The Inquisitor. Gayle Wilson
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hell do you think you’re doing?”
She sounded like a broken record. They’d had this conversation last night. Obviously, it had gotten her nowhere.
“Stopping to pick up something for dinner.” His voice was conversational, in contrast to the shrillness of hers.
“And you were going to do that without getting out of the car.”
“Actually, I was listening to something on the radio.” He inclined his head toward the open door. From inside the SUV came the sound of a country song.
“Are you honestly going to tell me that you aren’t following me?”
“I believe I was here first. Are you sure you aren’t following me, Dr. Kincaid?”
The amusement in his voice produced the same reaction it had last night. Jenna couldn’t remember ever striking anyone in her life. She couldn’t even remember wanting to. But she wanted to hit him.
“I was at the service station when I saw you drive by and then park over here. You didn’t get out of the car. You didn’t go inside. It’s pretty obvious you were just waiting for me to finish getting gas.”
“The last time I checked this was a free country. I told you. I stopped by to pick up something for dinner. I’m in the process of moving and cooking’s difficult right now. Somebody recommended this place, so I thought I’d give it a shot.”
She didn’t believe him. Nor did she believe his story about listening to whatever was on the radio.
“I’m going to get a restraining order against you.”
“That’s your prerogative. Just be warned they may want you to demonstrate I’ve actually done something I need to be restrained from doing. Something illegal. You should probably be prepared for that.”
“How about storming into my office?”
“I offered to pay for your time. And I left as soon I said what I had to say. Which, if you remember, was a warning that you might be in danger. And I haven’t been back.”
“You followed me home.”
“I drove down a public thoroughfare at the same time you did. You turned off. I went straight. That hardly constitutes ‘following’ you.”
“And last night? At the complex? How do you explain that you were sitting out in the parking lot looking in my window?”
“I told you. I’m moving.”
It was so unexpected, so thoroughly brazen, that it took a moment before the implication registered. “Moving where?”
“There are several units available. Have you been satisfied with the management? They seem nice enough, but you never really know until you’ve lived somewhere—”
“Are you saying that you’re moving into my building?”
“I couldn’t afford anything on the crest. Just into the complex itself.”
The audacity left her breathless. Renting one of those units not only meant that he’d be living practically next door to her, it effectively destroyed her claim that he’d been spying on her when he’d been parked across the street last night. He could say that he had simply been checking out the place before signing a lease.
“You can’t do that.”
“As of tomorrow, I can.”
Tomorrow was the fifteenth. Her own lease ran from midmonth to midmonth, so it was possible he was telling the truth.
“Why?”
“I’m a good neighbor, Dr. Kincaid. I swear you won’t even know I’m around.”
“And I guess I can expect more of what you did today.”
There was a beat of silence. Given his glibness in answering every other question she’d thrown at him, she was surprised he didn’t have a ready response for this one.
“And what was that?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. You wrote on my car.”
His mouth opened, and then he closed it to shake his head. She thought she heard a breath of laughter, but it was cut off so quickly she couldn’t be sure.
“Believe it or not, I don’t write on cars. I haven’t since I was twelve. Something interesting?”
“What?”
“Whatever was written on your car.”
“Not to me.”
She couldn’t make a dent in that wall of supremely confident male arrogance. He mocked both her anger and her threats, treating her as if she were some hysterical female who just didn’t get it. Not the killer. And certainly not him.
Despite everything, her impression was still that they were not one and the same. She wasn’t afraid of this man. No matter what he said, she knew he’d been following her. And yet standing within two feet of him, she had no sense of danger.
That wasn’t the result of any logical thought process, because it couldn’t be. It was strong and instinctive, however, and she was practiced enough in making that kind of evaluation that she respected this one.
“I’d still like to know what it said,” he repeated, the mockery carefully controlled.
At this point she could see no reason not to tell him. Actually, she found that she wanted to tell him, which implied, as incredible as it seemed, that she believed he hadn’t written those words.
“It said ‘Help me.’”
A crease formed between his brows. “Somebody wrote ‘Help me’ on your car? While it was in the staff parking deck?”
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