by Adrianne Lee
“No, he left the same day and time as you. As far as I know, no one’s heard from him since.”
“No one?” She frowned. “Are you sure?”
He scrubbed his jaw. “I haven’t asked about him, you know?”
“But we must,” Laura insisted. “Right away.”
“Why?” He scowled, his old jealousy of Cullen lingering like the foul odor of spilled whiskey in oak planking.
“Why?” She gaped at him. “The Crockers are tight-knit If we’d run off as you thought, Cullen would have brought his ‘new bride’ home to their loving fold months ago. At the very least, he’d have contacted the family. In this day and age—even in a town the size of Riverdell—gossip would soon die. It certainly wouldn’t result in permanent banishment.”
Jake sank to the bar stool she’d abandoned. She was right. This made sense in ways he hadn’t considered. If he hadn’t been so hell-bent on hatred, he’d have realized it himself. Sooner. “Maybe he’s turned up and Kim didn’t want to tell me.”
“I think we should call his brother Travis and ask him if Cullen has ever contacted the family.”
He looked at her, their eyes locking for a long moment. Finally he nodded.
Hope took seed in Laura’s heart. “Then you believe me?”
“Well, someone planted a bomb in that Corvette. Someone who was either after you or Sunny Devlin.”
The mention of Sunny Devlin startled her. Then she recalled he’d gotten into the Corvette. Of course he’d checked the registration. Once a cop…“Why would anyone be after Sunny Devlin?”
He shrugged. “Private detectives get in all kinds of situations with all types of bad guys. Maybe she did.”
“Private detectives?” Laura’s eyes widened. “Sunny was a P.I.?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“I thought you’d hired her to find me.”
“No.”
“Then how did you come by her car?” He frowned, as though something had just occurred to him. “Did you say was a P.I.—as in past tense? Why isn’t she one any longer?”
Laura swallowed hard as the memories of her burning beach house filled her head and tears stung her eyes. “He killed her.”
Chapter Seven
“He killed her.” The dull throb at Laura’s temples mounted quickly as repugnant memories swam through her mind. She’d managed somehow the past two days to stifle the image of her burning beach house, the sickening stench of fire-ravaged wood, melting metal. And the god-awful horror of Sunny Devlin’s fate. She shuddered.
The room spun. Laura reached for the counter to steady herself. Her hand collided with her drink. The glass skidded toward Jake. Its contents flew at Laura, ice cubes and all.
“Aw!” She gasped, lurching back as the cold liquid hit. It scattered her repulsive reverie, splattered her face and drenched her borrowed clothing, melding the fatigued fabric to her breasts, her tummy, her legs.
Jake leaped for the glass as it flew off the edge of the bar, hung airborne for a split second, then pitched for the floor. He bobbled it, bouncing it on his palms like a ball in a juggler’s act, then he landed on the floor in a sprawled heap, catching the glass an inch before it struck the tile. “Whew!”
He gazed up at her, triumph on his face. Then he seemed to realize that 7UP and orange juice dripped from her nose, her chin, matted the worn scrubs she wore, flecked the tips of her pointed pumps. A smile tugged at his mouth and she knew he wanted to laugh.
Laura couldn’t contain her own giggle; it ripped free, one high hysterical peel, then another and another, until Jake began to snicker, then chuckle, then guffaw. For two full minutes, their uncontrolled laughter echoed through his kitchen, as it had once echoed through his mother’s, often, and long, long ago.
Holding her sides, Laura said, “Remember when we spilled the jar of popcorn?”
Jake chortled. “You thought the lid was on tight and pretended to throw it at me.”
“And kernels flew across the room.” Like two hundred BBs skittering into every pristine corner of Ruthanne Wilder’s farm-sized kitchen. They’d been twelve, and Laura was so embarrassed she’d wanted the floor to open and pull her in; she’d wanted to cry. She wanted to cry now. In fact, that last giggle sounded more like a sob than laughter. She drew a ragged, sniffly breath, worried that if she gave in to the tears burning her eyes, she might never stop.
Jake’s smile fell. He struggled to his feet, his expression sobering as if he’d just recalled where he was, who he was laughing with. The tension that had, for a brief moment disappeared, rose between them like a plate-glass wall.
Laura shivered, uncertain what she feared most from this man. His distance? Or his closeness? He made no move toward her after setting the glass on the bar. But his gaze rolled impertinently over her from head to toe, giving new life to the sensuous feelings roused during their encounter in the garage.
She ran her tongue over her mouth, tasting orange juice, and a teeny flavor that was all Jake. She swallowed hard, willing that thought away. But it refused to go, and she felt desire stirring inside her, answering the silent call in his darkening eyes.
She shivered again, aware for the first time that her wet top outlined her nipples, which stood hard and sensitive against the worn fabric, responding in equal doses to the cold and his gaze. She plucked at the fabric. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hall,” he croaked. “You’d better shower. I’ll toss those scrubs in the wash.”
A hot shower sounded wonderful to Laura’s ragged spirit, her aching limbs. “I’ll need something else to wear.”
His gaze rolled over her again as intimately as any touch. He cleared his throat, slowly brought his eyes up to hers. “I don’t know what I’ve got that will fit you.”
His heated gaze reminded her that she hadn’t so much as a stitch of underwear to call her own. A blush climbed her neck. Except for the contents of her purse, she had lost everything to her pursuer. She fought a growl of impotent rage, and made a mental note to keep one extra outfit, including bra and panties, in her shoulder bag from that point on…until her pursuer was arrested. “Anything dry will do. Sweats?”
Jake grinned wryly. “They’re extra long, extra large and would probably fall off of you.”
The blush reached her cheeks. “A T-shirt, then. Preferably something dark, with a high neckline.”
A look of sheer discomfort twitched his eyebrows, as though he recalled the dozens of times she’d donned one of his T-shirts after their lovemaking. He jammed his hand through his hair and spun away from her. “The bathroom is in the master bedroom. This way.”
She followed him down the hall and into a very stark, very masculine room where black and teal dominated. A king-sized bed faced the bare windows affording much the same view as the family room. She longed to climb into it, settle her weary body beneath the heavy comforter, nestle her thumping head on one of the dense pillows. Longed to share this bed with Jake, the way they’d shared his bed in Riverdell.
Their lovemaking had never been just sex. Each joining was a commitment, a sharing of their spirits, their souls, a baring of their deepest selves. She’d trusted him implicitly. He’d trusted her absolutely. That trust had been shattered. Without it, they would never connect again.
Still, she couldn’t help yearn for the time when he’d carried her to this bed, laid her gently down and made slow, incredible love to her.
He strode past the bed without glancing at it. Leadenlegged, she followed him. The bathroom, decorated in adobe tile with black and teal Pueblo Indian designs, had a double-sized shower with one large, clear-glass door, and a tub set in an alcove surrounded by ceiling-high, adobeencased windows.
There were two sinks, one at each end of a six-foot cabinet, but instead of mirrors above the counter as in most bathrooms, there were more bare windows. She wondered how he managed to shave without a mirror, but the proud thrust of his jaw told her not to ask.
He said, “Shower or bath?”
Her gaze flicked to the shower, lingered momentarily on a damp washcloth tucked into the soap niche. Abandoned from Jake’s morning shower? Her breath hitched. She glanced at the tub, which she guessed had been custom-made to his gigantic proportions, and realized she wanted to sink into a hot bath in the worst way, to wash all the stickiness from her hair and face, her body, all the ugliness from her mind. “Tub. I can keep my stitches dry that way.”
“That’s right.” He turned on the water, then pulled a mammoth plush towel from the closet beside the shower and set it on the counter.
Before she could thank him, he was out the door. Her heart pounded as hard as the water spilling from the tap into the tub. He’d left the door ajar and she walked on mushy legs toward it.
It was one thing to have the anonymous world gazing at her, but she wasn’t ready to face Jake at her most vulnerable. He was there, filling the doorway. He offered her a navy blue T-shirt. “I think this meets all your requirements.”
One glance told her she’d never worn this T-shirt. It bore an LAPD logo. The only time he could have acquired it was after their thwarted wedding. She swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
She closed the door, then slumped against it, holding the T-shirt to her face. It smelled of him. She breathed in the beloved scent and struggled to douse the firestorm of emotions burning to overwhelm her. Sunny. Jake. The woman at the motel. Jake. Uncle Murphy. Aunt May. Jake.
Tears blurred her vision, and she caught back a sobbing breath. She shut off the bathwater, turned off the lights and stripped off the offending clothes. Jake might not mind the world watching him, but she’d spent a year learning how to avoid that. This room left her too exposed, too vulnerable.
The night-lights offered enough illumination for her to see her way across the room. Bracing herself on either side of the tub, she stepped, one leg into the hot water, lowered her body gingerly and propped the ankle of the stitched calf on the rim. Steam rose around her as she ducked her head beneath the water, dousing her sticky hair and face. Sweet silence surrounded her, and the stinging tug of her stitches and all the other tiny scrapes and scratches eased. The afternoon’s horrors vanished. But as she resurfaced and cool air touched her cheeks, all the misery and despair she’d bottled up the past two days broke free. Sobs climbed her throat, spilled out of her with chest-racking pain and echoed through the huge room like the cries of some pitiable creature lost and alone in the wilds.
JAKE STOOD RIVETED outside the bathroom door, drawn by Laura’s presence. Hating himself for wanting her, unable to walk away, unable to control the yearning, he threw back his head and closed his eyes, fighting down a sob of anguish.
For half a second he thought he’d failed, that he’d actually cried out. Then he realized the sobs were coming from the other side of the door. Laura. Wailing with a pain that spoke to his own sad heart, which brimmed with tears. Unshed. Self-pity.
He winced at that admission. He’d mourned his misfortune for endless months now. Always concentrating on what she had done to him. How wronged he’d been by her. What did that say about him? What kind of man was he? If he’d loved Laura as he’d thought he did, he’d have trusted that she wouldn’t have run off with another man.
He balled his hands into fists. And if she’d trusted him, she’d have gotten in touch with him within hours or days of the wedding fiasco. He blew out a heavy breath as it struck him that she had done exactly that, had tried reaching him through his mom. Ruthanne either hadn’t wanted to tell him or hadn’t remembered. Dear God. His throat tightened.
He reached for the doorknob.
The front bell rang, sending a jolt through him. He jerked around. Who the hell would that be at this hour?
The police?
The possibility jarred him. He should have called them. Called them off. Hoping they’d accept his apology and leave it at that, he hurried to the front door and peered through the peephole.
He grimaced. Damn. Don Bowman stood illuminated beneath the stoop light. He’d rather face the police tonight than his partner. Jake rolled his eyes, wondering how he could get rid of Don quickly, before he discovered what was going on. Who was soaking in his tub.
But Don shoved past Jake and into the house. “Your beeper’s turned off. Your cell phone, also, and the one here is on the answering machine.”
“Nice to see you, too.” Jake shut the door and followed Don past the kitchen, past the sticky spill he’d yet to clean off the floor, and into the family room.
“This couldn’t wait.” Don dropped onto one of the sofas, his back to the view. “I’ve been leaving urgent messages for you everywhere.”
“I’ve been…busy.” Jake took the sofa opposite Don, silently willing Laura to prolong her bath. “Haven’t checked my messages. Sorry.”
“No problem.”
“What’s so urgent?”
“Got some more dope on that Bunny Jones-Sunny Devlin woman. It was her car that got blown up at the Days Inn.”
Jake said nothing, just nodded, hoping Don would take this as encouragement to speed his story along to its conclusion.
“But that’s just part of the strange story.” Don leaned forward, propping his forearms on his thighs. “Found out this afternoon that Sunny Devlin died in a house fire in Malibu. Actually, the house exploded, gas leak. They identified her by dental records. The house was rented by a Cathy Lewiston.”
Jake raised his eyebrows. Was this what Laura had started to tell him?
Don said, “The California police want this Cathy Lewiston for questioning, but she’s disappeared. You wouldn’t know where she is, would you?”
Jake scowled at him. “Why would I know?”
“Because it’s damned likely that Bunny Jones is Cathy Lewiston and Cathy Lewiston’s fingerprints match—”
“Mine.” Laura stood in the kitchen, Jake’s T-shirt skimming her knees, white cotton socks she’d confiscated from his dresser drawer on her feet, reaching high enough on her leg to hide her stitches, and a towel wrapped turban-style around her head.
Don’s muddy-river eyes widened and he started up off the sofa. “Laura?”
Laura held herself stiff. Don rose to his full height, a mountain of a man. A frown furrowed his low forehead, crinkling his thick brows as he took in her outfit, shifted his gaze from Jake, to her and back to Jake. His feelings flashed across his sharp features: surprise, puzzlement, distress. At finding her here? Or at what he assumed was going on between Jake and her?
“What the hell is this?” he demanded from Jake.
Jake, who’d had his back to Laura, lurched to his feet and spun around. One glance at her and he understood Don’s question. His face went grim. “It’s not what you…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “Not what it seems.”
Though if Don hadn’t arrived when he had that might not be true, he thought, recalling how close he’d come to charging into the bathroom only minutes ago. His gaze softened as he studied her. Her face, devoid of makeup, was shiny. The only remnants of her upset, redness in her eyes and around her nose, were so slight he doubted Don noticed.
“In other words, Don—” Laura’s chin shot up “—Jake isn’t any happier about seeing me than you appear to be.”
“No, I—” But even as he started the apology, Don seemed to realize they all knew he was lying. Giving up the pretense of manners, he dropped back to the sofa and asked Jake, “Is that true?”
“Is what true?” Jake snapped, suddenly oddly angry. Where the hell did Don get off treating him like some misbehaving kid? He wouldn’t take that from anyone, not even his best friend. Especially not in his o
wn home.
Don didn’t heed his angry scowl. Few things intimidated Don, including Jake. “Are you as unhappy to see her as I am?”
“How I feel about that, is my business,” Jake said, his voice a growling whisper.
Don pulled his lips into a flat line. His eyes gleamed dark and hard, shadowed with pity. As though to hide that from Jake, he turned his attention back to Laura. “So, what are you doing in Mesa?”
She squirmed beneath his cold stare. She’d never liked Don. As a kid he’d been sneaky, the kind of boy who did things for people only if there was profit of some sort in the deed for himself. She’d never fathomed how or why Jake and he had become fast friends.
“Well?”
He was waiting for an answer. She glanced at Jake, and realized he wasn’t going to bail her out. But how much did she want Don to know? “I had some unresolved business.”
This answer seemed to agitate Don. “Something that involved stealing Sunny Devlin’s car?”
“I didn’t steal it. She lent it to me.”
Don snorted in disbelief. “She’s dead.”
“Yes.” Laura blanched, the ugly memories rushing her anew. Her throat tightened. “I know.”
Jake had had enough. “Quit badgering her, Don.”
Don was on his feet again. “What is this, partner? She waltzes back into your life and you pick up where you left off?”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Isn’t it? If you’ve forgotten the hell she put you through, I haven’t.”
Laura retreated against the bar as though Don’s words were fists striking out at her.
Jake saw the look on her face and wanted to hit Don. She’s had enough torment for one day. “I think you’d better leave.”
“I’m on your side, you know?”
“I know.” Jake kept his voice level. He realized Don meant well. But he couldn’t explain things to him now. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“Come on, man.” Don hurried after Jake toward the front door. “Don’t let her buffalo you.”
“She’s not doing that.” But despite his protests, a niggling doubt ate at Jake.