Nine Lives. Sharon Sala

tattoo was a butterfly—and it was pink.

      Who would ever have believed that Cat Dupree would be the kind of woman to have a girly thing like that?

      Barbed wire? Yes.

      A skull and crossbones? Sure.

      A snake with fangs exposed? Plausible.

      But a tattoo of a small pink butterfly on her butt? Priceless.

      Still grinning, he straightened the covers and left her alone. Another facet of this woman had been revealed. It was definitely something to consider, which set him to wondering what else she might be concealing.

      As she slept, he prowled. It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, but no one had ever called him a gentleman. He was curious about her and, despite his better judgment, a little intrigued. It wasn’t until he got to her office and saw the boxes stacked against one wall, saw that they were filled with the same things that adorned the walls and the top of her desk, that he got a slow chill.

      Every page was of a different man—all criminals with rap sheets—all with varying numbers of tattoos. It was then that he remembered what Flannery had told him—that she and her father had been killed by a tattooed man. The case had long since gone cold, but she, obviously, had not given up the hunt.

      Wind was whipping the branches of the lilac bush against Catherine’s window. The sound was familiar, and it barely registered as she turned over and pulled the covers a little closer beneath her chin.

      In seventeen days school would be out for Christmas vacation, and she could hardly wait. Daddy had promised to take her to New Mexico to go skiing. It would be their first trip to a skiing resort, but hopefully not their last.

      Suddenly the sound of breaking glass filtered through her dreams of hot chocolate, roaring fires at the ski lodge and flying down the slopes so fast that she would outrun the sound of her own laughter.

      She opened her eyes, then rolled over and sat up just as a loud thud sounded in the hallway.

      “What the—”

      It was her daddy’s voice, but it was cut short by the thud. She jumped out of bed and bolted toward the door. What if Daddy had fallen and hurt himself? They couldn’t go skiing if Daddy was hurt.

      When she ran out into the hallway, she saw her father crumpled on the floor.

      “Daddy! Daddy!” she screamed, and was running toward him when someone came out of the bathroom and grabbed her around the waist.

      She started to scream as she fought, kicking and swinging her arms in an effort to get free. Then she heard a rough, ugly voice cursing in her ear and someone telling her to shut up. She answered by kicking backward and knew that she’d hurt the assailant when he suddenly shrieked with pain.

      “Bitch!” he screamed.

      Catherine saw the glitter of lamplight on metal; then she saw the hand and arm swinging toward her, like an extension of the knife that was going to end her life.

      At that moment her father got up from the floor, staggering toward them and cursing the man who held her, begging him to turn her loose.

      Suddenly she was falling.

      At first she felt no pain, but within seconds of hitting the floor, the coppery scent of blood was in her nose and her throat was on fire. She grabbed at her neck, thinking she’d been burned, only to find her hands covered in blood.

      She looked up just as the assailant grabbed her father and began stabbing him repeatedly in the chest.

      She tried to scream, but when she inhaled, she choked.

      Her father fell lifelessly to the floor as the assailant jumped over him and ran to the front door. Catherine watched him disappear into the night as she waited to die.

      Over and over, she struggled to breathe, then finally, blessedly, everything went dark.

      Cat sat straight up in bed, choking and coughing and grabbing her throat, certain that her hands would come away covered in blood. Instead, all she felt was the hard ridge of scar, followed by the certainty that, although she was in her bedroom, she was not alone.

      She rolled toward the bedside table, pulling a handgun from the drawer as she turned on the lamp.

      Wilson had been dozing in a small, overstuffed chair, but the sudden brightness, coupled with the fact that he was now staring down the barrel of a gun, was better than any alarm clock he’d ever owned.

      “Don’t shoot,” he said quickly. “It’s me, Wilson McKay.”

      Cat was breathing hard and shaking as she leaned back against the headboard and let the gun fall in her lap.

      “What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?”

      He frowned as he eyed the gun lying in her lap.

      “Put that thing away,” he muttered, waiting for her to do as he’d asked. When the gun was back in the drawer, he answered. “You nearly passed out in the parking lot of the police department. Good Samaritan that I am, I brought you home, then held you in the parking lot while you threw up on my shoes.”

      “Oh Lord,” Cat muttered, but Wilson seemed bothered that she’d pulled a gun on him and wouldn’t stop talking. If he only knew how badly her head was pounding, he would shut the hell up. Trouble was, she couldn’t focus enough to tell him.

      “Your neighbors in 6E helped me get you inside the apartment. I put you to bed and gave you some pills—which have obviously broken your fever, because you’re back to your normal bitchy self.”

      Cat fell back against the pillows, staring at him in disbelief.

      Wilson’s tirade ended as quickly as it had begun. He took a deep breath then stood, walked to the bed and felt her forehead. It was damp, but cooler. The fever was gone.

      “Do you need anything?” he asked. “Water? Something for pain?”

      She shook her head no, then groaned when the motion made her feel as if the bed was spinning.

      “Are you going to be sick to your stomach again?”

      “No.”

      “Can I get you anything?”

      “Water?” Her voice sounded weak.

      “Not a problem,” he said and took the glass from the table and filled it with cool, fresh water, then carried it back to her bed.

      He steadied her as she sipped it, then watched her give in to weakness as she fell back onto the pillow with a thump.

      “I feel like shit. What happened?”

      Wilson eyed the dark circles beneath her eyes and then laid the back of his hand against her forehead just to make sure the fever had abated.

      “I’d guess you picked up some kind of flu bug.”

      Cat closed her eyes.

      “Not a bug. Nothing that small could possibly be causing this much agony.”

      Wilson grinned. Her sense of humor was unexpected. He watched her hand go to her throat, then trace the scar on her neck. His grin died as he remembered how abruptly she’d awakened.

      “Did you have a bad dream?” he asked.

      He heard her snort. At least it sounded like a snort, but he’d never heard a woman really snort before. It was somewhat surprising, as was most everything else about Catherine Dupree.

      “Are there any other kinds?” she asked.

      He