Well, that was confusing.
Conn had assumed no-strings-attached sex with a hot celebrity would be fantastic. He didn’t think he was all that unusual—being used and left by a Hollywood star was supposed to fulfill every red-blooded American male’s wildest fantasy. The sex fit the bill—hot enough to turn his bones to ash, obviously just a thing she did to come down off the high of touring. She wasn’t looking for a relationship, and neither was he. No strings; no harm, no foul. He should have been cool with it. Thrilled.
He was, and he wasn’t.
Thinking about that while lying beside a sleeping Cady seemed dangerous, even more so when, beside him, Cady made a soft, throaty sound and snuggled into the pillows. He pulled the comforter up to her chin, scooted out from under the covers, snagged his jeans from the floor, and backed quietly out of her room, snagging his T-shirt from the hallway floor once he’d closed the bedroom door. Jeans on and buttoned, he put his hands on his hips and blew out a breath.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement in the front windows, a change in the way the light lay over the porch’s railing, nothing more. His heart rate spiked. His room overlooked the porch, while Cady’s faced the more private backyard. He ducked into his bedroom, pulling on his T-shirt as he did, and crept along the wall to the window. Parting the slats with his index finger, he scanned the front yard, thankful he’d spent the last thirty minutes in the dark with Cady since his eyes were already adjusted to the near total blackness. He found himself wishing for a few good, old-fashioned streetlights, because he couldn’t see anything beyond the ornamental evergreen pots lining the porch.
A car door slammed down the street, then an engine turned over.
“Fuck.” He sprinted for the front door, clearing the steps to the slate sidewalk in a single drop. By the time he reached the end of the curving driveway, the car was gone, red taillights visible rounding the bend.
He almost, almost sprinted up the hill in his jeans and T-shirt, but the thought of leaving Cady alone in the house stopped him. This could have been a distraction. He trotted back up the driveway, steam rising from his skin into the cold air. He’d left the front door wide open. He closed it and went into full cop mode.
The first room he checked was Cady’s. No difference there. Only her hair was visible above the comforter. He checked the closets, bathroom, and under the goddamn bed, all the while listening to her steady, deep breathing. Trustingly out for the count.
The rest of the house was empty. A quick search of the likely hiding places in the backyard turned up a possum who scared Conn almost as badly as Conn scared him before scuttling into the safety of the woods. Conn sent up a silent prayer of gratitude that he wouldn’t have to write a report explaining why he’d shot a really ridiculous animal, holstered his gun, and tried to bring his heart rate under two hundred.
Two things were now clear. One, whoever had been in the car acted alone. Two, this gave him a valid reason to talk to Hawthorn. Back in the house, he called Hawthorn’s cell. The LT answered with his last name, as usual.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No. I’m at Cady’s house. Do you have the address?
“Yes,” Hawthorn said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Conn gave him the gate code. “Don’t ring the doorbell when you get here.”
Hawthorn disconnected without even asking why. Conn took advantage of the delay to take a fast shower, with all the doors between him and Cady open and his gun on the sink. He was dressed in his game face and all his gear when Hawthorn tapped one knuckle on the window. Conn unlocked the front door and opened it.
“Why can’t I ring the bell?” Hawthorn said from the porch.
“Cady’s asleep. She finally crashed a couple of hours ago,” Conn said, truthfully. After Hawthorn walked in, Conn peered into the darkness. Hawthorn’s SUV was parked behind a stand of evergreen trees, out of sight from the road. Conn shut the door behind him, then explained what happened, leaving out the sex-with-the-star part.
“No one’s here?” Hawthorn leaned against the kitchen island, looking at Conn like he knew all his secrets.
“I checked the house and the property. Nearly shot a possum in the process.”
That got him one of Hawthorn’s rare quick grins. “How many people know where she lives?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’ll get a list tomorrow. Not many. She said she just bought the house, through a holding company or something. Her family. Her manager. Maybe a few friends?”