Beast in the Tower. Julie Miller
Maybe the same someone you loaned your coat to?”
“No, he wouldn’t do that.”
“Who, Matt?” She retreated from the blast of cold air that hit her when he opened the back door. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m trying to understand why someone would hurt that woman. And why no one but…” She shook her head to dispel the vivid tactile memories that flooded her body with heat. I will repay my debt to you. She wasn’t ready to mention the tall, gruff-voiced mystery man at the hospital, or else she’d sound like the crazy, irresponsible sibling. “I’m trying to understand why no one seems to know her or where she lives. Why your coat may have been worn by one of the men who attacked her. Who attacked me! If you have answers, I want to hear them.”
“So you can report me to the police? I didn’t do anything wrong last night.”
“But you won’t say what you were doing. Or who you were doing it with.” Kit grabbed on to the door and asked again. “What happened to your coat?”
“I have to get to school. Before you jump my case about that, too.”
“Matt.” He was out the door. Kit stepped out onto the concrete stoop to keep his long, lazy stride in sight. “I need you at work at four-thirty. And tomorrow morning you meet with your counselor. I expect you to keep the appointment this week.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, ducking beneath the steel scaffolding and heading toward the street.
“And pull up your pants. There’s a dress code at school, remember? You’ve got a cute butt—you should show it off.” Even that teasing truth failed to get any more talk out of him. He was leaving without a backward glance. Flannel pajamas couldn’t keep the wintry breeze from blowing against her skin and raising goose bumps. “I love you.”
But he was gone. Kit hugged her arms around her middle and shivered. Cold as she was, alone as she felt, there was an odd heat centered between her shoulder blades that caused her to turn around and peer into the empty expanse of the alley behind her.
Maybe not so alone.
Was someone watching her? Had one of the workmen come early? Right. Like flannel pj’s and fuzzy slippers would merit a whistle or two.
She lifted her gaze to the parking garage on the opposite side. There weren’t even any cars moving there yet. There was no one else here. She was safe.
Getting grabbed from behind twice in the same morning made her paranoid, that was all.
Still, Kit hurried inside, unable to shake the eerie feeling of being watched until she locked the door behind her. Releasing the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, she hustled her own butt to get showered and dressed and off to explore the building before visiting Helen.
Helen Hodges hadn’t just formed out of the mist. There had to be a tangible clue somewhere in the Sinclair Tower that would let Kit know where the woman belonged. There had to be something to tell her more about the mystery man she seemed to belong to.
WHAT WAS THAT WOMAN up to?
Damon propped his feet on the desk and leaned back, sipping his coffee and watching his first-floor neighbor chatting up the construction crew on a row of monitors. She’d already walked the halls on three floors, peeked into unused offices and invited herself into one of the model apartments.
She was certainly a curious specimen. Thorough and methodical in a way that Damon could relate to—friendly and outgoing in a way he was not. But what was she looking for? Though he couldn’t hear the words, he could read the nonverbal cues of posture and gestures, and tell she was asking questions.
About what? The building? The remodel? The attack? Helen? Him?
If he’d had half of this high-tech, personally enhanced security system installed throughout the building eighteen months ago, he’d have seen the enemy coming that night. He’d still have his original notes. He wouldn’t have had to build a new lab or play games with that hacker. He’d have the full use of two good hands and both eyes.
His wife wouldn’t be dead.
Damon inhaled deeply, carefully controlling his emotional response to all he had lost. He no longer allowed his thoughts to be clouded by sentimental attachments. Beyond Helen, of course.
That was excuse enough to acquaint himself with his first-floor neighbor. Helen would want to thank her, want to do something kind and generous to repay her. But until his housekeeper regained consciousness, Damon would evaluate this would-be friend for her. Though his security cameras had caught the vicious, faceless attackers on tape, Damon had seen the danger too late. Caught up in the throes of his nightmares, he’d failed to protect Helen when she’d needed him most.
He wouldn’t fail to protect her again.
If his first-floor neighbor proved to be as straightforward and caring as she appeared to be, then Damon would personally write a check for whatever thank-you gift Helen wished to bestow on her. But if she’d discovered Helen’s connection to the wealthy SinPharm empire and intended to take advantage of her grateful nature, then he’d have his executive liaison, Easting Davitz, close the woman’s restaurant and kick her out of the building.
But for now he was content to collect data and observe the subject in question. He’d organize the facts and determine his opinion of her later.
He already knew everything about Katherine Elizabeth Snow that a piece of paper could tell him. He set his coffee mug down on the stack of information his security team had pulled for him this morning. The printout said she was twenty-six, never married, had one brother in high school, and was a partner in a restaurant business she’d inherited from her late parents. She stood five-six, weighed a healthy 130 pounds, and was a practicum short of earning a Masters in criminal justice studies to go with her chemistry degree from Central Missouri State University.
As he watched her wave goodbye to the workers, he added a couple more facts to his list. Katherine Snow made people smile, and her worn blue jeans hugged a sweet, round bottom that was every bit as firm and sexy to look at as it had been to press against in the hospital lobby last night.
Damon jerked as if an unseen hand had slapped him in the face. Damn. Where had that thought come from?
“What are you thinking, Doc?” He warned himself away from the random memory that snuck in from his subconscious mind. Last night’s tussle had been about communication and maintaining his anonymity—not whether or not a thirty-nine-year-old man could still get his rocks off with a woman after more than a year of mourning and celibacy.
But before Damon could get his focus back around the fact that he was spying on Katherine Snow for Helen’s sake, and not his own baser interests, she disappeared into the stairwell, capturing his curiosity in a different way. “Now what?” He drifted closer to the monitor. “Where are you going?”
Mental note: add security cameras to stairwell.
He didn’t like being at a disadvantage, but instead of standing there like some adolescent fool, damning his left hand for having just enough functional nerve endings to remember what the swell of her breast had felt like in his unintended grasp, Damon turned his attention to a more familiar purpose. He crossed the lab and shut off the Bunsen burner beneath the variable ingredient of this morning’s test formula. The liquid was hot enough to destabilize the molecules and recombine them with the regeneration mixture he’d already synthesized. When the new formula cooled, he’d add it to a petri dish along with a few skin cells from a volunteer subject who shared the same allergic predisposition Miranda had exhibited, and see if normal, viable tissue would grow.
This time Miranda’s Formula would work.
“That’s right, Doc. Jinx it.” Inhaling deeply, Damon buried that twinge of emotion and turned his back on his work. He didn’t believe much in the power of positive thinking anymore. He believed in cold, hard facts. Either the formula would work or it wouldn’t. But he refused to hope.
Time