“And,” he drawled, leaning closer, until they were eye to eye. “I’d sooner go to bed with that cottonmouth than you.”
“Is your little virgin doctor keeping you satisfied, then?” Maribeth asked in a brittle voice.
He straightened slowly, crossing his arms over his naked chest. Jeans rode low over his hips, and his hair was still damp from the shower he had just finished after putting Mariah to bed. “I don’t even want you saying her name, Maribeth. You got that?”
“Sweet Saint Anne-Marie,” she cooed, batting lashes thick with mascara. “You and Alex always called her that. Sweet, little girl never got in any trouble at all. Are you having fun corrupting her?”
The sound of a powerful engine drawing close cut off his answer. They both turned to watch the fire-engine red convertible fly around the corner. Top down, her long black hair blowing around her face, Jazz saw the exact moment Anne-Marie recognized Maribeth.
Maribeth didn’t move from her spot and Jazz gritted his teeth, braced for whatever trouble she planned to bring.
“Maribeth,” Anne-Marie said in way of greeting as she climbed out of the car. She paused to grab a bag from the backseat and then slammed the door, walking towards Jazz with a smile. “Car trouble?”
Anne-Marie, her face scrubbed clean and devoid of any makeup, wore a pair of white capris and a blue and white striped shirt. She looked every inch the young, rich girl that Maribeth had always hated. A gold chain gleamed at her neck and discreet diamonds glittered at her ears and on the ring finger of her right hand.
“I was just stopping by to chat with an old friend,” Maribeth said, smiling brilliantly at Jazz.
“And who would that be?” Anne asked, arching an eyebrow at her. “I didn’t know anybody lived here besides Jazz.”
Narrowing her eyes, she glared at Anne-Marie as the young doctor mounted the steps, black leather bag in hand. Jazz left the doorway to meet her, taking the case from her as he lowered his head to brush her lips with his, ignoring Maribeth for the moment.
It was true, Maribeth realized with disgust. They were together, and in every sense of the word, from the looks of it. Why her? Sweet Saint Anne-Marie. She fought down the venom brewing in her throat.
“Why, Doc Kincaid, me and Jazz have been…friends a long time,” Maribeth finally drawled, sliding Jazz a suggestive glance. “Why, I lost track of how many times we would all go skinny-dipping at the quarry when we were younger. God, that water was always so cold, remember, sugar? But then you and Alex always knew how to get us warm again, didn’t you?”
Jazz opened his mouth to speak but a low chuckle cut him off. He turned his head to see Anne-Marie rolling her eyes. “Alex may have been naive enough not to see right through you, but Jazz knew better.”
Linking her hand with his, she eyed Maribeth with something akin to pity in her eyes. “Fantasize about your youth all you want, Maribeth. And about him now, if you must. Because that’s the closest you’ll ever get to him.”
Maribeth smoothed her tousled hair back. “Why fantasize when I have memories?”
“What memories?” Jazz asked.
Anne-Marie merely stared at Maribeth as she slinked forward. Scared little mouse, Maribeth thought to herself as Anne-Marie continued to watch from eyes the color of the summer grass. Maribeth had to wear contacts to keep her eyes the pale green of her youth. Without them, they were simply hazel.
Testing her, Maribeth reached out and laid a hand on Jazz’s chest. “You just let me know when you want to…talk old times.” Smooth, hot skin and muscles rippled under her touch. Held in place by Anne’s arm behind his back, Jazz reached up to knock Maribeth’s hand away.
But a smaller, paler hand closed over Maribeth’s wrist, thumb pressing just against the nerve, small, surprisingly strong fingers grinding the fragile bones into one another. “Just because I let one man I loved touch you doesn’t mean I’ll let another,” Anne-Marie said quietly, moving away from Jazz and stepping closer to Maribeth until she was glaring up at the woman who stood three inches taller.
She wasn’t able to see the way his eyes widened, his lips parted when he heard her. Nor did she see the way he blanked his features after his gut told him, Of course she loves you. She always has, just not the way you love her.
“He’s got better sense than that, but I’ll warn you anyway. I’ll destroy you if you so much as breathe on him, Maribeth,” Anne-Marie promised, contempt dripping from her cool voice. “And I mean that. You destroyed Alex. You won’t hurt anybody else I love.”
“Destroyed Alex? Whatever do you mean?” Maribeth asked, forcing a gay note into her voice. “We were high school sweethearts that drifted apart. Of course, I always meant for us to drift back again.”
“Come off it. I know about the baby and the abortion,” Anne-Marie said flatly.
Maribeth paled beneath her sun-lamp tan and her eyes went wide. Mouth twisting with hate, she snapped, “Then you know that it’s Alex’s fault the baby died.” The baby she heard crying at night. “Let me go!”
Alex’s fault. Alex’s fault, she chanted silently to herself. Maybe if she said it enough, she would begin to believe it and those cries in the night would disappear.
Anne-Marie was no shrink, but she knew enough to recognize guilt. She threw Maribeth’s hand down, away from her as if the other woman had the plague. Staring into those tormented eyes, Anne-Marie realized, they haunted Maribeth. Alex and the baby. “No. It’s your fault. I knew you were pregnant and when you didn’t start showing, I figured out what happened. Dad confirmed it.
“I’m no fool, Maribeth. I can put two and two together. The way I figure, Alex had gone out to your house that night to talk about raising the baby, him and Dad. They were going to give you money, that I know. But you had already decided: no ring, no baby.
“Alex was upset and he went to his best friend, who happened to be across the street with his girl, Sandy. What upset him, Maribeth? You aborting that baby? Whose fault was it that he was upset? Upset enough he wanted to go and get drunk?” Anne-Marie asked.
“Damn it, he forced me to get an abortion.” She had to force her lids open wide just to keep the tears from coming.
“Don’t bother lying, Maribeth,” Anne-Marie said dispassionately.
“You whey-faced, little bitch,” Maribeth screeched. “Don’t call me a liar.” Reaching out, she placed her hand in the center of Anne-Marie’s chest, muscles bunched, ready to knock the smaller woman down on her butt and stomp on her.
In a blur of movement, Anne-Marie caught Maribeth’s hand, twisted, applied pressure at the wrist, and before Jazz could even shove off the doorframe, Anne-Marie had Maribeth pinned to the side of the house, arm twisted behind her back, shoved high between the shoulder blades. “I’d think twice before raising your hand to me, Maribeth.”
Her brow throbbed from where it had smacked into the side of the house and her shoulder and arm were screaming with pain. Struggling, she learned quickly, was futile, causing pain to dance through her arm in hot, fiery licks. Under the vice-like grip of that small hand, Maribeth whimpered slightly. “Let me go,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
“You killed my brother, Maribeth. You couldn’t be any more to blame than if you had been driving yourself.” Throwing her wrist down, Anne-Marie stepped back. “And you know that. So you go live with it. That’s punishment enough, I guess. Seeing how miserable you’ve made yourself.”
Turning, her shoulders braced against the smooth, painted wood of the house, Maribeth glared at Anne-Marie. “He won’t be happy with you long, little girl. Sooner or later, even virgins lose their appeal. And then, don’t be surprised when he comes to me.”
Tilting her head, meeting those eyes with amusement, Anne-Marie said, “If he came sniffing after a bitch like you, then I would want nothing to do with him. You think I’d let him come to me after touching you?”
“What makes you think he’d want you after he had me?” Maribeth straightened and threw her shoul
ders back, hip cocked out. Confidence and pure sexuality all but radiated off her.
Anne-Marie stared at Maribeth. “After having me, why in hell would he come to you?” Anne-Marie asked, laughing, the ageless knowledge of woman gleaming in her eyes.
With that, she held out her hand to Jazz and asked, “I was hoping to get invited to a sleepover.”
He accepted her hand, turning his back on Maribeth as he led Anne-Marie like she was royalty. With his hand at the small of her back, he guided her across the threshold. Looking back, he met Maribeth’s angry eyes. “She always did outclass you, didn’t she? Right from the start.”
Outclass me?
The bitch, Maribeth thought as she sped down the highway, angry tears streaming down her face, smearing her makeup. “God, I hate her,” she whispered. “And him. Both of them.”
“This is all your fault, Alex,” she muttered. “If you hadn’t gone and died…”
Why couldn’t he have just married her? All she had ever wanted was to take it easy, not have to struggle. He wouldn’t have to be faithful or anything. God knows Maribeth never had any intentions of sharing her bed with only one man the rest of her life.
Dashing at the tears with the back of her hand, she never even saw the car in the middle of the road, until it was too late. And then, she only had time to scream before she hit the Buick head on, going sixty-nine miles an hour.
Chapter Nine
Marlie Jo Muldoon stood at the door of the sheriff’s office, nibbling nervously at her lip. What was I thinking? she wondered, glancing down at the deep blue slip dress she wore. Her one good dress, saved for funerals and weddings, and she was wearing it to make an official statement to the police.
“Too late now,” she whispered, closing her eyes and praying for courage. Then she stepped across the threshold and smiled at Darla Munroe.
The clerk darted a glance over her shoulder before beckoning to Marlie. “Did you hear?” she asked in a hushed tone, her eyes wide, shock still lingering there.
“Hear what?”
“Maribeth Park got herself killed last night,” Darla whispered, casting another glance over her shoulder. “Was hightailing it down one-sixty and smashed right into Miss Ella’s Buick. Her car had stalled and she was going to get Jazz to help her move it out of the road. She was half way through the woods when she heard the crash.”
“Maribeth crashed into Miss Ella’s car?” Marlie repeated dumbly. “What on earth was she doing out that way? Jazz is the only person who lives there.”
“I reckon she was out to see him. I thought, well, you know,” Darla finished in a muffled whisper. Sometimes it seemed Briarwood hadn’t yet made it into the twenty-first century. Most of the town still considered improper to speak of such things in front of a young unmarried woman.
Rolling her eyes at Darla, Marlie shook her head. “No way. Not Jazz. He was always too smart for her. Not that she didn’t try.”
Casting the small, quiet woman a glance, Darla asked, “What do you know about it? You are years younger than Jazz.”
“Only five years younger.” Raising one naked shoulder in a shrug, Marlie said, “I just hear things.” She shifted nervously from one foot to the other, twisting her hands. “Maybe I should do this later. I imagine Miss Ella is a mess.”
“Tate’s done got her calmed down, as much as you can expect anyway. You know how he is,” Darla murmured, seating herself before her boss himself showed in the doorway.
Yes. She did know. He patted, soothed, stroked. Teased or ordered, whatever it took to calm a woman down, Tate could do it. He had a way with women and always had. It was probably handy in his line of work, being able to handle people the way he did.
Marlie imagined the opposite was also true—he could calm a woman down, but then he could heat her right back up. Shoot, he managed to work her up just by breathing the same air she did.
“Marlie.”
She turned slowly, goosebumps racing down her bare arms as she met her brother’s chilly gaze. “Larry,” she said by way of greeting.
“Girl, what are you doing prancing around town wearing a getup like that?” he asked, puffing his chest out and hooking his thumbs in his belt.
She glanced down at her dress. Though the spaghetti straps were all that held it up, the neckline was modest and the hem fell nearly to her ankles. “I don’t think there is anything wrong with the dress,” she said, averting her eyes, a faint flush staining her cheeks.
Had she actually come here hoping to make Tate notice her? she thought miserably as her brother degraded her for dressing like a tramp. With kin like this, it was a miracle decent folk even wanted to be in the same room with her.
“You get on home and change out of that dress,” Larry ordered.
She raised her eyes, straightened her shoulders. In her mind, she heard Tate from the previous night, saying, You’re not like them, Marlie. Then, by God, she had better prove it. “No.”
He was already turning away. “What did you say?” he asked incredulously.
“I said no,” she repeated, stronger this time.
“Girl, you best do what you’re told.”
“Deputy, I didn’t realize her attire was any concern of yours.” Tate stepped across the threshold of the file room and approached the desk. Taking in Marlie’s appearance with just a slight widening of his eyes and a faint grin of appreciation, he turned his attention to the man across the counter. “I think she looks right nice myself. But she’s a grown woman and she doesn’t have to please anybody but herself.”
Marlie turned her face aside, a heavy curtain of pale blonde silk shutting out the rest of the world as she wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Why did he have to come out now? Why not after she had already finished her piece with Larry?
“I believe this matter is between me and my sister, Sheriff McNeil,” Larry drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and meeting the sheriff’s gaze.
Tate stepped closer to the chest-high counter, propping his elbows on it, cocking his head as he studied Marlie. He decided that Marlie’s eyes would match the deep blue of her dress when angered. Or aroused. “She’s over eighteen, a self-supporting woman.” He leaned back against the desk and crossed his legs at the ankle. “So I don’t rightly see how it concerns you.”
“She looks like a tramp. No sister of mine is gonna go around looking like that,” he snapped, poking an index finger towards Marlie. He looked away from Tate, narrowed his milky blue eyes at his sister and said, “You git on home and change, girl.”
A woman, however meek and mild she may be, could only take so much. After years of abuse, both mental and physical, years of depression, years of neglect, Marlene Jo Muldoon had just about had enough.
Marlie had never been kissed by a man. Because no good man would even approach a woman with the last name Muldoon, not in this county. She shied away from any men that were cronies or cohorts of her notorious family.
And he had the nerve to call her a tramp.
Her eyes narrowed, went dark with anger and humiliation. “Why don’t you make me, big brother?” she said, her voice low and tight. A tramp?
The words died in his throat as Tate opened his mouth to send Larry scurrying back to his hole. He had been right, he realized. The soft, dreamy, dark blue of her eyes had turned to a vivid, deep, bluish purple, large and dark in her pale face. Flags of color flew high on her cheeks and the pulse at her neck beat rapidly.
Blood drained from his head straight down to pool in his groin, making speech impossible. Seized by an insane urge to grab her and bury his face against that smooth, slim neck, to taste the skin where that pulse beat so wildly, Tate stood frozen to the spot.
God help me, he thought. Tate had wanted her his whole life, it seemed. But he had never wanted her more than he did at the moment as she stood glaring at her brother, face bright with indignation and anger, blue fire snapping in her eyes.
Marlie said, louder this time, “I look no more
like a tramp than you look like an officer of the law.” Her gaze ran derisively over him; over his starched uniform, before rising back to his eyes. “Who on earth was fool enough to give you a badge, anyway?”
Larry’s mouth fell open and finally, he rasped out, “You watch your mouth, girl, else I’ll watch it for you.”
Tossing her head back, she sneered, “What, like Daddy did? With the back of your hand and a cigarette? You’re just like him, too cowardly to fight somebody who isn’t weaker than you. God forgive me, you’re even worse than he is. You’re too much a coward to do a damned thing without that gun at your side. Tell me something, Larry, when you go to bed with a woman, do you have to wear your gun just to feel like a man?”
How many times have I backed down? Marlie wondered, furious. She glared at Larry while he stared at her, shock and fury in his eyes. How many times did I turn away, or ignore him, or give in? Too many. Quivering with the rage she had suppressed for years, she whispered, “You don’t own me. I don’t owe you anything, not my love, not my respect, and certainly not my obedience.”
“Girl, you’ll do what I say,” he roared, his hand flying out and catching hold of her upper arm.
The strength in that hand was surprising. But Marlie hardly took notice as an odd heat engulfed her entire body.
Tate had one hand on the station desk and was leaping over it when it happened. By the time his feet touched the black and white tiled floor, Deputy Lawrence K. Muldoon was already lying flat on his back, blood spewing from his split lip, running down his face to pool on the smooth tile of the floor beneath him.
For the second time in a matter of weeks, he’d been knocked flat on his ass by a woman who barely reached his chin.
For the Love of Jazz Page 14