by Kylie Brant
“Take it easy, there, will you? I’d just as soon keep that layer of skin. And it wasn’t a flat-out lie, or anything.” It took her a moment to pick up the thread of conversation. “When you mentioned there not being any crime to speak of in the parish, I didn’t correct you, that’s all. Fact is, although this area is quiet by city standards, we have enough going on to keep my department busy. And I’m sure it was the Rutherford boys, because it’s just the sort of dumb move they’d make. See, they’re plain pissed off at me.” He turned to look at her over his shoulder, and winked. “I know you find that hard to believe.”
“Not totally.”
“Yeah, well, I busted up the meth lab they were running in the woods near their place, and hauled their youngest brother, Carver, off to jail. I know dang well the whole clan was in on it, but I only have evidence to charge the one.” A note of determination entered his voice. “So far.”
Her hands stilled on his back. “Meth lab. In Charity?”
“In the parish, at any rate. Running them in rural places is getting more common. I doubt these guys were the brains behind the outfit, since Rutherfords don’t run long in that area. Stagnant gene pool,” he offered by way of explanation. He’d like to turn completely and face her, watch the reactions flit across that expressive face, but was reluctant to pull away from her light touch. He imagined there was a straight route from the tips of her fingers to his veins. He indulged himself for another moment and let himself envision those hands running over his chest…his stomach…lower.
“Get the Rutherfords liquored up and they’re just stupid enough to drive their wreck of a truck over and shoot up my place.” His voice sounded slightly strangled, so he cleared it. “DuPrey and Fisher will most likely find gunpowder on their hands and shotguns that will match the ballistics from the bullets I’ll be digging out of my walls.”
“You make it sound so reasonable. Those idiots could have killed you.”
He hid a satisfied smile at the concern in her voice. Slowly, stiffly, he turned to face her. “Careful there, honey. You almost sound like you’d miss me.”
He was too close, his face only inches from her own. She swallowed hard when she saw that his eyes had gone to smoke. “Don’t call me honey.”
His mouth crooked a little. “Sorry.” He reached a hand toward her, hesitated for an instant when she flinched, then pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Zoey.” Surely it was that slow, heated drawl of his that made his voice sound caressing; that made her name on his lips sound every bit as intimate as the endearment.
They stared at each other for a moment. She was near enough to notice the small white scar at the corner of his eye, to feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.
“I guess I owe you a thank-you.”
Since she couldn’t seem to formulate the word, she just shook her head.
“Yes, ma’am, I believe I do. I usually wait until the third or fourth date before I ask women to patch me up.” A ghost of a smile played across his mouth. “Hate to scare them off. But something tells me that you don’t scare easily, do you, Zoey?”
Strange, that the return of his easy charm would have her lungs easing. His lighthearted banter was infinitely preferable to that moment of tenderness. “Since I hardly qualify as a date, I don’t think you need to worry. And you’re not patched up. At least, not completely. Your next stop is going to be the hospital.”
He took her hand in his and distracted her from the action by arguing. “Charity doesn’t have what I’d call a real hospital. It’s more a clinic. Old Doc Barnes gets real ornery when he’s woken up, too. He’s got the temperament and light touch of a grizzly and uses needles a full foot long.” He gave a shudder that wasn’t totally feigned. “You could help me more than he could.”
“No,” she said with certainty, “I couldn’t. Some of those cuts still have glass in them and at least two are going to need stitches. Haul butt, Gauthier. Our next stop is Doc Barnes.”
“Jeez, you’re strict.” But he stood when she did, still not releasing her hand. With her a step above him, their faces were nearly level. Giving in to the impulse that had been riding him since the first time he’d seen her, he coaxed her forward with a slight tug on her hand, and covered her mouth with his own.
He knew better than to rush her, so he eased into the kiss, taking pleasure in each hitch and shudder of breath. Because his senses seemed suddenly, gloriously heightened, he felt the shiver that ran through her, concentrated on the gradual softening that had her body yielding ever so slightly against his.
When her lips parted under his gentle persuasion, he slowly increased the pressure, degree by torturous degree. And finally, he gave in to temptation and swept his tongue into taste.
The step rocked a little beneath his feet, and his free hand went to her back, gathered her closer. He sipped at her mouth, letting the flavors swirl and collide around him, too varied to be easily identified.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Strength, certainly. Passion. She had both in her. He was unsurprised to taste caution, but found sweetness, too, and a response that was innocent, yet heated. The heat grew with each taste and velvet glide, until her hand rose, fisted in his hair and he obeyed the pressure to deepen the kiss, to drive them both a little crazy.
The soft lazy romance of it smothered Zoey’s initial flare of resistance. Resolve melted, priorities shifted. She’d never had difficulty evading smooth words and quick advances. But like everything else about the man, his touch was slow, persuasive, and infinitely devastating. If thinking had been possible, she would have wondered how the clash of tongues and teeth could seem so intimate, so personal. Surely a mere kiss shouldn’t make her gasp and shiver, and want, with a vicious craving that sliced clear to the bone.
His mouth drank from hers and with each taste drew a little more of her into his system—a system that was starting to pound and ache for something only she could give him. He had the experience to know that a kiss shouldn’t be enough to fire his blood, to bring a shake to his knees and send a dizzying arc through his senses. But nothing he’d known before had prepared him for the intoxicating pleasure of tasting this woman.
His mouth left hers and cruised a warm, moist path down her throat. Her hand left his hair and moved to his shoulders, clutching at him with an urgency that she’d never known before. And when she felt his slight wince, felt the stickiness beneath her fingertips, she froze, then reached for her scattered logic. Even as she pulled away, something feminine inside her that had never before been breached, mourned.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?”
The panic in her voice had his head lifting, his blood cooling. And seeing the panic reflected on her face, he made a conscious effort to soothe. “Just a friendly little kiss. I owed you a thank-you, remember?”
Her gaze flashed to his in surprise. Her question had been directed more at herself than at him. She’d never been one to dive into any experience so recklessly, guided only by heat and emotion. Had never been one to fall, let alone leap, into unfamiliar, uncharted waters.
She took a step back, and then another. She wasn’t about to begin now.
“I told you before, no thanks are necessary. If we waste any more time on this porch, I’m going to think that all it takes to cow the mighty sheriff of St. Augustine parish is an irritable M.D. with a wicked-looking needle.”
He heard the thin layer of desperation beneath her words, so he smiled easily and backed down the steps. “Sounds like you’re beginning to know me too well.”
She followed him to the car, already mentally estimating the time before she could drop him back off at home, and return to her house, alone. Away from Cage Gauthier and his troubles. Away from his persuasive lips and coaxing hands. The breath that had been stopped up in her lungs shuddered out of her.
Alone. There was promise in the word, in the thought. She’d cling to that promise in the minutes or hours ahead. Her hand was poised on the door ha
ndle when she heard his voice.
“Zoey.”
She looked across the top of the car to see him leaning on his folded arms, regarding her steadily.
“It was just a kiss. Nothing too dangerous.”
Their gazes meshed for a heartbeat, two, three. Then he opened the door and slid into the car. She didn’t immediately follow suit. His words were echoing in her head.
“Nothing too dangerous.”
She released a quick, shaky breath. Yeah, right. That’s probably the last thing the snake said to Eve before she took a bite of that Granny Smith.
Chapter 3
“Well, it looks like we got us a full house, Tommy Lee.” With his hands in his pockets, Cage surveyed the occupants of the three cells like a genial host.
“I reckon these boys come down to see us cuz they heard you was in the mood for company, sir.” Tommy Lee Hatcher watched the sheriff with something akin to hero worship in his eyes. Cage Gauthier was the biggest man in the parish, or at least it seemed so to Tommy Lee. And he didn’t owe it to who his mama and daddy were, either, nor to the fact that the Gauthiers had always had more money than anyone else in these parts. No, sirree, Cage Gauthier could have stayed in Charity and lived off that money, and no one would have thought the less of him. Instead, he’d gone to some special academy and worked as a detective for the New Orleans Police Department. And come home a hero, no less.
Some might have wondered what had caused Cage to resign his job and come back to Charity to run for sheriff. But it was the best thing that had ever happened to Tommy Lee. Here he was, twenty years old, and already a part-time jailer for the sheriff’s department. He squinted at the cells full of Rutherfords and hitched up his pants in an absent gesture of pride. The only thing that would have made him prouder was if he were allowed to carry a gun. But one of these days he was fixin’ to make deputy, and then he’d get a gun for sure. And wouldn’t that make Becky Hawkins at the Stew ’N Brew sit up and take notice?
“We got our rights, Gauthier.” Lonny Rutherford, the oldest, was spokesman for the clan. “We ain’t no dumb homeboys like you used to roust in New Orleans. We each get us a phone call and a lawyer.”
“Seems to me, when it comes to brains, you don’t have a thimbleful between the lot of you.” Cage strolled to the far cell and surveyed Lonny, who, like his four brothers, regarded him sullenly. “Otherwise you’d never have been stupid enough to think I was going to let you get away with shooting up my house. The property damage alone is enough to buy you some jail time, and when we add the attempted murder charge, well…” He shook his head.
“You can’t make that stick, Gauthier!” shouted Carver. He wrapped his hands around the cell bars, and didn’t seem to notice that his older brothers were shooting him warning looks. “How was they to know you’d be home? Hell, it was Friday night. On the weekends you’re usually puttin’ it to whatever pookie you’re seein’ and—” His words ended on a yelp and a curse as one of his brothers obeyed Lonny’s unspoken command and cuffed Carver smartly across the head.
Cage’s voice remained friendly, but his eyes were hard. “Did you hear that, Tommy Lee? These boys were betting I’d be gone Friday night. I guess that’d just make them cowards, and not would-be killers.”
“I reckon they can use that line in their defense, Sheriff.” Tommy Lee preened a bit at the exchange.
“Now that’s an idea.” Cage took the cigar out of his pocket and held it. “I’ve contacted a public defender to represent the lot of you. Carver’s got his own P.D. already. I figured the drug charge would be enough to keep his lawyer busy.”
“We don’t need us no damn public defender,” Luther snarled. “We got plenty of money. I want my phone call so I can get me a fancy lawyer out of Baton Rouge. You gotta give me the phone call, Gauthier. I know that.”
“And everyone said book learning was wasted on you.” Lonny had been a few years older than Cage, but after he’d been held back a time or two, they’d ended up in the same class—at least, until Lonny had been sent to a juvenile center for theft. “And you’re right about one thing. You do get a phone call. If you want to use it to hire yourself a different lawyer, go ahead. But be sure and tell him that there’s no hurry getting up here. Bail can’t be set until Judge Ranier gets back from fishing on Monday.”
He tucked the cigar back in his pocket and looked at Tommy Lee. “You can take care of the phone calls, can’t you?” When Tommy nodded, he turned and headed to his office. By the time he shut the door behind him the Rutherfords were already fading from his mind.
Dropping into his desk chair he started to lean back, then hissed out a breath when he came into contact with the chair. Straightening, he cursed imaginatively. After Zoey had delivered him home from Doc Barnes’s with the advice to get some sleep, he’d spent the better part of three hours trying to do just that. He figured he hadn’t had to sleep on his stomach since he’d been in diapers. It appeared he’d lost the knack. By the time exhaustion had kicked in, it had seemed as if the alarm was already going off.
Refusing the pain medication Doc had tried pressing on him hadn’t been an act of machismo, as Zoey had accused. He couldn’t let anything fog his thinking right now. There were just too damn many unanswered questions. His eyes lifted to the bulletin board above his desk that had been cleared of everything but photos of Janice Reilly. He surveyed a picture they’d obtained, taken a year or two before her death, as if the image wasn’t already branded on his mind. She’d been robbed of life in the most savage, brutal way imaginable. He figured the least he owed her was a clear head during the course of her murder investigation.
He picked up the report of last night’s ruckus at his place and flipped through it. With his usual methodical precision, Chief Deputy Fisher, head of the criminal investigation division, had typed Cage’s statement and the events surrounding the Rutherfords’ arrest. According to Charity’s gossips, Fisher’s personal life had been a shambles since his wife had left him three months ago, yet that hadn’t tainted his professionalism on the job. Cage couldn’t help admiring the man for that.
Tossing the report aside, Cage reached for the files containing the information they’d gleaned so far on Janice Reilly’s murder. Unthinkingly, his hand crept to his pocket, before he caught himself and halted. It was a damn shame, he thought, when a man let nicotine get such a vicious grip on him that the body cried for it without the brain’s permission.
Of course, he reasoned, he hadn’t gotten a chance for his cigar last night. That meant he owed himself one, didn’t it? The Rutherfords had already cost him some new windows, a carpet and a hell of a carpentry bill. There was no use adding to that list by denying himself the pleasure of the smoke he’d missed.
Body and mind in agreement, he took out the cigar and lit it. The first puff was a sweet haze filtering through his lungs. The second was a luxury to be savored, and by the third he was ready to work. He spread the reports before him and proceeded to read every bit of information they had over again. He’d read through them a dozen times before. He’d read them a dozen more before the case was solved.
It was a well-known fact in police work that the twenty-four hours preceding a homicide were as critical as the twenty-four hours following it. Information gleaned from the antemortem was valuable because what Janice Reilly had done, where she’d gone and whom she’d seen all might have a bearing on her death.
The postmortem twenty-four hours were important because the chances of solving the case diminished significantly the more time elapsed after the murder. As the trail grew colder, the killer got more and more of an edge. Cage had been a cop long enough to know that if a case went longer than a week without a solid lead, chances were it would never be solved at all.
It had now been—he did a quick mental estimation—nine days, two hours, and thirty-three minutes since the body had been discovered. And it would take a stretch of the imagination to consider any of their leads “solid.”
He p
ored over the information they’d put together, regardless. Fisher’s team had constructed a solid picture of the day immediately before, and the day of the victim’s death. But through the endless contacts made with Janice Reilly’s family, friends and acquaintances, no real clue had emerged. In a homicide investigation, a law-enforcement officer first looked to those people closest to the victim. Jealousy and greed were the lowest common human denominators. But the victim’s ex-husband had been halfway across the country, in a hospital delivery room with his new wife and baby daughter. They had been unable to establish a motive for the man’s involvement in his ex-wife’s murder, at any rate. By all accounts, their divorce had been amicable.
Cage picked up a five-by-seven picture that was included in the file. That brought them to Jeremy Klatt, the victim’s ex-lover who had been, he’d asserted, home alone watching TV the night of the murder. He’d claimed he hadn’t seen the victim in over two months, but the deputies hadn’t been certain of his truthfulness. The man had also asserted that he’d been the one to initiate the breakup with Janice Reilly, a statement her closest friends disputed. Was his lie merely ego—an effort to save face? Or was it a deliberate attempt to cover up far more? Setting the photo aside, Cage reread the man’s statement, before turning to the stack of others the deputies had taken.
When a sharp rapping sounded at his door, Cage looked up, faintly amazed to discover that more than two hours had gone by. A broad torso topped by a fresh-scrubbed Howdy Doody face stuck just inside the door. Deputy Roland DuPrey.
“Sorry to bother you, Sheriff, but we just got an express delivery of the coroner’s final report. As long as we’ve been waiting for it, figured you’d want to see it right away.”
“You figured right.” He held out his hand to take the envelope from DuPrey, and opened it quickly. Doc Barnes held the official title of coroner for the parish, but the man would be the first to admit that his experience with dead bodies began and ended with the occasional victim of a automobile accident and the final passing of St. Augustine’s oldest residents. When the murder victim had been discovered, Cage hadn’t hesitated to call Baton Rouge for assistance. Dr. Margaret Wu, the coroner who had worked the case, had seemed capable and intelligent. Normally the final report would be delivered within forty-eight hours of the examination of the body. It was just their bad luck that the crime had occurred within days of a bombing that had wiped out an apartment complex on the city’s east side. Both the coroner’s office and the labs were backed up with work relating to that case.