the cops. Stay inside. Lock your doors.”
Clay raced through the house and out the kitchen door. A dog barked.
Searching the darkness, he saw movement in the distance and raced into the alleyway. A fleeing figure turned on to the main road.
Clay ran to the corner. The guy climbed into a late-model SUV, dark paint job, parked along the side of the road and drove away. Clay stood for a long moment watching the vehicle disappear then, hurrying back to Violet’s house, he tapped on the kitchen door.
“It’s Clay. Open up, Violet.”
She inched the door open and peered out at him from the shadows. Eyes wary, face drawn. His heart went out to her. For all her bravado, she looked scared to death.
“I called 911,” she said. “The police are on their way.” As if in response, a siren sounded in the distance.
“Did you see the guy?” Clay stepped inside and locked the door behind him.
“Not his face.”
Clay glanced around the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place. Moving into the living room, he flipped on the overhead light.
The home was an eclectic assortment of mix-and-match furnishings. Comfy and cozy. Bright colors, soft pillows and knock-off artwork blended into a warm and inviting atmosphere he instantly liked. A desk in the far corner held a laptop, table lamp, phone and an assortment of papers.
Violet wrapped her arms around her waist. The color had drained from her pretty face. She raised a hand to her throat, her breath ragged.
“What…what are you doing here?” she asked.
As much as he wanted to reassure her, she needed the truth. “The FBI in Chicago feel you’re in danger. Special Agent-in-Charge Jackson McGraw asked me to pay you a visit. You’ve been digging into Mafia business, Violet. The mob silences anyone who comes too close.”
Her brows rose. “This wasn’t the mob. A bad element’s moved into the city. This was local, Clay.”
“And you came to that conclusion because—?”
“Because the intruder fled. The mob would have killed me.”
A visual flashed through Clay’s mind. He envisioned her bound and gagged with a gun to her head. Swallowing the bile that instantly filled his throat, Clay blinked twice, relieved to find a flesh-and-blood and very much unharmed Violet standing in front of him.
“You can’t be sure it wasn’t the mob.” Clay noted her drawn drapes, needing to turn his focus back to security issues instead of the way his pulse quickened whenever he was near her. “Are all your windows and doors locked?”
“Of course.” Then she hesitated. “Except in the laundry room.”
Violet stepped into the hallway and opened the door to a small room containing a washer and dryer. “I keep the window open to let out the hot air from the dryer.”
Just as she’d said, the window was open and the screen unattached. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll let the cops check it out. That might be the way the guy broke in.”
The siren neared. Clay and Violet returned to the living area. He opened the door. A beefy cop, short hair, wearing a bulletproof vest and named O’Reilly shook his hand and then Violet’s.
Clay explained he worked for Chicago P.D. and quickly detailed what had happened. After O’Reilly checked the house, he and Clay walked outside. Shining a flashlight around the laundry-room window and ground below, they found no evidence to prove or disprove the window was the point of entry.
Following the cop’s suggestion, Violet did a quick search of her valuables. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
The officer took Violet’s statement while Clay stood to the side, his attention focused on the pretty reporter. Everything he remembered about Violet had been true. She was fresh and young and beautiful and full of life and unaware of the effect she had on him.
Two years ago, he’d picked her out in the crowd at the Chicago bar and grill and known immediately the low-rent dive wasn’t the place for her dimples and curls and curves and the angora sweater that had hugged her body and made him want to wrap her protectively in his arms.
He still wanted to protect her. That’s why he’d been on the road for the last forty-eight hours on special assignment from the Chicago FBI.
Pay Violet Kramer a personal visit so she gets the message to back off, Jackson McGraw had told him. Violet had made too many inquiries into the Chicago mob’s activities. Bottom line, according to Jackson, she needed to stop investigating the Martino crime family and allow law enforcement to do their jobs.
Clay had tried to make that perfectly clear three nights ago when he’d received her unexpected phone call requesting information about the murdered women in Witness Protection.
Somehow, Violet had pieced together bits of information about two seemingly random crimes in Montana and deduced the Mafia’s involvement.
She had beeped a warning on the FBI’s radar, and if they knew about her inquiries, the Mafia did, as well. Wouldn’t take long for organized crime to put a strangle hold on Violet Kramer—literally.
Clay’s job was to get to her first.
Finished with his paperwork, Officer O’Reilly handed a business card to Violet. “Keep that laundry-room window locked, and if you remember anything else, give me a call. You heard cars driving up and down the street. Someone’s been casing the neighborhood, but the intruder never expected you to walk in on him tonight.”
O’Reilly nodded to Clay. “Having you in pursuit probably scared him, as well. Doubtful he’ll hit this house again.”
Violet and Clay thanked the officer and walked him to the door. Once he drove off in his patrol car, Clay checked his watch. He still had a job to do.
“I know it’s late, Violet, but we need to go over some security measures you can take to protect yourself.” He pointed to the table lamps. “Leave a light on so you don’t come home from work to a dark house. Install dead bolts on your front and back doors. Lock all windows, even the one in the laundry room.”
She nodded, her mouth pursed. “I won’t leave it open again.”
He glanced at the phone on her desk. “Call home before you pull into the garage. If someone’s inside, the sound of the phone might encourage them to flee.”
She squared her shoulders. “I can take care of myself, Clay.”
He smiled at her flair of independence. “Seems to me you weren’t quite so confident about an hour ago when the guy was standing in your kitchen. Just as I mentioned earlier, it could have been the mob.”
“Could have, but wasn’t. The officer agreed with me. It was local riffraff.”
“In either case, don’t leave your notes on organized crime where someone can read them.” He pointed to the desk where her laptop sat, along with a stack of papers. The notes on top chronicled some of the Martino family’s
