Don't Breathe a Word

by Christie Craig

  She’d thought reading about romance would have satisfied her craving for intimacy, but instead it just made her hungrier. Maybe she should go back to boring biographies.

  She sipped the coffee and moaned. “This is good.”

  “I’m not much of a wine connoisseur, but I know good coffee.”

  “You used real cream, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. That’s the way I drink it. But don’t kid yourself. It’s the coffee that’s special.” His gaze fell on her.

  When he lifted his cup to his lips, she noticed the bandage on his hand. “What happened?”

  He looked down. “Just work.”

  “Tell me you didn’t get shot?”

  He grinned. “No.”

  “Stabbed?”

  “Not nearly as exciting. There was a scuffle is all.”

  “Stitches?” She made a face as if she felt his pain.

  “A few.”

  “What kind of police are you?” A little voice inside her said asking questions could lead to being asked questions, but with the butterflies in her stomach fluttering, talking calmed her nerves.

  “Detective. I work in the Cold Case Unit.”

  She lifted a brow. “You’re one of the Three Musketeers?”

  His forehead wrinkled. “You’ve heard of us?”

  “When I first moved here there was some news coverage on the case you guys had just solved.”

  “Yeah.” He sounded sheepish.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  He brought his mug up for another sip before speaking. “We’re trying to do our job. The press gets in the way most of the time.”

  “Did you catch the man last night? Did you solve the case?” She was worried she sounded overly inquisitive, but she was genuinely interested in hearing more about his work. And maybe if she kept asking him questions, he wouldn’t have time to ask her any.

  “We caught the guy, but no. The case is still open. We just picked up a piece of the puzzle and are still trying to figure out if it fits.”

  “So being a cop is about putting puzzles together?”

  “Yeah. In some ways.”

  Did he see her as a puzzle? She sure as hell hoped not. She sipped the coffee again. The dark roast flavor lingered on her tongue. It was better than the fancy coffee that she used to buy when money wasn’t an issue. One of the luxuries she’d given up when she walked away from her life. “So what kind of coffee is this?”

  He smiled. “I order it online. Grind the beans myself.”

  “You have good taste.”

  “I know what I like.” Innuendo flavored his tone.

  He was flirting. She tried hard not to enjoy it, not to let the perceived compliment slide like a warm touch over soft places. But it did feel that way.

  She held the cup closer, trying to rein in the conversation and her emotions. “There was just a story on the news about specialty coffees. One about a coffee bean that’s processed after being digested by some Asian catlike creature.”

  He lifted a brow and stared at her over the rim of his cup. “You mean kopi luwak? The beans are fed to an Asian palm civet. And yes, it does kind of look like a cat.”

  “This isn’t…?”

  His brow stayed raised.

  “Seriously?” She handed him his cup back.

  He laughed. The sound, pure tease, came out deep, masculine, hypnotic, and rusty. Why did she think it had been a while since he’d laughed? His dark eyes brightened with humor. “No. It’s Four Barrel. But I saw the same show. I would never drink anything that came out of the rear end of a catlike creature.” His smile tightened his eyes. “I’m definitely more of a dog person.”

  She laughed and realized she hadn’t laughed like this in a long time, either. It felt good.

  Right then a light hiss filled the air. Before she realized what it was, the sprinkler system sprayed her from behind, the cold spritz hitting her legs. Releasing a squeal, she jumped out of the way. As she danced to the right she saw him catch the spray directly in his face.

  He darted to the side. They collided. The coffee in her cup splashed out and just like the wine from a couple of nights ago, it found its way to his shirt.

  She bit down on her lip and tried not to laugh. But as she lifted her eyes, the sound escaped.

  Coffee dripped from a dark strip of hair hanging down his brow.

  “First wine and now coffee. Sorry.”

  It wasn’t until she breathed and felt her breasts against his chest that she realized how close they stood. It wasn’t until she saw his lips that she realized how badly she wanted to be kissed. It wasn’t until he dipped his head that she realized it was actually going to happen.

  She knew this could only lead to trouble, but found herself leaning into him anyway. His lips tasted like the coffee, and his tongue, warm from the brew, swept across her bottom lip. For one second, two, maybe even three she kissed him right back. She wanted it.

  Then reality hit. She jerked away. Touched her lips, which felt damp, slightly swollen. “No. I can’t…I’m not…”

  “I’m sorry.” He took a step back. “I just…You…I thought…”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I did, I’m not saying you…But no. I can’t.”

  “Why?” he asked. “God knows I have my own reservations, but…”

  Neither of them could complete a sentence.

  “I…” She searched for an answer, one that didn’t give anything away but would make her feelings clear. “I’m not ready to broaden my horizons.”

  * * *

  Juan, regret churning in his gut, walked back inside his house and set Sweetie down. The dog turned and looked at him and whined as if reading the frustration billowing from him.

  One step forward, three steps back. Or maybe it was like ten steps back. Shit! Why had he kissed her? Was it too soon? Sure, he hadn’t had much practice lately, but he certainly could tell when a woman was kissing him back. She was as into it as he was. So why did she push him away? Maybe deep down he’d been hoping she’d do just that. Maybe he wasn’t ready, either.

  He sat down at his kitchen table. The thought hit that he needed to get the house ready for the poker game. But seeing his laptop in front of him, he booted up his Facebook page and saw he had two messages.

  Both were from Nikki Hanson’s Myspace page connections. The first was short and succinct. And startling.

  He went to the other. It held the same emotional punch.

  Yes, they knew her. Yes, they went to school with her. Yes, it was sad/terrible/unthinkable how she…died.

  Nikki V. Hanson was dead. Or a Nikki Hanson who was born the same year, lived and grew up in the same town, was…dead.

  Coincidence? He didn’t think so.

  Who the hell had he just kissed?

  Chapter Eleven

  Needing to burn off his frustration, Juan grabbed some tools and stole dirt from the middle of his backyard to fill the hole by his fence. One shovel of dirt. Two. Three.

  He yanked off his shirt and worked up a sweat.

  Done filling the hole, yet still feeling irate, he went to mow the front yard. He still had four hours before the guys showed up to play Texas Hold ’Em.

  He was pushing the mower over the last strip of grass, sweat pouring off of him, when movement caught his eye. He looked up. And there, standing on his lawn, was Bell. Bell holding Sweetie.

  She must have found another escape hole. Reaching down, he cut off the mower and moved toward the little girl.

  He reached for the squirming poodle in her hands. “Thank you.”

  The little girl didn’t say anything, just stared at him.

  “She must have gotten in your yard again,” he offered.

  She turned to go, then turned back around.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “It’s not your fault,” she repeated in a voice full of tenderness, yet somehow haunted.

  “Wh
at’s not my fault?”

  She pulled up her shirtsleeve, exposing…Juan’s breath locked in his chest. The child’s words from earlier replayed in his head. You got burned.

  Now he understood why Bell would know the type of scar.

  He counted four, no, five round nickel-sized burn scars on the child’s upper arm. “That’s what my mama used to tell me to make me feel better.”

  Every muscle in his body knotted, including his heart. Someone had hurt her. Intentionally. Those were cigarette or cigar burns. He held his rage in, but his hold on Sweetie unintentionally tightened. She whimpered and he softened his grip.

  His next words came out without thought, but with purpose. Someone had to pay. “Who did that to you, Bell?”

  She yanked her sleeve back down. Something akin to guilt filled her eyes, as if she’d said something she shouldn’t. She swung around and ran back through the side fence to her backyard.

  Sweetie barked as if she wanted to give chase. He considered going after the child himself.

  The only thing that kept his feet planted in his front yard was the fact that the scars weren’t red or raw. They weren’t recent. They had healed, like his. Healed on the outside. But on the inside?

  As rage built up in his chest, questions built up in his head. He shot inside and dropped Sweetie down.

  Was this what Nikki was hiding from? Was she running from a husband or a boyfriend who’d done this to her child? Or had she…?

  No, he remembered Nikki’s painted toenails. The love in her voice when she talked about her daughter. He’d bet his right arm that Nikki wasn’t hurting Bell.

  Then the child’s words echoed in his head. That’s what my mama used to tell me to make me feel better.

  Why did the term “used to” make him feel as if she was no longer with her mama? Was this another thing Nikki had lied about? Being Bell’s mom?

  Or was he reading into something that wasn’t there?

  His phone rang. He picked it up and checked the number. It was a Houston area code.

  “Detective Acosta,” he answered.

  “Yes, my name is Kathy Jones. You called me about my sister? I’m sorry I missed your call last night. Is Cindy in trouble again?” Ms. Jones asked.

  Juan explained his need to speak to her sister about a missing persons case, then, keeping it vague, he told her he suspected her sister was injured. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me where she is?”

  “I can’t. She cut herself out of my life years ago. Believe me, my brother and I have tried to help her, but she…won’t even talk to us. When she stopped communicating with us, we even drove up there. Went to the strip club where she worked. The owner said she’d quit.”

  “Well, she started back. She was working there until a week ago.”

  “It’s sad, but we tried.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Almost five years ago. She texted me for a while. I’d call her and she wouldn’t answer. I left messages. Told her our brother and I agreed to help her out if she moved up here, got into a rehab. She texted back and said she was fine.”

  “Before she dropped out of your life, did she ever mention a woman named Abby Noel? A friend of hers who went missing?”

  “No, not that I remember. When did she go missing?”

  “Five years ago.”

  “Do you think Cindy has something to do with her friend going missing?” Shock played in her voice. “Oh, God, you don’t think she killed her, do you?”

  “We’re not sure if or how your sister is involved, but we think she might know something that could help us,” Juan said. “Do you know of any friends here? Anyone Cindy would go to if she needed a place to stay?”

  “No.” Her shock faded to concern. “Do you know if she’s still doing drugs?”

  “I don’t know that for sure. I was told by her apartment manager she’s being evicted. She lost her job a week ago, too.”

  “I wish I could do something, but…how can I help someone who doesn’t want help? Someone who won’t even tell me what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.” His thoughts shot straight to his neighbor.

  When she hung up, his phone dinged with another call. He looked at the number. It was Cindy Bates’s old landlord.

  “It’s going too far,” Mr. Henley said first thing.

  “What’s going too far?”

  “She was here again. I think she slept on the damn swing. I let my dog out and he started barking. When I looked, the gate was open and there was a blanket on the swing. I don’t get it. Why the hell is she doing this after all this time?”

  “I don’t know,” Juan said. “How long ago did she leave?”

  “Twenty minutes ago. I should have called you right away, but I was so pissed I wasn’t thinking. How can I stop this? She’s a nut job and I don’t want her around my family. Can I get a restraining order or something?”

  Juan heard the rising tension in the man’s voice. “I don’t think you’ve got enough for that yet, but—”

  “What the hell good is calling the police if you don’t do anything?”

  “Look, believe me, we’re looking for her. Put a better lock on your gate. And next time call me right away. Meanwhile, I’ll get a patrol cop to come by and you can make a report.”

  When Juan hung up, he remembered he’d planned to drive by Cindy’s apartment this morning. Glancing at his phone, he realized he had enough time before the poker game to make a quick trip to the apartment complex.

  He remembered Bates’s sister’s words. How can I help someone who doesn’t want help? Someone who won’t even tell me what’s going on?

  Maybe you don’t stop asking. He had questions for Nikki. Questions he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask, but was going to ask anyway.

  * * *

  “What does…sal…u…ta…tions mean?” Bell asked.

  “It means ‘hello’ or ‘greetings.’” Vicki, standing beside the sofa, found Bell’s matching Cinderella sock among the clean clothes and put the two together. Bell sat on the floor with her Charlotte’s Web book in her hands, thumbing through it, finding words she didn’t know, trying to pass time until her friend Suzie arrived.

  Vicki’s mind shot back to Juan’s kiss, while she stared at the pile of laundry. She could have stopped it. She should have stopped it. Why hadn’t she stopped it?

  Because I didn’t want to!

  Her mind kept taking her back to how he’d tasted. To the way his lips slid across hers, so hot, so gentle. To the way his tongue tempted her own to play.

  “Aunt— I mean, Mom. Do you think Wilbur and Charlotte were in love?”

  Vicki looked at her niece. “I think they loved each other.”

  “Like boy-girl love?”

  “I think they were just friends.” Vicki reached for her red bra, which she’d accidentally put in the dryer instead of just hanging up to dry, due to her brain fog.

  “Because they didn’t kiss?” Bell asked.

  “Huh?” Vicki asked.

  “Is the reason you don’t think they were in love because they didn’t kiss?”

  “Sort of,” she said, unsure how to answer.

  “When people kiss, do they love each other and then get married?”

  Vicki hesitated. Was it just a coincidence that both she and her niece were thinking about kissing? “Sometimes…and sometimes they just like each other a lot.”

  “I want you to get married. So I can have a daddy. But I want you to marry a good one. Like Suzie’s father.”

  “Uh, well…Right now I’m happy with just you and me.”

  “Is Juan a good one?”

  Coincidence? Or not? “You should call him Mr. Acosta.”

  “Okay. Is he a good one?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  She glanced down at the book. “Because you kissed him.”

  Vicki almost gasped. “You…saw that?”

  Bell nodded. “I heard Swee
tie bark and looked out my window and you two were kissing.”

  Vicki exhaled, her brain working double time trying to decide what to say. “It was a mistake.”

  “Why?”

  Why indeed. “Remember I told you that we can’t get too close to anyone, that we can’t tell our secrets?”

  “Did you tell him a secret when you kissed him?”

  “No, but…”

  “But you were really close to him?” Her big brown eyes widened. “Like this.” She pressed her palms together.

  “Yeah.” Vicki could still feel his hard body pressed against hers. “Mr. Acosta and I are just neighbors and there’s not going to be any more kissing.”

  “But he’s one of the good ones, right?”

  “Yes, I think he’s good.”

  Bell blinked. “Do you think his scar makes him ugly?”

  Emotion filled Vicki’s chest. “No, sweetheart. He’s a very nice-looking man. A scar doesn’t make people ugly.”

  Bell bit down on her bottom lip. “I don’t like people to see my scars. I feel bad that his is on his face. He can’t hide it with a shirt like I can. And when people see it, I know they stare. It’s hard not to. And I think it hurts him.”

  What the hell could Vicki say to that? She knew Bell’s scars hurt her, too, and every time she thought of the bastard who’d done that to her, Vicki’s blood boiled.

  “I’m sure Juan wishes he didn’t have the scar on his face, too, but it doesn’t stop him from being a very attractive man. A scar is just a mark, it doesn’t tell people who you are.”

  Vicki moved across the room, knelt down, and hugged her niece.

  Bell’s little arms hung on to Vicki’s neck so tightly she felt the squeeze in her chest. “I love you,” she whispered in Bell’s dark brown hair.

  “I love you, too,” Bell said.

  Vicki went back to sorting laundry. All the while trying to sort out emotions.

  The doorbell rang. She jolted.

  “Is that Suzie?” Bell jumped up.

  Vicki caught her arm. “It’s too early to be Suzie. I’ll answer it.”

  Fear filled her niece’s eyes, and she hated herself for letting her own emotion show. Would there ever be a day when a doorbell or phone ringing wouldn’t take them right to panic? Stiffening her backbone, she went to the side window to see who was at the door.