by Hinze, Vicki
“Nothing important.” She didn’t meet his gaze.
Though her denial surprised Parker slightly, he held his tongue. Caron had imaged other things. And she’d seen Misty’s bike. But outside Decker’s last night she’d said that without a missing-persons report Sanders wouldn’t believe her, or even attempt to get a warrant to search Decker’s house. Decker could be Misty’s uncle, maybe. Caron had thought they were related when she’d first mentioned him, and without a report, who was to say he wasn’t? Caron could just be imagining Decker meant Misty harm. But, Sanders’s doubt had hurt her; pain had shadowed her eyes. Was that hurt the reason she was withholding information from Sanders now?
Instinctively Parker stepped closer, until the back of her chair brushed against his thighs.
Sanders noticed, and pursed his lips. “I’m still keeping tabs on the reports. So far, nothing’s come in that could be your girl.”
Parker looked over the top of Caron’s head to Sanders’s desk calendar. Several names had been scribbled in, and tons of doodling. John Dryer. A ship. Linda. A star. Marcus Theriot. A question mark. Linda, again. Another star.
“Have you checked with surrounding towns—Metairie, Kenner, Bridge City?” Caron shifted in her seat and absently patted Parker’s hand.
On seeing that, Sanders grimaced. That he didn’t approve was obvious. But what were his specific objections? Parker wondered. Did he fear he would hurt her? Take revenge on her because of Harlan? Sanders should know Parker better. But, Parker admitted, he had put the fear of God into Sanders, warning him against blowing Parker’s cover by telling Caron about his connection to Harlan. And it wasn’t a bluff. If Sanders did tell her, he would think this sweltering shoe box of an office was paradise.
“Caron, look,” Sanders said. “Maybe you should let this one ride. I talked to Dr. Z, and she wants you to call.”
“Not yet. I’ll call when I’ve got a fix on Misty.”
Parker watched them interact. Sanders almost kowtowing. Caron defiant. Was his objection something else? Something darker? Could he be in love with Caron himself?
Parker considered it. Sanders didn’t look at Caron like a father, or even like a fond uncle. He didn’t look lovesick, either. Parker narrowed his eyes. In fact, Sanders didn’t look at Caron at all. Not into her eyes. Now that was an interesting observation.
“And I can’t let this ride. How could I let a child’s life ride?” Seeming more than a little annoyed, Caron jerked a pen from her purse and poised it over a notepad. “What have you learned on Cheramie and Forrester?”
Sandy retrieved his cigar and bit it between his teeth. “Word on the street is that Cheramie’s been doing a little inside-trading. Nothing solid on that. Strictly rumor.” Sandy thumbed through a sheaf of yellow legal sheets. “Forrester’s squeaky-clean.”
“Nothing?”
Parker heard Caron’s surprise. She seemed so sure Forrester was the connection to Decker. Parker’s money had been on Cheramie...until now. Something subliminal in Sanders’s behavior niggled at Parker’s investigator’s instincts. What, Parker couldn’t have said. But this didn’t happen often. And when it did, he sat up and took notice.
Caron stood. “Thanks, Sandy.” Her eyes were shadowed, the skin beneath them dark-circled. She hadn’t slept much last night. “If you hear anything...”
“I’ll call.” Sanders stood and nodded.
Parker had no doubt that Sanders would call. But he had grave doubts about the good detective’s motives for doing so.
The phone at his ear, Parker cracked two eggs into a heated skillet and waited for Fred to answer the phone at Caron’s apartment.
“Chalmers residence.”
Parker smiled. Fred would be formal in a tent. “It’s me. How are things going over there?”
“Ah, good morning, Mr. Simms. The police finished an hour ago, the new locks have been installed, and Helga has just informed me that she requires an additional quarter hour to finish cleaning.”
“Great.” Picturing his petite maid, with her steamroller personality and her gray waffle hair, Parker switched phone ears and arranged the sizzling bacon on a bed of paper towels to drain. “Tell Helga I owe her.”
“Indeed you do, sir. She’s requested a coat.”
“A coat.” Parker salted the eggs. Nothing was simple with Helga. The woman demanded, she didn’t request. “A mink, right?”
“Sable, sir,” Fred said. “Full-length.”
Remembering the blood smeared on Caron’s door, Parker agreed. “Tell her she’s got it.” He’d learned years ago not to barter with Helga. She’d wind up with the fur and diamonds.
He hung up the phone, gave the eggs a final turn, then left the kitchen.
Slinging a dishcloth over his shoulder, he stopped at the foot of the stairs, leaned against the banister and looked up. “Caron.”
No answer. Why didn’t she answer him? “Caron?”
Still no answer.
Maybe she couldn’t answer. That grim thought had him taking the steps two at a time. The dishcloth went flying.
He knocked on her door. “Hey, Caron.”
Muffled sounds came from inside.
Fear fueling his moves, he kicked hard. The wooden door cracked and splintered, then banged open and slammed back against the wall.
Bent double and twisting, she screamed.
“It’s me!” he shouted. “It’s me!”
“God, Parker!” She whirled around, giving him a view of more than her jean-clad backside. “What are you trying to do, scare me to death?”
Feeling like a fool, he muttered. “You didn’t answer.” She couldn’t see. The ribbed neck of her red sweater was twisted around her ears, clinging like a band around her forehead and completely covering all but the crown of her head. The bottom of the sweater was hiked, baring her middle and resting just beneath her breasts. His palms itched to touch her naked skin.
“Has it ever occurred to you to turn the doorknob? Kicking down doors! Geez, Parker!”
Muttering, she gyrated and bumped into the bed, banging her shin. She grunted, and her stomach muscles tightened, then flattened, with the sound. More creamy skin. Very nice.
Hot and cold at once, he folded his arms over his chest, leaned against the doorjamb and narrowed his eyes. She looked like a ticked-off turtle wedged inside its shell. “At the risk of sounding stupid, what’s wrong?”
“My sweater’s stuck.”
“Ahh.” Did she think he hadn’t noticed? He’d have had to be made of stone. And just looking at her vividly reminded him he was one hundred percent flesh-and-blood man.
“On my earring.”
He smiled. “I see.”
“I wish I could,” she growled, twisting herself into the bed again. “Would you mind?”
Chuckling to himself, he walked over to her. She’d just showered; he smelled soap and some soft and sweet-smelling powder that dusted her skin. He edged his fingers into the neck of the sweater. Her skin was as warm as it was silky smooth. He dragged his fingertips down.
“Ouch!” She grabbed at her neckline.
The fabric cut into his hand. “Sorry.”
“Me, too. I could’ve choked to death.”
He hiked his brows. “I’d revive you.”
“I’ll bet you would.”
Something shiny near the sleeve of the sweater caught his eye. Her backside brushed his thigh, and his knees went weak. “Wait. Be still a second. I see the culprit.”
Her backside rested firmly against his thigh. Sweat beaded his brow, and his hand trembled. How could getting a snagged earring out of a woman’s sweater do this to him? He’d had sex without feeling so aroused.
“Okay. Just get it, will you?”
Her voice was none too steady, either. That pleased him. “Patience, Caron.”
“Not one of my best virtues.”
So he’d noticed. He anchored his hand on her bare waist. His fingers automatically kneaded, and warm heat flowed up his
arm and down his middle to his loins. “My hands are too big.” His voice sounded gruff and grainy.
“You’re a large man.” Her flesh quivered under his hand. “But you do have your gentle moments.”
Her skin was soft, as smooth as good Scotch, and even more warming. Desire curled low in his body, and his hands began to shake. Slowly he twisted the shiny silver star through the knit. “Got it.”
“Thank God. I thought I’d be wearing this as a turban for the rest of my days.” She let out a relieved sigh and jerked the sweater down, trapping his hand underneath.
Their thighs brushed, their gazes met, and they stilled.
“You’re caught.”
Afraid she was right, he nodded and lifted the earring in his free hand. She didn’t notice, so fixed was her focus on his eyes. She really was a beautiful woman. Especially fresh from the shower. Worse, she smelled as good as she looked, and her scent had his stomach in knots. Her hair was still damp and wisps curled around her face. He liked that. A lot. Too much, in fact. “Did you mean it, Caron?” He let his fingers drift over her abdomen and up to her ribs.
She sucked in a breath that concaved her tummy. “What?”
“About me being gentle?” There was nothing quite like the feel of her naked skin. Satiny-smooth. Soft. Supple.
She licked her lips. “You have your moments.” Her gaze never left his mouth.
“Thank you.” The urge to kiss her, all sweet and soft and sexy, body-slammed him. What would she do if he did?
“You’re welcome.” She took the earring. “Thank you.”
He stepped closer and cupped her chin in his hand, then rubbed her lobe between his forefinger and thumb. “Your ear’s red.”
“I, uh...I guess I tugged a little too hard.”
Her voice husky, she settled her hand at the waist of his jeans and looked up at him, her eyes that translucent lavender that turned his mind to mush—and his conscience into a prickling itch easily ignored.
Figuring that his odds were fifty-fifty, and that fifty-fifty odds weren’t bad, he took the plunge. Not because he wanted to, but because he had no choice. “Caron—” he leaned closer, and their noses touched “—I want to kiss you.”
She dipped her chin and rubbed her cheek against his jaw. Her breath warmed his chest. “We tried that.” She lowered her lids, but, even as she rejected him, her mouth parted for his. “It didn’t work.”
She was saying no, but her fingers, gently squeezing his waist, were shouting yes. “I want to try again,” he whispered, lifting his hand and tracing the soft hollow of her throat. He let his fingertip trail and brush across her cheek. It flushed a rosy pink. Delicate. Nice. “It wasn’t that bad at Hunt’s,” he reminded her.
“So we’re improving. But kissing now...here...? It, um, wouldn’t be wise.”
She didn’t want him. She wasn’t feeling all of the things her eyes promised him she was feeling. And she was right. Considering their situation, a deeper intimacy wasn’t wise; it was crazy. He wanted this kiss more than he’d wanted anything in a long time, but he’d never push her, or any woman. He let his hand fall to his side.
Caron cocked her head, and worried her lip with her teeth. Her eyes were stormy. “Parker?”
He couldn’t answer. He’d say too much. What had she done to him? How had she gotten inside him like this?
“I’m not Peggy Shores.” Her shell-pink lips curled. “I won’t run out on you.”
She was trembling. It hadn’t been easy for her to lay open her soul for him. But beautifully and bravely she’d done it; she’d stepped toward trust.
Desire seeped and spread through his body, hot and thick. He condemned himself for it, and for wanting her more than he wanted to avenge Harlan’s death. She was beginning to trust him, and he was deceiving her. Bitterness churned in his stomach, and guilt quilted his chest. He had been lying to her since the moment they’d met.
She stepped closer, wrapped her arms around his waist and let them slide over his back to his shoulder blades. “I’m not always wise,” she whispered, rising up on her toes and grazing his mouth with her soft lips.
He balled his hands into fists at his sides. His knees nearly folded. This was a first. They’d kissed before, but only when intensely emotional, or for someone else’s benefit. This time, their kissing was her idea...and just for them.
Unable to resist, he leaned forward and met her mouth with a gentle pressing of lips. She softly sighed. Shudders of pleasure ran rampant through him; she tasted sweet, and as warm and delicious as he’d remembered. Even better; this time she wasn’t holding anything back.
He was lost.
Drifting through the hair at his nape, her fingers gently scraped his scalp. She rested the heel of her hand flat against his shoulder, then squeezed, telling him she wanted more.
He tightened the circle of his arms and drew her closer until they met chest to breasts. She whispered something he didn’t hear, but understood perfectly.
Her parted mouth welcomed, beckoned, lured. Their tongues met in a fury of motion, a warm and wet and joyful union, like flame and log, each feeding on the other. He wanted her. Really wanted her. The need pounded through his veins, swept through his pores. God help him, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman in his life.
She let out a sexy little moan that had him hard and reeling, and then, just as suddenly, ice-cold. What was he doing? He couldn’t make love with Caron, not without telling her the truth. To her, he’d be no better than her father.
Furious with himself, Parker pulled back, angry and bitter that circumstance, not feeling, forced him to stop.
Sensing his withdrawal, Caron stilled. After a long moment, she straightened her sweater and managed to look up as far as his chest. “What happened?”
He heard her confusion, and it left him sick of himself. He shouldn’t have let things get out of hand.
“Hmm?” Grunts were infinitely easier right now than words. He wanted to kiss her again. Just once more; then she’d be out of his system and he could think straight.
Because he was lying to himself now, as well as to her, he scowled.
“Parker?”
The distrust was back in her eyes; she thought he didn’t want her. Her expression, the tense set of her shoulders, the disillusionment in her voice, spoke as clearly as if she’d said the words. It was for the best, he told himself. Still, something heavy and hard blanketed his heart. He hated it; the warmth had felt so good and right. But it hadn’t been. This was right; this leaden emptiness was all he could afford to feel for Caron.
She twitched her nose. Cocking her head, she blinked, then sniffed again. “Do you smell something burning?”
Burning? No, not any— Then what she’d said hit him. “Burning! Damn, that’s your breakfast!” He bolted from her room, then down the hall.
Caron followed him downstairs. Seeing a dishcloth on the landing, she picked it up and draped it over her shoulder. To think that kissing her, a mere semi-normal woman, could have such an effect on a hunk like Parker Simms boggled her mind. It invigorated and dazzled, too—until she remembered that he’d stopped.
Her spirits sank. For a while, she’d thought he wanted her; no man in her life had ever kissed her the way Parker had. But he didn’t. She’d known it an instant before he’d stopped kissing her. Something beautiful had nearly happened between them, but at the last moment, he’d retreated.
Once more she’d opened herself up to a man, and once more she’d been rejected. But this time it was different. Before she’d been disappointed; now she hurt.
Yet she wasn’t despondent. Probably because when Parker had turned cold, she’d sensed his bitterness and his confusion. He was having as hard a time with their chemistry as she was. Maybe Charley keeping Parker at arm’s length, not letting him show his love openly, had been the reason for Parker’s sudden withdrawal. Maybe she’d gotten too close. When they’d kissed, the dazzle had been unlike anything she’d ever befor
e experienced. Being dazzled once in a while, she decided, could do a woman good. A man, too...if he’d let it.
Turning the corner at the foot of the stairs, Caron frowned. Unless she was deluding herself. Maybe Parker hadn’t been dazzled. Maybe he’d pulled back because he just plain didn’t want her. It hurt to admit it, but from the start he hadn’t liked her. Oh, they’d warmed to each other since then. But that didn’t mean that Parker felt anything more for her than lust. And maybe for him lust was short-lived, a fleeting thing.
She pondered on the matter all the way down the hall and paused at the kitchen door. By then the truth had settled. She’d let him into her heart, but Parker hadn’t let her into his. He didn’t want her. The truth was as simple and as awful as that.
In the kitchen, the smoke was thick. Caron waded through it, her eyes tearing and her throat burning, and opened the back door. A warm wind whipped into the house, filling it with fresh air.
Parker was at the sink, drowning what was left of what had been...What had it been? “Parker?”
“What?”
From his tone, he wasn’t ready just yet to be civil. He was angry with himself for burning breakfast...and for wanting to kiss her. She could hear him mumbling, but she knew that the rambling, disjointed comments she was hearing weren’t being spoken; she was hearing his thoughts.
Excited by this rare glimpse inside him, she stood very still. But when he looked down at her, what she sensed was pain. Desire was there, yes, so was confusion and...and something else. But, first and foremost, she sensed pain.
Busying herself, she located the cups on the second try, poured herself a cup of what smelled like—and she prayed was—coffee, then rummaged through the fridge and scarfed up a fried chicken leg.
Munching, she sat down at the oak table. The chair rocked on the tile. Parker was scrubbing the skillet, his back to her. Caron chewed slowly, enjoying the view. He had great shoulders. Really great shoulders. She swallowed and took another bite. How would they feel, bare against her hands?
That she’d never know had her sinking into the depths of despair. She shifted on her seat and lifted her mug. Inhaling the steam, she tuned in on Parker.