Man Shy Page 5

  “I know, but—”

  “Look at me.”

  She stared into his eyes, her face expressionless, remote.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t really know you, Brody.”

  He studied her taut features. “It’s more than that.”

  She swallowed audibly. “Like I told you before, I’m the sort of person who needs a lot of personal space. It takes me a while to warm up to people.”

  To men, she meant. Somebody, somewhere along the line, must have inflicted some pretty serious damage. The tightly controlled muscles of her face, the rigid set of her shoulders, awakened protective instincts he hadn’t even realized he possessed. “I would never hurt you.”

  She was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, he had to lean close to hear her whispered reply. “Not on purpose anyway.”

  Depths. Deep, dark, murky depths. Mallory’s expression remained stolid and unresponsive, but her hands were balled into fists and her eyes were clouded with pain.

  Brody stared at the thick black shadows puddled along the base of the two-story city-hall building and pretended her distress didn’t bother him. A sharp wind rustled the dead cheat grass edging the parking lot. Traffic sounds ebbed and flowed sporadically, governed by the light at the corner of College Boulevard and Northwest Fourth.

  Mallory sighed softly.

  The faint sound sent another unexpected wave of protectiveness surging over Brody. He shivered, denying the validity of such an alien sensation. You don’t need this crap, he told himself. You barely know the woman. Her problems have nothing to do with you. You’re Brody “Let’s Not Get Too Serious, Baby” Hunter, and you don’t give a rat’s behind what’s worrying this screwed-up female.

  Only problem was, he did care. In fact, he found Mallory’s reactions deeply disturbing. Why did she respond so violently to a casual touch? Had some sadistic bastard abused her in the past? Was that why she was so touchy? Why she kept men at a distance? The possibility bugged the hell out of him.

  He glanced over at her. She stood huddled in her coat, face averted from his. She looked so small and fragile. He wanted to cradle her in his arms, rock her and hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right, but he suspected if he did, he’d only frighten her. He rammed his hands deep in his pockets.

  The wind gusted suddenly, tipping over one of the plastic garbage cans lined up along the back of the apartment complex across the alley. The heavier trash spread out in a fan shape, but the wind caught the lighter items. A flurry of papers headed their way. One of them, the stained and crumpled front page of last Monday’s Gazette, wrapped itself around his legs. He reached down to free himself and froze. Even upside down, the headline read like an omen sent by a malicious oracle, GI JOE ATTACKS ANOTHER HAPLESS VICTIM.

  Dammit all, was that it? He tasted bile. Dear God, just like Jenna.

  Brody shivered again, belatedly realizing the front blowing in had turned the night cold. “We should be going.” His breath emerged in puffs of frozen water vapor. “You must be freezing.”

  She nodded, her movements stiff and graceless. “My poor legs feel like Popsicles.” Her self-deprecating laughter sounded almost natural.

  Brody unlocked the passenger door of his Jeep. He started to help her in, but remembering the unwritten ground rules just in time, he hastily pulled his hand away.

  FOUR

  Mallory spotted the Lexus parked in front of her house from a block and a half away. Lindsey had no doubt helped herself to the key under the flowerpot again. Maybe she’d even dragged Evan along. Great. Two of the three people—her mother being the third—Mallory most wished to avoid.

  “I changed my mind,” she told Brody. “I would like to get something to eat, after all.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely!” Did her enthusiasm sound as false to his ears as it did to hers?

  He paused at the stop sign. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why the sudden change of heart? And don’t give me that stuff about a woman’s prerogative.”

  He sounded more curious than angry, which was a miracle. She’d figured he was probably sick to death of her and her moods by now. The problem was, she was beginning to like Brody Hunter. A lot. And that wasn’t part of the plan. Because she had nothing to offer him, nothing but a truckload of frustration.

  What should she tell him? What could she tell him? Well, when you hugged me in the parking lot hack there, I freaked for a minute. But I’m okay now, and the fact is I’d rather spend more time with you than have to deal with my sister or my ex-boyfriend.

  She sighed. When in doubt, tell the truth. Or at least part of it. “Evan’s car is parked in front of my house. See it? The black Lexus?” She shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s Evan or Lindsey or both of them. I just know I’m not in the mood to talk to them right now.”

  “Maybe they heard about your run-in with the burglars. Maybe they’re worried.”

  “I doubt it. Curious perhaps. Evan has a nose for news and Lindsey’s just plain snoopy. So either they want to give me the third degree about my evening’s adventure or they’ve had a tiff and want me to play Dear Abby.” She leaned her head back against her headrest. “I really don’t want to deal with them tonight.”

  “Then don’t.” A smile spread slowly across his face, warming her. He did a quick U-turn and headed back toward the business section of town.

  The Denny’s out by the freeway didn’t serve haute cuisine, but aside from the Hitchin’ Post where the bikers hung out and a couple of all-night convenience stores patronized by insomniacs and weirdos, it was the only place open. Brody hung a left onto the access road, then a right into the parking area. The front lot was full, but there were some empty spots around the side.

  As he pulled in he noticed a late-model gray Ford pickup with matching camper parked near the Dumpster. Probably not the same one he’d seen leaving the alley behind the Yanos’, but worth checking out on the off chance.

  “Gotta go wash up,” he told Mallory as soon as the hostess showed them to a table. No use worrying her. It was probably nothing anyway. No doubt a town this size had two dozen trucks that fit the description. Maybe more. “If the waitress comes to take the order before I get back, tell her I want a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake. Okay?”

  Mallory nodded.

  The bathrooms opened off a short hall between the restaurant and the lounge. At the far end a glowing neon exit sign indicated the location of the back door. Brushing past a teenage girl using one of the pay phones, he slipped outside.

  A gust of wind blew grit in his eyes. Jeez. He tucked his ponytail into his jacket and pulled the collar up around his neck. Spring break, my foot. That wind was straight off a glacier.

  He detoured around the Dumpster to where the truck was parked. With one of the security lights out, the area was darker than six inches up a cat’s behind. He had to hunker down and squint like hell to read the license number. It was one of the standard Oregon plates, navy blue on a pale background with a green pine tree separating letters and numbers. “L-R-K—” Brody leaned closer, but before he could decipher the numbers, his head exploded in pain and all the lights went out.

  Mallory checked her watch for the third time in ten minutes. According to Mickey Mouse, Brody Hunter had just qualified for the Guinness Book of World Records in the “longest time spent washing hands” category.

  Mallory added another shredded napkin to the pile in front of her. Where the heck was he? The waitress had taken their order twenty minutes ago. Other customers—numerous other customers—had come and gone. Mallory was tempted to follow suit. Not only was she sick and tired of waiting, she was also beginning to feel conspicuous sitting here by herself.

  Kyle had assured her this little black dress was the epitome of chic, but she was beginning to wonder. Two guys had hit on her already and the state police officer at the counter was keeping his eye on her, and b
eing pretty obvious about it too. Getting booked on suspicion of prostitution was not the way she wanted to finish up her evening.

  In the lounge, a whiny female vocalist was destroying a perfectly good Billy Joel song. Even muffled by distance, the nasal quality of her voice grated on Mallory’s nerves. Dammit, where was Brody?

  She drained her water glass and started on her diet soda. Half an hour. Ridiculous. Was the men’s room out of soap? Water? What? This wasn’t a date. It was a nightmare. The upside was, things couldn’t get much worse.

  Or could they?

  A John Travolta wannabe in black leather and chains swaggered through the front door. Mallory’s heart plummeted. Ramon, the loser from Dial-A-Date.

  He spotted her immediately. “Mallory! Babe, how’s it going?” he yelled across the room.

  Mallory prayed for the earth to open up and swallow her.

  It didn’t.

  Ramon slithered toward her, his arrival heralded by the stench of cheap cologne. He grabbed her hand and for one horrified moment she thought he was going to kiss it, but all he did was give it a squeeze, then let it drop. “Babe, how are you?”

  “Fine.”

  He raised the left half of his single eyebrow. “Don’t lie to Ramon, babe. What’s going on? Date stand you up?”

  “He’ll be right back.” He’d better be right back.

  “I get it. Hitting the little boys’ room, hmm?” He sat down across from her, uninvited. “Listen, babe, you get tired of waiting for Romeo, you head on into the lounge. I got a friend lined up in there, one of my regulars, a real party animal. You’re welcome to join us. No charge.” He winked suggestively. “The more the merrier, you know?”

  Mallory didn’t know, and she was quite certain she didn’t want to know. She frowned at the little toad. Subtlety was wasted on his type. “Get lost, Ramon.”

  “Now, babe, you’re gonna hurt my feelings if you’re not careful.”

  “Is there a problem here?” asked the patrolman from the counter. He was short, stocky, and middle-aged, but he looked like a knight in shining armor to Mallory.

  “No, sir. No problem here, sir.” Ramon sounded like the painfully polite sleazoid perpetrators on Cops.

  “Yes,” Mallory said. “I have a problem.”

  Ramon shoved his chair back. “Not with me, she doesn’t. I’m history. See you around, babe.”

  Not if I see you first.

  The patrolman’s glare followed Ramon’s retreat to the lounge.

  Mallory waited until Mr. Dial-A-Date was out of earshot before she spoke. “Actually, Ramon’s the least of my worries. My date went to wash his hands half an hour ago and he’s still not back. I’m afraid something may have happened to him.”

  The patrolman frowned. “That does sound suspicious. Want me to check it out?”

  Mallory followed the officer to the men’s rest room, but waited outside by the pay phones, where a teenage girl was chattering away, her end of the conversation punctuated by giggles and sweeping hand gestures.

  “And then I go, like, you’re kidding, right? So he goes, no way! And I go, so prove it. And like, he did.” She giggled and smacked her denim-clad thigh. “Is that a scream or what?”

  The patrolman reappeared. “Empty. I checked every stall.”

  “Then where c”

  “Looks like he took a hike.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

  Jeez. Did she look like the kind of woman who got dumped at Denny’s? How pathetic.

  “Look, Officer—” she started.

  “Lady, I noticed the two of you when you came in. Hate to break it to you, but I’ve seen punks like that before. Take my word for it, they’re nothing but trouble.”

  “But—”

  “Call a cab, go home, and thank your lucky stars all he stuck you with was the bill.” He shrugged again and headed back to his stool at the counter.

  “No, for real, Sierra,” the girl on the phone squealed. “I am not making this up. Extreme southern exposure. Right there in tie Kmart video department with like a million shoppers doing the blue-light-special thing.”

  “Damn!” Mallory swore in frustration.

  “Problem?” The girl looked up from the phone.

  “You might say so. I lost my date.”

  “Bummer. Just a minute, Sierra.” She covered the mouthpiece of the receiver. “Your date. What’s he look like?”

  “Tall, dark, long hair in a ponytail.”

  The girl gave her an appraising look. “Oh, yeah. I remember him. The hunk. He went thataway.” She hooked a thumb to indicate the exit.

  Mallory was halfway through the back door when the girl said something else that brought her to a screeching halt. “What?” She whipped around.

  “I said, watch out for the other guy. He wasn’t as cute as your hunk.”

  “The other guy?”

  “The one who followed the hunk out the door. The big one.”

  “Big? How big?”

  “Smaller than an elephant c” She grinned, “but not by much.”

  Brody came to with the mother of all headaches. The stink of rotting food—God, he hoped it was food—was all around him. In his nose. In his lungs. In his pores. But the worst part, the scariest part, was being blind. The darkness was complete. Eyes open or eyes shut made no difference.

  He sat up or tried to. His head slammed into solid steel with a resounding clang and he damn near lost consciousness again.

  Where the hell was he anyway? And how had he gotten here in the first place? Oh, hell. It hurt to think. It hurt period.

  The last thing he remembered was Mallory. He and Mallory were side by side and heading for the car. He could feel her warmth and softness even through all the layers of clothes. He could smell the scent of her perfume and he could hear her voice, low and urgent, saying c

  “Brody? Are you out here, Brody?”

  That wasn’t what she’d said. No, it had been something like, “That’s odd.” And then they’d gone chasing across the street to check out the lights at her neighbor’s house.

  “Brody, dammit! Where are you?”

  Buried alive. That’s where he was. Buried alive in a cold, smelly grave. The sickening blend of odors made his stomach roll. Sour milk, rotting fruit, putrefying meat. Oh, hell. He was going to throw up. He gagged, fought down the nausea, groaned, then gagged again.

  “Brody? Is that you?” Mallory pounded the side of the big blue Dumpster, her efforts rewarded by another moan. She swore under her breath. Dammit, he was in there and hurt, too, from the sound of it. She grabbed the lid and shoved, but the Dumpster cover didn’t budge. Something was holding it down.

  “Don’t worry, Brody. I’ll get you out of there. Just hold on.” She dashed back inside the restaurant, where she enlisted the help of the patrolman.

  “Here’s your problem,” he said, when the two of them got outside. “Somebody slapped a couple of these on top.”

  “What?”

  “Sandbags.”

  “Sandbags? Where would they find sandbags this time of night?”

  With a grunt he heaved a second bag onto the pavement at the base of the Dumpster. “Lots of people haul ’em around during the winter months to weigh down the back ends of their pickups. Helps with traction on bad roads.”

  “But it’s April.”

  The officer shrugged. “So somebody was too lazy or too forgetful to take them out earlier.” He shoved the Dumpster cover up and the stench slammed them in the face.

  Mallory huffed out a breath, breathing through her mouth. The smell was—in one of her father’s favorite colloquialisms—rank enough to gag a maggot off a gut wagon. She stood on tiptoe to peer inside.

  The patrolman shone his flashlight on the Dumpster’s contents. He uttered a sharp expletive at his first glimpse of the body. Brody’s body.

  Mallory didn’t say a word. Shock flattened her like a sledgehammer blow. Her legs gave way and she slid down the side of the Dumpster to land in a heap on th
e ground.

  Blood. So much blood. Half of Brody’s face was obscured by it, sticky with it. He was dead. He must be. No one could survive such a massive blood loss.

  Sharp stones cut into her knees. The icy wind raised goose bumps on her flesh. The smell of decay clogged her nose. But she was scarcely aware of her discomfort. Even with her eyes squeezed shut, the blood was all she could see. She wanted to scream or cry, but didn’t have the strength for either. Instead she slumped against the Dumpster, concentrating on breathing in and out. On staying alive.

  “He’s breathing!” The patrolman’s sharp cry cut through the layers of shock. “Hey, lady! He’s breathing!”

  “What kind of rinky-dink hospital is this anyway? I can’t believe they didn’t keep you overnight for observation.” Mallory frowned at Brody as he folded himself into the Jeep’s passenger seat.

  “Not much night left,” he said. The first pale fingers of light poked up above the mountains on the eastern horizon.

  “Hmmph.” She slammed the door shut hard enough to make him wince, then marched around and got in on the driver’s side. She slammed her door, too, and he winced again. “Where to?”

  “My place.” He was dead tired, in dire need of sleep, but first he’d take a shower. They’d cleaned his head at the hospital, but the rest of him still stank to high heaven. He suspected his queasiness was as much a result of the disgusting odor as the blow to his head.

  Mallory turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine. “Which way? I don’t know where you live.”

  Why was she so cranky? She wasn’t the one nursing a lump the size of a golf ball.

  “The new subdivision off Madison Boulevard, Piltdown Terrace.”

  “Fitting address for a Neanderthal,” he thought she grumbled, though he couldn’t be sure. It was hard to hear over the squeal of the tires and the grinding of the gears.

  “Okay, what’s the problem, Mallory?”

  “I don’t have a problem. You’re the one with the problem.” She took the right onto Ninth Avenue on two wheels. He’d swear she was hitting every pothole on purpose.

  Brody grabbed his head. All he needed was a good case of whiplash on top of everything else. “You’re right. I do have a problem. I’m trapped in a car with a maniac driver. Slow it down, okay?”