In This Town

by Beth Andrews

  But she was alone tonight.

  “Aunt Layne’s staying,” Tori said, keeping her tone matter-of-fact. If Layne thought for one moment that Tori felt sorry for her, she’d lay into Tori like the wrath of God.

  Brandon set the plates on the table, came back over to her for the forks. “Can Ryan spend the night?”

  “What about the game tomorrow? You both need your rest.”

  He shook his floppy hair out of his eyes. “We’ll go to bed early. Come on, Mom. Please?”

  Damn it. She hated to be put in a corner like this, always felt like she had to claw her way out. Tori glanced toward the table where Layne and Ryan discussed the chances of the Patriots making it to the Superbowl this year. Brandon knew he wasn’t supposed to ask if someone could stay when that friend was in the same room. It made it that much harder to say no.

  “I thought we’d hang out tonight,” she said softly, brushing his hair back then letting her hand linger on his shoulder. It was hard to believe he was already almost as tall as she was. Her boy, her baby with his soft cheeks, braces and wiry build. “Just you and me. We could get a couple of movies and I’ll make root beer floats—”

  “I want Ryan to stay,” he said, stepping back.

  Her stomach dropped. She didn’t take his rejection, his attitude, personally. At ten months shy of becoming a teenager, he was just asserting his independence.

  No, she didn’t, wouldn’t, take it personally. Even though he was always perfectly happy to spend time with his dad and Colleen.

  Brandon was her heart. Her joy. He had Greg’s light brown hair and smile, his father’s way with numbers and athletic ability. But his eyes were all her. When she looked at him, she got such a rush of love so pure, so true, it still had the power to bring her to her knees.

  He was the only male she’d ever loved unconditionally. Being a mother was the only thing she’d ever been any good at.

  But since the divorce, every move she made, every decision, came with self-doubt and worry that her son’s resentment toward her would only grow. That she’d lose him completely someday.

  “I guess it’s okay if Ryan stays,” she said slowly. “But it’s lights out at nine-thirty.” Brandon opened his mouth, looking ready to argue—a look she easily recognized as she saw it on a daily basis lately—and she continued, “I mean it, Brandon. I’m not about to have Coach read me the riot act because you two didn’t get enough sleep.”

  “Okay, nine-thirty,” Brandon said as if he’d just agreed to death by hanging at that time. “Call us when dinner’s ready,” he added then he and Ryan went back to their video games.

  “You’re welcome,” Tori muttered, watching his back disappear. She loved her kid, she really did, but sometimes she wanted her sweet, good-natured boy back. The one who’d thought she could do no wrong.

  “You can say no to him once in a while,” Layne said, carrying over the bowl of guacamole she’d made. “It’s not good for kids to get their own way all the time.”

  “I tell him no plenty,” Tori said tightly. Although, if she was honest with herself, she’d admit that ever since she and Greg separated, those times were few and far between. Good thing she tried not to be honest with herself. “It’s just a sleepover. It’s not like he asked permission to start a meth lab in the kitchen.”

  “Just because you feel guilty,” Layne said quietly, “is no reason to give in to him.”

  Guilty. God. Tori could’ve laughed but was afraid she’d start bawling instead. Of course she felt guilty. She’d ripped her family apart, had hurt her son. But worse than that?

  She couldn’t regret it. Any of it.

  Layne didn’t understand her reasons for divorcing Greg. Most people didn’t. After all, he was a good man, a kind, decent man who’d loved her half her life, who worked hard to provide for her and their son.

  But it hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t been enough.

  Just like her father hadn’t been enough for her mother.

  “No guilt here,” Tori said, placing taco shells onto a cookie sheet. “Just doing what I do best. Giving a guy what he wants.”

  * * *

  THE REF’S WHISTLE blew as Walker jogged across the back parking lot toward Mystic Point’s middle school, a sprawling building set amidst scattered trees at the edge of town. On the football field, the game was halfway through the second quarter and the home team, in blue and white, was behind by three but had the ball on the other team’s twenty-yard line.

  People milled about, watched the game from the track that wound around the field or sat in the bleachers—home ones to his right, visitors on the other side of the field. Though it was barely eleven, the scent of charred hot dogs filled the air, reminding him he hadn’t eaten today. He slowed to a walk as he circled the field, sweat stinging his eyes, his lungs burning as he took in the game.

  The kids were a hodgepodge of sizes, weights and—he thought with a wince as a beautifully thrown pass hit a wide receiver on the back of the helmet—talent. He should keep going. Or, better yet, head back the two miles to his motel. He’d only meant to take a quick run, clear his head a bit before getting back to work.

  He’d already sent copies of the bank records Taylor had given him to a buddy at the state crime lab to figure out where that half a million dollars had originated. He also wanted to canvass the area around the motel Dale had stayed at, where he’d died, question the employees, talk to any neighborhood residents. Or he could go over his notes again, study the reports—complete with photos of Dale’s body and his motel room—that Taylor had meticulously put together.

  Or try to figure out why the chief had gone to the trouble of documenting the scene of what he’d claimed to believe was a natural death.

  Yeah, Walker thought, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He could head back. But the home team’s quarterback was a pleasure to watch, even at…ten? Twelve? Who could tell? And Walker couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a football game—even a midget one.

  Plus, he was hungry.

  He walked up to the concession stand and ordered a bottle of water, two hot dogs and a coffee, finishing the water before his order was ready. Setting the coffee down, he squirted mustard onto the first hot dog. Was about to repeat the action on the second when his nape prickled with unease.

  “Good morning, Detective Bertrand,” an all-too-familiar voice said from behind him. “This is a surprise.”

  Unease. That’s what he felt when he sensed Tori Mott was near. When he heard her husky tones, when he inhaled her spicy scent.

  Unease. Attraction. Lust. And way too much interest. Last night when he was lying in bed, her image had floated through his mind. That sharp grin, those long legs, that lush body. He’d thought of her. It pissed him off.

  He carefully squirted the mustard before facing her. “Mrs. Mott.”

  She waved that away. “Call me Tori.”

  “I think it’d be best if I continued to call you Mrs. Mott.”

  “Do you?” she asked with a grin that made him wonder what she was up to, what she was thinking. “Why? After all, we’re good friends now. And you know all about me. I wouldn’t be surprised if you knew all my deep, dark secrets.”

  He didn’t. Doubted any man could ever know her, not really.

  Walker bit into his hot dog. Chewed and swallowed. “You don’t strike me as a woman who’d let that happen.”

  Now she laughed, the sound causing the couple ordering next to Walker to turn toward her, the man with a smile, the woman with a sneer. If Tori noticed, she gave no indication. She just stepped closer to Walker, lightly brushed her hand over his arm despite the light coat of sweat on his skin.

  “What kind of woman do I strike you as?” she asked softly.

  Wishing he hadn’t left his sunglasses in his motel room, he skimmed his gaze over her. Dark, tight jeans. Black, high-heeled, over-the-knee boots. A red sweater that clung to her breasts. Her hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed and e
very time she moved, her long, dangling earrings—resembling layers of gold leaves—swayed, catching the sunlight.

  He raised his eyes, met hers. The sounds of the announcer calling the play-by-play, the crowd’s cheers and clapping faded. She was close enough to touch, to feel the warmth of her skin. All he had to do was shift, just a few inches, and he could brush his hip against hers.

  He didn’t move. “You want the truth?”

  “Could there be anything less between us?”

  She was messing with him. Provoking him.

  “You strike me as a woman used to getting what she wants,” he said, “and is willing to do whatever it takes to ensure she does. You always hold something back, some small piece of yourself in the name of self-preservation and you’re rarely honest about who you are or what you want.”

  Something flashed in her eyes, something resembling pain. Embarrassment. But it passed, leaving him to wonder if he’d imagined it, because part of him, the part that wanted to take her to bed, wanted him to be wrong about her.

  But the truth was what he saw in front of him. She was just a pretty face and sexy body, a woman who excelled in giving a man what he wanted, saying what he wanted to hear, making him feel powerful. Desirable.

  “It seems you do know me after all,” she said, brushing at something on his shoulder—though he doubted anything was there. “So you’ll call me Tori and I’ll call you…”

  At her raised eyebrow look he took another bite of hot dog. “Detective Bertrand.”

  “Now, Walker, is that any way for friends to act?”

  His jaw dropped. Since there was still food in his mouth, he snapped it shut again and swallowed quickly. “You know my name.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

  “I hadn’t realized it was a secret.”

  It wasn’t but it was one of those things that created intimacy between people when he needed to keep his distance from her, from everyone involved in this case.

  Damn it, this was why he didn’t like to get too involved in the community of a place while he worked on a case. It was too easy to lose his judgment.

  Getting cozy with strangers, with friends and family of the people he was investigating, was never a good idea. He’d never understood how a small-town cop, like Layne Sullivan, could work in the same place where they’d been raised. How they maintained their professional detachment.

  And the only thing more important than that was closing the case.

  “I didn’t tell you my name,” he pointed out, sounding harsh, feeling like a fool trying to intimidate her in a pair of sweatpants, his T-shirt clinging to his chest. But hearing her say his name did nothing for his equilibrium or his judgment.

  Looking way too satisfied, Tori clasped her hands together in front of her. “No, Rumpelstiltskin, you didn’t.”

  A buzzer rang indicating it was halftime. Players headed toward the locker rooms. Tori stepped aside as people lined up at the concession stand.

  “We’d better get out of the way,” she said. “Here, I’ll take that.” Before he could react, hell, before he could even blink, she picked up his coffee.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring at her back, her ass as she walked away. Wishing, just for a moment, that things could be different. But then he caught sight of how many men were checking her out. It was humiliating, demoralizing, to realize he was simply another of her conquests.

  No. He didn’t want things to be different. He wasn’t about to drool over her like some besotted idiot. And the only reason he followed her around the side of the building was that she had his coffee.

  Just because he searched for the truth, didn’t mean he couldn’t lie to himself on occasion.

  “Could I have my coffee?” he asked when he reached her. She sent him a look, one he’d seen often on his own mother’s face. Hell, thirty-six years old and he was still being chastised by the Mom Look. “Please,” he ground out.

  “Sure,” she said with enough cheer to set his teeth on edge. “But I feel I should warn you, it’s like drinking drain cleaner. Only not as smooth.”

  He took a sip. Grimaced. Drain cleaner was too generous.

  “You often spend Saturday mornings at the football field?” he asked.

  “Only in the fall. During the winter months I can be found at the gym watching basketball. In the spring, it’s the baseball field at the park.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you were a sports fan,” he said before going to work on his second hot dog.

  “I’m not. But I am a fan of an athlete.”

  Right. She had a son. Wish he would’ve remembered that—and the possibility that the kid would play football—before he’d decided to stick around.

  Walker polished off his food then took his life in his own hands by taking another sip of coffee. “What position does your son play?”

  “Quarterback,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

  The kid with the arm. “You must be proud.”

  “I’m proud of him for many reasons. He loves sports, loves playing and being part of a team. I just want him to have fun.” The look in her eyes made Walker nervous. “It’s not like I expect him to get offered a scholarship to play at Penn State or anything.”

  He stilled, felt as if that last bit of food was permanently lodged in his throat.

  She knew. How the hell she’d found out he could only guess. He edged closer in a way that should’ve put the fear of God into her eyes. Instead she stood there, her hair blowing in the breeze, her face tipped up so she could keep her eyes on his.

  “You checking up on me, Mrs. Mott?” he asked, his tone low and dangerous.

  She patted his hand, the one holding his coffee, her fingers soft and warm. “Now, Walker, whatever gave you that idea? Besides, as far as I know, it’s not exactly a state secret that you were offered a full ride to play ball there. One you turned down for an academic scholarship at Northeastern. Didn’t want to leave home?”

  Hadn’t wanted to have a career that relied on too many unknowns. Hadn’t wanted to take the chance on getting injured, cut, or worse, playing second or third string. He preferred to rely on things he could control.

  Where he was number one.

  “Did Captain Sullivan do a background check on me?” he asked, irritated to have the tables turned on him.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then how—”

  “You see, the thing is, I had some free time on my hands last night and as I sat there surfing the Net for this cute little red dress I saw in a magazine, I realized that you knew everything there was to know about me and my family.” She started ticking items off on her long fingers. “My cousins’ names and about my son and I’m sure you’re aware that I’m divorced. It didn’t seem fair that my entire life was out there on display for you while you got to hide behind some sort of mysterious cloak of anonymity.” She smiled at him. A real smile, one that reached her eyes, lit her entire face. Had his breath catching. “So I looked you up on Google.”

  He shook his head. Tried to get his bearings but it wasn’t easy, not with her standing so close, looking so triumphant and cocky.

  Not when he found her so damn appealing with her windblown hair and smartass mouth and guarded eyes.

  “You looked me up?” he repeated.

  “Yes. You’d be surprised what information is out there on the World Wide Web. Although I hadn’t expected there to be so much detail put into your Wikipedia page.”

  He narrowed his eyes, lowered his voice. “I do not have a Wikipedia page.”

  Horror filled him. Did he?

  “Got ya,” she said with a wink.

  Walker fisted his hands. Heard conversations around him, kids yelling and racing around, but he blocked it all out, focused only on the manipulative, irritating, breathtaking woman in front of him. “I don’t appreciate you running a background check on me.”

  She nodded as if in commiseration. “Annoying, isn’t it? To have someone
look into your life, your background?”

  Like he did to her. To her family.

  With one swift motion, he tossed the contents of his coffee aside, crushed the cup in his hand. “Listen, I’m in the middle of an investigation—”

  “Please,” she said, “don’t go into the whole, I’m just doing my job spiel because I couldn’t care less.”

  “How about I go into my invasion of privacy spiel, then?”

  “What invasion? What privacy? It’s on the internet for God’s sake. It’s not like I broke into your house and rifled through your underwear drawer. I just wanted you to think twice the next time you get it into that handsome head of yours that I’m some sort of brainless, weak link who can be used to hurt my family.” She stepped closer, rose onto her toes and, laying her hand on his shoulder for balance—or just to torture him—spoke into his ear, her breath warming his skin. “Don’t underestimate me,” she said, her words a threat. A promise. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  HER HEART POUNDING, Tori leaned back far enough to meet Walker’s gaze. Heat filled his eyes, darkened them. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on his shoulders. She glanced at his mouth. He hadn’t shaved and golden stubble covered his upper lip, his chin. The sun highlighted the pale strands of blond in his hair, the strands waving in messy disarray. It was strangely alluring, this less-than-perfect side of him. He was solid and smelled so good, like clean sweat and man.

  And she was at her son’s football game, her body swaying toward Walker like he was one of those fairy-tale princes she didn’t believe in. As if she was so weak she needed a man’s support to keep her upright on her own two feet.

  Pressing her lips together, she fell back to her heels, let her hand drop to her side. “You enjoy the rest of your weekend, Walker,” she told him, unable to work up even the pretense of a smirk.

  She sauntered away but felt him watching her, that hot gaze boring a hole between her shoulder blades. So she kept her strides long and loose, her arms swinging casually by her sides, her head up.