took lightly. Gideon was supposed to make sure Nate’s sister was safe—not seduce her.
Calla’s offer of a holiday affair had been torture to turn down, especially since he hadn’t been with anyone in a while. On top of the demands of his job, his mom’s death and the resulting grief, sex had been the last thing on his mind.
Until he’d seen Calla. Now it was all he could think about. She was right—who would know? Well, he would.
He entered the large double doors of the local precinct where Calla had reported her break-in, announcing his arrival at the reception desk.
Gideon looked at postings on a corkboard in the hall for a few minutes, waiting.
“Detective Stone?”
An older guy, short and squat, but no less tough for his stockier stature, stood behind him. Gideon could tell Detective Howser had been in the game for a while. He’d probably seen it all, and more.
“Detective Howser. Call me Gideon. Thanks for taking a minute to talk to me.”
“Sure, no problem,” the detective responded with a thick New York accent, waving Gideon on to follow him back to his office.
Inside, he shut the door. “What can I do for you, Tex?”
Gideon grinned, not minding the moniker the detective casually threw his way. “I wondered if you could give me any more information on an attempted robbery that happened four days ago at a bakery in Chelsea...”
Awhile later, Gideon emerged from the precinct resolved not to leave the city, or Calla. Not just yet, anyway.
The fingerprints taken from the knife belonged to a repeat offender with a long rap sheet—one that included several assaults as well as robberies and other crimes. He’d done two stints in prison already, and tended to hold a grudge. Gideon’s gut was telling him it wasn’t time to head back to Texas just yet. Howser had said they were scouring the neighborhoods to turn him up. Once Gideon knew the police had the thief in custody, then he could relax and consider his work done. However, Calla wasn’t exactly going to welcome him back into her shop, or her life.
Returning to her shop in his rental car, he drove by to check that she was in the store, working—she was. He found himself some coffee and a sandwich, and then parked in a spot down the street from the shop, under a snow-covered tree. The streets were busy. She didn’t know his car, and Gideon was good enough not to be spotted tailing her—and to spot anyone else who might be following her, as well.
He settled in, watching Calla’s storefront. From a distance. Which was exactly as it should be. He had no place coming on to or kissing Calla Michaels. This was the price he’d pay for getting too close in the first place.
It made for a long afternoon and evening. Calla didn’t even leave to get dinner; she worked straight through, sitting at her table. The crowd in front of the shop seemed a bit larger today.
Did Calla’s family have any clue what amazing work she was doing, and the effort she put into it? When Nathan had said she ran a bakery, Gideon had pictured doughnuts and Italian bread, but what Calla did was as much art as baking. Clearly as dedicated as she was talented, she easily worked the same kind of hours that he—or any of her family members—did.
He needed to stretch his legs and got out of the car to take a turn around the neighborhood while keeping an eye on the shop. It was considerably less busy this time of night, when Calla’s Cakes was one of the last businesses open.
Shortly after midnight, the lights in the shop turned off and Calla finally emerged from the front door. She’d mentioned that her apartment was within walking distance when they’d been chatting in the bakery. Gideon locked his car and followed on foot.
He’d make sure she was safely tucked inside for the night, then he could come back and move the car to a spot near her home. So much for the pricey hotel room he’d booked, but this was the job. It was going to be a long, cold night, he thought as he pulled his coat around him, keeping a safe distance behind Calla from the opposite side of the street.
She walked with the crisp step he saw other New Yorkers use, moving through the dark street to her destination as if completely focused on that task alone. The area seemed safe enough—still, it was late, and she was alone.
Five minutes later, she turned to climb the stairs toward the wrought iron doors of an older brick apartment building. There was a decorated tree on one side of the yard, and a menorah across the walk. Several tenants had decorated their windows as well, making it very cheerful and bright. Near the top, Calla slipped her hand inside her bag for her keys.
The next few seconds were a blur. Everything happened so fast that Gideon was unprepared when he saw a shadow dart out and grab Calla from behind, dragging her back down the steps and into a small courtyard.
Gideon was across the street in seconds, reaching for his gun—which he didn’t have, and wasn’t allowed to carry, in the city. That didn’t stop him, though.
Dashing into the darkness where the intruder had dragged Calla, Gideon called her name and heard her muffled reply. Someone was covering her mouth. He saw them scuffling in the corner under a barren tree and ran in that direction, taking the attacker by the back of his coat collar and pulling.
“Get off her!” Gideon growled. Primal emotion ran through him as he yanked the man back from Calla, and then...extreme pain made him gasp.
Hollers of agony filled the quiet courtyard. A tenant in the building yelled something from a window up above them. Gideon was knocked back on his butt into the snow. Someone fell on top of him—the attacker? He couldn’t see; his eyes were on fire. He grasped for something, an arm, a leg, but there was nothing.
“Calla? Where are you? Are you okay?” Gideon pushed himself up from the wet ground and saw a blurry image of Calla appear in his view.
“I’m right here, Gideon, where did you come from? Oh, my, I’m so sorry, look at you, let’s get inside...”
He could feel her shaking as she took his hand, her voice desperate. Afraid. Gideon shook his head, knowing better than to rub his eyes, though he wanted to do so desperately.
“Where is he?”
“He ran off. I sprayed him at the same time you pulled him away from me. I didn’t know you were right there, and I got you, too. I’ll call a cab to get to the ER.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I need some water, please.”
He could see, more or less, out of one eye; the other was worse. She led him up three flights of stairs, repeating that she was so, so sorry as they went. Once inside her small apartment, she led him to the kitchen.
“Do you have any grease-fighting detergent?” he asked.
“Yes, my dish soap.”
“Could you put some in a large bowl, very diluted?”
He watched her bustle around the kitchen with his one good eye, the burning in the other almost unbearable. When she put the bowl in front of him, he closed his eyes and pushed his face into the soapy water for as long as he could, then came out, rinsed under a clean spray in the sink, and repeated the process.
“A towel?”
She pushed one into his hand and he dried off, starting to breathe more easily as the pain subsided.
“Damn it, that stuff hurts,” he said, leaning back against the wall, opening his eyes slowly. “Can you replace that soapy water with some new so I can do it again?”
“Sure. Is it helping?”
“Yes, very much. It’s the only thing that can dissolve the oils in the pepper spray from your skin—you just have to be careful to keep them from running back into your eyes when you rinse.”
“I see. Well, if it helps at all, I think the guy who grabbed me got the most of it.”
“Good.”