“Don’t leave me hanging, Charlie.” His blush told her it would be juicy.
He shrugged. “Since you’d kissed me.” No other women since they’d kissed? “There. I’ve said it. Make of it what you will.” His attempt to seem cavalier fell flat. His cheeks reddened even more, clashing with his red hair. He averted his gaze, focusing on Socks. “Now I have a cat.”
“I was drunk.” He couldn’t possibly have read anything into that kiss. It’s not as if she’d made declarations or anything. He couldn’t possibly know her feelings. A flare of panic had her widening her eyes, wondering if she’d been grossly underestimating Charlie’s ability to read her feelings. Could he know how she felt?
“You were roaring drunk. Me, too.” He leaned against the sink, crossing his legs at the ankle, folding his arms. If that wasn’t a defensive posture, she didn’t know body language. And she did. “Tequila has a way of doing that to us.”
“So, why?” Why stop his love life after one drunken kiss from her? Not knowing made it impossible for her to drop the subject. “You don’t owe me—”
“Bullshit.” He narrowed his eyes, signaling he was willing to plant his flag and die fighting for this issue. She’d been about to say, you don’t owe me an explanation, but the conversation turned, and now she didn’t know what to say. “I owe you everything,” he said. Familiar words, and as usual, they felt like a wall between them.
“Are you saying my kiss was so bad it put you off women altogether?” She stepped close, straddling his legs until the insides of her knees brushed his. It was a leading question, because they both knew he’d ended that kiss with a massive hard-on. Would he lie? “Why?” She leaned her palms on the kitchen counter on either side of his hips, and found herself smiling. “Talk to me, Charlie.” His eyes grew hooded, and his lips thinned.
“Be careful,” he whispered. His eyes flashed, only she couldn’t tell if it was with anger or panic, but she knew she wasn’t leaving this kitchen until he told her why her kiss had the power to put him off other women. He must have seen the determination in her gaze, because he pushed back with a challenge of his own. “I don’t think you could handle the truth.”
A thrill worked its way down her body, because a part of her suspected he was right, but his warning told her a great deal. He’d thought about it. Charlie thought about them having sex. They’d kissed, and he hadn’t had another woman since! Bingo!
That had to mean something. But was it enough?
He was still her husband out of mutual obligation, and it was temporary. If Charlie didn’t break her heart, there was a good chance she could break his. Taking what she wanted had become even more risky now that they were married.
Her cell phone rang. She slapped her pocket, never taking her eyes off Charlie. Then his cell phone rang in his back pocket, but he didn’t move. Neither moved, though Cynthia wanted to. She wanted to lean against him and see what would happen. Would he kiss her, and take the decision from her control? Or would he find an excuse not to kiss her, because he didn’t know how he felt?
Whatever was going on in Charlie’s head, she liked it, because he wasn’t pushing her away, and she could see the bulge in his pants even from the corner of her eye. Cynthia didn’t want this moment to end. Its delicious possibilities aroused and excited her, because for the first time ever, Charlie was signaling that he was attracted to her…maybe. She stared into his eyes, but couldn’t be sure. It was driving her crazy.
As their phones continued to ring, they remained still, gazes locked.
She licked her lips and smiled when he immediately dropped his gaze there. “I guess we should probably answer our phones.” He arched a brow. “But Charlie, this conversation is not over.”
She stepped back, glanced at her phone. Benton. When she swiped to accept, the ringing stopped. She’d waited too long and the call went to voice mail. Then the ringing began again. Benton, again. She frowned, catching Charlie’s eye.
“Modena’s calling me,” he said, also frowning.
Whatever prompted these calls couldn’t be good.
Chapter Six
Benton and Modena wanted them at the morgue now, which suited Charlie just fine, because it saved him the delay of dropping Cynthia off at the precinct house. But the calls had upset Cynthia, and she wasn’t saying why. He’d asked, and she’d put him off with a shake of her head.
Now, minutes from the hospital, he found himself frequently turning his attention from the heavy traffic to glance at her. His wife. It was crazy. Last night, when he’d received her “hang up” call, he’d raced to her house, assuming it was about the kiss. Her blackout meant he might never know why she’d called him, but it got him to her front door. Now they were married, him and Terrance’s little sister. And she’d almost died last night. Those two things alone reshuffled Charlie’s deck of priorities. He didn’t know why the killer pistol-whipped Cynthia instead of planting a bullet in her skull, but Charlie would be forever grateful, and he was determined to deny the killer another shot at her.
He was still having a hard time processing everything that had happened, and from the looks of Cynthia, so was she. A reformed nail biter, she used lacquer nails to prevent relapses. Now, eyes unfocused as she stared out the front windshield, she kept lifting her thumbnail to her mouth, only to drop her hand just as quickly. She was stressed. So was he.
“Benton didn’t tell you why he wanted to talk to you?” he said.
“No. Modena say anything to you?” He shook his head. Nothing. Just a request to meet Benton at the morgue. “Maybe they know,” she said. “I wouldn’t put it past them to know everything we already know, but they’re waiting for us to say something.”
“You’re being paranoid. Stick with the plan,” he said. “We’ll be okay.”
“The longer we remain silent, Charlie,” she said, “the more time the killer has to plant evidence against you.”
True. “And divert the investigation.”
She tucked her hand between her thigh and the seat. “The planted gun worries me the most. Even if it can’t be traced from point of sale, your prints are more likely to be all over it than the killer’s.”
Also true, but if there was even a partial print of the killer’s on the gun, it would be more than what they had now. “It has to be processed,” he said. “Tampering with evidence that might implicate the killer could give cover to the killer.” Charlie couldn’t take that chance. “It’s important that we do what’s right, and trust in the system.”
“If we trust the system, we should tell Benton,” she said.
He forced himself not to snap at her, but to concentrate on driving safely into the hospital garage and taking the ticket from the automated machine. By the time he’d found a parking space, he’d also found his reasoned response. “Someone is framing me, Cynthia. I’ve got skin in this game, and I don’t want to be sidelined from the investigation any more than you do. If you tell Benton, I’m out.” He shifted the car into park and pulled the keys from the ignition.
She’d folded her arms over her chest. “He and the team will help us. I know them better than you do. They’ll be on our side.” He tried to think of what he could say to shut this line of reasoning down. “You’re not an investigator,” she said. “Benton and the team are. It’s what they do. Charlie, trust me on this.” He unbuckled and turned in his seat to face her, reminding himself not to yell. “I can’t take a chance that these murders will be pinned on you,” she continued. “I can’t. Let me tell them what happened last night, and I’ll leave you out of it. I can do that. And we’ll go from there, but they’ll only know that I was at the crime scene. That piece of the puzzle might make the difference. You and me, running a shadow investigation, waiting to be arrested for murder? I can’t handle the stress.”
“Let me tell you what will happen.” Charlie sympathized with her dilemma, because Cynthia liked t
o be in control, and this case stripped her of it. “Sooner or later, the FBI will find evidence that points to me. I’ll be taken in for questioning, and then I’ll tell them everything.”
She threw her hands up, gasping with frustration. “You’ve done nothing.”
“The team will make their case against me.”
“There is no case,” she growled, and then punched his chest. He knew she wanted him to lose control, because she was out of control, but neither of them had that luxury.
“It’s Benton’s job to build a case, and it’s up to a jury of my peers to decide if it holds up beyond a reasonable doubt.” He knew Cynthia was scared. She had nothing to do with what was happening to them any more than he did, so it was easy to understand her lashing out. He just wasn’t used to her lashing out against him. “My point is they’ll be looking at the wrong man, directing all their energies toward the wrong man. We won’t be helping anyone, least of all ourselves, if we bring the team into this. You know we’re innocent, but they can’t assume that. It’s their job to rule us out, and that will—”
“Waste time.”
“Yes.” She understood his position. Relief and gratitude suffused his body and had him sinking deeper into the car’s seat. Charlie scanned the garage, not seeing a soul. “So far, the evidence against me is circumstantial, but sooner or later, there will be evidence that exonerates me.”
“Because you’re innocent.” She put her thumbnail to her mouth and nibbled on its edge.
“Every time the killer plants evidence, he’s leaving a breadcrumb to find him.”
“Maybe. Or maybe everything you just said is wrong.” She stepped out of the car. Charlie followed suit, and the sound of the door closing echoed in the dim, fluorescent-lit garage. She was already walking toward the elevator, her pocketbook swinging from her arm. “Don’t tell Benton anything, Cynthia. At least give me time to do my job before you blow my world up.”
She didn’t slow her gait. “We need to cut our losses and tell Benton.”
“No. You want to make this Benton’s problem,” he said. Cynthia responded by walking faster. “I know I can’t control you—”
“Damn right,” she grumbled.
“—but it’s both our necks on the chopping block.”
Cynthia poked the elevator button, and then poked it three more times, each poke harder than the last. “Fine. Whatever! Okay!” He put a hand on her shoulder, wanting to calm her down. She shook him off. “Don’t think I’m doing it because I’m an obedient wife. I just happen to agree with some of your arguments, and as an investigator, I’m willing to bend. As an investigator. Not as your wife. We clear about that?”
No. He was baffled. What the hell was she talking about?
The elevator door opened. He stopped her from walking onto it by grabbing her elbow, needing to calm her if only to make himself feel better. He hated fighting, almost as much as he hated Cynthia upset. He tugged, and instead of shaking him off, Cynthia pivoted into his arms, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her cheek to his chest. Charlie didn’t think about the whys, mostly because he had what he wanted. Her, in his arms. So he held her close, resting his chin on the top of her head, taking this moment to enjoy a respite from the chaos.
The elevator doors clanked closed again, unnoticed. Cynthia’s pocketbook fell to the dirty garage floor with a plop. The silence dragged on until her tight grip around his waist loosened and her breathing calmed.
“I’m sorry being my wife is fucking with your head.” He brushed his lips against her soft hair. He’d meant it as a joke, to tease some of the seriousness from their hug, but she tensed in his arms. Big surprise. His first instincts with Cynthia always seemed to go terribly wrong.
“Wife.” She squeezed him, as if trying to break him, and thumped her forehead against his chest before tilting her head back to look at him. “Do you listen to yourself, Charlie? Neither one of us ever wanted marriage. How many times have we talked about that?” She gave him a shake, and then pressed her cheek back onto his chest. “There’s a reason it took a mass murder to get us to the altar.”
Charlie laughed. He tried not to, but she was being so adorable, it snuck out. Cynthia looked up, giving him a scowl for his troubles. She was right, of course. About the marriage part, anyway, though now he suspected his aversion to matrimony was a symptom of his disease. The disease being: he hated that he lusted after his best friend’s little sister, but Charlie didn’t want anyone else marrying Cynthia, either.
“That’s right,” she said. “Yuck it up.”
“What about that guy you dated in college?” he said. “Andy…ah, someone. I thought you two were hot and heavy. My parents were positive you’d marry.” And it had pissed Charlie off to no end.
“Andy Arnold?” She leaned more heavily on him, conforming her body to his. “I can’t believe you remember him. The bastard wanted to marry me after I caught him cheating.”
He narrowed his eyes, thinking of his fist in Andy’s face. “What red meat did he throw to convince you to turn a blind eye to his cheating?”
“Money. He told me he was rich,” she said.
Charlie chuckled, suddenly not so mad. “He didn’t know you. Not really.” He could smell her shampoo, and her scent under that, and he could feel her trembling. He would have given anything to know why she trembled. He told himself to be cautious. His track record of reading Cynthia correctly was hit or miss.
“Things happened fast after that, and I never saw Andy again,” she said. The accident. It never occurred to Cynthia that she didn’t have to support Charlie after the crash. Most wouldn’t have. She did, and he owed her for that. “Not that I would have married him anyway.” When she didn’t say anything more, he pulled back to look at her face, needing more information to understand why she’d gone silent. She seemed to be thinking.
“Benton’s waiting,” he said. She nodded, still watching his face, looking for something. “We should probably go upstairs.” She nodded again, but now her eyes were focused on his lips. She tilted her chin up, lifting herself onto her toes. Charlie found himself clenching her suit jacket in his fists, pulling her hips flush with his.
Charlie gave her ample opportunity to avoid the intimacy. She’d flirted with him in his kitchen, against his counter. Had she only been flirting to make a point? He wasn’t sure, but he wanted to be certain: she either wanted him or not. Asking seemed like a mistake, especially since the look in her eyes seemed to be asking him something in return, only he had no idea what the question was.
“We’re married,” he said. She nodded slowly, hanging on his every word. “In public, we have to appear in love.” Her brows lowered. “Can you do that? We need to sell this marriage, or it might be used against us. They can claim it’s a calculated move to subvert the law.”
“Isn’t it?” She slid her hands behind his neck, her tone quiet, almost a whisper. “Everyone who knows me knows I’d never marry. It’s why the team is having such a hard time believing it.” She exerted tiny bits of pressure, drawing his head down toward hers.
“So, we convince them.” His mouth felt dry as he slanted his head to the side, aligning their lips to put them on the same slow trajectory so they could meet in the middle.
Her eyes widened and she froze. He supposed she’d noticed his hard-on.
“Charlie,” she said. “Is that for me?” He opened his mouth to explain, causing his lips to brush against hers, and then her fingers threaded into his hair and her breath came in shallow bursts. He didn’t notice his hands had dropped to her ass until they were squeezing each cheek. He lifted her, and she was so light that when he leaned her back against the elevator doors, it was with more force than intended. Her breath left her body with an oomph. He would have apologized, but their lips mashed together and the elevator binged. Then the doors clanked open.
Charlie and Cynthia fe
ll, limbs entangled, onto the dirty elevator floor.
It wasn’t empty.
Benton stared down at them, his brows arched, clearly stunned. Then the elevator doors clanked closed on their legs, opened again, then immediately closed again, hitting their tangled limbs a second time. Cynthia hopped to her feet first, brushing herself off, keeping her eyes averted.
“Well, isn’t this awkward.” She tucked in her shirt and adjusted her suit jacket before impatiently waving Charlie to his feet. Then she leaned out of the elevator to retrieve her pocketbook off the garage floor as Charlie cracked his neck and stood.
“I was waiting,” Benton said. “I pinged your phone, Deming.” His blue eyes hinted at a harried state. “I figured I’d meet you in the garage.” Neither Charlie nor Cynthia responded, so Benton compressed his lips and hit the elevator button for level three. “I received the crowd photos. Thanks. The team is running them through the software, but I’d like to see the evidence log. I spoke with Teresa upstairs, and she says she’s waiting on you to sign off on them.” He glanced at Cynthia, then glanced away quickly. Charlie almost felt sorry for Benton, except he’d interrupted a kiss that had all the earmarks of being life-altering, so he wasn’t feeling all that happy with the team leader right about now. “Deming, you still need a ride to the precinct?”
“Yes, please.” She licked her lips, blushing, looking like a kid who’d got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Then it occurred to Charlie that Benton didn’t know, and Cynthia didn’t look as if she was going to tell him.
“We’re married,” Charlie said. “Just came back from the justice of the peace.” He glanced at Cynthia, hoping that explanation would lessen her embarrassment with Benton. When her blush deepened and he saw her cringe, Charlie thought back to what he’d said and couldn’t see how he’d messed up. Benton seemed happy enough.
“Damn! You’re a fast worker, Charlie. Congratulations!” They shook hands, and then Benton gave Cynthia a hug. “This is all happening so fast. No wedding? No white dress and bridesmaids? Hannah and Charlotte are going to read you the riot act, but… Good for you. It’s a chaotic, stressful experience to throw a wedding. I don’t blame you in the least for avoiding it. But, wow, Cynthia! Modena is going to blow a gasket!” Cynthia groaned, closing her eyes.
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