"I got the marks at the funeral I attended this afternoon."
"How, for God's sake?"
She lift a shoulder in a deliberate shrug. "Accidental contact with one of the mourners," was her technically accurate lawyer's response.
"Accidental?"
Dusting the shrimp peels off his hands, Parker reached out and grasped her arm gently above the wrist, turning it to the light to get a closer look at the marks.
"I see a lot of battered women in my line of work," he said slowly. "These don't look accidental to me. Who did this to you?"
"No one you know." She slid her arm out of his grasp. "Let's drop it, okay?"
"No, it's not okay. Who made these marks? What's going on, Carly?"
Irritation washed through her again, stronger this time and more piercing. This was why she kept resisting Parker's attempts to wring a commitment from her. She'd been her own woman for too long now to appreciate this kind of well-intentioned but unsolicited involvement in matters she preferred to handle herself.
"I ran into Ryan McMann at the funeral," she began coolly. "We—"
"McMann did that?"
Disbelief flashed over his fine-boned features. His chair shoved back, metal legs scraping against brick with an angry cry.
"That son of a bitch! I'll destroy him."
"No, you won't!"
"No ex-con is going to lay hands on you and live to—"
"It was an accident!" she insisted sharply. "A misunderstanding."
"What the hell kind of misunderstanding gives him the right to touch you?"
"He thought I was going to slap him and grabbed my wrist to stop me."
If anything, her explanation fanned the flames of his anger. Red surged under the layer of carefully cultivated tan. "What did the bastard do that deserved a slap in the face?"
"Oh, for..." Gritting her teeth, Carly fought for patience. Dammit, she didn't need this. Didn't want this.
"He made one of the usual cracks about lawyers. This one got to me, and I raised my hand. I intended to put on my flight cap and march away. McMann thought I intended to smack him a good one."
Her listener raked his hand through his blond waves. "I'm not getting any of this. Why was McMann there? Whose funeral was it, anyway? "
"One of the inmates from the prison."
It took him only a moment to process that. Professional interest leaped into his eyes, edging aside both anger and concern over the bruises.
"I take it this inmate is somehow connected to the Dawson-Smith murder and your investigation."
She busied herself by emptying the tray she'd carried out to the patio, hoping Parker would take the hint from her refusal to discuss the matter further. The DA in him just wouldn't let it go.
"Talk to me, Carly. Tell me what's going on."
The plate of lemon wedges hit the table with a thump.
"Why? So you can make another phone call?"
His head reared back, brushing against the low-hanging wisteria. In an automatic reflex, his hand came up to smooth his hair.
"I've already apologized for that," he said stiffly.
She bit back a sigh. "Yes, you have. Now, it's my turn. That was uncalled for. I'm sorry, Parker... sorry I snapped at you, and sorry I'm not particularly in the mood for company tonight."
As irritated now as she was, he took a swig of his beer. The bottle hit the table top with just enough force to set her teeth on edge.
"Fine." He ducked under the vines. "Call me when you are in the mood."
Carly let him find his own way out, wincing when the front door closed with a thud. At least he'd left the shrimp, she thought with a spurt of selfish satisfaction. Plopping into one of the high-backed patio chairs, she grabbed a lemon wedge and spurted juice over the pile Parker had peeled.
When the door chimes rang some minutes later, she was tempted to ignore them. An icy beer and a dozen warm shrimp had worked their magic. She felt relaxed and mellow for the first time today... but not quite mellow enough for the requisite kiss-and-make-up scene.
The chimes poured out their golden notes again. Sighing, Carly pushed out of the chair.
The realization that she'd have to end things with Parker followed her from the patio through the living area. She liked him, a lot, but she didn't love him. A small, grudging corner of her appreciated his concern, yet the stubbornly independent streak that formed her core resented his growing possessiveness. He couldn't seem to understand that she neither needed nor wanted anyone to fight her battles for her.
Well, better to break it off now, before either of them got in too deep. Steeling herself for the discussion to come, she tried for a smile and opened the door.
"If you've come back for the shrimp, you're almost too late. I..."
Her words stuck in her throat. Stunned, she stared at the dark-haired figure on the stoop.
Ryan turned slowly, his senses alive with the riot of colors and scents crowding in on him. This was the South he'd experienced only peripherally during his enforced stay in Montgomery, a South of gracious architecture, generous textures. Even in the rapidly descending darkness, his engineer's mind noted with precise detail the dark green ivy shimmering on terra-cotta stucco, the ancient, twisted vines climbing over the attached garage, trailing wisteria and perfume and some little pink flower he didn't recognize. Plank shutters in a gray washed pine stood ready to be closed against the darkness or the hurricanes that roared up from the Gulf. The shutters reminded him of the French Quarter in New Orleans, with its narrow alleys and private courtyards and seductive night sounds.
The woman captured by the light spilling through the open door reminded him of nothing he'd ever seen before, however. In uniform, she could stop any man in his tracks. Out of it, she hooked him right around the throat.
He hadn't expected that loose tangle of hair. Or those thigh-skimming cutoffs. Hell, he hadn't expected anything except maybe a door slammed in his face.
That might still happen. She didn't look particularly thrilled to find him on her doorstep. He wasn't particularly thrilled to find himself there, either. Cursing the gut-deep shame that had driven him out of his rented apartment and onto the streets, he offered a gruff explanation.
"I got your address from the phone directory. I just came by to apologize... again."
"This seems to be the night for it," she muttered, still rattled by his unexpected appearance but recovering fast. "Just out of curiosity, what exactly are you apologizing for? The crack about lawyers, the stranglehold you laid on me, or the kiss you dropped on my wrist?"
Get it out of the way, Ryan told himself grimly. Tell her you're sorry, climb back in your car, and find the nearest bar. What he needed was a few stiff shots to dull the loneliness, the nagging regret over Billy. But what he wanted was a few moments more with Carly Samuels.
"Just out of curiosity," he countered, "do you always think in threes? "
"Excuse me?"
She didn't see it. Didn't have a clue that she stiffened up, flashed fire from those slanted, thick-lashed eyes, and counted off each of his infractions with the precise articulation of a metronome. The fact that she seemed completely unaware of the annoying little habit made her human. Far too human. He'd better remember who she was. What she was. And why he was here.
"One," Ryan enunciated with a small, mocking smile, "I can't say I'm sorry for expressing my opinion of members of the bar. Two, I'll cut off my hand before I lay another hold on you, hurtful or otherwise. And three..."
"Yes?"
Three, he wanted to kiss her again. So badly he hurt with it.
"Three, you'd better get back to those shrimp you mentioned."
He was halfway to his Bronco when her voice floated to him on the darkness.
"I've stuffed down all I can eat. Would you like to finish them off?"
Carly heard herself issue the invitation, saw McMann hesitate, and royally kicked herself. Of all the impulsive, idiotic, irresponsible...
"Do they
come with strings attached?"
"Just shells," she drawled.
He couldn't just accept or decline. Not McMann. He had to get in a little dig first.
"If you're asking whether I'm going to interrogate
you while you eat," she added coolly, "the answer is no."
"And afterward?"
"Look, McMann, you're a big, tough jock. You can handle whatever comes afterward. Do you want the shrimp or don't you? "
Carly saw the refusal in his face and breathed a relieved sigh, only to have it snag halfway out.
"I used to be a big, tough jock," he threw back at her. "Now I'm a big, tough ex-con. You sure you can trust me inside your home?"
She couldn't back out now, not with that half taunt, half challenge hanging on the air between them.
"I'm sure. Come in."
He filled the quiet spaces in the carriage house in a way Parker never had. Maybe it was his size. Or his lithe, graceful moves. Or the appreciation in his eyes as he took in the smooth pine flooring, the whitewashed walls, the mantel cluttered with framed photographs.
Carly waited while he acclimated himself to the place, and she acclimated to his disturbing presence in her island of tranquillity. He wore the same dark slacks and pale yellow dress shirt he'd worn at the cemetery, minus the coat and tie. The shirt gaped open at the neck. Its rolled-up sleeves gave him a casual, but no less elegant, air. With his black hair, intent eyes, and tanned skin, some fanciful souls might have described him as a modern-day Lucifer come to call.
Carly didn't consider herself particularly fanciful, but the simile stayed with her as she joined him in the living area.
"Who's this?"
She moved closer to get a look at the silver framed photo he indicated. "My grandfather."
"The Judge?"
She nodded, surprised that he remembered.
"That's Clarissa he's riding," she added dryly, "the sorriest excuse for a mule God ever put on this earth. She took more bites out of me when I was a kid than I want to remember."
He shot her a sideways glance. "I'll bet you got in a few licks, too."
"A few. We called it a draw about the time I got big enough to swing a baseball bat."
He tilted another photo toward the light, this one of Carly and her mother on the east steps of the Capitol. The Mall stretched behind them, with the Washington Monument gleaming white and straight in the distance. Congresswoman Samuels laughed into the camera, still high from the thrill of having taken her seat for a second term, her arm looped around a much younger, much skinnier Carly.
"You take after her around the eyes and chin."
"Thank you."
McMann probably hadn't intended the casual observation as a compliment, but Carly took it as one. Both Adele Samuels and her daughter possessed what the portrait painter who'd later captured them together in oils had described as character-defining chins. Adele masked her strong features and equally strong will with a natural charm and elegance. Carly didn't even try to disguise hers.
"And this?" His blue gaze slid to hers, measuring, assessing. "Friend, or lover?"
"My brother... not, I might point out, that it's any of your business."
He replaced the photo. "The Chinese have a saying, something about inviting a stranger into your soul when you invite him into your house."
"I'll remember that the next time my doorbell chimes." She gestured to the French doors standing open to the night. "I left the remains of the feast on the patio."
All too conscious of his step behind hers, Carly led the way through the doors and into the puddle of light thrown by the carriage lamp mounted on a tall black-painted pole. Thankfully, the soggy spring hadn't yet produced the bumper crop of mosquitoes the old hands were predicting. Just enough breeze slipped over the walls to make the night air cool and comfortable.
McMann picked up immediately on the empty plate and half-downed beer across from Carly's. "Am I interrupting something?"
"No."
The clipped response earned her a quick look, but he took the hint with better grace than Parker had. Either that, or he didn't really ascribe to the Chinese saying and consider himself invited into her soul. In any case, he didn't pry, merely reached for her chair to pull it out for her at the same time she did.
"Jesus! Did I put those marks on you? "
She wasn't doing this scene. Not again. Calmly, Carly slid into the bentwood chair.
"Yes, you did. It was an accident, you've apologized, and I didn't even notice the bruises until... until a little while ago. So sit down and help yourself to a beer while I peel the rest of the shrimp."
He stood wire tight and unmoving for so long she wasn't sure what to expect next. Finally, he conquered whatever inner demons had brought him here to apologize once again. The chair next to hers scraped back.
"I'll peel them."
With a tug on the brown paper, he pulled the last of the shellfish to his side of the table. Fascinated, Carly watched his strong, nimble fingers pull off the tails, shuck the skin, and pop the meat free in one smooth movement. He peeled a dozen or more in the time it had taken her to do half that number.
"Where did you learn to do that? "
He took his time answering, as if reluctant to share anything of himself. "One of my buddies from high school talked me into hitchhiking down to Boston one summer. We bummed around until our money ran out, then got jobs with a seafood wholesaler."
"You went out on the fishing boats? "
"No such luck. We worked in the warehouse, cleaning the catch."
"Sounds like hard work."
"Hard, and smelly." He relaxed a bit, his lips curving with the memory. "Neither one of us got a date the entire summer. We couldn't scrub off the stink."
That was probably the last time McMann failed to score, Carly thought, mesmerized by that almost-smile. If the newspaper stories held even a grain of truth, he'd had to fight off women with his hockey stick. And if she didn't tread carefully here, very carefully, she'd fall under the spell of that dark voice, those strong, sure hands herself.
Maybe she already had.
The queasy feeling that had curled in her stomach this morning struck again. This time, she didn't try to deny the source. This time, she admitted the inescapable truth. McMann fascinated her... professionally, personally, in other ways she had yet to assess.
She didn't trust him. Still wasn't completely convinced he'd seen Michael Smith's vehicle on River Road. She needed to get into his head, wanted to know the person behind that shuttered face, and the best way to accomplish that was to keep him talking.
"Funny," she mused. "I don't associate shrimp with Boston. Lobster and clams, but not shrimp."
He hooked a brow. "Ever been up East?"
"If you mean to Boston, no. I pulled a tour of duty in D.C. and vacationed with my mother in the Hamptons for a couple of weeks."
"The Hamptons don't qualify. Neither does D.C. People talk funny down there."
"And they don't in Boston? "
"Not to a New Englander."
"Tell me about that summer in Boston."
His busy hands stilled. The suspicion and wariness that never quite left his eyes rekindled into hard pinpoints of light.
"Why, Carly? Why did you invite me in? What do you want from me? "
"I don't want anything from you except what you know about Elaine Dawson-Smith's murder."
"I've told you what I know."
Maybe, she thought. Maybe not.
"So tell me about Boston."
Slowly, reluctantly, Ryan found himself opening doors that he'd kept shut for too long. Between bites of shrimp washed down with beer, he told her about those months spent up to his armpits in scrod and halibut and shrimp. About Burlington. About the rivers of red and gold that poured down the mountains behind his home in fall and the ice that coated Lake Champlain in winter and the first tapping of syrup from the maples. About everything but hockey, and prison, and the woman whose body was f
ound sprawled under a pine.
She listened. With a cool, contained reserve at first. Then she, like Ryan, seemed to pass through some invisible gate. The barriers came down, at least the superficial ones. She smiled, and once she even laughed, the sound a ripple of silvery notes on the night. And she, like Ryan, seemed shocked when the mantel clock inside the house bonged on and on.
He swiped a look at his watch, saw it was ten o'clock. Abruptly, he shoved back his chair. "Looks like I owe you another apology. I didn't mean to go on like that."
She rose as well, waving a dismissive hand when he started to clean up the litter on the table.
"I'll get that."
He took that to mean she wanted him gone. Now that he was on his feet, he wanted to go. He was shaken by the hunger for human contact that had kept him in that patio chair for almost two hours. Shaken, too, by the need that clawed at his gut when Carly walked him to the front door.
He didn't trust her, couldn't quite figure what kind of a game she was playing with him, but he wanted her. Jesus, he wanted her. Almost as much as he was coming to hate her.
What little pride Ryan had left chafed more each moment he spent in her company. She made him ache for things he used to have. No, she made him want things he'd never had, even with his wife. Especially with his wife.
He left with a curt good night and a silent, savage promise to keep his hands and his mind off Major Carly Samuels in the future.
A subdued, thoughtful Carly watched the Bronco's taillights disappear around the end of the drive.
Two hours. She'd spent two hours in McMann's company, and still couldn't decide whether he was the slickest con man she'd come across in a long time, or the smartest. He'd fed her curiosity instead of satisfying it, answered her questions without giving her a shred of real information or insight.
Absently, she folded her hand over her wrist and made her way back inside. Halfway to the patio, the briefcase she'd left on her desk caught her attention. Another quick look at the mantel clock had her changing directions. It was late, but not too late for the phone call she still wanted to make. Fishing the Montgomery phone directory out of the center drawer of the graceful turn-of-the-century marquetry table she used as a desk, she skimmed the listings.
River Rising Page 11