he was no less crass than the boys back at the station, who’d give their pension to be working this case.
Taking a hostile gulp of coffee, he burned the hell out of his tongue. Sputtering, he put the cup in the holder and leaned his head back against the headrest, breaking his line of sight on her while he tried to get his head screwed on straight.
Night couldn’t come fast enough, he decided, but it did, and three hours later he watched the lights go out one by one all through the big house.
He glanced at his watch. Ten p.m. on the dot. No wonder the guys couldn’t get a date with her—she was a creature of habit, and probably didn’t like to break her routine. For anyone.
Relaxing back, he stared up at the headliner in the car and squeezed his eyes shut tight, then opened them again, blinking away the grit.
The pop of the door handle on the passenger side snapped his head around, just as the dome light came on inside the car. He went for the weapon at his side, and his pistol was halfway out of its holster before he recognized the woman who’d climbed into the car and shut the door.
He dialed back a surge of adrenaline from his veins, reached up and turned off the dome light switch, hoping the unsub wasn’t watching from somewhere in the dark. If so, he’d just been made. “Miss Charboneau.”
She smiled. An innocent grin he could just make out in the shadows. “Sorry I spooked you, Detective.”
So much for a macho response—he didn’t have one—but if it had been anyone else but her, they’d be picking their teeth up off the floorboard right now.
“When did you discover I was here?”
“This afternoon, at the station. I went in for a sketch session and overheard the chief ratting you out.”
“Yeah, voices carry over there in the marble halls.” The air between them was charged, and he glanced over at her in the filtered light coming in from a streetlamp a hundred feet to the south. “I should have told you, but I didn’t want you to alter your routine.”
“I know.” She thrust a brown paper bag toward him. “So I made you a chicken salad sandwich.”
Royce caught a glimmer of pride in her green eyes. As he reached for the bag, their fingertips brushed. “My favorite.”
She stared at him for a moment, licked her lips and pulled her hand back. “It’s the least I could do, considering you’re out here watching over me, keeping me safe.”
Royce opened the bag, bent on satisfying his hunger, but realized it wasn’t for food. He rolled the top of the sack down and set it on the console. “I’m doing my job, Miss Charboneau.”
“Call me Adelaide, please.”
“Okay. Adelaide. This is a nice break from the action, but you’re safer inside your house. I’ve got a feeling he may be watching right now, and you’re here, where he could discover me before I can catch him.”
“You’re right…of course you’re right.” She glanced away for an instant and stared into the darkness before refocusing on him. “If you need anything, the key to my door is under the mat on the front porch. Help yourself.”
“That’s not safe.” Worry rocketed through him. “It could be discovered, and he won’t break a window to get in next time. You might not have time to dial 911 before he gets to you.”
“Don’t worry.” She reached out and put her hand on his arm for an instant. “I move the key discreetly every couple of days.”
A measure of relief coated his nerves, but his worry remained. “How’s your ankle?”
“Much better. I’m getting around on it, and it’s almost back to normal.”
“There’s something I forgot to ask you the other night.”
She turned her full attention on him.
He pulled in a breath, awed by how beautiful she looked in the shadowy darkness. Shocked by the level of arousal taking his body one degree at a time. Why was he drawn to her with such an unreasonable reaction? A reaction he wasn’t able to control? “The word behold was carved in the siding under your studio window.”
Her features changed, her eyes narrowed, her lips pulled into a frown, before the look of concern evaporated.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
“No…nothing.”
She reached for the door handle. “I’ll leave you to it, Detective Beckett. Sorry I disturbed you.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she was already out of the car and vanishing into the deep shadows. Pulling in a breath, he stared at the route she’d taken and watched her cross the street. Real or imagined, he knew he’d upset her. But her reaction to his question was suspect. So why would she hold out on him? Why would she prefer a lie over a truth that could save her life and help him catch her attacker?
The unanswered question pestered him well into the night and right up until the moment a light flickered on in a downstairs window.
Royce straightened in his seat and glanced at his watch. Almost 3:00 a.m. Close to the time her home had been invaded almost a week ago.
Caution tightened the pit of his stomach as he stared at the blade of light slicing through the darkness from the window of her studio.
What could she possibly be doing in there at this time of night?
Movement at the edge of the light sawed through his attention. His heart rate picked up and thrummed in his ears. He could just make out the silhouette of a man, pressed against the side of the house.
The unsub? Had he been there the whole time?
Tension twisted his muscles into knots. Stealth was his only option. He needed to catch the creep. Now…tonight, before he tried to hurt her again.
Reaching down, he snagged his radio and called for backup. He picked up the mini-mag flashlight from the seat next to him, shoved it into his pocket and clipped the portable radio on his belt.
Keeping his focus locked on the subject, he opened the car door and climbed out. He didn’t shut it, but instead left it open a crack. If the subject heard a car door latch, he’d take off like a shot.
He took a low profile, crossed the street and sagged into the shadows next to the sidewalk.
Pausing at the head of the alley, he took cover next to a fence. Royce eased his head out and stared into the darkness. At the other end, a block away, he spotted a car parked at an odd angle under a streetlamp. Did it belong to the Peeping Tom?
Agitation rocked his body and coated his nerves. He pulled back, took the radio from his belt and relayed the location of the vehicle to the uniforms in a low whisper. If it did belong to the suspect, they’d have him before he had a chance to run, or they’d have a plate number to track him with.
Somewhere in the thick night air, he heard an engine turn over. He listened, but couldn’t dial in its location as the hum mingled with the tune of the
