by Nancy Warren
He phoned ahead and the tiny jolt in his gut when she answered didn’t please him in the slightest. It was like an air raid warning going off in his system.
So he was curt. “I’m going for your car now. Is this your house key on your chain?”
“Yes,” she said, her soft voice getting to him like a lost kitten’s. “The one with the blue stripe.”
“Have you got your knee elevated?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t get up and answer the door. I’ll use your key to get in.”
“You’re coming in?” She sounded surprised.
“I want to look at that knee and make sure I don’t have to drag your ass to the clinic.”
“That sounds like police brutality.”
He squelched the urge to chuckle. “Don’t tempt me.”
By the time he’d had Raeanne drive him to Gillian’s car and had driven it to her house, he’d had time to work out what he really needed to know about her.
And what she looked like naked was not going to be top of the list, he warned himself, even as he recalled the sight of her half-exposed breast last night. He’d wanted all of it and more. That was the trouble with Gillian. She always left him wanting more. He had a feeling she was the kind of woman who always would.
But, regardless of the fact that she’d filled him with lust since before he understood what lust was, he’d do his duty. While he was checking her knee, he’d also be scanning her home for any evidence of violence.
He knocked first and then used her key to enter. “Gillian? It’s me.” He contemplated identifying himself as Sergeant Perkins, but she’d made him look like a jackass last night when he’d pulled that. “It’s Tom.”
“Thank you for bringing back my car.” Her voice had a quality, both soft and penetrating. She could whisper and he’d hear her across a football field.
He walked straight to the living room where he’d put her last night, but the room was empty. All neat and tidy. Not so much as the ring from a soda glass.
With a slight frown he checked the kitchen, and noted the gleaming counters, a floor so clean it could star in a TV commercial.
“Gillian?” he called. “Where are you?”
“Back here.”
He followed her voice down the hall and imagined her in the den watching daytime TV, her leg elevated. “I brought you a present.”
He stopped on the threshold as though it were the edge of a cliff. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She wasn’t watching the soaps or one of those beat-each-other-up talk shows. She was in her bedroom. In bed.
Seeing his discomfort, she sent him a mocking smile. “Don’t worry. You’re safe from me. I won’t jump your bones. I haven’t got the energy.”
Suddenly he was eighteen again, feeling as thick and oafish as a dim-witted giant.
“I didn’t–” He cleared his throat. “I thought you were watching TV or something. Didn’t know this was your bedroom.”
What had he expected her bedroom to be like? Bold and erotic, with artsy photos of naked bodies on the walls and the smell of incense and massage oils. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
The bed was pale yellow with flowers and frills and way too many little fancy pillows, every single one of which had its own frill. She was propped up against a heap of these with a book in her lap.
“This is your bedroom?” he asked in surprise before he could recover enough to keep his mouth shut.
“It was the guest room, but I moved in here after Eric left. I wanted a new start.”
She wore a short denim skirt, probably to keep the fabric off her sore knee, but he couldn’t help noticing how long and elegant her legs were, making her bruised, swollen knee all the more garish. Her bare feet were long and narrow, the toes painted a kind of pinky orange.
A pale blue t-shirt hugged her torso and for some reason it made him think of the torn flap on her shirt the night before that had given him a glimpse of the breasts now safely hidden.
Her long, blond hair hung straight past her shoulders. She’d worn it that way forever. In some ways she hadn’t changed at all, but for the absence of that dizzying lust for life that used to sparkle from her eyes. And the shiner. That was also new.
He’d seen plenty of black eyes in his time, delivered some, taken one or two. But he hated to see a bruise like that on a woman, especially on Gillian. The red had faded and spread into purple, yellow, and green. The swelling had almost closed her right eye and discolored one temple as the bruise crept into her hairline.
She flinched under his scrutiny, so he dropped his gaze to her legs. “How’s the knee?”
“It’s fine.”
“Can you bend it?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see.”
“I can bend it.”
He wasn’t going to go over there and manhandle her—she’d had enough of that lately—so he decided to trust that she was smart enough to see a doctor if she needed one. “I brought you a real ice pack.” He lifted the flexible pack he kept in his own freezer. It glowed pale blue.
“Oh. Thanks.”
He walked over and laid it carefully over the swollen knee, bending it into place, but careful not to touch her flesh with his bare hand. Then he backed away. “Can I get you a soda or something?”
“I don’t have any soda in the house.”
“Oh. Some water? Tea?”
She smiled a little. “Thanks. I’m fine.” She looked at him as he retreated to the entrance to her bedroom, half his body inside the room and the other half still in the hall.
“I’d like to talk to you,” he said.
She looked a little wary but scrunched herself up higher on the pillows and put her book aside. She closed the cover and flipped it to its back before placing it on her night table, but not before he’d made out one word in the title: addiction. “Well, it’s not like I have a lot else to do. What’s on your mind?”
He decided to ease into this conversation sideways, so he asked, “How’s your cousin coping since the murder?”
“You work in the same building—wouldn’t you know best?”
“I only see her when she has her public face on. I thought you might know
more.”
Gillian’s laugh was low and bitter. “It’s not like we’re the best of friends. I turned to her for help and she called the cops.”
“Maybe she was worried about you.”
She shrugged and he saw her hands clasp tightly together. “Maybe.”
“How did you get the black eye, Gillian?”
She blinked rapidly, twice. “I was angry. Upset. I walked into the door and fell down the steps.”
And he was the First Lady. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me the truth.”
“You can’t help me anyway.” She sounded so defeated.
He took a step into the room and then another and sat gingerly on a wicker chair upholstered in pale blue. Everything was neat, clean, orderly. “Try me.”
He couldn’t lead her. She needed to tell him her story herself. Her gaze connected briefly with his and then away. “I don’t think so.”
“You asked me to believe you last night. I did. Why not give me another shot?”
He spoke gently, leaning forward in a casual pose and resting his elbows on his parted knees so his hands slipped between them. Since he’d seen the black eye last night, and the way she was fleeing town, a lot of things had fallen into place. But he couldn’t put words into her mouth. This had to come from her. He was good and sure it was her bastard ex who’d hurt her but until she went on record and admitted to spousal abuse, he couldn’t touch the guy.
Besides, although in his gut he knew it was Eric, he also had to clear her of any involvement with a recently murdered drug dealer. There was an outside chance that he was wrong and her supplier had decked her when she couldn’t pay her bill. That they’d fought and she’d killed him. He didn’t believe that’s what had happened, but he’d like to clear her so everyone
in town could believe her.
He glanced around. “You do a better job keeping things clean than I do.”
“Well, it’s not like I have a lot else to do.” She shrugged. “I’ll be moving out soon, anyway. We have to sell the house for the divorce.”
“It’s a nice house. Don’t you want to stay?”
She shrugged again. “Can’t afford it.”
She seemed so lonely, sitting here in a too-clean house with a reference book that couldn’t be a great escapist read for someone with her history. “Why don’t you get a job?”
“Who’d hire me? Come on.” She stared at him, one gorgeous eye so big and sad, the other half shut and badly bruised. “I know what everyone says. I’m a screw-up. A junkie. Unreliable, com—”
“So prove them wrong.”
Her mouth was still half open and she didn’t bother to close it. “How? I tried to volunteer at the library, but after last night, I doubt Alex will have me back.”
“Maybe you could start your own business.”
“You make it sound so easy. But I think I need to get a paying job. I have no capital to start a business, and no ideas anyway. I’m moving into my grandparents’ place temporarily. But eventually we’ll have to sell that, too. It’s half Alex’s. I’m going to have to support myself.”
It wasn’t his affair so he kept his mouth shut. But he wondered why she was so short of money. Forrest Art and Antiques seemed busy, and there was the stipend from Eric’s gig as councilor. Eric Munn was probably doing pretty well for this part of the world. They didn’t have kids or go on expensive vacations. He was going to have to have a chat with the bank manager real soon.
Things weren’t adding up here, and there was one obvious reason why there wasn’t enough money. Oh, hell. He couldn’t dance around the subject. He decided to come right out and say what was on his mind.
“Gillian, if you have a drug problem, there are programs—”
A scream of such frustration howled out of the slim body on the bed that he felt for a moment as though he’d stumbled into a scene from The Exorcist.
Her head didn’t spin off her shoulders, but she leaped off the bed, wincing as her sore leg hit the ground and said, “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Test me. I want the full range of tests. Right now. I am so sick of this.”
“Hey,” he said rising from the girl chair and wishing he were miles away in a place that smelled of beer and sweat and guys were telling dirty jokes. A place he understood. “I’m trying to help.”
“You said you believed me last night.”
“I did believe you. You weren’t drunk. Doesn’t mean you don’t have a drug problem.”
She turned to him and anger crackled all around her. “I am clean and sober!” She stormed as fast as her ungainly, limping gait would allow her to her dressing table, yanked out a drawer, and threw something at him.
She had terrible aim but he was a pretty good catcher. He blinked at the small, round disk in his hand. “What is this?”
“A progress pin from AA. And I’m almost at two years with Narcotics Anonymous.”
He glanced up at her and she was standing there, flushed and half angry, half hopeful. Suddenly he saw how difficult this must be for her, to ask a stranger to believe in her. But he knew those closest to her didn’t. Sure, she could be cheating AA and NA. She wouldn’t be the first.
But once, long ago, she’d given him a break. They’d shared a few fumbling kisses. Fumbling, because he was so excited to be touching her and so eager that she not think him foolish that of course he bungled the whole thing. Their teeth crunched, his nose struck hers so hard he made her eyes water and he’d been so eager to stick his tongue down her throat she’d almost choked to death. After he’d drawn back, she’d touched his face as though he’d made the earth move for her.
Instead of laughing at him or telling him where to go, she’d stroked his cheek and told him she’d leave her window open every night for a week. And he should climb up and visit her. The hottest girl in the world was asking him to come and have sex with her.
She’d offered him heaven and he’d been too scared to climb up there. So frightened it was a big joke and he’d be a laughingstock among her girlfriends. A girl like her? Known to be so experienced and into sex, what would she want with him? Probably the only guy his age who was still a virgin.
Now she was asking him to believe her. Begging him with her eyes, and he needed to give her that.
Because at the end of that week of torture, of gazing up at her window and wishing he was man enough to make the climb, she was the one who’d climbed out that window and down the tree at dawn, not him.
She’d left home.
He looked her straight in her good eye. “Congratulations on two years of sobriety,” he said.
Her smile made her beautiful, so he didn’t even notice the black eye.
“Thank you for believing in me,” she said, and tottered over to give him a hug.
He didn’t want a hug. He wanted to be eighteen and climbing the tree.
She stepped into his arms and snugged up tight and he dropped a kiss on her hair. As he’d hoped, surprise made her look up at him, and he took advantage of the posture by kissing her lips.
After a quiet gasp of shock, she eased right into the kiss. This time their teeth didn’t grind. His nose didn’t rearrange hers. His tongue went nowhere near her tonsils.
This time he wasn’t a bundle of nerves warring with an overload of eager testosterone. This time he was easy with her, more interested in giving than taking. This time, they fit.
He’d expected lust to blast through him when he kissed her and that happened, but something else happened. She wasn’t throwing herself at him like the wildcat he remembered. She was hesitant. Her lips trembled against his. In fact, she trembled all over.
Tenderness washed over him and he gentled his mouth, loosened his grip on her.
“I’ve wanted you for half my life,” he admitted.
“But you didn’t come to me when I invited you.” She’d tipped her head so her forehead rested against his chest. Her voice came out muffled and he couldn’t see her face, only the fall of blond hair down his front.
It wasn’t easy for him to admit the truth, but he figured he had a small window of opportunity here to get this right. A little honesty wouldn’t kill him. “I was scared.”
She chuckled, still not looking up. “Scared of me? No one’s ever been scared of me.”
“You’re wrong.” His fingers traced patterns on her back, silly loopy patterns that kept a little more of him in contact with a little more of her. “I was terrified you’d laugh at me. I didn’t have much of a clue about what to do with a woman back then.”
Gillian sighed and wrapped her arms around his middle. “I’m feeling scared right now.”
He was puzzled. Was she still talking about them getting naked together or was she onto a whole new subject, like who gave her the black eye and why. He knew that as an officer of the law he should be delighted if she was about to give him any kind of clue as to what was going on around here.
But the raging teenager who still lived somewhere inside of him had a one-track mind. He only cared about the getting-naked part. And what came after. “What are you scared of?” It couldn’t be the sex. Why, she’d practically invented the act.
She pressed her forehead harder against him, as though trying to hide. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
Ready or not, he thought, here I come. But not while she was battered and bruised, and absolutely not in the home she’d shared with Eric.
“Come on,” he said, walking her gently toward the bed.
She hesitated and the glance she sent him was part panic, part desire. He was going to have to rid her of the first emotion and overwhelm her with the second. Very soon, but not today.
“I’m putting you back to bed where you belong. With an ice pack.”
She laughed
softly, but he heard a measure of relief in the
sound. “That’s not very romantic.”
“Wait until you’re recovered, lady. Then you’ll see romance.”
He helped her onto the bed, wincing when she clamped her lips together as her knee bent. When he’d bunched those absurd mini-pillows behind her, he picked up the ice pack from the floor and resettled it, then dropped a quick kiss on her lips.
There was a phone by her bed, and he scribbled his cell number on the pad of paper beside it. “That number reaches me day or night.”
“Thank you.”
“When are you moving?”
She glanced at her knee. “Next Saturday.”
“You can’t move out of this house soon enough for me.”
14
Duncan strolled into Forrest Art and Antiquities mid-morning when the place was empty and he was certain the owner, Eric Munn, was on the premises. A bell tinkled merrily as he walked into the kind of place where you could buy sterling flatware, delicate china and antique furniture as well as vintage jewelry.
But the glory of Forrest Art and Antiquities was displayed on the walls. Paintings and prints hanging so close together on the walls that if you squinted each wall looked like a page from a stamp collector’s album.
“Can I help you?” a mousy young woman asked Duncan.
He replaced the ornate silver fork into the faded and worn blue velvet lining of the walnut box where a twelve-piece setting of sterling cutlery resided. Late Victorian. Circa 1890, read the hand-lettered card bearing the Franklin Forrest Art and Antiques logo.
Duncan smiled at the woman in her navy skirt and white blouse, sensible pumps. Her face was pleasant rather than pretty and her brown hair was pulled back in some kind of bun.
She looked as though she should be around the corner working at the library, and he suspected that were the women to swap places, Alex would have sales of antiques skyrocketing.
“I’m interested in paintings,” Duncan said, not bothering to keep his voice lowered since he was the only customer in the shop.