which bar and what kind of damage are we talking about?”
“It’s the Red Eye in the Hollow—a town I’m still trying to understand why we’re working our butts off to cover so its police chief can sun his sorry ass in Florida for the next couple weeks.”
“Man’s on his honeymoon, Jake.” Amusement glimmered. “The novelty’ll wear off soon enough.”
His deputy gave another snort. “Said one confirmed bachelor to another.”
“I was never confirmed—and that was a ball,” he told the onscreen umpire.
“Look, if I’m interrupting...”
“You’re not.” McVey dangled the beer bottle between his knees and rubbed a tired eye. “I assume the damage at the Red Eye is minimal.”
“As bar fights go in these parts.”
“Then give whoever threw the first punch a warning, make the participants pay up and remind everyone involved that it’s you who’s on duty tonight, not me.”
“Meaning?”
“You’ve got a shorter fuse, zero tolerance and, between the towns, six empty jail cells just begging to be filled.”
“Good point.” Jake cheered up instantly. “Can I threaten to cuff ’em?”
“Your discretion, Deputy. After you’re done, head back to the Cove. I’ll be in at first light to relieve you.”
When he glanced over and saw his team had eked out two hits, McVey gave his head a long, slow roll and sat back to think.
In the fourteen months since he’d arrived in Raven’s Cove, he’d only had the dream five times, which was a hell and gone better average than he’d had during his six years with the Chicago Police Department or the nearly eight he’d put in in New York. At least once a month in both places, he’d found himself up in a smoke-filled attic while a woman he still couldn’t place told him she was going to screw up his memories. Not that he’d given up city life over anything as nebulous as a dream. His reasons had run a whole lot deeper.... And was that a floorboard he’d just heard creak upstairs?
With the bottle poised halfway to his mouth, he listened, heard nothing and, taking another long swallow, switched his attention back to the TV.
A third run by the Dodgers gave him hope. A screech of hinges from an interior door had him raising his eyes to the ceiling yet again.
Okay, so not alone. And wasn’t that a timely thing, considering he’d received two emails lately warning him that a man with secrets should watch the shadows around him very, very closely?
Standing, he shoved his gun into the waistband of his jeans, killed the light and started up the rear stairs.
The wind that had been blowing at near-gale force all day howled around the single-paned windows. Even so, he caught a second creak. He decided his intruder could use a little stealth training. Then he stepped on a sagging tread, heard the loud protest and swore.
The intruder must have heard it, too. The upstairs door that had been squeaking open immediately stopped moving.
Drawing his weapon, McVey gave his eyes another moment to adjust and finished the climb. He placed the intruder in the kitchen. Meaning the guy had the option of slinking out the way he’d entered—through the back door—or holding position to see what developed. Whatever the case, McVey had the advantage in that he’d been living in the house for more than two weeks and had committed the odd layout to memory.
Another door gave a short creak and he pictured the intruder circling.
The anticipation that kindled felt good. Sleepy coastal towns worked for him on several levels these days. Unfortunately, as action went, they tended to be...well, frankly, dead. Unless you counted the increasing number of bar fights and the sniping of two local factions, each of which had its own legend, and neither of which was willing to admit that both legends had probably been created by an ancient—and presumably bored—Edgar Allan Poe wannabe.
Another blast of wind rattled the panes and sent a damp breeze over McVey’s face. It surprised him to see a light burning in the mudroom. Apparently his intruder was extremely stupid, poorly equipped or unaware that he’d broken into the police chief’s current residence. The last idea appealed most, but as it also seemed the least likely, McVey continued to ease through the house.
He spotted the shadow just as the wind—he assumed wind—slammed the kitchen door shut. The bang echoed beneath a wicked gust that buffeted the east wall and caused the rafters to moan.
Shoving the gun into his jeans, he went for a low tackle. If the person hadn’t swung around and allowed a weak beam of light to trickle through from the mudroom, he would have taken them both hard to the floor. But his brain clicked in just fast enough that he was able to alter his trajectory, snag the intruder by the waist and twist them both around so only he landed on the pine planking.
His head struck the table, his shoulder the edge of a very solid chair. To make matters worse, his trapped quarry rammed an elbow into his ribs, wriggled around and clawed his left cheek.
He caught the raised hand before it could do any serious damage and, using his body weight, reversed their positions. “Knock it—” was all he got out before his instincts kicked in and he blocked the knee that was heading for his groin.
Jesus, enough!
Teeth gnashed and with pain shooting through his skull, he brought his eyes into focus on the stunning and furious face of the woman from his nightmare.
* * *
FEAR STREAKED THROUGH Amara’s mind, not for her own safety, but for that of her grandmother who’d lived in this house for close to seventy years.
Although she was currently pinned to the floor with her hands over her head and her wrists tightly cuffed, she attempted to knee him again. When that failed, she bucked her hips up into his. If she could loosen his iron grip, she might be able to sink her teeth into his forearm.
“I’ll kill you if you’ve hurt her,” she panted. “This is about me, not my family. You of all people should understand that.”
He offset another blow. “Lady, the only thing I understand is that you broke into a house that doesn’t belong to you.”
“Or you,” she fired back. “You have no right to be here. Where’s my grandmother?”
“I have every right to be here, and how the hell should I know?”
Her heart tripped. “Is she—dead?”
“What? No. Look, I live here, okay?”
Unable to move, Amara glared at him. “You’re lying. I spoke to Nana last night. There was no mention of a man either visiting or living in her home.”
He lowered his head just far enough for her to see the smile that grazed his lips. “Maybe your granny doesn’t tell you everything, angel.”
“That’s disgusting.” She refused to tremble. “Have you hurt her?”
“I
