Memories of Us

by Linda Winfree

  “It’s not you.”

  “What?” Celia frowned. Not her?

  “It’s him.”

  Celia laughed. “Come on, Cis, be serious—”

  “I am.” Cicely shrugged and stacked the money in her bank bag. “I felt it when he walked in.”

  “But then how could I see—”

  “He projects.” Cicely locked the bag away in the safe. “He’s got a strong aura too. A dark one. Lots of stuff he’s still carrying around with him. Be careful of that one, Cee.”

  Celia stared at her sister. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t. McMillian was the most logical, practical man she knew.

  Not to mention, the most intuitive. The possibilities boggled the mind. However, nothing changed the fact that he’d pulled back and walked away. So he’d had a taste and he wasn’t interested in anything further. She straightened her shoulders. She could deal with that.

  After a couple of Summer Solstices, heavy on the vodka, and maybe one of her sister’s vanishing spells.

  —

  Tom slammed the driver into the ball, the satisfying thwack vibrating up his arm. The ball veered in a wild arc to the right, hitting a marker four golfers down, and he bit back a curse. The other men scowled his way and every muscle between his shoulders tightened.

  He couldn’t hit for shit tonight.

  Kissing her had been a bad idea. What he should have done was walk away when she asked him to dinner. Hanging around to hear her say she wanted him? Massive mistake. Because now the words pounded in his head, turning his drive to crap.

  He had a strange feeling he’d be listening to them for days, probably turning his performance in the courtroom to crap too.

  The memory of her mouth under his invaded his mind again. His gut tightened. He whacked another ball.

  It cut to the left. He was screwed.

  No, but you could have been.

  Yeah. Literally. All he needed was a sexual-harassment lawsuit and the resulting publicity. He shrugged that off. Celia wasn’t the type to set him up. She’d proved to be unfailingly honest.

  But he’d never figured her for the type to blow a guy’s mind with a simple “I want you”.

  He shouldn’t have kissed her.

  Hey, pal, she came on to you, remember?

  And like an idiot, he’d walked away.

  How the hell had she known what was in his head? Coincidence. They were just thinking along the same lines. That’s all, with her back pressed into that chair and the absolute fire of that kiss between them. She’d said she wanted him. Why wouldn’t she be picturing the possibilities?

  He set another ball on a tee and frowned, remembering the way her sister had seemed to see into him. And that crystal ball. He’d witnessed for himself the way Celia could read a suspect. Maybe she’d just been reading him too.

  He’d overreacted. What might have happened if he hadn’t? If he’d followed through on her “God, yes”? Images tumbled through his head, Celia beneath him, legs resting on his shoulders while he sank balls-deep into the blazing heat of her body—

  The ball sliced freakin’ sideways.

  Damn it.

  “Man, what is wrong with you tonight?” Rhett set his bag down beside Tom’s. His empty bucket dangled from his left hand. The lights gleamed off the dark butterscotch of his shaved head, picked up the glimmer of his wedding ring.

  “Hell if I know.” Tom jerked a hand over his hair. One of his wild drives had sent a ball into Rhett’s zone earlier and his friend had been giving him odd looks ever since. “Maybe I need a different driver.”

  “Somehow I don’t think a different club’s going to do it. You only hit like that when something’s weighing heavy on your mind. I wouldn’t have to look far for that something.”

  “Yeah.” Tom slid the driver into his bag and slipped the cover over the metal head. He jerked his chin at Rhett’s bucket. “You ready to get out of here?”

  “I take it you need a drink.”

  “Hell, yes.” Maybe a good Scotch—or a couple—would get her off his mind, help him sleep.

  They shouldered the bags and dropped off their buckets. Frustration lingered in Tom, wrapped up with the oddity of that interlude with Celia. “Rhett, do you believe in psychics?”

  Rhett groaned, rolling his ebony eyes skyward. “Did that woman from Valdosta call again? I told her we weren’t interested in hiring a staff psychic.”

  Tom chuckled. “No. I mean, do you think one person can pick up another’s thoughts?”

  “Mind reading? No.” Rhett glanced at him, their feet crunching on the loose gravel of the parking lot. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  “I think some people are highly intuitive and just really good at appraising others. They can seem like mind readers. But actual psychic ability? No way.”

  “Yeah.” Tom rubbed a hand over his nape. That was it. Celia was reading him. That was all. It had to be. “Neither do I.”

  —

  She ached, a deep hurt settling into her chest. Celia lifted her glass, sipping at the fruity concoction. One drink and two guys hitting on her hadn’t lifted her spirits and she didn’t have high hopes for the second Summer Solstice or the cute blond at the other end of the bar. She picked the cherry out of her drink and chewed while the blend of embarrassment and disappointment swirled in her.

  Why couldn’t he have turned out to be a lousy kisser? She could have moved on then. But no…sweet heaven, the mouth on that man.

  “Stop obsessing.” Cicely sucked at her slice of orange, her voice muffled. “It causes wrinkles.”

  “I know.” Celia sighed and rested her chin on her hand, eyeing the crowd in the mirror behind the bar. Packed as usual, even on a weeknight, the Cue Club held people laughing around the pool tables, couples wrapped up on the dance floor, friends sharing a late evening meal. “God, what was I thinking?”

  “Cee, stop being so hard on yourself. You made a move and you crashed. Big deal. It happens.”

  “He’s my boss. I have to see him every day—”

  “Fine. So you look him in the eye and you move on. There are a ton of other guys out there.” Cicely pursed her lips and dug in her small bag. She withdrew a tiny vial—old wavy glass with a cork stopper. “Look, if you want it, there’s the answer to your problem.”

  “Cis, God! Don’t do that!” Celia palmed the vial and glanced around. It didn’t look like anyone had noticed them. “The rumor mill will have it that you’re dealing drugs. Or that we were doing drugs. Or that—”

  “You know, you really spend too much effort worrying what other people think.”

  Celia glanced down at the powder in the vial. “What is it?”

  A smile tipped the corners of Cicely’s lips. “What do you think?”

  Celia traced a finger over the tiny glass bottle, old memories turning over. So many times she’d seen her mama press one of these into the shaking hands of some desperate woman, her soothing voice whispering advice. “Is it one of Mama’s?”

  Cicely nodded. “Sprinkle it here in the mornings,” she said, rubbing a finger between her breasts, causing the blond to light up at the end of the bar, “and whisper for him to be still. Before you know it, you’re ready to move on.” She paused for a long beat. “If that’s what you really want.”

  Of course it was. Wasn’t it? She tucked it into her pocket. “Thanks.”

  “You’re not going to use it.” Cicely tossed her hair over her shoulder. A knowing expression lifted her lips, crinkled the corners of her eyes.

  “I might.” Celia sipped at her drink once more. Would her mother’s charm help her forget the humiliation of what had happened in her living room? Too bad she didn’t hold with such. As a little girl, she’d believed in her mother’s “magic”, but later she’d figured out that mostly her mama had simply been a master at evaluating people and helping them find a way through their problems. She really needed Mama’s help getting through this mess she’d made w
ith McMillian.

  How could she have misread him so badly? He’d said he was glad she’d told him how she felt, he’d seemed awed by the power of that kiss, as much as she’d been. She tunneled a hand through her hair. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was just a bad idea. Who was she kidding? It was the worst idea ever and she should have thought it through before she’d thrown herself at him. Her cheeks warmed and the sick emptiness of remembered embarrassment twisted her stomach.

  “He just walked in the door,” Cicely said. “I won’t bother to tell you not to look.”

  Celia cast a casual glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, McMillian made his way to a vacant booth with Rhett High at his side. Her face burned hotter. Certainly, McMillian wouldn’t share his version of her foolish behavior with the assistant DA.

  She downed the remainder of her drink. “Let’s get out of here. Maybe get a coffee or something.”

  “Sure.” Cicely slid from her stool and finished her drink as well. “But, Cee? Running away isn’t going to solve anything.”

  Maybe not, but tonight, it might help, at least until she had to face him in that damn meeting tomorrow.

  They wove through the crowd and Celia carefully kept her gaze averted from McMillian’s booth. She had to cope with him and her own stupidity tomorrow. Tonight she could lick her wounds.

  “Hey, St. John!”

  At Cook’s voice, she spun to see him winding his way toward her. She sighed, wanting nothing more than to just get the hell out of here. She forced a smile as he reached them. “Cook. What’s up?”

  “I tried to call you earlier.”

  Sometimes a cell phone was a curse. People expected everyone to be available 24/7. “I left my cell at home.”

  His gaze darted over her shoulder. She glanced back at Cicely and shrugged. “Cicely, this is Mark Cook, with the sheriff’s department. Cook, my sister Cicely.”

  He nodded and reached for Cicely’s hand, recognition lighting his eyes. “We’ve met. Yoga instructor, right?”

  “Right.” Cicely flicked a hand between them. “Will you two be a while? If so, I’m going to get another drink.”

  “Wait a sec.” Celia turned to him. “What’s up?”

  His gray gaze glimmered and he lifted his beer to his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Cook, I’ve had the day from hell, okay? I’m not in the mood. Tell me or die.”

  “Blood tests are in.”

  Excitement trickled through her. “Really? Do tell.”

  Cicely rolled her eyes. “I’m going for that drink.”

  Celia waved a hand, her attention still focused on Cook. “So?”

  He grinned. “Doe wasn’t the father.”

  “We know that for a fact?”

  “Baby was type AB negative and Doe was type O positive. No way he fathered that baby.”

  She pushed her hair behind her ear. “So the question is—”

  “Who are the parents?”

  “And where did that baby come from?”

  Chapter Four

  When Tom arrived at work, the parking lot was empty, save for one familiar SUV. Frowning, he whipped into his spot. Beginning his workday a little after seven was part of his routine because he was assured some time alone in the office. He was usually the only one there this early.

  He glanced at Celia’s Xterra as he jogged up the stairs. A fine layer of dew coated the steel blue paint. How long had she been here?

  Quiet lay over the offices. He dropped his briefcase on his desk and headed down the hall for Celia’s office. His belly tightened with each step, the blend of tension and anticipation he connected with seeing her.

  The door stood open and he paused in the doorway. Papers littered Celia’s desk, her laptop open on the blotter, her coffee mug on the corner and the aroma of stale coffee heavy in the air. Eyes closed, she curled into her chair, cheek against her shoulder. He frowned again. She was still wearing her jeans and camisole from the night before.

  Had she been here all night?

  He stepped into the room and lifted one of the papers from the desk. An Internet printout, a news report on the abduction of an infant from a Mississippi hospital three days before. Another on a woman murdered in Maryland, her unborn child cut from her womb.

  He dropped the papers on her desk, his gaze straying to her face. With her features relaxed in sleep, she looked younger, more vulnerable. He followed the line of her mouth, remembering the lush fullness moving beneath his, opening to him. Ah, damn it, how could one kiss ruin everything? How the hell was he supposed to work with her now? Every time he looked at her, memories of the feel, the smell of her, would plague him.

  She stirred with a murmuring sigh, dark lashes lifting to reveal a dreamy expression. They fluttered down again, a smile lifting the corners of her luscious mouth. She stretched, camisole pulled taut over her breasts. He tightened his hands into fists, palms itching to fit to those curves.

  Her eyes opened again and recognition trickled into her gaze. The line of her body stiffened, her features tensing as she came fully awake.

  “What time is it?” Sleep husked her voice. Rumpled hair fell about her as she leaned forward to pick up her desk clock.

  “A little after seven.”

  She moaned, the little sound sending a tingle of awareness through him. Great. Now he was associating everything she did with sex.

  She rubbed a hand over her face. “I have to go home and change.”

  “Have you been here all night?”

  Irritation darkened her eyes. “Obviously.”

  “Why?”

  “Blood-test results came in. Cook was right; John Doe wasn’t the baby’s father. And that child came from somewhere. I just need to figure out where.”

  So that’s what the deep conversation with Cook had been last night in the bar. He’d watched her laugh with the other man, hating the primal jealousy stinging him. He’d walked away from her after that mind-altering kiss. For all he knew, she might consider turning to Cook. That was all he needed—those pictures in his head again, of her long legs wrapped around the investigator, his hands and mouth on her skin.

  Shrugging off the frustration, he nodded. “I appreciate the work you’re putting into this.”

  Her eyes cooled further, her mouth tightening. She pushed up from the chair. “I really don’t want your appreciation, McMillian.”

  Irritation stung him, bristling through him. Why did women have to turn everything personal? “Is this about what happened between us last night?”

  Eyes narrowed to slits of glittering blue ice, she looked at him. “Nothing happened between us. That was a momentary lapse of sanity on my part—which you can bet your ass will never happen again—and male curiosity on your part. It was meaningless and has nothing to do with this case. And just for the record, I’m not putting these hours in for you. I’m doing it for that baby’s mother.”

  “She has a father somewhere too.” He folded his arms over his chest. His male pride smarted at her easy dismissal of the kiss that had led to his repeated dreams of her the night before. “And you call that nothing?”

  She gathered the papers on her desk and stacked them with a smart snap against the desk before laying them aside. A cynical smile twisted her mouth. “What would you call it?”

  The hottest kiss he’d had in recent memory. “Interesting.”

  “Right.” Her laugh bordered on a disgusted snort. “That was interest that had you running for the door.”

  He scowled at the picture she painted. “It wasn’t like that.”

  She pinned him with a cool look. “Why are we even having this conversation? You said it was a bad idea and you were right. Exactly what do you want, McMillian?”

  That brought him up short. He opened his mouth, closed it. What did he want? He wanted her to acknowledge the intensity of that kiss, to admit it was more than nothing. He wanted to know how she’d known what was in his head. More than anything, he wanted to kiss her again,
to see if it would be just as strong the second time around. A twinge of arousal flared.

  “That’s what I thought.” She shook her head, slung her purse over her shoulder and stepped out from behind the desk. “You don’t have a clue. I’m going home to shower and change. I’ll be back for the staff meeting.”

  “Wait.” He reached for her arm, sensation prickling up the nerves in his arm from the contact. Her sleep-warmed scent wrapped tendrils around him. She glanced at his hand on her bare skin then up at him, her expression mutinous. He sighed, resisting the urge to shift his fingertips over her softness. “You’re right. I don’t know what I want from you.”

  A cold smile played around her lips. “Sure you do. You’re a guy. You just haven’t figured out how to pretty it up yet, even with your law degree and silver tongue.”

  Annoyance shot through him, made him edgy. He released her but stepped between her and the door. “You think that’s all I’m interested in? Sex?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Pretty much, yeah.” A harsh laugh bubbled from her throat. “And I can’t blame you for it. I put the damn idea in your head.”

  Put the idea in his head? He remembered how she’d seemed to know what he was thinking. A frisson moved down his spine. “What do you mean?”

  “With that stupid ‘I want you’ last night. So don’t worry, McMillian, I’m a big girl, plenty old enough for my wants not to hurt me. This little interlude or whatever is over—”

  “The hell it is.” He stepped forward, thighs brushing hers, and she stepped back, surprise flaring in her gaze before her legs collided with the desk. He leaned into her, resting both hands on the desk edge, either side of where she gripped the fine cherry wood.

  She sucked in a breath, chest rising near his. “Back off.”

  Uncertainty trembled in her voice. He eyed her, picking up unmistakable signs of attraction—the way her pupils dilated, the slight flare of her nostrils, the tip of her tongue flirting along her upper lip. “Is that really what you want?”