by Beth Andrews
Anthony pulled over at the curb. Shutting off the ignition, he leaned forward and peered at her place through the windshield. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”
No kidding. The windows were dark but the porch light was on, its soft glow not doing much to dispel the shadows. The driveway was empty.
A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed it. “No. I guess not.”
After the horrible things Uncle Ross had said to her at the café, you’d think the least he could do was stick around. Beg for her forgiveness.
Not that she planned on forgiving him. Not anytime soon, at least.
But he still should’ve apologized, she thought, fiddling with her seat belt strap. He should’ve been there when she’d finally come out of the bathroom, her eyes dry, her makeup repaired so no one would be able to tell she’d been crying.
That he’d made her cry.
Oh, no. He’d been gone. Had told Layne to bring her home when her shift was done. He couldn’t even be bothered to stick around long enough to make sure she got home safely. Couldn’t be bothered with her at all.
Bastard.
So she’d told Layne that Keira had already offered to drop her off. Then she’d called Anthony.
And he’d come.
She unhooked her seat belt and swiveled to face him. The moon shone through his window, highlighted his golden hair, the stubble on his cheeks, the strong line of his jaw. He was so handsome. And funny. And really sweet, the way he’d called her every night since they met. How he sent her funny texts throughout the day.
The way he always asked her out—for dinner or coffee or a movie—during their nightly chats. How he didn’t get angry when she declined.
She’d been testing him. Making him work to prove he really wanted to be with her. That she was worth some effort.
And despite all her games and the fact that they hadn’t even kissed yet, he was there now.
He hadn’t given up on her.
“I really appreciate you picking me up,” she told him, trying for a low-pitched, sexy tone but wincing when she just sounded stupid. Thank goodness it was dark enough he couldn’t tell if she turned red. She cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean to take you away from your friends.”
“You heard them, huh?”
She bent her left leg and tucked it up under her. “Heard them call you whipped? Yes.”
His grin flashed. “They’re just jealous because beautiful women aren’t calling them.”
He thought she was beautiful? God, she could just melt in a puddle at this guy’s feet. “Does that mean I’m not the only girl calling you?”
“The only one I want to call.”
She laughed. “Good answer.”
He was full of them. Always seemed to say the right thing or at least, what she wanted to hear. Because he really was as good of a guy as she thought? Or was he just a really good actor?
She was starting not to care. And, God, but that scared the hell out of her. Because it meant she was playing this game when she didn’t know the score, didn’t know the rules. But maybe, just maybe, he’d be worth the risk.
Maybe this time she’d be the winner.
He sat back, stretched his arm across the top of the seat. “I’m glad you called me,” he said quietly, the tips of his fingers grazing the side of her neck.
Her breath caught, a shiver of delight gripped her. “Me, too.”
A car drove toward them, the headlights illuminating the interior of the Jeep, and in that flash of light, she clearly saw her future. Her immediate future.
He was going to kiss her.
And she was going to let him.
He edged closer, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, his fingers in her hair. Her eyes drifted shut, anticipation built, made her heart pound. His lips brushed against hers once. Twice. She braced herself, her hands clutching the seat as she prepared for him to act like the other guys she’d kissed. Desperate as they shoved their tongues into her mouth, their kisses sloppy and wet. Clumsy with their groping, their sweaty hands diving under her shirt to get at her boobs.
But when his lips touched hers again they were dry. Sure. His hand remained at her head, the other on the seat next to her thigh. He deepened the kiss slowly, his mouth moving over hers so softly, so sweetly, tears pricked her eyes.
Raising her hand, she touched his cheek, skimmed the tips of her fingers across the rough stubble. Kept touching him even when he leaned back slightly. She opened her eyes, met his gaze, returned his smile.
He pressed another quick kiss to her mouth then sat back. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
Before she could gather enough of her scattered brain cells to tell him not to bother, he was out of the Jeep and rounding the front bumper. Reaching for her bag on the floor, she straightened as he opened her door. Held out his hand to help her get down.
Held her hand as they walked up the driveway, his palm dry and warm, his fingers interlaced with hers.
And how sad was it that she couldn’t remember a time, ever, when a guy had held her hand? Had kissed her without wanting to go further? Had simply liked being with her?
At the front door she reluctantly tugged her hand away so she could dig for her key.
“You okay being alone here at night?” he asked.
Inserting her key into the lock, she glanced up at him. Shrugged. “I’m used to it. My uncle works odd hours.”
Like all the time.
Anthony looked into the crescent-shaped window at the top of the door. “You want me to go in with you? Make sure everything’s all right?”
She stiffened. Was that some sort of ploy to get into her house? Her bed? Her pants? Had she been wrong about him?
Nibbling on the inside of her lower lip, she studied him. He seemed sincere enough. As if his only concern was her safety. As if he wanted to take care of her.
Yeah, right. No one had ever taken care of her. Like she’d told her uncle, she didn’t need anyone to do so. There was only one person she could count on. Herself.
So maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if Anthony did want more. Maybe she was setting herself up for a huge disappointment hoping so hard that he was different. Could be better for her to prove to herself right here, right now, that he wasn’t.
Before she did something completely stupid. Like fall for him.
She could make up some excuse, pretend she was afraid to go inside alone, that she needed him to check things. She could take him upstairs into her room, have sex with him in the bed Uncle Ross had bought her.
What better way to prove to her uncle that he couldn’t control her, that she didn’t give a flying damn about what he thought of her?
But the truth was…she didn’t want to. She wanted to keep pretending, for as long as possible, that Anthony liked her. Could grow to care about her. Maybe even love her one day.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, turning the key. “We have a pretty good alarm system. My uncle…he’s sort of a freak about personal safety. But thanks.”
Anthony nodded. “Just make sure you lock the door as soon as you get inside.”
“I will.” She took the key out, curled her fingers around it so the sharp edges dug into her palm. “Thanks again for the ride.”
He ducked his head, gave her another of those sweet kisses, his lips clinging to hers for a breathless moment. “Have dinner with me,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
How could she keep resisting him, keep holding him at arm’s length when he kissed her that way? “When?”
“Tomorrow,” he said quickly.
“I’m working. But I…I have Saturday night off.”
He smiled, his face lighting up like he’d found Emma Watson under his Christmas tree wearing nothing but her Harry Potter robe. “Perfect.” He trailed his hand down her arm, squeezed her hand before stepping back. “I’ll pick you up at six. Good night.”
“’Night,” she said, then opened the door. After shutting it, she plugged in the
code for the alarm system, leaned back against the door with a sigh.
“Lock the door,” Anthony called.
Because he cared about her. Wanted her to be safe.
She twisted the lock, pressed her ear against the door so she could hear him walk away then ran to the living room window, stood to the side and peeked out as he drove away.
Saturday.
She giggled, the sound seeming odd coming from her as she wasn’t much for giggles. Or even laughter. But it felt good. Right. Like her and Anthony.
Saturday.
Giddy…happy…she smiled and did a hip swaying dance right there in the dark living room next to her uncle’s god-awful coffee table. Saturday. She had a feeling it was going to be her best birthday ever.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IN LIFE, VALERIE SULLIVAN had been nothing short of stunning.
Surrounded by the cloying scent of flowers, the air-conditioning doing little to stir the heavy, warm air inside Galileo’s Funeral Home, Ross stuck his hands into his front pockets and studied the large, framed photograph. Her hair, a dark mahogany, fell past her shoulders, heavy and straight as a curtain. Her lush mouth curved as she sent a seductive smile at whoever had taken the picture. Her eyes, a rich, golden-brown, held intelligence and humor.
And secrets.
Layne looked like her. Tori, too. Both favored their mother, this woman who’d needed so much more than her family had been able to give her. Who’d left her husband and daughters to be with a man who, from all accounts, was abusive. Violent.
Had she met her death at that man’s hands? Or was there someone else out there, someone other than Dale York who’d had motive to want her dead? Who’d taken the opportunity to see that reason through?
He was a good cop, a damned thorough one. But even he couldn’t guarantee that they’d ever know the truth about what happened to her.
“She was beautiful,” a man said as he joined Ross.
He couldn’t take his eyes off that picture. “Yes.”
But not as beautiful as her daughter. Not as strong or as capable or as giving as Layne. She’d given up her childhood to care for her sisters, to give them as much normalcy as possible. Even now, beneath her gruff exterior and snide remarks, she couldn’t hide her humor, the affection she felt for her family. She guarded her heart, yes, but at least she had the capacity to love.
He wasn’t sure the same could have been said for her mother.
“—think she is?” Tori was asking Nora as they entered the small foyer.
“She was just trying to help,” Nora said quietly. She shut the door to the room marked Chapel then held Tori’s hand and started tugging her toward Ross. “There’s no reason to jump down the poor woman’s throat. God, Brandon’s probably scarred for life now.”
Tori tossed her hair, her combative expression a perfect match for her aggressive stride and the I’m-ready-to-kick-some-ass glint in her eyes. “She shouldn’t even be here. She didn’t even know Mom and she’s sure as hell not friends with any of us.”
Nora exchanged a long look with the man behind Ross before speaking. “Colleen came for Brandon. I’d think you’d be glad she cares that much about him.”
Crossing her arms, Tori sneered, looking so much like Layne, Ross did a double take. “It just pisses me off that so many people are here when half of them wouldn’t have even given Mom the time of day when she was alive.”
“They came for Dad,” Nora said, as patient as a kindergarten teacher. “For Celeste and for all of us.”
“Yeah?” She nodded at Ross. “What’s his excuse?”
“Mrs. Mott,” he said evenly then met Nora’s eyes. “Miss Sullivan. My condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you,” Tori said in the same tone one would use when thanking a poisonous snake for curling up in a kitchen cabinet. “Don’t let us keep you.”
“Tori,” the man to Ross’s right said with enough warning and authority in that word that Ross immediately figured out his identity.
“Mr. Sullivan,” he said, offering the older man his hand. “I’m Chief of Police Ross Taylor. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Appreciate that.” Tim Sullivan was tall with gray hair, blue eyes, a heavily lined face and a firm handshake. He wore a wrinkled white dress shirt, black slacks and had a dried spot of blood on his cheek where he’d cut himself shaving. “You’ll have to excuse my daughter. It’s been a difficult evening.”
“I can apologize for myself, Dad,” she said in exasperation.
“Then I suggest you get to it.”
She huffed out a breath but then, as she’d done at the station that day when she’d argued with Layne, her persona shifted, more subtle than her sex-kitten routine—more than likely due to her father being there—but still somehow seductive. Manipulative. And blatantly false.
“Dad’s right,” she said, her voice huskier now, “it’s been a rough night. But that’s no excuse for me to take it out on you, Chief Taylor.”
“Someday you really have to teach me how to do that,” Nora said.
Tori patted her sister’s cheek. “It’s just for us big girls. Now,” she continued, shocking the hell out of Ross by linking her arm with his, pressing up against his side, “why don’t I just escort Chief Taylor into the Chapel for the service? It’ll be starting soon.”
He untangled himself from her before she could drag him away. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t want to intrude on your privacy. I just came to express my condolences.”
“And to see our father,” Nora said.
That should have been his reason, he realized, but it didn’t top his list.
Seeing Layne did. And while he could lie to others and say he was there in his role as her superior officer, he couldn’t lie to himself. He’d come to be with her, to be there for her during her mother’s memorial service.
But no one, not even Layne—maybe especially not Layne—had to know that.
“Actually that is part of the reason I’m here,” he told Nora before facing Tim. “I was hoping we could set up a time for you to come down to the station at your earliest convenience.”
“I can be there tomorrow morning.”
“Nine o’clock?” Ross asked.
Tim nodded, studying Ross in a way that told him the older man had something on his mind. “Girls, I’d like a minute alone with Chief Taylor. Could you excuse us?”
Nora stepped forward. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let me just get Uncle Ken—”
“I’d rather you find your sister,” Tim said mildly. “Tell her the service is starting soon.”
“But, Dad—”
“Nora.” He squeezed her arm. “Please find your sister.”
“Come on, baby girl,” Tori said, taking Nora’s hand. “He’ll be fine. He has nothing to hide.”
“Sometimes that doesn’t matter,” Nora muttered sounding like most of the defense attorneys Ross had known. But she let Tori lead her down the hallway toward a smaller viewing room.
“I didn’t kill my wife,” Tim said as soon as his daughters were out of earshot.
Ross noted Tim’s steady gaze, his relaxed features. “I know you didn’t, sir.”
He knew because his instincts told him to trust the older man and the truth he saw in Tim’s eyes. But more than that he knew because he’d done his job: he had checked out Tim’s alibi for the night in question. Tim Sullivan had been miles out to sea, a story that was corroborated by a half dozen crew members of the Wooden Nickel along with the ship’s log.
Nor did Ross think Tim had hired someone to kill Valerie. Not when close to every dollar he made was easily accounted for with his bank, payroll and tax records.
“But I’d still like to ask you some questions,” he continued. “Maybe get some information that will help us piece together what happened that night.”
He nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can to help. I just…” His lips thinned making him look suddenly older. “I just didn’t want
my girls to think for a moment that I could’ve done anything to hurt their mother. I loved her,” he said so simply, so heartfelt, Ross had no choice but to believe him. “She was everything to me.”
Mom needed a lot of attention and Dad was more than happy to give it to her.
“Sir, were you aware of your wife’s affair with Dale York?”
“Not until after she left. I wish I had known,” he said softly, staring off into space. “I wish I’d had the chance to fight for her.”
“And if you’d have lost that fight?”
Tim blinked as if being pulled back to the present. “Have you ever been married?”
Ross fought the urge to squirm. He hated being on the other side of the questions. “No, sir.”
“Ever been in love?”
For some reason, Layne’s face flashed through his mind, how she’d felt, how she’d tasted when he’d kissed her yesterday. He scowled. “I don’t see what that—”
“When you love someone, as I loved my Valerie, their happiness means more than your own and you’ll do anything, anything to ensure that happiness. Even if it means letting them go.”
“I’m going to kill her!”
Ross looked over Tim’s head to see Tori heading toward them, once again steaming mad, Nora looking worried as she scurried after her.
“I mean it,” Tori said, her cheeks red. “And I don’t care if she does carry a gun and knows how to put a prisoner in a choke hold. She is a dead woman.”
Shit. He knew a woman who fit that description exactly.
He looked down the hall. Empty.
“Don’t bother, she’s not there,” Nora said, reading his thoughts.
“Layne’s gone.”
* * *
INSIDE THE YACHT PUB, the nautical theme of its name and exterior was continued with framed photos of fishing boats, yachts, sailboats and their crews. A huge stuffed swordfish hung above the bar, a pink, ruffled bra dangling from its nose. The steering wheel from an old tugboat leaned precariously against the wall between the restrooms and above the small dance floor, a large, green fishing net had been strung with tiny, white lights.
The tops of the booths and tables were chipped and scratched with more than one bearing the initials of lovers encased in a heart and favorite cusswords. The wood floor was warped and dull with age.