Don't Tell

by Karen Rose

  “It was always a dream of mine to finish one without a heart attack,” Steven quipped and Ross chuckled and gently pushed her door closed.

  “Have a seat, Special Agent Thatcher. Thank you for coming.”

  Steven folded his body into a straight-backed chair as she lowered herself into her padded one. He slipped out the folder Lennie had provided from his briefcase. “I read the file. Not a whole lot of information.”

  Ross frowned and pulled on a pair of glasses. She unlocked a drawer next to her knee and withdrew a gray envelope. “No, there’s not a whole lot here, either.” She glanced at Steven, a mild frown scrunching her brows. “I have some photos and a few transcribed witness accounts. I know there was more.”

  Steven tilted his head back, returning her frown. “You were on the case seven years ago?”

  “No, but I remember hearing about it. I was working undercover at the time. Narcotics.”

  So she was tough. “Not an attractive assignment even in a town the size of Asheville.”

  Ross slipped the glasses from her face, set them on her desk and massaged the bridge of her nose. “No, no it wasn’t. At any rate, I wasn’t physically here in the precinct every day, so I don’t have a very detailed memory of what happened. But there was more.”

  Steven settled in the hard chair, resting one ankle on the opposite knee, watching her all the while. “Why did you call in the SBI, Lieutenant Ross?”

  Ross returned his gaze. Steadily. “I’ve always had a … gut feeling about Winters, Agent Thatcher. He … bothers me. I don’t know if it’s warranted or merely my very human reaction to the fact Winters disrespects me daily. I wrote him up for insubordination six months ago.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  Ross pushed herself to her feet. Turning, she fixed her gaze on the budding trees outside her window. “It wasn’t easy becoming a black woman lieutenant.”

  “I guess not,” Steven murmured, a little surprised to hear Ross express herself so candidly.

  “Let’s just say Detective Winters called my methods for advancement as well as my commitment to the sanctity of my marriage vows into question.”

  “Unwise,” Steven remarked, paying close attention to the rigid line of her spine.

  “To my face in front of my men,” Ross said softly.

  “Unwise and stupid.”

  Ross turned from the window, her face set in a determined line. “He publicly challenged my authority. His reprimand was equally public. Everybody here knows that. I want justice for Mary Grace Winters and her son. If Winters has involvement, I want to know that, too. But I also want to be very sure this investigation is conducted in a way that maintains Winters’s civil rights and the credibility of this office. This assignment will not be pretty, Agent Thatcher.”

  “I didn’t expect it would be, Lieutenant.”

  “Many of my men will treat you with derision and disrespect.”

  “Like Ben Jolley?”

  A rueful smile bent one corner of her mouth. “You’ve met him, I take it.”

  Steven rose to his feet, placed both hands on her very cluttered desk and leaned forward, directly meeting her troubled brown eyes. “I’m not here to win a popularity contest, Lieutenant. I’m here to get to the bottom of what happened to that woman and her child seven years ago.” He let his eyes soften. “So let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

  Chicago

  Tuesday, March 6

  11:15 A.M.

  Max hurried from class, as fast as he was able. He’d thought those young women would never leave. All giggles and coy smiles. But that’s the way they always were until they got a good look at the cane, until they watched him struggle to cross the room while leaning on the damn thing. He didn’t know why he’d remained sitting behind his desk, cane out of sight until the girls walked away. He supposed it was some kind of residual ego, one that still hoped he could make a sexy woman turn her head.

  He’d turned their heads all right, he thought, disgust washing through him. He’d turned Caroline’s head, too, completely around as she headed for the door. She’d waited for him to finish trading meaningless small talk with the young things, her expressive eyes growing more and more hurt by the moment until finally she’d turned and left the room. And he’d let her go without a word. He shook his head, angry with himself. David was right. I really am a self-pitying sonofabitch, he thought as the door to the outer department office finally came into view. Puffing a bit from the exertion, he pulled the outer office door open, words of apology on his lips.

  Her desk was empty.

  She wasn’t there. Wasn’t waiting for him. His mind finished the thought, mocking him. He’d expected her to be eagerly waiting for his glorious return. God, I’m such a pompous dick, he thought, self-disgust rising another notch. Caroline’s life didn’t revolve around him, even if his thoughts had revolved around her since the moment he’d walked into this office twenty-four hours before.

  And therein lay the rub. He wanted a woman, the right woman, to revolve her life around him, or at least he wanted to be the center of her thoughts. Of her heart. He’d wanted to be the center of a woman’s heart for a long time. It was no deeply hidden secret, at least from himself. He wanted someone to care for him, to listen to him. To look at him with unmitigated desire in her eyes. Even after she’d seen his cane.

  And his scars.

  Max took the few steps from the outer door to Caroline’s desk and absently picked up her pen. Her scent lingered here, light and … female. Pretty. She’d seen his cane and it hadn’t bothered her. He could tell that right away. Instinctively he knew a woman like Caroline wouldn’t shy away from imperfection. At least he wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe it very much.

  He gently put Caroline’s pen back on her desk, glancing at her neat piles and to-do lists.

  With a list that long, she couldn’t afford to be away from her desk for very long. She’d be back soon enough and he’d apologize to her straightaway. For now, he had his own work to do.

  He put thoughts of his apology out of his head, filling it instead with plans for his afternoon class. Constitutional Monarchy had gone well this morning, the graduate students attentive and interactive. But this afternoon he’d have a group of freshmen that took his class because the college required an elective. Most would be gum-snapping kids, still buying pimple cream by the case. Most would be bored out of their skulls. It would be a challenge to hold their attention. He loved a challenge. He loved it when kids focused in on his story and he knew he had them in full thrall. The afternoon course was devoted to the American Civil War. The challenge was to come up with a tale that rivaled the blood and gore of Hollywood. He had the perfect one.

  Max opened the door to his office. And stopped. Abruptly.

  All thoughts of gruesome battlefield amputations, hacksaws, biting sticks and bottles of cheap whiskey vaporized in an instant.

  His eyes widened.

  His mouth went dry.

  His throat closed.

  His heart exploded.

  Oh my God. The words formed soundlessly on lips that felt like limp rubber.

  Caroline knelt on the floor, looking into a box. Her rear end pointed straight up at him, rounded and perfect. Perfectly shaped, the perfect size for his hands to cover. He closed his hands into fists against the rush of lust that roared through his body. There on her knees … Every sweaty fantasy from the night before flashed before his eyes. Every little whimper, every little moan she’d made in his dreams filled his ears.

  He shouldn’t be looking. Shouldn’t be staring. Shouldn’t be fantasizing about her sprawled naked in his bed, looking up at him with blue eyes glazed over with passion, begging … Oh, God. The things she’d begged for in his dreams …

  He swallowed hard, trying to hydrate his mouth that was drier than the Mohabi desert. She shifted as she sorted deeper in the box, her shoulders going one way, her round rear the other, straining that sexy black dress across her cu
rves. He swallowed again. A decent man would avert his eyes, he thought. Apparently he wasn’t a decent man. No, not a decent man at all. He was so hard he hurt. Wincing, he took a single step forward, his feet piloted by the brain that now throbbed in his pants.

  Her body tensed slightly, her dark head lifting as she sensed his presence.

  Caroline was startled out of her woolgathering when she heard the slight sound, a shuffle across the carpet just as the scent of his cologne reached her nose. She looked over her shoulder to see the shiny black surface of Max Hunter’s shoes directly behind her.

  She drew a tight breath. He was back. The room felt smaller just knowing he was in it.

  “You’re back,” she said quietly, not looking any higher than his shoes. “Your supplies are here. If you can give me a few minutes I’ll set up your supply drawer.” Just go away, she thought, anger beginning to simmer inside. Don’t make me see that I’m nothing special.

  The shiny shoes didn’t move an inch.

  Caroline sighed, letting her shoulders sag. What did it matter anyway? Don’t even think about it, she chided herself. Don’t even think about picket fences and black-haired babies and “honey, I’m home”s. Just … just don’t. Those things weren’t for her. “I made some coffee out by my desk. Help yourself.”

  He said nothing, made no attempt to answer. But she could feel him. An energy that sensitized her skin, made the little hairs on her arms stand on end. Using the corners of the box as leverage, she pushed herself to her feet, turning to face him in one movement.

  And stopped. Abruptly. He stood close, staring at her, his face hard and dark, a muscle twitching spasmodically in his cheek, one hand fisted at his side. The hand that clutched his cane was fisted so tightly his knuckles were bright white. Her eyes dropped to his hands as they opened, stretched taut for an instant, then pulled back into fists.

  He had big hands.

  Big fists.

  She felt a familiar panic insert itself inside her, deep down where she couldn’t fight it, couldn’t quell it, couldn’t make it go away. She tried to draw air into her lungs, but the air was too thick. Her feet were leaden, the carpet molasses. Even as her mind told her this wasn’t Rob, that this was Max Hunter, her boss, even as she knew she was no longer in North Carolina but in Chicago, safe from Rob’s fists, even as she knew she was no longer timid, frightened, mousy Mary Grace, her feet moved back a step. By sheer force of will, she dragged her eyes from Max’s fists to his face. His eyes were hard, glittering. He was angry, unspeakably so.

  Silently she racked her mind for the reason for his sudden anger, what she could have possibly done to have brought it on, trying to think of the right words to say to make his face soften, to make his fists relax. To make him go away.

  But she couldn’t think of the words to say, so she helplessly watched him, her heart beating in her breast like the wings of a trapped sparrow. He didn’t go away. Instead, he took a giant step forward and then, as if in slow motion, his free hand opened from its fist and rose to her face.

  She flinched, wrenching away so hard she stumbled backward, stifling an alarmed cry as the sharp edge of the box dug into her calf and her feet lost purchase with the carpeted floor. And just that fast his hands were on her, hard around her upper arms, lifting her back to her feet, letting go when she was steady again.

  She opened her eyes, only vaguely surprised she’d clenched them shut. He was too close, the shiny tips of his shoes less than an inch from hers. His cane lay on the carpet at an angle where he’d dropped it to keep her from falling. For a brief moment she saw herself grabbing it, using it to protect herself.

  But then he spoke, his voice sharp with concern. “Caroline, are you all right?”

  She lifted her eyes, slowly, praying the anger would be gone. Her breath caught in her throat. The anger was indeed gone, replaced by a gentleness that was unexpected.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was softer now. His hands were poised at her shoulders, a fraction of an inch from touching her. But he didn’t touch. He didn’t grab. Didn’t bruise. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right?”

  She nodded, unable to force the words past the residual lump of fear in her throat.

  His brows snapped together, giving him a look of instant authority. “Then say something. You’re scaring me.”

  Caroline cleared her throat. It hurt, her throat. Her body hurt, especially her back, from tensing her muscles. Becoming too tense always gave her backaches, courtesy of her injury so many years before. Nine years, to be exact.

  Nine years. She lifted her chin, willing the fear to recede, willing her muscles to relax. Nine years had passed since he’d pushed her down the stairs. Seven years since she’d made her escape. Seven years of being afraid, of looking over her shoulder. Of taking a step back every time someone reached to touch.

  How long would she allow him to affect her life? Him. She made herself think his name. Rob Winters. An evil sonofabitch that got his kicks from terrorizing those weaker than himself. Years of Dana’s coaching came flooding into her mind and something, some nugget of wisdom finally clicked. He—No, Caroline ordered herself, say his name. Rob Winters. Rob Winters can’t hurt you anymore. Rob was gone. Mary Grace was gone. Caroline was here. I’m here to stay, she thought.

  So stay, Caroline. Stop running away.

  She was still running away. Not from places anymore, but from people. How long would she allow Rob Winters to keep her isolated from other human beings?

  It had to stop. Today.

  Now.

  She could make it stop. Herself. Today. There was power in that knowledge. Power and a sudden surge of elation, dizzying in its intensity. It was thrilling, electrifying. It was—

  Reality invaded her thoughts, jerking her back when Max snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Caroline, say something now or I’m calling the school nurse. You’re as white as a sheet.”

  Caroline inwardly cringed, embarrassment rushing in to push aside the thrill of being the master of her own destiny. Reality loomed before her, six-and-a-half feet of gorgeous male sex appeal who was currently looking at her as if she’d lost every crayon in the box.

  “I’m all right,” she managed, then drew a deep breath. “I’m fine.” And she would be. Later. Taking a mental stand didn’t mean she instantly became Wonder Woman or Dr. Laura, she realized. She needed to be alone, someplace where she could process the events of the last ten minutes and let the after-shock trembles come in private. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually do things like that.” She sidestepped the supply box on the floor. “I’ll just get out of your way.”

  “Caroline, wait. Sit down.”

  She opened her mouth to protest as he pushed her into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  “Just be still for a minute.” He slowly went down on one knee, reaching sideways to grab his cane then pushed himself to his feet to stand by her chair, the look of concern still on his face. He touched his hand lightly to her forehead. “Are you feeling all right? You’re so pale. If you’re sick, you should be home in bed.”

  She wanted to sink through the floor. “I’m fine.”

  He pursed his lips. “Yeah, right.” He sounded wholly unconvinced. “Your color’s just now coming back. Is there somebody I should call?”

  She shook her head. “No. Really, I just need some air.” And a hole to crawl into, she thought.

  “Then come with me. We’ll take a walk outside.” He held out his arm, his expression still worried.

  “I’m really—”

  “Fine. I heard you. I just don’t believe you.” His mouth bent down in a mild frown. “Stand up if you can.”

  Temper rolled in, displacing the embarrassment. She blew out an annoyed sigh. “Dr. Hunter, please. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  He took a step back and shrugged. “Fine. Suit yourself. I was just trying to help.”

  Caroline stood, testing her balance. It had never been quite the
same since her accident. The room tilted, then righted itself. “And I appreciate it. Truly.” She looked up to find his jaw hardened and his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he half-sat on the edge of his desk.

  His eyes were focused full on her face, his mouth still frowning. “You’re dizzy.”

  Caroline forced a smile. “And I’m not even a blonde.” Thanks to Clairol, that much was true.

  “This isn’t funny, Caroline.” Max stepped forward and took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up. “Your pupils look okay.”

  She swallowed audibly. Just his hand on her face was sending little shivers down her body. “Are you a doctor of medicine now, Dr. Hunter?”

  One side of his mouth quirked up. “No, just spent enough time in hospitals to know the drill.” His mouth went serious again. His eyes were still on her face, still searching. Caroline felt as if she were being inspected. Then, as he continued his silent perusal, she felt suspended in mid-air, on the edge of something new. Her chest tightened. Her breasts tingled. His eyes were becoming increasingly more intense, just as he’d looked when he first came into the room. When he’d been angry. But he wasn’t angry now. Had he been angry then? Now she wasn’t so sure.

  He was still staring, his fingers still holding her chin.

  “What?” She’d intended it to come out sassy and sarcastic. Instead, the single word emerged sounding husky. Breathy. Sexy? God. She didn’t know her voice could do that. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, thoughtfully. His grip on her face loosened, but his hand stayed where it was, his forefinger curving under to cradle her chin.

  “You have incredible eyes,” he murmured.

  Her eyes widened. His remained locked on hers. Lord. No, he hadn’t been angry before. It was all quite clear now. The hard expression, the flashing eyes, the clenched fists. No, that wasn’t anger. It was a sudden escalation of those heated looks from the day before.

  She swallowed audibly again, feeling herself slipping down a dangerous slope. She wasn’t afraid of him now. No, definitely not afraid. But there was a big difference between not being afraid of him and succumbing to the look in those gray eyes. That was a line she shouldn’t cross. Really shouldn’t cross. A line she’d be truly unwise to even approach.