A short time later, she set aside the finished statement with a tired sigh. Lucas strolled through the room, Celia at his side, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Neither one seemed to notice her sitting alone at the large mahogany table as they passed. Invisibility was nothing new, but no one seemed to need her. Should she just leave now or what?
Going home didn’t seem like an option. Didn’t criminals stake out people’s homes and lie in wait for them? Then there was her lack of shoes. Lack of clothes.
Heaving a sigh, she rose and wandered into the living room. The beautiful room was demolished. Bullet holes in the walls, lamps knocked over and broken, furniture scattered, pictures askew. Ugly reality swept through her, making her head throb, pulse pound and skin go clammy. The room had been stunning when she arrived. An entirely different sort of stunning came to mind now.
Head spinning, she made a beeline for the elevator.
“Where you headed, Sugar Lips?”
She glanced back. Detective Marsing leaned against the doorframe, all rippling nonchalance as he stared at her with the familiar curl of amusement on his lips, total Surfer Dude mode.
“Well, I have no shoes and only the clothes on my back. I was thinking I’d take a taxi home.”
“I don’t think so.” Despite his lazy stance, the intensity of his stare made her twitchy.
Feeling sick, she flicked her wrist at the room. Destroyed because of her. She couldn’t hold onto her self-righteous irritation enough to keep referring to him as Detective. “I’m so sorry about your home, Greg. I feel awful. I really do. I clearly can’t stay here and I’m not your responsibility.”
“You think you’d fare better on your own? In your home, which is no doubt staked out?”
All the blood pooled in her feet, leaving her lightheaded and feeling like she’d fallen into some sort of alternative reality. What had happened to her boring, predictable, safe little bubble of existence?
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Guess you’ll have to learn how to relax and hang loose.”
“What?”
“You know, chill.”
Was this guy for real? Intense, rude, Super-Cop personified one minute, totally unhelpful Surfer Dude the next. She didn’t need this aggravation. “What kind of advice is that? I have no way to get anywhere, I’ve witnessed a murder, men keep trying to kill me, and all you can say is I need to chill?”
She spun on her bare foot to leave. Pain shot through her. Gasping, she looked down at the pool of shattered porcelain all around her. Based on the limp flowers scattered across the floor, the pieces had formed a vase in a previous life. One more thing to feel guilty about. Fortunately, she had the agonizing pain caused by glass shards in the bottom of her foot to distract her. Lovely.
Greg lifted her in strong arms and swung her against his hard chest.
“What are you doing?” she gasped. “I’m too heavy. Put me down.”
“I’m helping.” He said it with the angelic innocence of a five-year-old boy caught putting a bug in a girl’s hair. “You’re injured. And you are not too heavy.”
Disarmed by the close proximity, she clamped her lips shut and shot him a skeptical look. The amused sparkle in his eyes was at odds with the intensity of his gaze. Confusing man.
He juggled her slightly to get through the arched doorway into the dining room and scorching heat suffused her face. She could just hear the gears working in his head, evaluating her weight. He probably thought she sat around eating donuts, bags of chips and fried food. Drowning in embarrassment, she shut her eyes.
In another lifetime, in a different body, she’d love a hunky guy carting her around. Since she was still in this one, she didn’t.
He set her on one of the elegant chairs. “Be right back.”
Probably wanted to run into the other room to catch his breath. Seconds later, he returned with a first-aid kit and knelt at her feet. He pulled out a pair of ginormous tweezers and she flinched.
“Easy, sweetheart.”
Her foolish heart clenched over the casual endearment. Department Don Juan, she reminded herself fiercely. His eyes locked on hers and the helpful little reminder fled the building.
“I’ll be gentle, I promise.” Imprudent or not, the fatal combination of his solemn gaze and low voice caused a hairline crack in her defensive wall.
He carefully placed her foot on his bent knee, angling it to the side so he could see what he was doing. She focused on the wall over his head, unwilling to watch him pick bloody pieces of porcelain from her foot.
She sucked in a breath when he pulled out the first piece.
He held it up. “Yep, Grandma’s antique vase died a brutal death.”
Ally winced. Despite his crooked grin, the pain of the loss shone in his eyes. He removed more shards, his gentleness soothing even though it didn’t mitigate the pain. He set down the tweezers and took out a bottle of antiseptic. She tensed. The cold antiseptic burned inside the cuts and she swallowed a sob. A few wraps of light gauze he secured with medical tape and he set her foot down and looked up.
“As to your other issues, my sister keeps a room here with clothes and stuff in it. I’m sure she won't mind if you borrow some of it.”
“Seriously?” Half-laughing, half-groaning, mortified beyond belief to be having this discussion with a ridiculously attractive stranger, she closed her eyes. “Nothing that belongs to your sister would fit me.”
“Why not?”
Good grief. Surely, he wasn’t that clueless. No way on God’s green earth was she explaining. She could only take so much humiliation. “They just won’t, okay?”
He shrugged and rose. “Whatever. At least see if Celia has a pair of shoes you can wear.”
“Fine.” Gracefulness be damned. She surged out of the chair and hobbled from the room, ignoring her throbbing feet.
“Her room is the first one on the left down the hallway.”
Celia’s room was an oasis of soft pink and cream, a girl’s paradise filled with gilt furniture. A massive canopied bed rested dead center. Ally swallowed a wistful sigh.
Double doors opened into a jaw-dropping closet.
A few clothes? By whose standards? She shook her head. Row upon row of beautiful clothes filled the walk-in closet. At the far end, slanted shelves displayed a dazzling array of shoes.
In a green-tinted haze of envy, she limped forward, trailing fingertips along the shelves.
She might live in a bubble, but she still recognized the designers. Prada, Valentino, Dolce & Gabbana, Fendi, Gucci, Manolo Blahnik, Miu Miu, Versace and more.
What kind of man left a life of luxury and became a cop making diddly squat?
Someone with an amazing story to tell. Someone who’s probably a great guy underneath all his posing and blustering. Gnawing on her lower lip, she focused on the shoes. She didn’t like the idea of borrowing designer shoes but she couldn’t very well walk around barefoot.
Donna Karan sandals caught her eye. Gorgeous cork platforms with gold crisscrossing straps and gold chunky heels. They were nothing like the boring flats