She’d never been kissed like that before. It wasn’t just his technique. The man had been barely conscious, after all. It was the unusual spark that had arced between them—connected them.
He opened his eyes. “Or was it a dream?”
“No. But it wasn’t exactly a kiss, either—at least it didn’t start out that way.” She licked her lips. “That’s not important right now. How do you feel?”
“Like someone has been using my head for batting practice. What happened?”
“I think you were attacked by a Chihuahua.”
He shook his head as if to clear it, then winced. “I think I’m hearing things. Did you say a Chihuahua?”
She stooped to pick up the small ceramic dog lying upended near the base of the stairs. One pointed ear had been chipped off, and the remaining fragment was stained with a small amount of blood. She held it up for him see. “It used to be Ramon’s pet, since he’s allergic to animal dander. Now we use it for a doorstop.”
“It also makes a handy guard dog,” he said, gingerly fingering his injury. “I just wish I’d seen it coming.”
“What exactly were you doing under the staircase?”
“The staircase,” he echoed, closing his eyes once more. “Nice. Nice staircase. I…looked under it.”
She frowned. “Why?”
His brow crinkled as if he was trying to remember the reason. At last he said, “Names. I was looking for names.”
Names? That didn’t make any sense. Which shouldn’t surprise her, since he was suffering from a head injury. “Speaking of names, do you happen to remember yours?”
He opened his eyes and scowled up at her. “Of course.”
“Tell me,” she said, wanting to be certain.
“Trace Joseph Callahan. I’m twenty-seven years old and live on Ravenna Drive in St. Louis, Missouri.” He arched a brow, then winced at the slight movement. “Am I right?”
“You looked older than twenty-seven.”
“At the moment, I feel about eighty-seven.” He struggled to sit up, his face blanching at the effort. “Make that ninety-seven.”
She clasped his shoulder and helped pull him to a sitting position. He closed his eyes, then dropped his head between his knees.
She chewed her lower lip, wondering if she should call him an ambulance. “Are you all right?”
After a moment, he nodded. “Just a little dizzy.”
“I still don’t understand what happened.”
He looked up at her. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, not to me.” She stood up and began to pace. “I find you unconscious under the stairs and I can’t find my brother anywhere.” She paused to look at him, twisting her fingers together. “Do you think Ramon is in trouble?”
“Definitely.” He gripped the newel post, then rose unsteadily to his feet. “Attempted murder is a serious matter.”
She blinked. “What are you saying?”
His brows drew together.
“Don’t look at me like that. And don’t pretend to be shocked. Ramon answered the front door with a butcher knife in his hand. He made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want me anywhere near you. And, just yesterday, he assaulted me with a power saw.”
“That was an accident. And this is…pre-posterous. Ramon would never…could never hurt anyone.” Her gaze flicked to his foot. “Not on purpose, anyway.”
“Chloe, I admire your loyalty, but this is pushing it a bit too far. The man is a menace. He belongs behind bars.”
Her blood turned to ice at his words. Ramon would never survive in jail. He could barely survive out of jail.
“I know he’s your brother,” Trace continued, his tone gentler now. “But I have to report him to the police. Otherwise, he’s liable to kill someone with these crazy antics. And since I seem to be his favorite target, I’m afraid that someone will be me.”
“You don’t understand,” she breathed. “He’s had a tough life. Our family is…different.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“I do understand—better than you think. But Ramon has to take responsibility for his actions. And a lousy childhood or a dysfunctional family aren’t excuses he can hide behind.”
His words transformed her fear to anger. “Look, this is ridiculous. I’m telling you, Ramon did not knock you unconscious. I give you my word.”
Trace folded his arms across his chest. “So who did?”
She shrugged, her mind racing to come up with a plausible suspect. “Well, there’s my uncle Leo. Sometimes he drops by unexpectedly. Leo likes to hit first, ask questions later. Then there’s Frankie.”
“Frankie?”
“My cousin. He works as an enforcer for a loan shark. Sometimes he likes to practice on unsuspecting victims.”
“Charming family. Ramon is starting to sound better all the time. Any other violent types?”
“Candy,” she replied. “Another cousin. She’s hated men ever since her high-school sweetheart squealed on her to the Feds.”
Trace set his jaw. “You really expect me to buy all this?”
“It’s the truth!” She tipped up her chin. “If you don’t believe me, call my mother and ask her.”
“Maybe I will. Especially if she can talk some sense into you. What’s her number?”
“One-four-two-three-seven-six.”
He arched a disbelieving brow. “That’s her telephone number?”
“No, it’s her prison number. You’ll need it when you call the Women’s Eastern Correctional Center at Vandalia.”
Trace’s jaw sagged. “Your mother is a…”
“Convict,” Chloe said evenly. After her father’s death, she’d promised herself not to lie about her family anymore. Honesty kept shame and embarrassment at bay. “The speed-dial number for the prison is taped on the back of the telephone receiver.”
Trace stalked over to the telephone stand. “You’ve got three prisons listed here.”
“Four, actually, if you count juvenile hall. Benson, Uncle Leo’s stepson, hot-wired a car on his fifteenth birthday and went joyriding.”
Trace kept staring at the speed-dial list. “Your mother is really in
