The mechanic backed away, belatedly deciding he didn’t want a confrontation. She whipped out her wallet.
“I’d like the bill, please,” she said. “And my keys.”
Rowe intercepted her a few minutes later, just as she was opening the door to her black Beetle. “Kate Kepler?”
She shot him a glare. “What now? You want to sell me some snow tires?”
Rowe slid his hands into his pockets. “Do I look like a tire salesman?”
Her brown eyes skimmed over his dark suit. “Hmm, not really. But let me save you some time here. I’m also not in the market for life insurance or Amway.”
He smiled. “I’m not selling anything. I just want to talk.”
Her eyes became wary suddenly, adding years to her age. Now she looked old enough to vote.
“Who are you?”
“Special Agent Mike Rowe, FBI.” He extended his hand and watched the lightbulb come on. “The guy you’ve been dodging the last twenty-four hours?”
She glanced at his hand but didn’t take it. “How’d you find me here?”
“I talked to your roommate.”
“How’d you get my address?”
“I talked to your editor.”
She slid behind the wheel, muttering something about the Patriot Act. When she started the engine, Rowe’s easygoing mood disappeared.
“I’m in a hurry,” she said. “You’ll have to make it quick.”
He didn’t have to make it anything, but he decided to use finesse instead of force. “This shouldn’t take long. How ’bout I buy you a cup of coffee?”
She squinted at him, as if deciding what to do. What was it with this girl? Most people—the innocent ones, at least—jumped at the chance to be interviewed by a federal agent. It made them feel important. Kate Kepler was different for some reason, and Rowe wanted to know why.
“There’s a Java Stop on Twelfth and Lamar,” she said. “It’s mostly joggers and cyclists, though. You’ll be the only suit.”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind.” Actually, he did mind. Wearing a coat and tie every day was one aspect of his job he’d never liked. Typically he dressed down on weekends, but he’d been to mass earlier.
“You know how to get there from here?” she asked.
“No, but I have a feeling you do.”
“Follow me.” She put her car in gear. “And I’m not kidding, I only have a few minutes.”
CHAPTER
5
Celie stood in the Bluebonnet House kitchen and dumped a giant envelope of orange Tang into about four gallons of tap water. She felt a tug on her dress and looked down into a pair of glistening blue eyes.
“Miss Celie?” Three-year-old Kimmy Taylor’s cheeks were wet with tears.
Celie scooped the little girl up onto her hip. “What is it, sweetheart?” She braced herself for what might come out of the child’s mouth. Given Kimmy’s background, the possibilities were daunting.
“Miss Celie, why’d we have to kill all the eggs?”
“The eggs?”
Kimmy toyed with the tiny white buttons on the front of Celie’s dress. “The Easter eggs,” she said. “Why did Miss Chantal and everybody kill ’em yesterday?”
Kill them…?
“You mean dye them? Why did we dye them yesterday?”
Kimmy nodded sadly, and Celie gave her a hug.
“Oh, sweetheart, dyeing the eggs is like painting them. We didn’t hurt the eggs. We just made them pretty colors, that’s all. After a while we’ll have the egg hunt!”
Kimmy frowned. Clearly, the concept of an Easter egg hunt was foreign to her.
“But first, we’re having cupcakes!” Celie pointed with false enthusiasm to several large boxes from the grocery store.
Kimmy’s face perked up. “Can I have pink?”
“I think we can manage that.” Celie kissed her soft brown hair, and couldn’t resist inhaling the wonderful scent of baby shampoo. When Kimmy had first arrived at the Bluebonnet House last week, she’d smelled like urine and cigarette smoke.
Celie set Kimmy back on her feet. “You want to help me serve the juice?”
Kimmy nodded gamely.
“All right then. I’ll carry the cooler, and you can get the paper cups, okay?”
She followed Celie into the backyard, where several long picnic tables had been set up with paper napkins and plates. Chantal, the center’s slender, uber-efficient director, was placing a cupcake at each place. Like Celie, she had forgone the typical Bluebonnet House uniform of T-shirt and jeans today. Instead, she wore a sleeveless orange tunic and flowy orange pants that showed off her dark complexion. Her boyishly short haircut was contradicted by a pair of bronze chandelier earrings. Spotting Celie, she cleared a space for the cooler at the end of one table.
“We don’t have enough cupcakes,” she observed.
“I’ve got more in the kitchen,” Celie said. “And more plates, too.”
Thank goodness she’d thought to bring extras. Word of the party had spread, apparently, and a number of families Celie hadn’t seen in months had materialized out of nowhere. Now the playground was overcrowded, and Chantal was short a few Easter baskets. On the upside, many of the kids and their mothers looked healthier than when they’d last visited the center.
Kimmy plopped the stack of cups on the table and ran off to play in the sandbox. Celie watched her go, her heart aching just a little. Celie had taken Easter mornings for granted growing up. The holiday always meant new dresses for Celie and her sisters and festive egg hunts in her grandparents’ backyard after church. Easter was a happy time. Celie’s entire childhood had been happy, really.
It was adulthood that had thrown her for a loop.
Tom Gilligan sidled up next to her. The minister had changed out of the robes he’d worn for the prayer service into khakis and a golf shirt. “Nice turnout,” he said.
“Looks like.” Celie gave him a warm smile. Tom represented one of the many local churches that contributed to the center’s operating budget. “I can’t believe all these children. We’ve got at least three dozen.”
“Thirty-eight,” Tom said. “I bet you all can’t wait for the new rec room. When will it be done?”
“Last I heard, end of summer.” At least the crew didn’t work Sundays. Celie’s throbbing head couldn’t have withstood any hammering today.
“I’d better go help Chantal bring out more food.” Celie turned toward the house and nearly collided with her boss.
Who did not look happy.
John McAllister trailed behind her looking perfectly at ease in gym shorts and basketball shoes.
Shoot. An uninvited, unregistered visitor. An uninvited, unregistered male visitor, whose presence would explain the just-ate-a-lemon expression on Chantal’s face.
Celie’s gaze skimmed over McAllister’s tan, muscular legs, the pecs bulging beneath his T-shirt. She saw his mouth quirk up at the corner and realized he’d noticed her checking him out.
“Hey, there.” He strolled up and kissed her—right on the lips, right in front of Tom and Chantal and thirty-eight kids.
“Uh, Chantal.” Celie forced a smile. “I’d like you to meet John McAllister. A friend of mine.”
“We met inside,” she said coolly. “You didn’t tell me you’d invited a guest today.”
“Sorry. I forgot to mention it.”
Tom cleared his throat.
“Oh, and this is Tom Gilligan. Our minister. Well, not ours, exactly, but sort of—”
“Nice to meet you,” McAllister said, shaking Tom’s hand. Then he turned to Celie. “Looks like you’re on your way in. Need a hand with anything?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She led him inside and pulled him into the hallway leading to the administrative offices. “What are you doing here?”
A grin spread across his face. “You don’t remember inviting me, do you?”
“I didn’t invite you.”
“Remember?” He leaned cl
oser, flattening his palm against the cinder-block wall behind her. “Back at your apartment? Right before you kissed me good night?”
She’d kissed him? God, she had no memory of that. Or of inviting him to the Easter party. Of course, everything after that third margarita was kind of a blur.
“How’d you get in, anyway?” she asked. The Bluebonnet House was surrounded by an eight-foot security fence, and the only entrance was through the electronically locked front door.
“I told Janice you asked me to come.” He smiled. “She buzzed me right in.”
Of course. The college senior working reception today would have been starry-eyed at the sight of him.
With the tip of his finger, he brushed her ponytail off her shoulder. “I like this dress you’re wearing. You didn’t tell me this was formal. Fact, I distinctly remember you telling me to bring my Nikes. I’m supposed to shoot hoops with someone named Enrique?”
Celie closed her eyes, remembering now. Vaguely. God, why did she ever drink tequila?
She opened her eyes, and McAllister was still staring at her, clearly enjoying her discomfort. He trailed a finger along the neckline of her dress, which scooped low in the front. Celie had always thought the long skirt and tiny floral print made it look demure, but McAllister obviously didn’t.
And that thing he was doing with his finger was making her skin tingle.
“Miss Celie?”
She jumped, bumping his chin with her forehead.
Kimmy stood in the hallway, grinning and holding an empty Easter basket. “Look what Miss Chantal gave me! She said I can put candy in it!”
“That’s pretty, sweetheart.” Celie pressed her back against the wall, wishing McAllister weren’t standing so close. “You go on outside now, okay? It’s almost time for cupcakes.”
Kimmy smiled and skipped off, swinging her basket beside her.
Celie took McAllister’s hand and dragged him into her office. It was barely larger than a broom closet, but it was out of the traffic pattern. She flipped on the light switch and crossed the tiny room so they were separated by the cheap metal desk.
He wandered over to the file cabinet and picked up a framed photograph of Feenie holding Olivia. “This your office?”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember inviting you. I think I had too much to drink last night.”
“Ya think ?” He was laughing at her now, and she felt her cheeks flush.
“I apologize. I don’t usually have three margaritas in one evening.”
He crossed to the window beside her desk and peered through the dusty miniblinds. “Four.”
“What?”
He pulled the blind cord, and the room suddenly dimmed. Then he turned around. “You had four.” He took a step toward her, and her stomach tightened.
“Why did you do that?”
The corner of his mouth curved. “Why do you think?”
He edged closer, and her heart started to race. She stepped back, bumping the desk and plunking her bottom onto it. He gazed down at her with that look she recognized, the one she’d seen on his face the night of Feenie’s wedding.
“What are you doing?”
“What I wanted to do last night.” His voice was low and intimate, as if they were in a bedroom together instead of an office.
“We can’t do that here.”
He glided his hands up her bare arms and laced his fingers together behind her neck. “Why not?”
She was eye level with his chest, and she tried not to think about how good it looked as she floundered for a reason. She tipped her head back and looked up at him. “Someone might walk in.”
“I locked the door.”
She glanced frantically over her shoulder and saw that the door was indeed locked, the little thumb latch in the horizontal position.
“Still, we can’t.”
Instead of backing off, he eased closer, nudging her knees apart with his body.
“McAllister—”
He kissed her, slowly, sending a sharp thrill right through her, straight down to her toes. Angling her head slightly, he parted her lips and licked into her mouth, and before she knew it she was kissing him back with every cell in her man-deprived, frustrated little body. His hands moved down to circle her waist, and she felt their warmth through the fabric of her dress. His thumbs rubbed over her hip bones, and she started to feel intoxicated, like she’d been last night, only much, much better. He was way too good at this, and that fact alone should have been a wake-up call, but it wasn’t.
Suddenly she felt a whisper of cool air and his palm sliding over her knee. That was a wake-up call.
“We can’t,” she said, pushing her hem down.
His mouth moved to her temple as his fingers slid up her thigh. “You’re not seeing someone else, are you?”
“What? No, but—”
He kissed her neck, just below her ear. “And you’re attracted to me, right?”
She held on to his shoulders, trying to catch her breath as his lips moved against her skin. This situation was wrong. And inappropriate. It was wrongly inappropriate. Her ex-husband had just died; she was coming off an IVF cycle; and here she was, at her workplace, making out with the very last person who would ever be interested in the things she wanted in her life. Babies. Parenthood. Responsibility for another human being.
McAllister was interested in getting laid and getting a scoop, period.
His teeth nipped her. “Don’t lie, honey. I know you are.”
“I am, but we can’t just—”
He kissed her mouth again, and in a fit of bad judgment, she let herself enjoy it. His kisses were like him—leisurely and confident and persuasive, all at the same time. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer.
A knock sounded at the door. “Cecelia?”
Chantal! Celie gave McAllister a firm shove and hopped off the desk. She whirled toward the door, which was shut, thank heaven. “Yes?”
“We need your help outside.” Her boss’s voice oozed disapproval. “We’re about to start the egg hunt.”
“I’ll be right there!” She shot McAllister a glare.
Sighing, he leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms. He watched her adjust her dress and smooth her hair. Then she scurried for the door, but he didn’t move to follow her.
“Are you coming?” she asked. “Or was the basketball thing just a ploy?”
He shook his head. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. You invited me, remember? Hell, I even wore my basketball shoes.”
“Good. You’re going to need them.”
“I doubt it.”
She popped the lock and yanked the door open, motioning for him to lead the way out.
“You might be surprised.” She checked her dress again and tried to sound normal, like someone who hadn’t nearly had sex on her desk. “Enrique’s got a pretty good game.”
McAllister paused in the doorway and gave her ponytail a tug. “I’m starting to think the only one with any game around here is you.”
CHAPTER
6
Kate emptied another sugar packet into her latte and concentrated on stirring so she wouldn’t have to look at the agent.
“You want some coffee with that?” Rowe asked.
Kate looked up, not acknowledging his lame attempt at humor. She stared at him, smileless, wanting to see if he’d squirm.
He didn’t. Instead, he reached over and grabbed another tray of sweeteners from a neighboring table. He pushed them toward her, and she gave in to the childish urge to add a third packet of sugar to her coffee, successfully ruining it.
Why did she do this? All her life she’d had problems with authority, so she acted out whenever anyone older tried to tell her what to do.
She sipped her coffee, trying not to gag. Rowe grinned suddenly, and Kate had to look away.
“So, why didn’t you return my calls?” he asked.
“I’ve been bu
sy.”
He raised his eyebrows, clearly waiting for more.
“I’m new on the paper,” she elaborated. “So I’m stuck covering weekends twice a month. It got pretty hectic yesterday.”
“Low man on the totem pole, huh? How old are you, exactly?”
She stiffened. “What does that matter?”
“It doesn’t, really. I’m just curious.” He smiled, and the skin gathered at the corners of his gray eyes. He had nice eyes, but only when he smiled. The rest of the time they looked icy. “Hey, come on. You’re too young to get offended by that question.”
She crossed her arms. “How old do you think I am?”
His gaze dropped, and she couldn’t tell whether he was reading her T-shirt logo for clues or trying to guess her bra size.
“Thirty-two B,” she told him.
His lifted his gaze, and a flush crept up his neck. She’d embarrassed him. Good. Now she had the upper hand.
“I’m twenty-four,” she said, taking pity on him for some reason. “How about you?”
He cleared his throat. “Thirty-eight.”
She took another sip of the ruined coffee and glanced at her watch, hoping he’d get the hint.
“I spoke to Officer Poole. He says you told him you came upon the accident on the way back from a party.”
“It was a campaign event. I was on assignment.”
“And you just happened to drive past this wreck? You weren’t responding to the police scanner?”
She recited the details of the incident and was relieved when he didn’t ask her the same questions over and over like Officer Skoal had.
Rowe leaned back in his chair. He hadn’t interrupted her, just jotted down a few notes about the truck.
“Did it strike you as odd that the Explorer’s passenger’s-side door was open?” he asked.
She felt flattered he wanted her opinion, but then wondered if that was just a tactic he used to make people loosen up.
“Yes,” she said. “Especially since the driver was unconscious when I got there.”
He nodded. “Seems to me like someone else opened the door, maybe to get out? Or maybe to retrieve something? Think back to those two guys. Can you remember anyone holding something or tossing something in the truck bed right before the door slammed?”
One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2) Page 6