She’d looked appalled.
“I can’t sleep with you. Don’t you understand?”
“I understand we both want each other. What else—”
“Don’t you get it? I can’t do this. I’m married, for crying out loud!”
Now he stood in front of her door again, wondering if he should expect another brush-off. She was no longer married, which was definitely good. But the fact that she’d moved all the way to Austin and neglected to call him wasn’t what he considered a positive sign.
He couldn’t focus on that right now. Celie was mixed up in some kind of trouble, and he needed to help her.
He took a deep breath and lifted his hand, and the door swung open before he could knock.
“McAllister!”
And then she was in his arms, all soft and warm. He stood there, amazed, as she melted right into him, instantly reminding him how good she always smelled, like woman and strawberries and some kind of soap. He glanced inside and noticed the two men standing in her living room.
“Got company?” He shifted her so she was standing beside him, his arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders.
“Oh, um, yeah.” She tried to step away, but he kept her planted right where she was.
John didn’t like the idea of men, period, lounging around Celie’s apartment, but these guys were especially bad. They both wore suits, which in Austin usually meant you were headed to a funeral or to the state house. These guys were headed to neither, which made them feds.
Both men stepped forward. One was young, maybe late twenties, with dark hair and a smarmy smile he probably practiced in the mirror a few hundred times before going out on a date. The other one was older. His dark hair was gray at the temples and he had crinkles around his eyes. He was ripped, though.
Something about the older agent seemed familiar. Then John placed him: he’d been on the scene at Feenie’s house the night Robert Strickland skipped town.
John looked down at Celie. She’d been crying, over her dead ex-husband, no doubt. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “Care to introduce me?”
“Oh…yes. I’m sorry,” she said, regaining some of that southern gentility she’d been raised with. “John McAllister, this is Special Agent Nick Stevenski and Special Agent Mike Rowe. They’re with the FBI.”
John shook hands with both men. Back the fuck off, he telegraphed mentally. Rowe raised his eyebrows, clearly getting the message.
“I was just apologizing because we’ll have to postpone the rest of our interview.” Celie turned to John with a plea in her eyes. “I’m running a little behind. Can you give me ten minutes to change before we go?”
Go?
“No problem,” he said. “Take your time.”
Rowe cleared his throat. “We’ll talk tomorrow, then. How about ten a.m.?”
“I’m working tomorrow,” Celie said quickly.
Rowe looked perturbed. “Any chance you could get the day off? We need to go over a few more details.”
John felt her tense. She did not want to talk to these guys, and he couldn’t blame her. The FBI had practically set up camp in her front yard for weeks after her ex’s disappearance. It had been a nightmare for her. And now here they were, back for an encore.
“I’m in charge of the Easter party tomorrow. There’s no way I could disappoint the kids again.” She smiled weakly. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Fine,” Rowe said. “We’ll come by in the afternoon. Four o’clock.”
He made his way toward the door without waiting for a reply. Stevenski trailed behind him, smiling as he walked past Celie.
“Nice meeting you, Ms. Wells.” He gave John a curt nod. “Mr. McAllister.”
“Later, fellas.” John slammed the door behind them. He turned back toward Celie, who was staring at the door and looking dazed.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No.”
Right. Dumb question. “You want to talk about it?”
She gave him a wobbly smile. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Cecelia Wells lived in a fortress. Rowe scrutinized the place—for the second time that day—as he made his way across the visitor parking lot. The building was composed of white limestone and stucco, the type of architecture Rowe had seen everywhere since he’d come to Texas. The sprawling complex perched atop a cliff overlooking some hills or greenbelt or some sort of park. Cecelia’s unit faced west, and during the hour-long interview Rowe had noticed she had a spectacular view.
Knowing what he did about Cecelia, though, he doubted she’d picked the place for the scenery.
Rowe unlocked the Buick and squinted up at the third floor, counting the units until he located Cecelia’s. The apartment was nice, but small compared to the other luxury units at The Overlook. Hers was the smallest unit available, in fact, just eight hundred square feet. Rowe had garnered these and other details from the well-heeled young leasing agent at The Overlook’s front office on the way out.
“Quite a place she’s got there,” Stevenski said, following Rowe’s gaze.
“Yeah,” Rowe agreed. “Pricey, too. For Austin, at least. How do you think she affords a place like that working at a battered women’s shelter?”
Stevenski shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe she’s got a rich family.”
She didn’t. Rowe was thoroughly familiar with Cecelia’s background, having done some of the original legwork on her over a year ago when her husband’s name had cropped up in connection with the Saledo cartel. Rowe knew everything about Cecelia’s past, including the fact that her mother, a widow, lived in Mayfield and was comfortable, but by no means wealthy. Cecelia’s late father had been a chemical engineer.
“Nah,” Rowe said, “she doesn’t come from money. You read her file?”
“I skimmed it.”
Rowe slid behind the wheel. The car was a piece of crap, but budgets were tight throughout the Bureau, and the San Antonio field office wasn’t high on the list when it came to spreading money around. Making matters worse, San Antonio’s current SAC, or special agent in charge, wasn’t much of a diplomat. At a time when most of the Bureau’s money and talent was being thrown at the antiterrorism campaign, George Purnell had been banished to Texas to deal with drug traffic and money laundering. Apparently, the SAC had had some sort of falling out with the top brass in Washington. His situation was similar to Rowe’s, actually, only Rowe’s previous home had been Chicago.
The car felt like a sauna inside, and Rowe flipped on the air-conditioning. A blast of hot air shot from the vents.
“She’s not at all like I thought she’d be,” Stevenski said.
Rowe knew what he meant. Based on Cecelia’s file, his partner had probably expected to meet a real ballbuster. Instead, he’d met a weepy, pudgy-cheeked blonde.
“She really claw a guy’s eye out?” Stevenski asked.
“Yep, she really did.” Rowe paused at The Overlook’s wrought-iron gate, waiting for it to open.
“And that was, what, ten years ago? She would have been a kid at the time.”
“Yep,” he said again. Cecelia Wells had been twenty-two, definitely a kid in Rowe’s book, when she’d been raped, beaten, and left for dead behind a bar in downtown Austin. She’d been a senior at UT, just one semester shy of graduation, when she’d decided to go out drinking with some girlfriends on Sixth Street. She’d peeled off from the group early, then been accosted in an alley on the way to her car. Rowe had read the police report, and the attack had been horrific. Cecelia Wells was a mere five feet three, 110 pounds at the time. The man ultimately convicted of assaulting her was six feet tall and 200 pounds, almost exactly the same size as Rowe. For a woman that small to actually claw the guy’s eye out…Well, suffice it to say she must have been experiencing some serious panic. The rapist had been unarmed, thank God, or he almost certainly would have killed her.
And the eyeball thing wasn’t even the most impressive part. After the trial, Cecelia had ma
de a few public statements, becoming somewhat of a spokeswoman for sexual assault survivors. In subsequent years, she’d dropped off the map, though.
“She’s tough,” Rowe said. “She may have been shaken up today, but she’ll get over it. She just feels responsible.”
She felt that way because Stevenski and Rowe hadn’t been entirely candid with her. Yes, her ex-husband had had a few drinks when he lost control of the Explorer, but he hadn’t been on drugs. And some black-on-blue paint transfer on the rear fender indicated he may have had a nudge into that rock wall.
Rowe turned onto the highway and glanced at the clock. He needed to track down that reporter from the crash scene. He definitely should have talked to her by now, but she hadn’t returned any of his phone calls.
“You ever hear back from that woman at the Herald ?” Stevenski asked, reading his mind.
“No, and I’m beginning to think she’s dodging me.” Rowe checked his phone, but still no messages. “Looks like I need to pay her a visit.”
Celie sat across the table from McAllister and wondered how the heck he’d talked her into this. One minute she’d been thinking up a tactful way to get him out of her apartment, and the next minute they were in his Jeep on their way out to dinner. Forget that she felt—and looked—like roadkill, and that going out was the very last thing she wanted to do tonight. Somehow McAllister had convinced her that whatever her problems, she’d feel better after a stiff margarita and some Mexican food.
And, just like that, she’d said yes.
So now here they were, at a loud Mexican dive sandwiched between a Laundromat and a Goodwill shop. McAllister claimed it was the best Mexican food in town, but Celie had her doubts. The place was wall-to-wall kitsch, down to the Elvises-on-velvet and neon beer signs decorating the walls.
She snuck a glance at McAllister over the top of her menu. Austin agreed with him. His skin was tan, his hair streaked gold from the sun. Clearly, he’d been spending time outside, probably water-skiing, or rappelling, or practicing one of the many daredevil sports he was so fond of. Whatever he’d been up to, he looked good. Better, even, than he had last summer back in Mayfield. How was that possible? How was it that as time ticked by, men got better and better looking, while women just looked more and more used up?
That’s how Celie felt these days. Exhausted by an endless series of trials and disappointments. And with each passing day, the things she wanted most for herself seemed to move further and further out of reach.
“You’re not going to cry, are you?” McAllister asked, not looking up from his menu.
“Huh?”
“Your chin’s quivering.” He laid his menu aside and met her gaze. “And you can cry all you want, honey, but just let me know ahead of time so I can change your margarita to a double.”
“I’m not going to cry,” she said, meaning it. “I spent most of the day at the police station and on the phone with my former in-laws—who hate me, by the way. I’m all cried out.”
He watched her for a long moment. “I’m sorry about Robert,” he said.
He didn’t really look sorry about Robert, but he seemed genuinely sorry she was upset.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t look so guilt-ridden. It’s not your fault.”
Hello, Robert. Rumor has it you’re dead.
You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
She wished, for the hundredth time that day, that their last conversation hadn’t been so awful. She shook her head. “I just keep thinking if I’d said something different, he never would have taken off like that.”
McAllister frowned. “You didn’t lend him your car?”
“God, no! That’s the last thing I would’ve done. He swiped my keys while I was in the bathroom getting him some aspirin.”
“Why would he steal your car?”
“Transportation, I guess,” she said. “Our conversation wasn’t real friendly, and he left in a big huff.”
A waitress stopped by to drop off their drinks and take their orders, and Celie was grateful for the interruption. She didn’t really want to get into all this, especially with McAllister. She’d learned he was a reporter first and foremost, and anything she said might later become fodder for a news story. It was uncanny, really, that whenever something traumatic happened in her life, John McAllister seemed to be standing around with his notepad. It was one of the reasons she didn’t trust him.
That, plus Feenie’s repeated warnings that he was a chronic playboy incapable of a serious relationship.
Celie picked up her fishbowl-size margarita. She hadn’t had one in forever. She hadn’t had any alcohol, in fact, in months. It was all part of her health kick, the health kick that now seemed utterly pointless.
Celie plastered a smile on her face, like she always did when her mood bordered on maudlin.
“So, congratulations on your new job,” she said, taking a sip. Wow, that margarita packed a punch. She needed to watch herself or she’d be under the table in nothing flat. “I guess the Herald is a big step up from the Mayfield Gazette, huh?”
He shrugged. “It’s a step.”
“And how do you like Austin?”
He hesitated a moment. “I like it. It’s scenic. Sunny. Everyone’s friendly and easygoing.” He leaned back in his chair and watched her. “What do you think of Austin? You’ve been here, what? A couple months now?”
“Eight.”
He flinched, and then covered it with a carefree smile. “Damn, I wish you’d called me. I could’ve helped you settle in.”
Now there was a loaded statement.
“Actually,” she said, “I settled in pretty quick. Enrolled in a few classes, got a job. You know, the usual.”
But his blue eyes were perceptive, and she could see he knew there was nothing “usual” about it, at least not where she was concerned. Reenrolling in school had been a major milestone for her, something she’d spent years gathering the courage to do. Luckily, her credits with the university hadn’t expired. She supposed she had the special circumstances surrounding her withdrawal to thank for that.
He leaned his muscular forearms on the table. “I’m glad you’re finishing your degree. What do you have left now? One semester?”
“That, plus a six-month practicum in social work.”
He smiled. “That’s great. You’re almost there.”
Celie looked away. This was a bad idea. She shouldn’t be out with McAllister. No matter how attractive he was, he knew way too much about her, and her defenses vanished around him.
With Robert, it had been different. She’d met him down in Mayfield about a year after the trial, and, although he’d heard about it vaguely through the grapevine, he wasn’t clued in on all the details. Nor did he want to be. Celie had liked that about him. That and the fact he seemed safe, secure, harmless. He was courteous and nice, and he had a good job at an accounting firm. He liked to barbecue and play golf once a week. The very blandness of it all had attracted Celie to him.
“Celie? You listening?” McAllister was watching her intently.
She wondered what it would be like to sleep with John McAllister. Probably anything but bland. It might be fun, actually. Imagine that.
She had. Too many times to count.
“Celie?”
“I’m sorry. What?” From the way he was staring at her, she wondered if he knew the direction her thoughts had taken.
“I said, do you want to get this to go?”
The waitress had delivered their entrées. The scent of grilled onions wafted over from McAllister’s fajita platter, and steam rose up from Celie’s enchilada plate. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten all day.
“No. Thanks.” She took an icy gulp of margarita. Warmth radiated through her system, and her shoulders relaxed a smidgen. “This is great.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You sure? You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine. Really. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to?”
&nbs
p; John watched her nibbling on her enchilada while she skillfully evaded his questions. He’d had her there for a minute, the real Cecelia, the woman behind the thousand-watt smile. It seemed like every time he caught a glimpse of her, she retreated behind an impenetrable wall of polite conversation.
“And have you seen any good movies lately?”
Fuck. “Not really. You?”
And with that witty remark, they started down the predictable path of first-date banter. John would have been ready for a nap, but the mindless exchange gave him a chance to look at her. Really look.
She seemed different now than she had back in Mayfield, less polished somehow. John couldn’t decide whether he liked it or not. Her hair had changed, for one thing. He’d never realized it before, but that straw blonde color must have come from a bottle. Her real color was darker, more like honey.
Pretty.
And her body was different, too. Last time he’d seen her, she’d been thin, like a woman addicted to her aerobics class. She still looked good, but she was softer now, a little fuller through the hips, he’d noticed. His gaze strayed southward as she sipped her drink. Fuller in the breasts, too.
She looked sexy. Womanly. And not in the obvious, over-made-up way he was accustomed to. Most women he dated put everything on display, but Celie was different, and it worked for her. Even in faded jeans and a T-shirt, she held his attention. She seemed natural, confident. It was fucking attractive. He wanted to go home with her tonight so they could finish what they’d started back in Mayfield.
But they were in Small Talk Land, which meant she planned to keep him at a distance. He needed to change her mind.
“Hey, not to rush you, but you mind if I get the check?”
Her smile faltered. “Not at all.” She looked down at her bare plate and the empty glasses. She’d ordered a second margarita halfway through the meal. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“You didn’t.” He signaled the waitress. “It’s just their bar’s getting crowded, and I can barely hear you. You care if we leave?”
One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2) Page 4