“I wasn’t followed here,” he said. “I made sure of that.”
“Followed? What’s going on? Wait, do you remember things about yourself?”
“No,” he said. “No, that’s not it.” He looked directly into her eyes and her breath caught from his intense gaze that easily penetrated the dim light. “May I come inside for a few minutes?” he asked in that newly hoarse voice.
She wasn’t sure what to do. It seemed insane to invite a stranger inside her home, especially one twice as big as she was. But she picked up no violent vibes directed her way. “I have to admit I’m curious about what’s going on and why you’re dressed like that, so I’ll bite, come on in.”
He followed her up the outside stairs and waited while she unlocked the flimsy little lock on her door, which, come to think of it, needed to be changed to a stronger one. When she turned to face him in the light of the room, she gasped again.
“What happened to your throat?” she asked, eyes wide.
He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze seemed to fly around the room, from one wall to the next, one painted canvas after another, as though he couldn’t quite take them all in at one time.
All those paintings in so little space probably came across as too much, but when you had a lot of paintings and limited wall space, they tended to add up.
“Did you create all of these?” he asked.
“Well, not the landscape, that’s a Vincent van Gogh print, and the lilies are Monet...well, all the people, yes.”
“You’re amazing,” he said, his gaze finally settling back on her face. “Who are all these people?”
She shrugged, unwilling to be distracted. “What happened to your neck?” she asked again.
He set the fruit on her table, then ran a hand through his hair. He seemed to exist in a perpetual state of sexy. It was just the way he was put together, the way he moved, his mannerisms and the expression in his eyes. But now bone-weary fatigue vied with that innate magnetism and seemed to win. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked.
“Help yourself,” she said as she locked the front door.
He settled on her lime-green love seat. The apartment consisted of a kitchen/living area and a small bedroom/bath. Most of time it seemed pretty roomy, but Zane was at least six foot two and possessed a kind of commanding presence. She’d noticed this hours earlier when he stood on the sidewalk. “Would you like something cold to drink?” she offered as she started the electric fan in the window.
“Some water would be great,” he said, and she fetched him a glass before perching on a counter stool.
After finishing his drink, he started in on his story. When he got to the part about waking up to find someone choking him, she almost fell off the stool.
“It has to be the same person as this afternoon,” she said. “I’ll never forget the brazen way he pushed you. Is the nurse okay?”
“She’s fine.”
“Thank heavens she came into your room.” With a shudder, she added, “I can’t believe you took out your own IV.” She and needles were not the best of friends.
He rubbed his face with his hands as though trying to stay awake. It was the middle of the night by this time and she sympathized and shared his fatigue although his presence had driven most of hers away.
“And you have no idea what he looked like because of the disguise?”
He nodded. “That’s right. Even his size was hard to gauge because it all happened so fast.”
“But why did you leave the hospital? I don’t get it. Woods told you he planned on posting a guard.”
“I’m not entirely positive why I left,” Zane said. “I guess I thought my chances were better on my own than being stuck in that place. Besides, what did I do to get in this kind of trouble? I’d kind of like to find that out before the police do. Anyway, I didn’t know if they’d actually let me leave if I asked—I still don’t know whose going to pay my bill, for instance. So I sneaked away and that’s also more or less why I ended up at your house. I was going to borrow your phone and call Woods to try to explain, but I just decided against it.”
“Why?”
“I guess I don’t want him bugging you, and I don’t want him trying to get me back into the hospital. He’s a smart guy. He’ll see my boots are gone and talk to the guard on duty and learn I walked away out of choice and he’ll put two and two together. Maybe I’ll call when I get out of town.”
She nodded. His logic sounded reasonably sane to her. Well, at least as sane as escaping police protective custody to take your chances with a man who tried to kill you—twice.
“But I do need to borrow twenty dollars,” he added. “I’ll pay you back, I swear. If I’m going to hitchhike to Utah, I’m going to need something to eat along the way and I don’t have a penny. Eventually I can probably hock my boots—well, anyway, how about it?”
“Of course,” she said immediately. “The money is yours. And I’ll pack you a lunch to take with you.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
“Turkey on sour dough?”
“Anything you have,” he said, “will be appreciated.”
“I’m going to change clothes first, then I’ll make you a lunch. Are you hungry now?”
“No.”
Biting her lip, she added, “Zane, I should tell you that I found out why you had my name in your pocket. The grocer down the block from the gallery gave it to you because you were in the store asking about someone named Sherry or Mary Smith. Is there any chance that rings a bell?”
“None.”
She hit her forehead with her palm. “Why didn’t I think of the internet?” She retrieved her phone. A moment later, she shook her head. “Get this. There are over forty-seven million hits for Mary Smith.” She tapped the tiny electronic keypad again. “Over six million for Sherry Smith. Without an age or a career or a location, it’s impossible.” She fooled around a little more with the search engine, typing Mary Smith, New Orleans, and the same for Sherry Smith. Nothing that appeared relevant in any way showed up.
“Well, Mr. Lee promised he’d call Detective Woods and tell him about your being in his store,” she said with a sigh. She didn’t mention the fact that she’d asked Mr. Lee to keep Bill Dodge and his housekeeper out of it because she felt guilty about that. Zane needed all the help he could get and she had no right to deny him the turning of every stone. She just needed some time to try to make sense of things.
She closed the bedroom door behind her and quickly slipped out of her clothes, exchanging the dress for shorts and a T-shirt. She left her feet bare, splashed water on her face and went back into the main room where she found Zane still staring at the paintings that surrounded him.
“Aren’t you kind of warm in all those clothes?” she asked, and then felt her cheeks grow pink at the way those words could be taken.
He apparently didn’t read anything in her voice but what was there—concern for his comfort. “No, I’m fine.”
She sat down on the stool for a moment. “Zane, right after you asked about the Smith woman, you were hurt by an impulsive crazy person. I bet if we asked Woods where the real courier was robbed, it would turn out to be close to the grocery store. I think your attacker was in that store. Maybe he followed you.” She stopped short of finishing the sentence—or maybe you came in together.
Was that possible?
“I was also hurt right after the grocer gave me your name,” Zane said, smothering a yawn and apologizing for