The Villa

all the time it was happening, they… they were amazing. I didn't like leaving Sophie back there, dealing with the police, but I didn't want Maddy coming home alone, so…"
    "Ty's already on his way down."
    She drew a ragged breath, then a second that came easier. "I thought he would be. That's all right then."
    "Come inside." He shifted her, keeping her close to his side. "Tell me everything."
     
    Tyler swung behind the police cruiser with a harsh scream of brakes. In the flashing lights, Sophia watched him stride over the road. She could see him well enough to recognize rage. As calmly as she could, she turned away from the cop who was interviewing her and walked toward him.
    He grabbed her fast enough, hard enough to knock the breath out of her. Nothing had ever felt so safe.
    "I was hoping you'd come. I was really hoping."
    "Did you get banged up any?"
    "No. The Jeep, on the other hand… I think I blew the transmission. Ty, I didn't have any brakes. They were just gone. I know they're going to tow it in and check it out, but I already know."
    The words poured out of her, shaky at first, then gaining strength, gaining temper. "It wasn't an accident. It wasn't some mechanical failure. Somebody wanted to hurt me, and they didn't care if my mother and Maddy got hurt, too. Goddamn it, she's just a little girl. Tough, though. Tough and smart. She told me to downshift. She doesn't even know how to drive."
    The rage would have to wait. He'd have to wait to break something in half, to plow his fist into something, anything. Sophia was trembling, and needed tending.
    "Kid knows something about everything. Get in the car. Time for somebody else to take the wheel."
    A little dazed now, she glanced behind her. "I think they still want to talk to me."
    "They can talk to you tomorrow. I'm taking you home."
    "Fine by me. I have some shopping bags."
    He smiled, and his grip on her loosened to a caress. "Of course you do."
    * * * * *
    He meant what he'd said about taking her home. His home. When she didn't argue the point, he figured she was more shaken than she'd admitted. He dumped her shopping bags in the foyer, then wondered what the hell to do with her.
    "You want, like, a hot bath, a drink?"
    "How about a drink in a hot bath?"
    "I'll take care of it. You ought to call your mother, let her know you're back. And you'll be staying here."
    "All right, thanks."
     
    He dumped half a tube of shower gel that had been around since Christmas into the tub. It smelled like pine, but it bubbled. He figured she'd want bubbles. He stuck a couple of candles on the counter. Women went for candlelit baths, for reasons he couldn't fathom. He poured her a glass of wine, set it on the lip of the tub and was standing back, trying to figure out what else to do when she stepped into the bathroom.
    Her single huge sigh told him he'd already hit the mark.
    "MacMillan, I love you."
    "Yeah, so you said."
    "No, no, at this moment—this exact moment, no one has ever, will ever love you more. Enough to let you get in with me."
    In a tub full of bubbles? He didn't think so. And if he could overlook the mortification of that for the obvious benefits, she looked beat.
    "I'll take a pass on this one. Strip and get in."
    "You romantic bastard. A half hour in here and I'll feel human again."
    He left her to it and went down to get her things. To his way of thinking, if he dumped her shopping loot in the bedroom, it would take her that much longer to run off again. As far as he was concerned, this was the first stage of her moving in.
    He grabbed her purse, her briefcase, four—Jesus Christ—four loaded shopping bags, and started back up with them. As long as he kept busy, he told himself, did what came next, he wouldn't give in to the fury choking him.
    "What'd you buy? Small slabs of granite?" He tossed them on the bed, considered the job done, and her briefcase tumbled off. He grabbed for it, managed to snag the strap and, upending it, dumped out most of the contents.
    Why did anyone need so much junk in a briefcase? Resigned, he crouched and began to gather it up again. Okay, he could see the bottle of water, her bulging Filofax, the electronic memo deal. The pens, though, God knew why she needed a half dozen of them. Lipstick.
    Idly he uncapped it, swiveled the tube out. One sniff and he tasted her.
    Travel scissors. Hmmm. Post-its, paper clips, aspirin, a powder-puff thing, a fingernail thing, other assorted girl things that made him wonder why she