“A sheriff stopped by Building 89?”
“Yes. When Eddie first told me, I thought maybe he had… I was afraid he was… Well, you know. In trouble again.”
“Yes, I know.” Carefully, Jess tucked the folded papers in her black leather clutch purse. “Did he happen to say which sheriff? Or what he wanted?”
“I think it was Sheriff Paxton from Walton County. He was looking for Mr. Petrie.”
“Did he find him?”
The edge to the question earned her an odd look.
“I don’t know. Eddie didn’t say.”
“I see. Well, thanks for your help with the loan.” Forcing a smile, Jess rose. “You may not have wanted a career in banking, but you’ve obviously got a knack for it. This was the easiest thirty-thousand dollar debt I’ve ever racked up.”
Once outside, her smile curled up and died like a leaf on a hot sidewalk. Why had Paxton stopped by her fuels section, to talk to her people, without clearing the visit with her first? Had he heard more rumors about her mother? Decided to check them out personally?
What did he know?
The questions tumbled furiously through her mind as she grabbed the handhold and swung up into the dark blue Expedition. She still couldn’t quite believe she’d curled into his arms like a weak, helpless kitten that night on the bridge. Or that she’d let him kiss her there in her condo. Not once, but twice.
The fact that she was having trouble distinguishing the man from the badge bothered her. The fact that her pulse skipped when she remembered how she’d wanted to lose herself in his strength bothered her even more. Frowning, Jess shoved the Expedition into gear. It took her less than five minutes to reach her office, another five for Mrs. Burns to put a call through to the Walton County Sheriff’s Department.
“The sheriff’s in a meeting,” she reported to Jess via the intercom. “Do you want to leave a message?”
“Yes, please. Tell him I’d like to talk to him. ASAP.”
She and Paxton played telephone tag for the rest of the afternoon. When he returned her call, it was Jess’s turn to be in a meeting. She tried again, only to be informed the sheriff was conducting a shake-down of the county jail. After a long and particularly boring briefing at wing headquarters, Jess found a stack of yellow message slips on her blotter. The one from Paxton was short and to the point.
“Tonight. Seven-thirty. Fried catfish.”
Below the succinct message Mrs. Burns had scribbled the directions to his place.
She was waiting when Steve navigated the narrow, red clay road leading to the dock where he moored the Gone Fishin’.
He’d cleared enough of the tupelos and palmettos at the bayou’s edge to allow for a good-sized turn-around. The dark blue Expedition with the dealer’s tag was parked a few yards from the dock. With a nod of silent approval for the SUV’s solid bulk, he pulled up alongside and waited for Jess to kill the idling engine, shoulder open her door, and abandon the vehicle’s air-conditioned comfort for the swampy heat of the bayou.
She’d taken time to go home and change out of her uniform, Steve saw in a quick glance. The long length of thigh showing beneath her gauzy, red plaid shorts jumped his pulse a couple of erratic beats. When paired with a red tank top that hugged her breasts and a ball cap that allowed her honey-brown hair to swing in a loose ponytail, the overall effect was enough to send a man straight into cardiac arrest.
Steve managed to keep his heart pumping. He even managed to ignore the now familiar ache Jess Blackwell started just below his belt as he reached for the bag of groceries stashed on the cruiser’s back seat.
“You’re early,” he said by way of greeting, noting the tight set to her mouth. “Not to worry. It won’t take long to get the grease hot and the catfish sizzling and spitting.”
“I can’t stay for dinner.”
“Too bad. The fish is fresh. I caught and filleted it myself.”
“I just want to talk to you.”
“Well, come aboard and grab something cold to drink. You can talk while I mix the cornmeal batter. You may not be hungry,” he added mildly when she started to protest, “but I am.”
Leading the way down the rickety pier, he made the transition from dock to deck with surefooted agility and deposited the grocery sacks before turning around to help Jess aboard.
“Watch your step.”
Reaching out a hand, he steadied her while she negotiated the two-foot gap between the pier and the boat rail. Even with the warning and his assistance, she wasn’t prepared for way the deck tilted under her weight.
His feet spread, Steve caught her as she pitched forward. The fusion of chest and hip jolted through him, shocking his entire system. Hers, too, judging by the way her head snapped back and her green eyes widened.
A wise man would have set her on her feet and retreated to high ground at that moment. Particularly if that man was a cop who hadn’t yet found the answers to the questions stacking up in his mind.
He’d only take a taste, he decided. Not much more than the brief brush of lips he’d allowed himself at her condo. Dipping his head, he covered her mouth with his.
Too late, Steve realized his mistake. A kiss wasn’t enough. Not from Jess Blackwell. He wanted more, and he wanted it bad. Taking advantage of her temporary immobility, he widened his stance.
Stunned surprise held Jess rigid. This kiss bore no resemblance to the gentle brush of Paxton’s lips after the accident. Nor did he cradle her against his chest with anything approaching the incredible tenderness he’d shown that night.
She could break the hold. She’d learned some particularly incapacitating moves in her various self-defense courses, although she suspected the sheriff might be able to employ a few countermoves.
She could break the kiss, too, if she wanted to. All she had to do was jerk her head back. Puncture his arrogant masculinity with an ice-coated barb. Walk away. She might have done just that if he hadn’t dragged his head up at that moment.
Red singed his cheeks. The muscles in his arms were corded and quivering. Regret rippled across his face. Or was it wariness? Jess couldn’t decide which.
“In case you’re wondering,” he said gruffly, “I didn’t plan that.”
She shifted, one brow arching when her hip pressed against the bulge of his crotch.
“Or that,” he added.
Maybe it was the tight line to his jaw. Or the undisguised hunger in his eyes. Or the realization that she’d kept her cool while his hung by a thread. Whatever it was sent a heady sense of power sweeping through Jess. The hot, sweet rush was more intoxicating than wine, and far more urgent.
She wasn’t a tease. Nor was she promiscuous. If nothing else, those long nights waiting for her mother to come home, wondering where Helen was, who she was with, had generated a bone-deep aversion to sexual games and one-night-stands. Jess had never denied her needs, however. She was a woman, with a woman’s wants and cravings.
Like her mother.
And she wanted Steve Paxton. Despite his badge. Despite every dictate of caution and common sense.
“I didn’t plan on staying for dinner, either,” she admitted slowly, “but I seem to have developed an appetite.”
He didn’t pounce. She’d give him that. His body was rock hard everywhere it touched hers, yet he didn’t swoop in with a grunt of male triumph to take advantage of her hesitant admission.
“You’ve been sending mixed signals, Jess. You’ll have to tell me what you want.”
She thought about it, gave a sigh of real regret, and stepped back. “I want to talk.”
A muscle ticked in the side of his cheek. His face hardened. In anger? Frustration?
“Fine. We’ll eat. Then we’ll talk.”
Chapter Ten
Wound tighter than a new reel and all too aware that it showed, Steve snagged the bag of groceries, shoved the hatch back and went below deck.
Suffocating waves of heat erupted from the interior, heavy with the scent of varnish
and the ever-present mildew that was every sailor’s bane. Depositing the groceries in the galley, he flicked the switch to the small air conditioning unit built into the rear bulkhead. He’d had to call in a few favors to get the county to string a power line down to the dock. The same with the phone company. Electrical and telephone lines were necessities in his line of work, as was the sleek little computer sitting atop the drop-down mahogany shelf that did double duty as desk and dining table.
His old, cast iron frying pan gave an angry rattle when he drew it from the cupboard above the stove. Forcing his hands to slow, he assembled the ingredients for cornbread batter and hushpuppies and tried to decide which he wanted more at the moment – to have Jess flat on her back in his bunk or off the boat before he made a fool of himself trying to get her there.
He hadn’t yet made up his mind when her foot appeared on the top step. Stooping, she descended halfway down the steps and peered into the cabin.
“Close the hatch,” he instructed curtly. “You’re letting in the mosquitoes.”
The prospect of sharing a meal with Steve scraped at Jess’s nerves, already strung tight after the steamy interlude on the deck. Ultra-sensitive to every move he made in the cabin’s minuscule galley, she watched him put together a simple feast of store-bought coleslaw, fried catfish, and hush puppies.
Steve’s evidently hadn’t defused, either. He didn’t need her help, he informed her curtly when she volunteered her services. Her main task -- her only task at the moment – consisted of keeping out of the way.
That proved a challenge in a living and work area not much larger than her condo’s walk-in closet. Jess took one of the captain’s chairs bolted to one side of the eating area, but had to duck each time Steve reached for something in the cabinet above her. After the third or fourth duck, she abandoned the chair and squeezed onto the cushioned bench behind the drop-down table.
She couldn’t help but contrast the sleek little high-tech computer on the table with the scarred, if lovingly polished slab of mahogany it rested on. The wood showed its age in every nick and scratch. Like the rest of the creaking, rocking boat, it had weathered a few storms, Jess guessed.
As had the boat’s owner. Her glance went to the man handling both spatula and cast iron frying pan with consummate skill. He stood with his legs spread against the gentle roll of the boat, his jeans snug against his thighs.
Smothering an oath at the sudden spear of heat in her belly, she wrenched her gaze back to his face, only to discover he’d been looking her over while she did the same to him.
“Don’t you get claustrophobic living on a boat?” she asked, more to divert the sardonic comment she saw forming on his face than to make conversation.
“No.”
Her fingers drummed on the closed computer. Evidently he wasn’t ready for polite chitchat yet. Well, she supposed she couldn’t really blame him. She was still strung wire tight herself. Blowing out a breath, she refrained from further comment while he transferred the catfish to a plate, heaping the browned fillets alongside hushpuppies glistening with a sheen of grease.
“Move the computer, would you?”
She edged the notebook to the seat beside her. Jess had never considered herself a real catfish aficionado, but the aroma that steamed from the cracked blue platter Steve put in front of her had her mouth watering. Wedged in place behind the table, she could only sit and wait with mounting impatience while he retrieved a plastic container of coleslaw from the fridge, along with a sweating glass jug of iced tea. Finally, he set out plates, glasses, and utensils and seated himself in the captain’s chair on the other side of the table.
“Help yourself.”
Taking him at his word, Jess forked several hushpuppies and a large fillet onto her plate. The catfish flaked white and succulent under its crisp coating. The hushpuppies, she discovered when she bit into one, bit back. Her eyes watering, she grabbed her glass of tea and downed half of it in several large gulps.
“Sorry,” Steve offered, the harsh planes of his face softening for the first time since they’d come below deck. “I should have warned you that I include a touch of Tabasco when I mix up the batter.”
“A touch?” Jess gasped, her tongue still on fire. It took another few swallows to douse the flames. Cautiously, she poked at the fish. “Did you use the same batter on this?”
“That’s just plain cornmeal, egg, and milk. Tobasco would overwhelm the delicate flavor.”
“No kidding.”
She nibbled cautiously on a small piece. It tasted every bit as moist and delicious as it looked. Relieved, she followed Steve’s lead and settled in to satisfy the hunger now emitting low, warning growls from the vicinity of her stomach.
With the boat rocking under them and the air conditioner humming busily just above their heads, they emptied the platter of all the catfish and most of the hushpuppies. Jess reached her limit before Steve, who polished off the last of the coleslaw.
Digging a package of gum out of his shirt pocket, he offered her a piece. Jess declined, but now knew the source of the cinnamon that had flavored his kiss. The memory of how her tongue had danced with his had her shifting on the bench, edgy and annoyed, until he hooked his hands over his stomach and stretched his legs under the table.
“All right. You wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”
Jess blew out a short breath. Evidently filling his belly hadn’t mellowed his mood. Okay, so maybe she owed him more than the grudging apology she’d offered earlier. Might as well get that out of the way first.
“Look, let’s try to get past what happened up on deck. It… It surprised me as much as it did you.”
He looked as thought he had a few words to say on the matter, but clamped his mouth shut and gathered the dirty dishes instead.
Jess slumped back against the cushion, drumming her fingers drummed the laptop’s lid. It was an Apple G-4, she saw, billed as the fastest computer on the planet. Wondering if its fifteen-inch screen lived up to the hype, she raised the lid. At her touch, the darkened screen blinked to life. She was reaching for the lid, intending to close it and put the computer to sleep again, when the name at the top of the screen leaped out at her.
Helen Yount Blackwell
Frowning, she skimmed the lines of print below her mother’s name. With each word, Jess’s throat closed a little more, until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t drag so much as a gasp into her lungs.
“Jess?”
She lifted her stunned gaze to find Steve with the rest of the dishes in his hand and his narrowed gaze locked on her face. She swallowed, trying desperately to work the paralyzed muscles, and lifted the laptop onto the table.
“What is this?”
He flicked a glance at the screen. His jaw went tight. “Those are my notes.”
“About my mother?”
“About an incident that reportedly occurred at the Blue Crab twenty-five years ago.”
She flattened her palms on the table, whether to steady them or absorb strength from the smooth, thick wood, she didn’t know. Carefully, so very carefully, she measured her words.
“Is this part of a police report?”
“No.” His eyes held hers. “There was no official report. I got the information from Sheriff Boudreaux.”
“Sheriff Boudreaux.” The little air she’d managed to pull into her lungs hissed out. “I remember him.”
“He remembers you, too.”
“And he said…?” She cleared her throat again. “He said my mother was raped?”
Was it an act? Was she feigning that bruised look around the eyes? For all his years of interrogating suspects, Steve was damned if he could tell.
The cop in him took over. Shoving the remaining dishes into the sink, he hooked his chair around and sank down to her level. He wanted to gauge every flicker of facial muscle, needed to read every emotion.
“According to Boudreaux, five men assaulted your mother. It happened the same night you and she left town.”<
br />
“The same night Boudreaux ran us out of town,” she countered swiftly, bitterly. “Did the sheriff name the five men? Are they here, in your computer?”
She hit the page-up key an instant before he reached over and snapped down the laptop’s lid. She glimpsed the list, or enough of it to whisper the first name.
“Delbert McConnell.”
“He was a local minister,” Steve said into the silence that followed. “He drowned some weeks back. You might have read the story in the newspaper.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Shock? Surprise? Guilt? It was gone before he could put a label to it.
“Ron Clark was there, too.”
She didn’t make a sound. Not a damned sound. But she clamped her mouth shut as tight as a safe to keep something back. In anyone else, the white lines cutting into her cheeks might have given Steve a primal satisfaction. Now he experienced only the twisted hope that she’d keep her lips sealed. At least until he figured out just what the hell she might say.
“Boudreaux said Wayne Whittier was also one of the five. Along with Congressman Calhoun and…”
Her dry, harsh laughed stopped him in mid-sentence. “He didn’t even recognize me.”
“Congressman Calhoun?” The skin on the back of Steve’s neck tightened. “You went to see him at Silver Acres?”
“I saw his son. At the reception up in DeFuniak Springs.” Her mouth twisted. “Until Dub’s wife whispered in his ear, he didn’t even recognize the girl who once rubbed his nose in the dirt.”
Like a boat plowing through angry waves into the calm eye of a hurricane, she seemed to steady. Only her hands moved, slipping into her lap, white at the knuckles, one thumb kneading a pocket of puckered flesh.
“Who was the fifth?”
“Billy Jack Petrie.”
Her mouth opened. Snapped shut. Opened again.
After Midnight Page 10