River Rising

by Merline Lovelace

  "Yeah?"

  "Lady wants to talk at you."

  The foreman jerked a thumb toward the figure leaning against the fender of a low-slung white sports car. Even from two stories above the ground, Ryan couldn't mistake the woman's wine-red hair swept up under a blue air force flight cap or the slender, curving legs displayed below the hem of her uniform skirt.

  He sat back on his heel, the gun dangling in his hand. What the hell was she doing here? How many times were they going to play out this farce? He knew as well as she did his testimony wouldn't count for squat with any jury, military or otherwise. Colonel Smith would walk, and his wife's death would remain a dark, tragic secret.

  His jaw tight, Ryan shimmied butt first down the steep incline and grabbed for the ladder. When he hit the ground, his boots sank in the sucking clay churned up by the trucks that delivered supplies to the site. Weaving around stacks of lumber and bundles of shingles, he made his way to the waiting woman.

  Jesus, she was something. Every man's wet dream come to life. Ryan's wet dream, anyway. As tight and angry as he'd been during their two short encounters, the woman had somehow managed to get under his skin. He'd punched his pillow more times than he wanted to count last night, trying not to think of her full, sensual mouth and red hair. Those high breasts and neatly flared hips hadn't exactly made the forgetting any easier.

  She looked even better in the light of day than she had in the small hours of the night. So cool, even in this muggy spring warmth. So composed. As he'd once been. For a moment, Ryan let himself imagine how different things might have been if they'd met before...

  His mouth settled into a grim line. He'd damned well better forget about before. Before was behind him. All he needed to do was get through today. And tomorrow. And the next two and a half months.

  "What do you want?"

  He did it deliberately, Carly decided. Tried to throw her off balance, to disconcert her by moving in close like this. She could see the sweat glistening on his broad shoulders, catch its raw, male scent. She refused to let his nearness get to her.

  "I'd like to talk to you." She had to pitch her voice to be heard over the rifling crack of the staple guns.

  "Without a stenographer? What do we have to talk about that isn't part of your investigation? "

  " If we can go someplace where we can speak without having to shout, Mr. McMann, I'll..."

  "Ry."

  " I beg your pardon? "

  "We dispensed with titles, remember. It's Ry, or Ryan." His mouth curved in the mocking smile she so disliked. "Take your choice."

  "Fine. Can we get away from the noise, Ryan?"

  He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans. Carly half expected him to refuse, and fully expected the added weight of his hands on his jeans to drag them down into x-rated territory. The damned things already rode well below his navel.

  She'd never considered herself particularly susceptible to sweaty chests and washboard bellies. Grudgingly, Carly had to admit McMann could make a believer out of her.

  "The crew's about to break for lunch," he said slowly. "I could take mine now."

  "Fine. There's a pig stand a few miles back. If you're hungry, we could go there and eat while we talk."

  "A pig stand?" His voice blended Yankee twang and overdone Alabama drawl. "I know I stink, sweetheart, but I don't usually eat with barnyard animals."

  She lifted a brow. "One, you don't stink... much. Two, a pig stand is what we call a barbecue shack around these parts. And three..."

  "I know, I know. You don't answer to denigrating epithets like 'sweetheart.' Sorry. It slipped out."

  The apology surprised her. His hesitation about accepting her offer didn't. He stared down at her, his face unreadable, then abruptly agreed.

  "Hang loose while I get my shirt and tell the boss I'm leaving."

  Carly nodded, her gaze intent as she watched him cross the muddy site and shag a faded blue shirt from a bundle of shingles. Shirt in hand, he headed for a portable metal building that appeared to serve as office, storage facility, and supply center. He moved with an easy stride, his body as lean and powerful from the rear view as from the front. Unbidden, the image of the boy... man... inmate she'd encountered in the woods leaped into her mind. He was bigger than Ryan. Far more muscled. More... more beautiful. She couldn't think of any other way to describe him.

  Yet for all the young inmate's stunning masculinity, he lacked McMann's lethal grace. Lacked, too, the aura of danger that came with the broken nose, the watchful eyes, the bitter intelligence.

  What was the connection between the two men? Why had this Billy Hopewell sobbed Ryan's name, almost like a mantra? Why had he left his mower and walked through the pines to where Colonel Dawson-Smith had been killed?

  The questions still buzzed through Carly's mind when McMann returned, tucking a faded denim work shirt into his jeans. He'd tried to clean up, she saw. Water glistened in his neatly combed hair, and the scent of industrial strength soap had replaced that of healthy male sweat.

  When she reached for her keys, he eyed the MG skeptically. "Think it'll hold both of us? We could take the crew truck."

  She glanced at the pickup he indicated. She'd seen rusted hulks in better condition used as planters in backyards.

  "It'll hold us. Just watch your head getting in."

  He managed to fold himself in with little more than a grunt or two. Carly slipped into the driver's seat and keyed the ignition. With a smooth coordination

  of hand and foot, she pushed in the clutch, shifted into reverse, and backed the MG down the dirt track.

  The drive to the restaurant took only a few minutes. Screened on three sides and wreathed in the tantalizing scent of sizzling pork, the tiny, red-painted shack was crammed with locals. After snaking the MG through the dirt parking lot twice, Carly finally spotted a car pulling out.

  "We might have to wait for a table," she warned.

  "I get paid by the square, not by the hour. I'll make up the work if necessary."

  She cut the engine, eyeing him through the screen of her lashes. There were better jobs out there, even for a parolee, but she didn't ask why McMann was slinging roof shingles. It wasn't any of her business and not pertinent to the case.

  Contrary to her expectations, they lucked out and got a booth immediately. Or half a booth, anyway. They ended up wedged knee-to-knee on an L-shaped bench tucked in the far corner of the shack. A gum-snapping waitress hipped her way through the crowd to drop hand-lettered menus on the table and a wide smile on McMann.

  "Interested in our specials today, handsome?"

  "Maybe."

  Still popping her gum, she rattled off a list that included five variations of barbecued pork and a solitary fried chicken platter, then left them to think over the choices while she got their drinks. Discreetly, Carly edged sideways to give McMann another inch or two.

  "I can recommend the chopped pork sandwich."

  "Eat here often, do you?"

  "I used to. My grandfather's farm is just south of here, down Highway 331. Mom and my brother and I went to live with him after my dad died. We'd stop here whenever we kids could talk the Judge into hauling us to town."

  "The Judge?"

  "My grandfather."

  "Another lawyer." The muttered observation didn't have the ring of a compliment.

  "Actually, he never attended law school or passed the bar. He was appointed to the bench back in the days when formal schooling didn't count as much as common sense and a solid reputation in the community."

  McMann's mouth took on the familiar, mocking curve. "Times have certainly changed, haven't they, Counselor?"

  "Yes, they have."

  Her calm reply took none of the sting from his smile. The waitress's arrival with two Mason jars brimming with iced tea did, however.

  "Here you are, good lookin'." She plunked his jar down, then winked at Carly. "You got you a keeper here, Lieutenant."

  "It's Major."


  "Whatever. Y'all decided what you want?"

  She took their orders for chopped barbecue sandwiches and a basket of onion rings, then left with another wink. Carly waited until McMann had added two heaping teaspoons of sugar to the already sweetened tea to pick up where they'd left off.

  "Look, Mr. McM... Ryan. I can't answer for every member of the bar, but personally I'm very proud of what I do."

  His spoon clinked against the glass jar. "What do you do?"

  "When I'm not conducting Article 32 investigations, you mean? I'm chief of the Military Justice Division at the Dickinson Law Center."

  "That's the two-story brick building on Chennault Circle?"

  "Right. Have you been in it?"

  "Only around it," he replied with a sardonic gleam. "Pulling weeds and picking up trash."

  "If you'd been inside," Carly continued, "you'd see that it's one of the finest facilities in the country. We provide basic instruction in military legal practices to new judge advocates and paralegals, as well as advanced and specialized courses in such esoteric subjects as environmental law and forensic sciences."

  He leaned against the wooden booth and stretched his legs out beneath the table. Or tried to. His feet tangled with Carly's. Politely, he drew them back and hunched forward again.

  " You must be good if the air force picked you to instruct other J AGs."

  "I am," she replied.

  The smile came quicker this time, without the mocking edge. "So modest, too."

  "It's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

  His smile slipped into a crooked grin, and Carly felt her breath hitch somewhere down around the middle of her chest. Good Lord above! No wonder hoards of starstruck groupies had reportedly dogged McMann's every move. He could melt the ice with one of those genuine grins.

  For a disconcerting moment, she forgot why she'd brought him to the noisy restaurant, forgot the investigation, forgot what he'd become. Then the laughter left his face and reality came crashing back.

  "Too bad I didn't have you on my legal team," he said sardonically. "Maybe things might have turned out differently."

  "You might have beaten the charges, you mean? "

  "No. But I might not have killed a seventeen-year-old girl in the process."

  "You didn't kill her." Carly had no idea why she was leaping to his defense. "The medical examiner's report said she died of a self-induced drug overdose midway through your trial."

  "Yeah, right. After my team of scavengers devoured the few shreds of self-respect she had left once the media finished with her."

  He threw back his head and took a long swallow of tea, as if to wash down the bitter memories.

  "So that's why you changed your plea," Carly murmured. "You felt guilty about the girl's death."

  The Mason jar hit the scarred table top. "I changed my plea because I was guilty."

  "What?"

  "I was guilty," he repeated. "Of everything the Feds charged me with. I transported a seventeen year old across state lines. I had sex with her. I was stupid enough to turn a blind eye when she pulled that coke pipe out of her purse and took it into the bathroom. That's why I changed my plea, Counselor. That, and the fact that I was sick to death of providing more flesh for your kind to feast on."

  Carly wasn't expecting that slap in the face. She controlled her instinctive flinch and decided not to dignify his vicious attack with a response.

  "I thought we had dispensed with titles," she said instead, her voice several degrees chillier than it had been a moment before.

  "Jesus!" He shoved his drink aside and leaned forward, disgust in every line of his taut body. "Don't you ever get riled? What the hell does it take to light your fuse?"

  "More than you can dish out."

  She knew instantly she'd said the wrong thing. A blue flame ignited in the eyes only inches from her own. The hand that had held the Mason jar whipped up to wrap around her nape.

  "Maybe I haven't tried hard enough."

  His palm was cold and wet on her skin, his breath warm and sugar sweet on her face. She didn't blink.

  "And maybe I don't like being pawed in a public restaurant."

  She refused to move, refused to let him see that his touch got to her.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, so close to his own. All he had to do was lean forward an inch, maybe two.

  "Don't do it," she warned softly.

  He hesitated, then nodded. Before he could pull back, gum popped right beside Carly's ear.

  "Y'all want this lunch or you just gonna sit here and make cow eyes at each other?"

  McMann's hand slowly dropped. Carly sat back, her nerves snapping. The skin where he'd touched her burned.

  "I thought you two was never coming up for air," the waitress smirked.

  Thumping down two heaping platters, she dug in the back pocket of her jeans for a bottle of the house's special sauce and the check.

  "Have at it, folks. Yell if you want anything else."

  The words exploded in Carly's mind. She wanted. She definitely wanted. Just a touch. Just a taste of the dark, dangerous man across from her. The realization shocked her all the way to her core.

  A sick little suspicion that she wasn't any better than the groupies who'd mobbed him in his heyday lodged at the back of her consciousness. She'd wanted his kiss. She'd wanted his touch. She still wanted to satisfy a prurient tug of curiosity and see if he lived up to his reputation as a world-class superstud.

  Shaken, Carly slammed the door on that compartment of her brain. She'd drag her inexplicable, unexpected craving out later. Examine it rationally, coolly. Right now, she'd better concentrate on why she'd tracked him down to the southside construction site.

  He, evidently, had the same thought.

  "What I want," he said conversationally, as if he hadn't just set her skin afire with his touch, "is to know why we're here."

  "I told you," she replied in an even tone that, thankfully, revealed none of her inner turmoil. "I want to talk to you."

  He reached for the barbecue sauce. "About what? "

  "Billy Hopewell."

  She thought his eyes narrowed a fraction, but that might have been caused by the steam rising from the pork heaped on his plate.

  "How do you know Billy?" he asked casually, thumping the bottle to get the sauce running.

  "I met him earlier this morning... in the stand of pines where Elaine Smith was killed."

  She hoped that would shock him, or at least get his attention away from that damned bottle. It did neither.

  "He must have been on weeds and seeds patrol."

  "Billy said you're his friend."

  He shrugged. "I slept in the bunk below his for six months or so. I tutor him and a couple of the other prisoners twice a week. That doesn't make us friends."

  Setting the sauce aside, he wrapped both hands around the dripping bun.

  "He also said you told him not to talk to anyone."

  "So?" He tore a chunk out of the sandwich.

  "So I'd like to know what don't you want him to talk about?"

  She waited with an impatience she refused to show while he chewed slowly, savoring the spicy pork with every evidence of enjoyment. He swallowed, then washed the sandwich down with a swig of iced tea.

  "In case you didn't notice, Billy has a speech impediment. It gets worse when someone surprises or frightens him."

  Both of which she'd done, she admitted silently.

  "I've told him he doesn't have to talk to anyone, about anything, when he's scared or can't get the words out."

  The mocking smile was back, raking across Carly's nerve endings like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Any more questions?"

  "Just one. Billy mentioned someone named Joy. Who is she?"

  McMann couldn't have faked the blank look that crossed his face. He was good, but not that good.

  "Beats the hell out of me."

  Chapter Seven

  The storm that had threatened all
day broke just as Carly pulled into the parking lot behind the base headquarters. Lightning cracked across the black sky to the accompaniment of thunder that boomed like continuous rounds of field artillery. Sheets of rain poured down and produced an instant layer of silver on the asphalt.

  Carly cut the engine, grimacing as winds buffeted the MG. This kind of storm spawned tornadoes. With a silent hope that McMann and his crew had climbed down off that roof, she debated whether or not to ride the storm out in the car. The prospect of an extended wait in the muggy enclosure of the little MG held even less appeal than a mad dash across the parking lot. Shouldering open the door, she abandoned her military dignity and raced through the rain with her briefcase held over her head.

  The rain blew at almost a ninety-degree angle, wetting her from the neck down. She left a trail of squishy footprints as she made her way to the conference room, where she found the stenographer gone and the transcript of this morning's interview with Colonel Smith neatly printed and waiting for her. Shivering in the air-conditioned chill, Carly dropped her briefcase on the table. Two thumbs and forefingers lifted her sodden blouse away from her chest. She walked the length of the conference room shaking the upper portion of her blouse and had just turned back when a yellow stickie stuck to the wall at eye level snagged her attention.

  CALL BAPTIST MEMORIAL IMMEDIATELY.

  Her first reaction was fear—instant, sharp, and metallic. The Judge! On the crest of that wave came the more rational reminder that her sister-in-law had chosen the birthing center at Baptist Memorial to deliver her second child. Blowing out a quick breath, she grabbed for the phone. Two transfers and five minutes later, her brother picked up on the other end.

  "Alison's water broke almost an hour ago," Dave got out in a near panic. "The pains are fifteen minutes apart."

  "You're not in the birthing room, are you?"

  "She won't let me in!"

  Since her big, hulking brother had keeled over in a dead faint and broken three ribs the last time he'd tried to share the miracle of birth with his wife, Carly could only be thankful for Alison's insistence that her mother-in-law act as her labor coach this time.