Morgan Hayes - Tall, Dark And Wanted

Molly blinked several times, gradually bringing him into focus. She had to be dreaming.

It wasn’t the Mitch of the photos she’d seen over the years—always dressed to the nines in hopelessly crisp suits and expensive ties as he endured the limelight his success garnered, or even donning a hard hat at some groundbreaking event for a new Drake construction, still wearing what appeared to be an Armani.

No, this was the Mitch of Molly’s memories, of twelve years of recurring dreams and fantasies. That rugged handsomeness, that overwhelming masculinity, dressed in a rumpled denim shirt over a sparkling white T tucked into a faded pair of jeans…

And his hair…It was cropped short. The mustache and beard were gone as well. The warm glow of the fire softened his sharp features—the square chin, the strong jaw-line, those chiseled lips and that perfect nose with the smallest of clefts at the tip. But it was his eyes that riveted her and seemed to have stolen her ability to speak as she watched them reflect the flames’ dancing light.

This was the Mitch she knew, the Mitch she’d made love to and believed would be with her forever. This was the Mitch she’d kissed goodbye as she saw him off to college twelve years ago. This was the Mitch who had smiled as he’d driven off to Boston, and out of her life….

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She managed a nod, but her eyes never left his.

“Talk to me, Molly,” he prompted again, the lines of worry etching even deeper. “Are you all right? How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been clubbed over the head.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. The simple act sent another shot of pain searing through her.

“I thought I was going to have to drive you to a hospital.”

“I’m fine,” she lied, and attempted to sit up. But the effort was more than she’d anticipated. Her vision blurred again and dizziness swept over her.

She should have expected Mitch to reach for her then—strong hands grasping her, guiding her up and then lingering on her shoulders as though assuring himself that she was all right. More than that, however, Molly should have expected the almost instant physical reaction her body had to his touch.

“I’m fine,” she said again, brushing his hands away.

He backed off, but only briefly. From the coffee table he picked up an ice pack and settled onto the sofa next to her. She could smell the faint trace of aftershave on him—something she’d not smelled in years, and yet it seemed as familiar as yesterday. She fought back the memories.

“How long have I been out?”

“Not long. Fifteen minutes…maybe twenty.”

He reached behind her, attempting to settle the ice pack against the tender and throbbing source of her pain. Molly winced and reflexively reached up to take the pack from his grasp.

“I told you I’m fine.”

She heard the release of his breath before she saw him shake his head.

“How could I forget?” he asked, a frown quivering at the corners of his mouth. “Just as stubborn as your old man.”

She watched him lift a hand and run his fingers through the short-cropped hair, as though he expected to find long locks of black hair still there.

“So I guess I have you to thank for this goose egg?” Molly bit her lower lip as she eased the pack against the injury, feeling the initial burn of the ice.

“What do you expect when you come creeping through the dark? And with a gun drawn, no less?”

Molly caught his quick nod to where her Glock lay on the coffee table. She cringed at the idea that she’d so easily lost her on-duty weapon. Yes, she’d certainly messed up. If it had happened in the line of duty, the incident would have been written up in a heartbeat.

“I did knock,” she said.

“Yeah, well, you should have announced yourself.” There was a definite edge to his tone. But the anger wasn’t at her, Molly realized then. It was more at himself, for having struck her the way he had. And judging by the residual dizziness and the pain hammering through her head, it must have been a damned good swing. She could only imagine what had gone through his head when he’d seen her drawn gun coming through the kitchen door.

“So what the hell are you doing here, Molly?”

“You have to ask?” She shifted the ice pack and tried not to wince again.

“You’re wasting your time.”

“Whether or not you testify is up to you, Mitch. All I want to do is ask that you reconsider what you’re doing.”

“And what am I doing?”

“Honestly? I’d say you’re committing suicide. Thinking you can stay out of Sabatini’s reach. It’s insane. After all, I managed to find you. It can only be a matter of time before Sabatini’s men catch up with you as well, and you’re a fool if you think you can hold your own against them. You’re not safe, Mitch. No matter how much firewood you have,” she added.

“And you’re saying I’m safe in Chicago?”

“Certainly safer than running, yes.”

He stared at her for what could only have been seconds, but caught in those dark eyes, it felt like an eternity.

“Well, I’ll take my chances,” he said at last. “Like I told you, you’re wasting your time.”

In the intensity of his stare she thought she saw resentment, anger, and beneath that…a kind of resignation, a glimmer of defeat that frightened her. When he drew himself to the edge of the sofa eventually, and turned to look at the fireplace instead, Molly studied his profile. But she could still see that sense of hopelessness she’d glimpsed. It was the look of a man who didn’t care whether he lived or died. And Mitch Drake was the last person she’d ever expected to see it in.

No, the Mitch she’d grown up with was a strong man. A man who loved life, who had never let anyone or anything cut him down or hold him back. She’d fallen in love with that strength, that vitality, probably before she was even old enough to understand those qualities. And later, in high school, it was that love for him that had left no question in her mind as to who she wanted to be with, who would be her first lover.

She’d been Mitch’s first, too. Sure, she knew he’d kissed a couple of other girls on occasional dates before she had dared to profess her feelings. But Molly knew, beyond a doubt, that Mitch spoke the truth when he’d sworn that night on a blanket along a stretch of Lake Michigan beach, under a full sky of stars, that Molly was his very first. His first and only, he’d vowed.

They’d dated through his senior year and then Molly’s while Mitch started college in Boston. And in their last summer together—before Mitch went for his second year at Boston and Molly joined the Academy as her father had done—they’d made grandiose plans for their future, even dared to speak of marriage a few times. But Mitch had wanted to finish school first so he could afford to buy her a real ring. Even back then Molly had wondered if there was more to Mitch’s holding off than the cost of a diamond ring, because he knew her well enough to know that she would never have worn something as precious as a diamond.

Then, through their grapevine of friends, Molly had learned of Emily Buchanan, a girl Mitch had met during his second year of college. Molly had learned he was bringing his new girlfriend home during the Christmas break, and she’d made it a point to escape Chicago for the holidays, leaving her father on his own and heading to the slopes with friends just so she wouldn’t have to see or speak with Mitch. And when she returned to the city to start her new life as a patrol officer with the CPD, Molly had vowed she was through with Mitch, through with the dreams and the hopes. She’d returned his few letters unopened, and didn’t respond to any of the phone calls he’d placed to her father.

And then, three years later, when she’d heard the news of Mitch’s marriage to Emily, Molly had at last come to the painful conclusion that it had never been a matter of Mitch not being ready for marriage all those years earlier. It had never been a matter of timing, or money for an engagement ring. It had simply been a matter of her not being “the one.”

Even so, it hadn’t been easy seeing the pictures in the papers and the magazines over the years as Mitch’s reputation grew in Chicago and the architectural world. Harder still to look at that one photo in which he’d posed with his new wife on his arm at some Chicago high society event. Emily had been everything Molly wasn’t—tall, elegant, poised; not some tomboy down the street Mitch had grown up with, pitching stones at old factory windows and racing their matching CCM bicycles through trash-cluttered back streets.

No, she certainly hadn’t been “the one,” Molly resolved yet again as she watched Mitch stand and cross the dimly lit room to the fireplace.

There was no missing the way he favored his left leg, the slight limp seeming uncharacteristic of his obviously sturdy, muscular build. Molly was reminded of the crash ten months ago that could very easily have claimed his life. She should have been used to the guilt she felt now; after all, it had plagued her ever since she’d heard about the accident and hadn’t made the effort to see Mitch. Not that she would have necessarily been allowed in to see him at the hospital or even been able to find out the location of the safe house if she’d tried. And not that she would have known what to say if she had.

She watched him throw another log onto the fire. A burst of sparks sprayed out and up the flue.

“I…I’m sorry, Mitch,” she murmured now. “I’m sorry about the accident. About…your wife.” The words sounded flat, even though she’d meant them.

His back was to her, but she could see the rigid tension that straightened his spine then and tightened his shoulders. And when he turned to her again, there was no mistaking the pain that darkened his face. He rubbed at the gold wedding band, and Molly couldn’t help thinking it was a completely unconscious habit of his.

In the uncomfortable silence that fell over the room, Molly tried to imagine the kind of loss he’d suffered. Yes, she’d lost her mother years ago to cancer, but she’d been only four, too young to have known her, too young to fully comprehend the loss.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the dark pain in Mitch’s expression was gone again, as though maybe she’d only imagined it. The wall came up and masked his features in a way only Mitch could manage.

Molly remembered the first time she’d seen him do that—so skillfully construct walls around his emotions. They’d been ten years old when they’d found his dog at the side of the road, killed by a car. Mitch had carried the collie in his arms the whole six blocks home, and it was only days later that Molly had at last seen him cry.

That memory, and many others, flashed before her mind’s eye as Mitch stared back at her. Only when he cleared his throat was she able to return to the present.

“Where’s your car?” She lowered the ice pack and tried to draw herself to the edge of the couch. Another cruel wave of pain surged through her head, and the room threatened to spin again. “About a mile back, at the side of the road,” she answered, remembering the long, cold walk. “I, um, I underestimated. Ran out of gas.”

“Well, you can’t leave it there. With this snow, the plows’ll be through at least once tonight,” he said, turning from the fireplace. “I’ve got a spare tank. I’ll drive you out there.”

SOME OF THE COLOR had returned to Molly’s face before they’d left the house, and she seemed to have regained her equilibrium. But from the moment she’d reholstered her gun and pulled on her anorak and boots, she’d been silent. Even now, in the passenger seat of Barb’s Blazer, she said nothing, only stared out the windshield into the mesmerizing swirl of snow.