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  “And are you? Crazy, I mean.” Because she wasn’t sure.

  He lifted a shoulder. “The verdict is still out.”

  “So…what? You’ve been sneakin’ around my place? Watchin’ me dance?”

  “Yes, and observin’ you while you slept.”

  How creepy can you get?

  “Why didn’t you announce yourself?”

  “Because then you would’ve known I was there.” He said it, as though the answer should be obvious. “Besides, I have it on good authority, women enjoy a man who watches over them.”

  From which source? The Stalker’s Guide to Unrequited Relationships?

  Aggie didn’t know what to make of his comment. She couldn’t tell if his deadpan response was a joke, or if he was being deliberately dense.

  Okay, let’s think about this rationally. If he wanted to hurt me, he could’ve done so at any point. I’ve been holding a gun on Ten, and he’s made no aggressive moves. Her training and experience told her the man wasn’t a threat, even if he was strange.

  “And it didn’t occur to you, that’s, er, odd?”

  “Yes, but I’m curious.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re interestin’, and I think I might care about you.” His eyebrows lifted, and he seemed as surprised by the admission, as she was.

  “And again, I ask why?”

  “I’m not rightly sure, but I do, so I’m not gonna question it.” He pointed to the speaker. “You were dancing to Giselle?”

  “Yes, it’s my favorite ballet.”

  Ten nodded. “I enjoy it as well. I found the story fascinatin’.”

  Giselle discovers the man she loves is betrothed to another woman and she dies of a broken heart. She’s reborn as a Wilis, an avenging spirit, and they compell men who’ve wronged women to dance themselves to death. Giselle ultimately saves her would-be lover.

  “Me too.” Or maybe Aggie just liked the thought of being reborn after dying young.

  “And which part do you dance?”

  “Giselle, of course.” Aggie never wanted to be one of the chorus girls. In her mind, she stood center stage taking bows before an adoring crowd.

  “It suits you. You are…electric when you dance.”

  “Thank you.” She lowered the weapon. “Tell you what, I can’t sleep anyway, so let’s have a talk. Just to be clear, if you come anywhere near me, I’ll shoot you.”

  Ten nodded. “Your terms are acceptable.” And then he swung a leg over the window sill and climbed inside.

  “Come on, let’s go into the living room. Want a drink?”

  “Sure, what do you have?” He followed her down the hall and took a seat on her sofa.

  “I’m a tequila kind of a girl, what about you?”

  “I prefer wine, but whatever you have works.”

  She poured them each a drink. Aggie drained hers and then had another. At some point in the near future, she’d have to stop drinking so much, but cold turkey wasn’t an option tonight. Ten took a sip of his and placed the shot glass on her coffee table.

  “So what’s your story? What do you do for a living?” Aggie sat on the far side of the couch and faced him.

  “I own a winery and bistro in Crimson Creek. It’s called Poison Fruit, ever heard of it?” Crimson Creek was another nearby small town and she’d driven threw it before, but never really explored the place.

  She snapped her fingers. “Yeah, I remember seeing a write up about it in the local paper.” Apparently, the wine was very good, and the food was decent, too.

  “Yes, we’ve had some good press.”

  And yet her earlier assessment of him as either cop or criminal suited Ten more than being a businessman, even if he was wearing an expensive business suit.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like a restauranteur.”

  “I don’t?” He laid an arm on the back of the couch spreading out, taking up space as if he owned it.

  “No.”

  “The term is vintner, actually. I’m a wine merchant.”

  “Yeah, I still can’t picture it.”

  “What profession would suit me better?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Gunslinger popped into her head, but since this wasn’t a John Wayne movie, it was impossible. He had a dangerous aura, even though he was trying very hard to be charming, albeit in a peculiar way, but there was something off about him. Call it instinct.

  His lips curved into a smile. “Sorry to disappoint, but I make a fantastic cabernet. You should stop by sometime.”

  “Maybe I will.” She bit her lip. “Why do you wear shades?”

  “Habit, I guess. I’m used to them.” Ten touched the frames absently.

  “Don’t you find it hard to see?”

  “No, I’m used to the dark.” He cocked his head to one side. “What were you dreamin’ about the other night?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Tuesday evenin’, it seemed like you were having a nightmare.”

  Evidently, he’d been scrutinizing her very closely. And he really didn’t like talking about himself. His comment about the dark had been telling. Aggie got the sense that Ten was every bit as broken as she was, and trying to mask the pain.

  “See, that just ain’t right.”

  “Maybe, but it’s peaceful, like watching fish swim in a tank.”

  Aggie chuckled, surprised by his answer. “Well, I’m glad I provide you with entertainment.”

  “Tell me about the dream.”

  She thought about it. “I was trapped in the backseat of a car, and it was going to plunge over a cliff, but I couldn’t open the doors or windows.” Aggie had been having the same reoccurring nightmare since she’d gotten her test results back from the doctor. “Wild, huh?”

  He mulled it over for a minute or two. “It sounds like a metaphor to me, you must feel out of control.”

  She’d never thought of it that way, but it made a lot of sense. Aggie felt like everything was unraveling around her, pulling apart at the seams like an old sweater, but she didn’t want to think about the chaos.

  Every time she got all introspective, that damned clock would start ticking in the background, counting down the hours, minutes, seconds she had left.

  Aggie suddenly realized a handsome man was sitting on her couch and she’d had a few drinks, and she felt warm and tingly inside.

  Maybe he could provide a much-needed diversion tonight.

  Since her mother died, Aggie had been randomly hooking up with men. She was single and free to do whatever she wanted. There was little joy in it though, if anything sleeping with strangers was more of a distraction, something to do. It gave her the illusion of closeness to another person, and a way to take her mind off her crappy situation.

  “Are you married? I don’t see a weddin’ ring.”

  His brow knitted. “No, I’m not.”

  Excellent. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Are you gay?” Aggie didn’t think so, but it never hurt to check.

  He shifted uncomfortably. “No.”

  “Want to have sex?”

  He flinched. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Abruptly, Ten stood. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t take you up on it.”

  “Why not? You’re tellin’ me, you’ve been standin’ outside of my house, pullin’ a peepin’ Tom because you wanna be friends?”

  Ten sighed. “I don’t know what I want us to be yet. Do you?”

  Aggie didn’t know what to make of this.

  “For me, sex isn’t somethin’ to be taken lightly.”

  Aggie was stunned. She’d never heard a man say that either.

  “And while I appreciate your beauty, and you are stunnin’ by the way, I haven’t earned my place in your bed.”

  Aggie struggled to find a reply. She’d never had to talk a man into bed before, so it was a new experience. If anything, she found his reluctance
a turn on.

  “Thank you for the hospitality, but I’ve overstayed my welcome. It’s time I head home.” He finished his drink and then ambled toward the door.

  “Goodnight, Ten.”

  “See you later, Aggie.”

  “Let’s make a deal, if you come over again, knock on the door, and I’ll let you in. No more unscheduled visits.”

  After a moment, he nodded. “Once again, I agree to your terms, Giselle.”

  And then her mysterious stranger was gone.

  Interlude

  Twenty years ago…

  “How are you doing, buddy?”

  The stray tabby watched him through slitted eyes as it licked one paw. The animal’s muzzle was tipped in red from where it had devoured a hapless field mouse. It’s tongue darted out to lick the blood away, every so often.

  Elijah had trapped the juicy mouse for his elusive visitor. Cat, as Elijah called him, visited every so often. The feline was thin and wiry with a notch missing from one ear. His claws were razor sharp and he was wary.

  Cat was a tiny predator, utterly self-sufficient, and Elijah admired his resourcefulness.

  Elijah also loved watching Cat, because he was graceful and sleek. He’d noticed the creature sniffing around the door a few weeks back and tried to make friends with him.

  There was a narrow opening in the left corner of the steel door, where it had partially rusted away. It was no larger than the size of Elijah’s fist, and he’d widened it, pushing at the weak metal for hours until it had fully given way. Paul either hadn’t noticed or cared about the door.

  It was an act of rebellion, his fingers reaching through the opening into the promise of freedom. Elijah kept his hand out there for hours at a time, an act of desperation, wishing he could push his entire body through the small opening the way Cat did.

  Cat sniffed in his direction but didn’t draw any closer. He was wary of humans, which was smart. Elijah thought most of them were careless and cruel.

  Keeping one eye on him, Cat padded around the room, sniffing this and that. Every once in a while, he stopped to rub his cheek against the surface, marking it as his own. Elijah was content just to watch him, to be in the presence of another friendly being.

  Cat didn’t want anything from him, had no desire to hurt him, which was new territory. When he came to the mattress, Cat laid down upon it, curling into a furry little ball. He kept one eye open to watch Elijah.

  “You don’t know it yet, but you and I are gonna be best buddies.”

  Cat yawned, evidently unimpressed with his announcement.

  After an hour or more had passed, because he had no way of tracking the time, Elijah approached the feline again with an extended open hand. Cat crept closer, belly low to the mattress, whiskers twitching. He sniffed Elijah’s palm, experimentally licked it, and then dashed out the door.

  Smiling to himself, Elijah pulled out the faded old magazine and went to Tennessee in his mind once more, satisfied for once. Cat would be back soon—he just knew it.

  I finally have a friend.

  Chapter Three

  I actually talked to her.

  Ten woke up with a grin on his face.

  If you’d played this differently, you could’ve woken up beside her.

  Ten shook his head to clear it. No, it’s too soon for all that.

  He’d been keeping an eye on Aggie for the past several weeks, stood outside her window, night after night, until they’d finally made contact. Ten didn’t know what the fuck had gotten into him, but he couldn’t get the woman out of his head, not since he’d run into her on the roof of the hospital.

  Something about the way she’d danced, balancing on the ledge, brave and bold caught his eye.

  A few times, she’d glanced out into the darkness as though sensing his presence, but she’d never checked. Until last night. It must’ve been fate, if he believed in such romantic nonsense. He’d never been taken with a woman before, and yet something told him Aggie was special.

  She was a real beauty, too. Aggie was twenty-seven with dark brown hair which fell to the middle of her back. She had long arms and limber legs. Her body was willowy but strong, a dancer’s build.

  And she was troubled, too, just like him. She tossed and turned in bed most of the time. Ten knew all about being tortured by nocturnal visions. He’d had trouble sleeping for years until he’d learned to cope with the onslaught of unwanted visions.

  Ten thought they might have a lot more in common, once they got to know each other better.

  “Merrow?”

  His cat, Smokey, leaped upon the king-sized bed. Like the name suggested, she had a thick gray coat with bright blue eyes. She was fuzzy, like a Gund teddy bear, and he rubbed her ears. There was something reassuring about caressing a cat—the soft fur, her low, rumbling purr. It relaxed Ten in a way human contact couldn’t.

  Smokey bunted her head against him, and he’d actually looked up the term. When a feline rubs its head against a person, it’s called bunting. He fancied himself an expert on cats.

  “Did you sleep well? Are you hungry?” She woke him up at six am for her first can of cat food. He never fed her the dried stuff, only the best for Smokey.

  “Merrow.”

  “I’ll take it as a yes on all counts.”

  When he threw off the covers and stood, she leaped in front of him, guiding Ten into the kitchen, in case he’d forgotten where it was.

  He had an all wood rustic cabin, built to his specifications, just like the one he’d seen in the travel magazine all those years ago. It was nestled on the vineyard grounds, and it was the only space he’d ever called home. The cabin was basic but suited his needs. He had a master bedroom, an office, bathroom, kitchen, and living room.

  As he stood at the counter, opening the cat food, Smokey twirled around his legs, purring and rubbing. He set the dish down in front of her and she tore into the wet food, like she’d been starved for ages. Shaking his head, Ten headed to the bathroom to get ready for the day. Ten splashed some water on his face, brushed his teeth and hair, and put on a fresh suit.

  Ten fancied himself a gentleman, or at least he wanted to be. He liked the finer things—a well-made suit, a rich cup of coffee, classical music, and good literature. It was all window-dressing of course.

  Underneath this refined façade, lay a host of barbaric tendencies.

  He had a meeting in an hour, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. After a quick check to make sure Smokey had clean water, Ten headed out the door.

  ***

  Let’s hope it goes fast today.

  Once a week, the Lone Star mobsters met in a shop named Jumbles in Crimson Creek. The town was named for the meandering stream bisecting it, and the bed was filled with jagged red volcanic rocks. When the water was high and rushed over those scarlet stones, they looked bloody, like someone had been murdered in the water.

  Fitting, considering the circumstances.

  The mafia had a foothold in the tiny town. There was a distinct lack of scrutiny—the Creek only had a sheriff and a part-time deputy, and they spent most of their time ticketing people for speeding.

  He parked along the street and headed inside.

  Jumbles specialized in used merchandise. Compared to the rest of the shops on the strip, it looked junky. A black guitar lettered with the store name hung above the awning, which had seen better days—at one time it’d probably been white, but now it was a rusty brown. Nearly everything in Texas got coated with prairie dust, and it had to be wiped off every so often.

  Inside, all the merchandise was piled up. One old bookcase held door knobs balanced on wooden slats. On one wall, there were old longhorn antlers and mirrors situated next to dusty, still life paintings. Another wall held books—children’s board books nestled beside forgotten bestsellers. One unraveling straw basket contained a collection of what looked like old maps.

  Ten worried one day he’d brush against the wrong item, and the whole thing would come crashin
g down like a bunch of dominoes.

  And Mossy would charge you for all of it.

  At the front counter stood Moss Mosley, better known as Mossy, a tall, imposing man. He had thick salt and pepper hair, a trimmed beard, and full lips. Deep grooves were carved into his forehead, and he was sixty-eight years old. He wore a pair of raggedy jeans, a black V-neck beneath his gray plaid flannel shirt, and a swirl of dark ink decorated his clavicle. Around one of his wrists, he wore a leather cuff.

  At one time, he’d been the most feared hitman in the outfit. Now Mossy fenced stolen goods, puttered around Jumbles, and had a whole born-again thing going on since his wife died. Next to him, sat a curse jar and he fined people for swearing in front of him.

  Ten thought it was a case of too little, too late. He’d spent decades thieving and murdering, and now Mossy expected to make his way into heaven with a few empty gestures. Ten wasn’t worried about what fate had in store for him. As far as he was concerned, neither heaven nor hell existed. And when he died, he’d simply return to the earth.

  “Mossy,” Ten said with a nod.

  “Ten.” His lip curled. “See you in there.”

  He got the impression Mossy didn’t like him much, not that he gave a damn. Although, he couldn’t recall doing anything to the man. Maybe he was just a cranky old cuss?

  Shrugging it off, Ten walked down the hall to the boardroom.

  He crossed to the sideboard and grabbed himself a cup of coffee. Unlike the junk shop out front, this space was pristine with a mahogany table and leather chairs. It looked like a meeting room in any other legit business, except a star and two pistols had been engraved into the center of the table, symbols of the northern Texas outfit.

  Ten peeked into the pastry box on the counter. Inside were two dozen pecan pie tartlets, each of them the size of a fifty cent piece. Bringing sweets to the meetings had become something of a tradition. He took a couple, to go along with the cup of joe.

  On the walls hung several quotes from some genuine psychos. “Before all else, be armed,” by Machiavelli. “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt,” by Sun Tzu. “You can get much farther with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone,” by Al Capone.