by Gina Wilkins
Actually, a cold drink sounded pretty good to her just then, considering that she’d been on the verge of overheating. She scooted several inches away from him and reached for her coffee. It annoyed her that her hand wasn’t quite steady when she picked up her cup. Just a kiss? Had she really thought it could be that easy with him?
Mac cleared his throat. “I should probably go.”
She glanced instinctively at her watch, not certain whether she was relieved or reluctant that he was ready to leave. “It’s still early.”
“Mmm. More time to get into trouble if I stay,” he murmured.
The glint of humor in his eyes made her smile, even as she felt her cheeks warm. He made it clear enough that he would have liked the embrace to go further. And she had to admit that deep down inside, she shared the sentiment. But as she had said, it was entirely too soon to be flirting with that sort of temptation.
She’d known Jerry for ages and hadn’t kissed him the way she had just kissed Mac. She hadn’t wanted to, for that matter.
“Besides,” Mac added, setting his half-emptied coffee cup on the tray, “it’s starting to rain.”
She hadn’t heard the rain until he said that. She hadn’t been aware of anything outside this room, actually. For the first time in a while, she remembered her brother. The thought was accompanied by a ripple of guilt that he’d been so far from her mind only moments earlier.
“I hope the fathers on the camp-out made plans for rain,” she murmured, looking toward the window in time to see a brief flash of lightning.
“They’re idiots if they didn’t. The forecasters have been predicting rain for days.”
His blunt tone made her smile again as they stood. “Do you always plan for every contingency, Mac?”
“I try.” He paused in front of her, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her still-tender mouth. His expression was somber. “I didn’t plan on you.”
Her smile faded. She certainly understood that sentiment. Mac—and her unexpected reaction to him—had certainly thrown her for a loop. But some surprises were rather nice ones, she thought as he stroked her cheek lightly again.
Not quite knowing what to say, she walked him to the door. She started to say something about working up design boards for the Garrett house, but it seemed rather foolish to talk business now, to pretend there was nothing else developing between them.
“Thanks for the dinner,” he said as they paused at the door. “You were right, it was nice to eat a home-cooked meal for a change.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Next time I’ll remember about the strawberries.” She spoke without thinking, only then realizing that she had just implied there would be more evenings like this.
His mouth quirked into a slight smile. “For another dinner with you, I would even eat strawberries.”
Smiling back at him, she quipped, “And risk breaking out in hives? I’m flattered.”
“You should be. I hate to itch.”
Twisting her hands in front of her, she looked up at him, suddenly awkward again. “It sounds as if it’s starting to rain harder.”
A rumble of thunder underscored her words. “You aren’t afraid to be alone during thunderstorms, are you?”
“Just the opposite, actually. Would it surprise you to hear that I like thunderstorms?”
“It might have, earlier today. Now—no, it doesn’t surprise me at all.”
Since they’d kissed, he meant. Since they had created their own storm—and it had been very obvious that she’d liked it.
Another roll of thunder made her glance at the door. “You’ll get wet. Let me find you an umbrella.”
“I won’t melt.” He reached for the doorknob. “Good night, Sharon.”
“Good night, Mac.” It was becoming easier to say his name—perhaps because it would be ridiculous to call him Mr. Cordero now.
He hesitated with one hand still on the doorknob. He placed his free hand behind her head and tugged lightly, bringing her mouth to his for a brief, but still effective kiss. “I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, the words a promise. And then he was gone, disappearing into the night.
Sharon closed the door behind him, then sagged for a moment against it, her cheek pressed to the cool wood. So much for pretending there was nothing but business between them. Or that she even wanted it that way.
SOME COP HABITS were hard for Mac to break. Keeping detailed notes was one of them. Sitting at the shaky table in his motel room, he studied the yellow legal-pad pages spread in front of him. On one sheet, he had started a rudimentary family tree. At the top, he’d written the names Josiah McBride and Anna Mae Garrett. On the next line were the names of their three sons, Josiah Jr., Jonah and Caleb.
Beneath Josiah Jr., he had written “Lucas, 40,” and “Emily McBride Davenport, 31.”
He studied those names for a moment, remembering what he’d learned about the eldest McBride brother. Josiah Jr. had apparently been humorless, withdrawn, moody—distant even to his own children. Could Mac’s mother have fallen in love with a man like that?
Apparently there had been something about Josiah that some women had been drawn to. He’d married twice, though the second wife had taken a lover soon after. The lover with whom she had been murdered.
According to Sharon’s timeline, Josiah had been between wives when Mac was conceived. Which might explain why he would start an affair with a Puerto Rican maid in a Savannah hotel, but it didn’t fit with the story Mac’s mother had told him. His father had been a married man, she had explained with an old sadness in her musical voice. Although he had talked about leaving his wife for her, his sense of family loyalty had finally drawn him away.
The guy had never known that he left Anita Cordero carrying his child. Anita had refused to use her baby as a marriage trap.
Was it possible that Josiah’s marriage had been nothing more than a convenient lie? A coward’s way of ending an affair that had lost its novelty for him?
Had Josiah McBride Jr. been Mac’s father? If so, it didn’t seem as if the man had any reputation left to ruin. Apparently, he’d left little respect or admiration behind when he’d died.
He shoved the unfinished family tree aside in frustration. He had no answers yet, and wouldn’t come up with any tonight. Perhaps he would learn more the next time he found an opportunity to discuss the McBride family with Sharon.
Sharon. His mind was suddenly filled with the image of her face. The way she had looked after he kissed her—her skin flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lips damp and reddened. She would never know how hard it had been for him to pull away. It had been too long since he’d held a woman in his arms. Since he had lost himself in a kiss that cleared his mind of questions, plans, memories—leaving nothing there but hunger.
He’d told the truth when he said he hadn’t expected to meet her. Even when he’d made the calculated decision to use her knowledge of the McBrides, he hadn’t intended to seduce any information out of her. The kiss had been unexpected, unplanned, and had nothing to do with the McBrides or anyone else except Sharon, herself. He had kissed her for no other reason except that he had wanted to. Needed to.
He hadn’t planned on that at all.
BRAD WAS HOME early Sunday morning, in a more passive than usual mood after his camp-out. The organizers had planned for rain; the festivities had been moved inside a one-room building at the campground that was usually rented out for parties and family reunions. Though he’d probably had only a couple of hours’ sleep, Brad was in a mellow enough mood that he didn’t even complain—much—when Sharon insisted he accompany her to church.
Not that it had done much good, she thought ruefully as the service ended. He’d slept through the entire sermon. She poked him discreetly, and he woke with a muffled snort. “Time to go,” she said.
He gave her a sheepish smile. “Good. I’m hungry.”
She laughed and patted his arm. “Of course you are. You’re breathing, aren’t you?”
>
As usual, it took her a while to leave, because so many people detained her. Among the usual casual greetings, there were still a few who wanted to talk about the incident in Snake Creek. Sharon found it hard to believe only eight days had passed since that night. Maybe it seemed longer because she had chosen not to dwell on the experience.
She’d made a special effort not to think about it at all, though she hadn’t been able to block the images from her dreams. The only thing that had kept those dreams from becoming nightmares had been the mental echo of Mac’s voice, soothing and reassuring her. She’d chosen not to give too much thought to that, either.
Pushing the memories and Mac to the back of her mind, she made her way steadily to the parking lot, where still more members of the congregation way-laid her. Brad waited nearby, shifting from one foot to another, letting out an occasional gusty sigh.
“It’s good to see you looking so well, Sharon,” Emily Davenport said, smiling over the head of the baby girl in her arms. “I’ve thought of you often during the past week.”
Sharon responded appropriately, then tickled little Claire’s dimpled chin. “Hello, sweetie. You get more beautiful every time I see you.”
“Say thank you to Miss Sharon, Claire,” Emily instructed, though the child was only interested in the activities going on around her.
“Where’s Clay?” Sharon looked around for Emily’s thirteen-year-old stepson, then spotted him talking to her brother. “Oh, there he is, with Brad. Goodness, that boy seems to have grown six inches since I saw him last, and it’s only been a couple of weeks.”
“Same with Brad. They’re becoming young men, aren’t they?”
“I’m afraid so,” Sharon agreed pensively. “Is Wade working this morning?”
Emily’s smile faded. “Yes. Someone broke into Discount Motors during the storm last night. They stole a car from the lot and some computer equipment from the office.”
Sharon frowned. It was bad enough that these kinds of crimes were happening in their town, but it especially bothered her that it had occurred so close to where her brother and his friends had been enjoying a wholesome evening of fun. Discount Motors was only half a mile from the campground. That seemed to make the crime even worse, for some reason. “Does Wade think this break-in is related to the one at the Porter place last weekend?”
“He’s certainly pursuing that possibility.” Emily shifted her daughter into a more comfortable position on her hip. “We’re having a cookout at our place next Saturday. Would you and Brad like to come? Clay would love it. There are never any teenagers for him to talk to at our family gatherings.”
“It sounds like fun. We’d love to come.” Though Clay was a couple of years younger than Brad, it was a friendship Sharon wanted to encourage. Clay was a good kid—smart, funny, outgoing. Popular with the good crowd, even if being the police chief’s son earned him no points in other circles. Sharon worried about Brad getting involved with the wrong crowd. Clay Davenport was exactly the sort of friend she wanted for her brother.
“Great. Then we’ll see you around noon on Saturday. Oh, and feel free to bring a friend if you like.”
Sharon suspected Emily was hinting about Jerry. Matchmaking was the second favorite pastime in this town, right behind gossiping. “Is there anything else I can bring?”
“How about one of your famous strawberry cakes? Wade always goes on about how good they are.”
Sharon couldn’t help laughing a little. “Not everyone likes strawberries. But I’ll make a cake, anyway, just for Wade.”
“He’ll be your slave.”
Sharon laughed again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Sharon, I’m hungry,” Brad complained.
Emily smiled in understanding. “We’ll see you Saturday.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Sharon turned to her brother. “Okay, Brad. Let’s go find something to eat before you collapse.”
MAC WAS ON THE ROOF of the Garrett house Sunday morning when someone hailed him from below. He looked curiously over the edge, then masked his surprise. “Well, hello, Chief. Another friendly social visit?”
Wade Davenport grinned lazily up at him. “What you doing up there, Mac?”
“Communing with nature. Hang on, I’ll be right down.” Abandoning his inspection of the roof, Mac descended the ladder he’d propped against the back of the house. Wade waited for him at the bottom. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re following me around, Chief.”
Wade put a hand on the ladder, as if to test its sturdiness. “Just thought I would stop by while I was in the neighborhood.”
Mac suspected the chief had a specific reason for being in the neighborhood. And he would bet Wade had stopped by the motel first. “What can I do for you?”
“I wondered if I could talk you into giving me a tour.”
“Sure,” Mac agreed easily, wondering what, exactly, was behind the request. “Be happy to.”
“I’d appreciate it. I’ve always been curious about this place, but I’ve never had an excuse to look around. My wife’s great-grandfather built this house, you know.”
“So I hear. We can go in through this door, which will take us into the kitchen.”
Wade didn’t move toward the door. His attention was focused on a large, padlocked storage building at the back of the yard. “Actually, I’d like to have a look inside that outbuilding first. If you have no objections, of course.”
Mac pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, keeping his stance casual. “Any particular reason?”
“Oh, just curiosity.”
Yeah, right. “This is just a wild guess, but has there been another break-in recently?”
“Mmm. Last night, out near the campground. Why do you ask?”
Shaking his head, Mac moved toward the outbuilding. “Never mind. Let me show you my storage shed.”
Wade followed close at his heels. “You understand, of course, that this is just a request. I don’t have a search warrant or anything official like that.”
Mac leveled a look at the other man over his shoulder. “Now why would I be concerned about search warrants? This is just a friendly social visit, right?”
“You got it,” Wade drawled cheerfully.
Pulling a key from his pocket, Mac opened the heavy padlock and swung the door open. Power lines ran from the outbuilding to a temporary construction utility pole set up nearby, so he was able to reach inside and snap on the bare lightbulb that hung from the rafters. He then stepped back, allowing Wade full access to the building filled with tools and materials. “There you go. Check it out.”
A cursory glance seemed to satisfy the police chief. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I expected to see. You’ve got some expensive tools in there. You might want to step up your security, considering the problems with theft we’ve had around here lately.”
“I’ll keep your advice in mind. Thanks.” Mac snapped the padlock into place again, tugging at it a couple of times to make sure it was secured. “C’mon, I’ll show you around inside. I imagine you’ll want to peer into all the nooks and crannies.”
“Will I find anything interesting in those nooks and crannies?”
“Only if you’re interested in dust and cobwebs.”
Wade shrugged. “I’m easily entertained.”
Half an hour later, they’d explored the entire house—every nook and cranny. The only questions Wade asked during the tour involved the renovation, itself. He seemed genuinely interested in the project, but Mac was discovering it wasn’t always easy to tell what observations were being made behind the chief’s expression.
They finished back outside at the ladder. “Thanks,” Wade said. “That was very interesting.”
“I hope it answered your questions.”
“Most of them.”
“If you have any others, you know where to find me. I’ll be moving into a furnished apartment on West Elm tomorrow afternoon. If I’m not here, I’ll most likely be there
.”
“I’ll remember that. Er—I guess I really shouldn’t leave without asking one more question. What, exactly, did you do last night?”
“I had a business dinner with Sharon Henderson, my decorator,” Mac answered evenly, stressing the professional relationship for Sharon’s sake. “I was back in my motel room at just after nine o’clock. I watched a Star Trek rerun on cable, caught the late news, then read for an hour or so before going to sleep. Want to know what I dreamed?”
Wade laughed. “Hey, I’m a cop, not a psychiatrist.”
“Just checking.”
The chief left, saying only that he would be seeing Mac around. One hand squeezing the back of his neck, Mac watched him leave.
Damned if he could figure that guy out. He had the distinct feeling that Wade didn’t seriously consider him a suspect in the break-ins, but was generally leery about him, anyway. He would have to be careful not to do anything to further pique the chief’s suspicions, especially when it came to the McBrides. He had a feeling Davenport was extremely protective of his wife, and wouldn’t allow anyone to bother her. No matter what the family connection turned out to be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHARON WAS STILL in her shop ten minutes after closing time on Monday. Tressie had already gone home and Sharon would have followed suit had she not been waiting for her brother. He’d spent the afternoon at a movie with friends who were supposed to have dropped him off twenty minutes ago.
She was beginning to worry. Against her better judgment, she’d given him permission to ride with a sixteen-year-old friend with a driver’s license and a car, a decision she’d been second-guessing all day. She’d probably been swayed by Jerry’s accusations that she was being overprotective of her brother, that she needed to start treating him like a young man rather than a child. And Brad had been on his best behavior for the past few days, which naturally made her more inclined to indulge him occasionally.
She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake.
When the telephone rang, she snatched it up. “Intriguing Interiors.”