92 Pacific Boulevard - Debbie Macomber [41]
True to her word, Teri phoned less than twenty-four hours later. Bobby’s friend had located an older vehicle in relatively good condition for under five thousand dollars. The gas mileage was low; it even had a CD player and automatic locks.
“Perfect!” Christie said, so happy she could barely hold still. “What color is it?”
“What color?” Teri repeated. “White.”
Christie couldn’t squelch her disappointment. “I was hoping for blue.”
“You can have it repainted later if it bothers you that much.”
“It won’t—I’m just being silly. I’m so grateful to have a car.” And if it was as reliable as her sister seemed to think and had such nice extras, she wasn’t about to complain.
“Shall I have it delivered to your apartment?”
“Please,” Christie said. “Thank you, Teri,” she said, “thank you, thank you. I promise I’ll pay you back—with interest.”
“Okay. It’ll get there soon.”
Fifteen minutes later, the knock on her door told her that her new car had arrived.
When she saw James Wilbur standing on the other side of the torn screen, she followed her instinctive reaction, and that was to slam the door. A torrent of emotion overwhelmed her as she leaned against the wall. Her knees gave out, and she started to slide downward.
There was another knock, this one louder and more insistent. She had to answer, Christie thought reluctantly. Any kind of reaction would encourage him and that wasn’t Christie’s intention.
Collecting herself, she straightened and opened the door again. She had to admit James looked good, although she made every effort to stare right past him.
“I apologize,” she said. “The door, uh, got away from me.”
He smiled at her explanation as though it amused him. Well, fine, he could be as amused as he liked. But not at her expense.
She was furious with Teri and Bobby. They’d tried to pull a fast one on her—and they’d succeeded. Christie supposed she should have figured it out. Teri’s vague talk of a friend “in the business,” the sudden mention of a phone call from James…Why hadn’t she asked more questions? Teri would be hearing a few angry words about this.
No, she decided. She’d put her anger aside and overlook their trick in gratitude for all their help—although she wouldn’t forgive them a second time.
“I brought your car,” he said and held up the keys.
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her voice emotionless. Indifferent. But her awareness of him had never been sharper than it was just then. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, she’d rather keel over dead than give James Wilbur any indication of her feelings.
“Can I show it to you?” James asked. His eyes burned into hers, sending silent messages—that he needed to talk to her, be with her.
“That won’t be necessary, but thank you for offering.” She opened the screen door far enough to pluck the keys from his hand. Then, with a polite smile, she quietly closed the door.
To be on the safe side, she turned the dead bolt—unsure whether this was an attempt to keep him out or her in.
Chapter Twelve
Footsteps. Faith Beckwith heard them outside her bedroom window. Whoever was there made no effort at stealth. Someone was about to break into the house and didn’t care if she knew.
Paralyzed with fear, Faith stopped breathing. The clock radio said 2:14. At first she’d assumed the movements, which couldn’t be more than a few feet from her window, were just her imagination. But now there was no question—someone was there, crunching through the hardened snow in the backyard. Whoever it was might even be looking inside. Although she was buried under blankets and the blinds were closed, Faith felt the trespasser’s stare, felt his presence as clearly as if he was standing over her bed.
Her breath came again in gasps as her mind raced frantically. Rolling carefully onto her side, she reached for the bedside phone and drew it under the sheets with her. Then, hidden under the covers, she used the lighted dial to punch out 9-1-1. Whispering, she told the