Protecting Molly Mcculloch

by Dee Holmes

  It was bad enough that every time she looked at Hunt, she was reminded of who her brother really was, but now Hunt’s comments gave her another reason to squelch any feelings she might have for him. Kristin might be gone, but it was clear she still commanded Hunt’s mind and heart.

  She heard the rustle of paper.

  “Greenwich Street is a few miles north,” he commented, referring to the place where they were to stay. He handed the map to Molly. “Sean marked where your brother lived.”

  “Ludlow. Yes, I see it here.” She refolded the paper, suddenly wishing she could avoid the task ahead. There was something unseemly about probing into his personal things when he was no longer able to explain or defend himself.

  “We can get settled and then go take a look at his apartment,” Hunt said as he pulled back onto the road.

  Molly flinched at the idea of Hunt searching and rummaging through Vern’s property. “I don’t want to go until after the funeral,” she said flatly.

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Fine. Then that will mean spending a few more days here.”

  “A few more days together, you mean.” Her pride reared to the surface. “I can handle things. You don’t have to stick around.”

  “True. I could just leave you here and let you hitchhike home.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a quite a number of years.”

  “I drove you here and I’ll drive you home.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to drive me home. Maybe I want to do this my way instead of your way. I’m sure buses exist in Fernwood….” She thought for a moment, then added, “Or I could ask one of Vern’s friends.”

  “His friends?” Hunt said with a snort. “They’re a bunch of goddamn killers.”

  Molly narrowed her eyes and snapped, “And you, of course, have only saints for friends. Sean would never step out of line to nab a criminal.”

  “Right now he’s a contact, not a friend.”

  “And so am I, aren’t I? A contact to find out about Vern.”

  Silence beat through the car like the thump-thumpthump of a drum. Hunt stared straight ahead, then finally said in a low, cautious voice, “That’s not true, Molly.” Then, under his breath, he muttered, “I wish it were.”

  She wanted to believe him and yet she was afraid to. Afraid that if she allowed herself to understand his view of her brother, she’d be abandoning her meager memories of Vern.

  Molly continued, “All you have is a police file. That’s not his whole life. People are more than what one person says they are.”

  “Molly,” he said calmly, too calmly. “I know this has been tough and you probably need an outlet for your anger and frustration. And if you want to dump on me, that’s fine, but let’s not get ridiculous. I came with you and I’ll leave with you. End of discussion.”

  Molly’s independence, her sense of self and a certain resentment of his “take-charge” attitude came rushing together. She swung toward him, her expression fierce. “Don’t patronize me. And don’t tell me what I’m going to do and what I’m not. You have no right I’m perfectly capable of managing the next few days without you hovering over me as if I’m going to be carried off and murdered by some criminal type.”

  He took a deep breath and slowly released it.

  “In fact, I didn’t ask you to come with me in the first place. You invited yourself.”

  “Not by choice, believe me.”

  “I don’t know if I really believe that, Hunt. Oh, not because I think you want to be with me. I know you don’t. You and your old partner are all enthusiastic about solving the mystery of the note. Maybe you even regret retiring, and this taste of police work has given you a chance to be a cop again.”

  He cursed under his breath using a word she’d never heard before. She didn’t even want to think about what it meant and that it was probably directed at her.

  She’d been pushing the edge of their fragile civility since this conversation began. The practical side of her said to let it rest here, but she ignored that.

  “You’re only supposed to be taking me to the funeral for some sort of protection that sounds more like TV drama than reality. You’re an ex-cop, as you’ve reminded me a number of times, therefore you have no authority to investigate my brother. Which is the only reason I can see that you would want to go to his apartment.”

  Again he slowed down, but this time he turned into a short, unpaved driveway lined with scraggly hedges in need of shaping. He turned the engine off, and without looking at her, he snapped, “Are you finished?”

  “Not until you understand that I have some rights and I intend to protect them.”

  He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Okay, okay. What precious rights of yours have I threatened?”

  She lifted her chin and gave him a direct look. “You want to use me to get into my brother’s apartment.”

  “Oh for God’s sake!” Hunt said in exasperation. “Didn’t we already dance to this tune? Back when you accused me of using you to get to your brother’s briefcase?”

  “Well, why else would you mention going to his place?” Her body tightened with dread at his answer, and she braced herself.

  “Because I thought you might like some support in dealing with his personal things. It’s hard going through stuff knowing that the person will never touch it or you again.”

  Molly blinked, her anger and frustration draining out of her. The only sound in the car was the clickclick of the cooling engine. She heaved a sigh and tried to speak, but no words came.

  Hunt swore, started to open the door and then swore again as he turned back to her. “Dammit, Molly…”

  He reached for her, hooked one arm around her neck and pulled her against him. Her mouth fell open in surprise, but he allowed no words to escape before the onslaught of a consuming kiss. Molly was so startled, she didn’t resist, but she doubted he would have noticed if she had.

  He angled his head, his mouth crushing hers as if he wanted to drive away all her words, all her questions, all her mistrust. Her arms were trapped between them, and she could feel the pounding of his heart. He swept his tongue around hers in a carnal, possessive foray. Then, pulling away a fraction, he murmured, “Put your arms around me.”

  She did what he said and the motion brought her breasts against him; a deep ache she had never experienced before grew inside her. Her nipples tightened and sought relief; she rubbed herself across his chest to ease the sweet pain.

  He groaned and shifted slightly. “I’m gonna regret this….”

  “Hunt, this…” A new arrow of pleasure swept across her. “Oh…Oh, Hunt…this wasn’t suppose to happen….”

  “I know…I know…” He framed her face with his hands, and the hot intensity of his blue eyes turned her misgivings to ashes. “One more kiss and no more…” Clearly he was struggling to keep them both under control, but Molly suddenly realized she liked being uncontrolled; she liked following this burst of passion within her. She’d never felt so alive and eager and wonderful.

  “I like this…I mean kissing you, having you against me.”

  “Oh, Molly, don’t tell me that.” But his mouth once again took hers.

  Molly couldn’t get enough, and when his hand cupped her breast, his fingers folding and unfolding, his thumb nudging her nipple into an ache that became pain, she shuddered with the power of it. The arousal traveled lower, seizing her with an intimacy that made her try to get even closer to him. She tightened her arms and pressed her mouth more firmly against his until finally, he pulled back and held her by the upper arms to keep them separated.

  She stared, her cheeks hot, her mouth tingly. She licked her lips, feeling their fullness. She wanted to tell him how she felt, how he made her feel.

  “No words and no declarations, sweetheart,” he whispered, as if reading her thoughts. “I don’t want to hear them.”

  She lowered her lashes to hide h
er disappointment. “You still think I’m too young for you, don’t you?”

  “I’m no good for you, Molly. Not in this way.”

  “You keep saying that, but you don’t tell me why.”

  “Because I have nothing to give you. I’m empty and hollow inside, and you need a man who’s as eager to be happy as you are. I had my happiness with Kristin. Reaching for that again…” He looked at her mouth and then away. “I can’t reach again, Molly. I can’t…”

  Molly was stunned by the despair of his words, the utter and total hopelessness that seemed to swallow him so totally.

  Hunt opened his door, then released the trunk latch. He took their bags and walked up a narrow front walk. Three cement steps led to the door. He inserted a key, pushed the door open and disappeared inside the house.

  She sat for long silent seconds, astonished at how quickly he could shift gears. She was numb and irritable and frustrated and hurt. “Dammit, Hunt Gresham,” she muttered in the empty car. “You don’t want to reach out again, and you don’t want to feel anything with a woman because you won’t, not because you can’t.”

  Wearily she pushed open her own door and made her way to the house. It wasn’t large, but it had a cozy cottage look, and she could envision fresh paint and flower boxes filled with impatiens. Inside, it had a stale but sterile scent that said it had been a long time since anyone had lived here.

  Hunt stood very still with his back to her, his hands low on his hips as he faced a shadowed doorway. Their two bags sat in the middle of the living room. The bath was next to the room Hunt faced, the kitchen to Molly’s right.

  She started to say something about how tiny the rooms were when Hunt swung around. Even in the dying light of early evening, she could see him keeping his fury restrained.

  “What is it?” she whispered, and wondered why she had.

  “There are two bedrooms, but one doesn’t have a bed. That’s what it is.”

  For a second she missed his point, then it hit her. “Oh.”

  He lifted the bags and came toward her without really looking at her. “Come on. We’ll find a motel.

  She stepped around him and peered into the room. “Wait a minute.”

  “For what? Another bed to appear? Let’s go.”

  Seizing the opportunity to prove she could be just as cool and uninvolved as he could be, she said, “You don’t have to do that for me. I’m really very adaptable. I know you’re tired, and frankly, I didn’t see any motels I’d want to stay in. We passed the one I made a reservation in before I knew you were coming. It looked like the pits. We can stay here. At least they’re twin beds.”

  He looked at her as if she’d grown another head. “You’re not serious. In the car you were on your high horse about my dark, deceptive motives. Then I kissed you enough to make my ears ring, and now you suggest we sleep in the same room?”

  Molly flushed, hating the reaction that in turn made her even more determined to prove to him she’d put their kiss in perspective. In a breezy tone, she said, “The same room isn’t the same as the same bed.”

  “Bull.”

  She grinned, amused by his bluntness and a little flattered that the arrangement had caused him such turmoil. Suddenly he seemed vulnerable to her, and for Hunt, she guessed, revealing his inner agitation wasn’t a pleasant experience. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

  “This isn’t a joke, Molly. We’ll be together for a few days, and that means a few nights. Staying in the same room would be outright stupidity.”

  “It will test your resolve not to get involved in any kind of intimate relationship with me.”

  He muttered, “Just what I need at the end of the day. An endurance test for the night.”

  She took her bag from him and walked past him into the bedroom. Switching on a bedside lamp, she glanced around. The light seemed to shrink the room, and the beds now looked too close together. He was right: this was stupid, maybe insane, but for the first time since Vern died, she felt as if she’d seized upon a situation, assessed it and made a decision.

  She glanced back at the doorway, where he now leaned, arms folded, face set in an unreadable expression.

  “I’ll take the couch,” he said flatly.

  She glanced beyond him, seeing the overstuffed sofa for the first time. Of course it was the best decision. Of course it was the right decision. Still, she was vaguely disappointed.

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking to suggest we sleep in the same room.”

  “I know what I was thinking, and that’s why I won’t.” He sighed, straightened and set his bag beside the couch. “You get your stuff settled. I’m going to check the kitchen. Sean said the owner set us up with some basics. I hope one of them is whiskey.”

  “PUT THIS ON, it will answer questions just by its presence.”

  “A ring? I don’t understand.”

  “If the people attending the calling hours think we’re married, you won’t have to explain my presence.”

  It was the following afternoon, and they were in the car, just about to enter the Fernwood Funeral Home. Hunt had made a note of license plates for Sean to check out. A number of mourners were scattered around in small groups, chatting, but he didn’t recognize any of them.

  He’d been up before dawn, and while Molly slept, he’d gone to a nearby convenience store, bought the local newspaper and discovered that Wallace’s death was not only in the obits, but it was a news story on page two:

  Vernon Wallace, a onetime henchman of mobster Olaf Pascale, died in Woodbriar of a heart attack. Wallace, who had a reputation for silence and precision, broke with Pascale years ago for undisclosed reasons, and went to work for John Solozi, a mobster who ran a moneylaundering operation out of central Massachusetts. News reports on Wallace, somewhat of a lone wolf, are sketchy, and the Boston police, when contacted about his death, had no comment. He is divorced, and the whereabouts of his ex-wife and son are unknown. Services, arranged by his sister, Molly McCulloch, are being handled through the Fernwood Funeral Home.

  Hunt snapped the newspaper closed and swore. The only thing missing was where Molly was staying. He called Sean.

  “Yeah, the Boston papers are carrying the story, too,” Sean said. “Not much info, but the word is definitely out. Molly’s name must have been released by the funeral home.”

  “At that point she wouldn’t have thought to tell them to keep it from a reporter. What’s screwy is that everything else in the piece is vague or unknown—like where his ex-wife is. But Molly is right there for all the world to see.”

  “Good thing you’re with her,” Sean said. “Oh, by the way, we got a search warrant for Wallace’s apartment. Someone was there ahead of us. We didn’t find anything that would shed light on the 827 BOS note.”

  “Terrific,” Hunt said grimly.

  “Hey, you’re no stranger to dead ends.” Then, in a lighter tone, Sean asked, “So, how’s the cottage?”

  “Small.”

  “The owner calls it cozy. He said he’d had some weekly renters recently—a couple looking for a cheap honeymoon.”

  It was the last comment that had given Hunt pause. Not about honeymooning with Molly for real, but using marriage as a way to eliminate curiosity or questions from Vern’s pals during the stay here. Besides, posing as her boyfriend or lover hadn’t felt right from the beginning. Molly looked more like orange blossoms and white lace than black garters and see-through bras.

  Hell, if she didn’t, he’d have slaked himself last night. But she wasn’t that kind of woman, and Hunt had no intention of widening her education in disappointment and pain by allowing himself to get serious with her.

  Thinking about being married again wrung what emotions he had left so tight he could hear them squeal in protest. But a fake marriage—that would make their being together natural to anyone who cared to look or ask. The ruse was the kind of thing that in his old police days he would have thought of in the planning stages. Good thing
you got out, Gresham, your instincts are rusty as hell.

  He’d found a ring in a pawn-shop across the street from the convenience store and waited until the last minute to present the idea, so Molly would have no opportunity to protest.

  Now she was staring at the gold-colored band he held, her own hand clenched.

  “Why would I have to explain anything about you?” she asked. “You’re a friend and you came with me.”

  “Or I’m a cop sent to check out Vern’s cronies.” He was quiet a moment. “Look, I don’t want you to get huffy or alarmed, but some of the people here today aren’t going to be members of the Fernwood Angelic Society.”

  “Is this part of protecting me?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.” He relaxed her fingers and slipped on the ring. The sunshine caught the gold with a soft shimmer. His fingers lingered for an instant before he pushed open the car door.

  “Where did you get it?” she asked, her head bent as she turned her hand this way and that.

  He suddenly wanted to tell her he’d found it in a jewelry store, where he’d lingered over an assortment displayed on black velvet until he found just the one she would like. “A pawn-shop,” he said finally, the three words feeling as if he’d besmirched the entire institution of marriage.

  She glanced down at it, and he wanted to tip her chin up and tell her that someday a man would slip another band of gold on her finger, one that he’d bought with love and commitment.

  “It’s…okay,” she said, faltering. “I mean, it’s not like this is real. Nothing between us is real—except your wanting information about my brother.”

  “So the sooner we finish this up and get back to our regular lives, the better.”

  He got out of the car, walked around to her door and opened it, helping her out. She wore a navy blue tailored dress with low-heeled shoes. A navy straw hat shielded her eyes and gave her a sophisticated demeanor. Though it was entirely inappropriate, Hunt was struck by how desirable he found her in the sedate outfit She carried herself with shoulders back, her step firm and her emotions solidly in control.