the opposite direction, barreling through a line of trash cans and disappearing into the night.

Carey groaned as she moved onto her hands and knees, her body battered, her left arm stinging. She set her hand over the cut and pressed down, hoping it wasn’t too deep and wouldn’t need stitches. Dragging herself to her feet, she limped toward the man slumped against the wall, unmoving. She touched her fingers to his neck, looking for a pulse. Her hands shook so violently, she couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. She had to get him help.

A woozy feeling passed over her and she fought for focus and control. If she lost consciousness, there was no telling where she would end up. Taking several deep breaths, she moved toward the opening to the alley. Leaning against the corner of the building, hand still pressed over her arm, she cried out again.

Mercifully, the flash of red-and-blue drew closer and an unmarked car with a dash light drew to a hard stop less than fifty feet from her.

Two men leapt from the car, drawing their weapons. “Police. Get your hands in the air.”

They weren’t in uniform and she quashed the impulse to run. Could she trust they were who they claimed? How could she be sure they weren’t dirty and corrupt?

Making a quick decision to believe them, at least for now, she held up her hands obediently, wincing as her arm and ribs cried out in protest. “Don’t shoot. There’s a man in the alley. He needs an ambulance.” She pointed behind her with her left index finger, keeping her hands in the air.

One of men raced into the alley and the second holstered his gun, rushing to her. She let her hands drop, the pain in her left arm unbearable.

He towered over her, close enough to touch her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes raked over her and she could scarcely draw a full breath under his scrutiny, her rib cage aching with every inhale, her heart skittering frantically. Fear clashed with her desire for comfort and the sudden urge to lean into him. She was losing it. She must be losing it if she was thinking about turning to this stranger for help of any kind.

He had the slightly dangerous look of man who was a little bit reckless and lived life on his own terms. His hair was dark, worn longer than most men, and a shadow of a beard covered his jawline. With broad shoulders and slim hips, he captured her interest and that was troubling. She didn’t have the time or energy to be interested in anyone.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his dark eyes singeing her with concern.

Carey shook her head, the lie a necessary one. The fierce cold bit into her hands, her chin stung and her arm throbbed. She turned to keep him from seeing her injury. Panic swept over her. She had to get out of here. She couldn’t stay a moment longer. She’d clean and bandage her arm herself later. The convenience store sold bandages, didn’t they? “I’m fine.”

He narrowed his gaze on her as if he didn’t believe her. “What happened?”

“I wasn’t involved. I just screamed for help.”

“I need you to come with me to the station.”

Her terror grew stronger. She needed a plan of escape. She couldn’t go with him to the police station. He couldn’t force her, could he? “I just want to go home.” Black spots dotted her vision. She needed to lie down. Soon.

He shook his head and a lock of hair fell over his forehead. “I need to take your information and a statement about what happened here.”

Her gaze drifted to that lock of hair, then to his eyes. Surprised by the smoldering heat she found in them, she felt the look as if he’d touched her. A warm shiver moved down her spine and her stomach tightened. This guy had charisma and raw, sexual magnetism in spades. A man with whom she wouldn’t—couldn’t—lower her boundaries even a fraction of an inch for fear he’d get inside.

Another siren drew closer and an ambulance turned onto the street. Carey said a mental thank-you for the quick response time and hoped the man in the alley would be okay. She needed to beat feet.

“I didn’t see anything.” The lie made her ears burn. She could see in his face he didn’t believe her.

“You saw enough to call for help.”

Why had she stopped and interfered? Why hadn’t she kept her head down and kept walking? “I don’t remember.” What a terrible excuse. Dizziness swept over her and she struggled to remain standing. Home was three blocks away. She could make it.

“Do you have ID?” he asked.

“Do you?”

He lifted a brow, never taking his eyes off her, then reached into his back pocket and drew out his badge.

“May I?” she asked, extending her right hand.

Shooting her a wary look, he handed over his badge for inspection. She opened the wallet, his ID tucked inside. He wasn’t a plainclothes police officer—he was a detective. He didn’t look older than thirty-five. Impressive that he’d made the ranks that young. Assuming he wasn’t dirty, her respect for him ratcheted up a notch. “Detective Reilly Truman. I’m sorry, Detective, but I’ve got to go.” Carey threw the badge behind her for all she was worth and took off in the other direction. She made it two steps and then collapsed, a black hole closing off her thoughts.

Reilly watched his badge sail over her shoulder. He swore under his breath, but his irritation was doused when the witness crumpled to the ground. A moment later he was at her side, rolling her onto her back and checking for a pulse.