Blossom Street Bundle (Book 6-10). Debbie Macomber
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doesn’t make sense. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Why would the FBI send an agent for me? Shouldn’t you guys be looking for Ivan’s killer?”
“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” he said. “We can’t interfere in the Russian investigation, which ties our hands a bit. Really, all we can do is wait and see if Ivan’s killer comes after you.”
Her stomach somersaulted as his words sank in. “So you’re saying I’m bait?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he assured her. “We’re not actually trying to lure the killer in. We just want to make sure you’re safe, on the off chance the threat to you does materialize.”
He made it sound as if she wasn’t in any danger, but his words did nothing to ease the leaden weight in her stomach. “I see.”
He stood, looming over her briefly before taking a step back. “There’s not really anything you can do here, so I can take you home or I can take you to my office. Your choice.”
Apparently, whatever she chose, she was now going to have a shadow. It might be safer for her at his office, but the thought of home was too tempting to pass up. She could brew a cup of tea, sink into her favorite chair and try to forget the image of her murdered friend. She may even be able to ignore Agent Kincannon and crawl back into bed, where she could cry for Ivan in peace.
“I’d like to go home,” she replied. Alone, preferably, but since that was not an option, she’d settle for his company.
Agent Kincannon nodded, holding out a hand to help her off the couch. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The drive to her apartment was quiet, with Claire speaking only to give him directions. It was just as well, because he didn’t know what to say to her. Sorry your friend is dead seemed a bit insensitive, even to him. Fortunately, she didn’t appear to be up for conversation, so he wasn’t forced to make small talk.
She held herself carefully, as though she was in pain or would break if jostled. Her brows were drawn together, lips pressed into a thin white line, and her eyes shone with that thousand-yard stare of shock he’d seen all too often on the faces of people who had suffered a life-changing blow. It was the same expression she’d worn when he’d entered the break room and found her sitting on the couch, lost in her own thoughts. He hated seeing that look on a woman’s face, hated the feeling of helplessness that rose up in him at the sight of her suffering. He was struck by the urge to act, to do something, but no amount of soothing words would fix what a killer had done to her.
Besides, it wasn’t his job to comfort her. He was supposed to protect her, keep her safe from harm. Well, physical harm, anyway. He couldn’t do anything about her emotional pain, and she likely wouldn’t welcome any of his clumsy attempts to make her feel better. She didn’t know him, he didn’t know her, and it was easier for both of them if it stayed that way. He had his hands full helping Jenny, Emily and his mother deal with their grief. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to help Dr. Fleming process hers, too.
She directed him to an apartment building on Wisconsin Avenue, along a residential stretch of the busy thoroughfare. A wide sidewalk ran alongside the street, punctuated every few yards with small trees, the city’s attempt at beautification. It was a pleasant-looking neighborhood. The sidewalk was in good repair, if littered with fallen leaves, and a quick glance at the cars parked nearby confirmed his initial impression that this was a solidly middle-class area.
After taking a few steps into her apartment, Claire stopped and stared at the living room, shaking her head back and forth as if trying to figure out how and why she was there. Recognizing the signs of an imminent collapse, Thomas stepped forward, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit? We can talk once you’ve had some time to process everything.”
She nodded but made no move to head for a bedroom. He gave her a gentle push to get her started, and she walked mechanically down the hall until they reached her bedroom. The room was cool and dark and smelled faintly of lavender. He wasn’t surprised to find the bed neatly made, the pale yellow comforter spread smooth across the expanse of mattress. The quick glance he’d seen of her apartment had left the impression of a woman who liked organization, wanted everything kept in its place. Now that her life had been flipped upside down, the lack of control must be killing her.
He helped her pull the covers down, then knelt to tug off her shoes as she sat on the edge of the bed. The gesture was surprisingly intimate, and he felt a sudden flare of heat as he pulled off the sensible brown pump to reveal the graceful arch of her foot, the pretty pink of her toenails. He’d never considered himself a foot man before, but he couldn’t deny the good doctor was lovely. What else was she hiding beneath her professional armor? The thought drew him up short and he reared back, almost falling onto his ass in the process. Get it together, Kincannon. One look at her toes and you’re drooling? Pathetic.
He stood abruptly, hoping she didn’t notice the blush he felt creeping across his cheeks. He glanced down at her and realized he could have paraded a brass band through her apartment without disturbing her—she was beginning to shut down, withdrawing further into her shell in a bid to block out the world. He recognized the impulse, having done the same thing after Roger’s death.
Moving woodenly, as if every gesture required more effort than she could bear, Claire stretched out on the bed and turned to her side, giving him her back. Interpreting the gesture as a dismissal, he stepped toward her bedroom door but paused when he realized he still held her shoes. She probably wouldn’t want them just dropped on the floor, so he arranged them carefully next to the hunter-green chair that sat in front of a mirrored dressing table.
“Thank you.” The words were soft but distinct in the silence of the room. He stopped in the doorway, turned back to the bed. She was so still, a pale statue that blended in with the light sheets.
“I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” He pulled the door closed after him, leaving it slightly ajar, then made his way back down the hall. He stopped in the kitchen, noting the window above the sink before moving on to the main room. The large room was lined with windows along the far end, giving the apartment a bright, friendly air. He walked over and drew the blinds down, effectively shrouding the room in a muted gray light. He was probably being paranoid, but there was no sense in making it easy for someone to see in.
The front door was the only entrance, which wasn’t ideal. He walked back into the kitchen and leaned forward to see out that window, nodding in satisfaction as he caught sight of the fire escape railing. He unlocked the window and gave an experimental shove, wincing when it shuddered up with a creaking protest. He briefly debated oiling the tracks. On the one hand, it would be tough to make a quiet escape this way, but it would also provide an excellent warning if someone was trying to get in. Deciding the advanced notice of an intruder outweighed the need for a stealthy exit, he pushed the window back down, locked it and drew the shade.
Opening the cabinet next to the sink, he was rewarded with the sight of rows of glasses lined up with military precision. He pulled one down and filled it with water, shaking his head. While his collection of glasses was a mixed bag of free cups and hand-me-downs from his mom or sister-in-law, Dr. Fleming’s were clearly of a set, uniform in appearance and size and all spotlessly clean. Her underwear drawer was probably the same way—white cotton panties all neatly folded and stacked...
Whoa. Where the hell had that come from? He had no business thinking about Dr. Fleming’s underwear, or her underwear drawer for that matter. Pushing the unsettling thought firmly out of his mind, he walked back into the main room, pausing before the bookshelves. There were a few photos on display, mostly of landscapes or landmarks from past trips. His eyes caught on a picture of Claire, smiling and happy as she sat beside Ivan Novikoff on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The older man had his head turned and was pressing a kiss to her hair as she grinned up at the camera. Interesting. Had they been an item? He was old enough to be her father, but maybe she preferred older men. It would certainly explain her shock at his death.
If Ivan Novikoff had gotten entangled