by Kylie Brant
The smile he didn’t dare let settle on his lips crinkled his eyes. “I sure do love it when you talk all fancy and mean like that.”
“Stop it!” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “Stop affecting that demented Barney Fife routine. You’re nowhere near as harmless as you pretend.”
“But I am.” He began unbuttoning his shirt. When it hung open, he headed toward her bedroom door. “I’m always a perfect gentlemen.” At the doorway he paused and looked at her. “And last night, I was…perfect.”
She stared at his retreating back. His retreating bare back, because he’d shrugged out of the shirt and was heading toward her bathroom. “What does that mean?” she yelled, then winced as her voice echoed and reechoed inside her aching head. She heard the bathroom door close, then the sound of the shower turning on.
And she was left to make sense of what little fragments of memory her mind was capable of supplying.
The twenty minutes Zoey spent under the shower’s stinging spray had her feeling slightly more human. She dressed and made her way to the kitchen, one hand braced on the wall for support, hating the weakness that still pervaded her limbs. “Feeling any better?” The fact that Cage’s tone was solicitous didn’t lessen her urge to slug him.
“I’ve got a dozen demented dwarfs jackhammering in my head,” she said testily. “‘Better’ is impossible. ‘Horrible’ would be an improvement.” She swallowed hard as her stomach pitched violently, then settled into a riotous churning. She eased gingerly onto a kitchen chair.
“The cure for what ails you is coming right up.” He shouldn’t have looked so at home, moving capably about her kitchen, mixing ingredients he’d obviously searched through her cupboards for. And he most assuredly shouldn’t look sexy, rumpled and domestic.
Rumpled. She narrowed her eyes. Although his shirt was hanging unfastened, it was decidedly wrinkled, as were his uniform pants that she wished, for the sake of propriety, he’d taken the time to button. His clothes looked as though they’d been slept in all night.
If she didn’t feel so rotten, the belated realization would have relieved her. Instead, she wondered grumpily why he couldn’t just have said so in the first place, instead of leaving her with that suggestive remark. The answer, she suspected, was that he’d taken delight in tormenting her. And as soon as she felt well enough to walk across the room without weaving, she would slug him.
“What’s that?”
He chuckled at the suspicion threading her voice. “It’s an old family remedy. My father had an occasional need for something to settle his stomach on mornings after.” He set the glass down in front of her. “In order for it to work, you have to drink it down as fast as you can. It isn’t too tasty, but I can promise you’ll feel better immediately.”
Zoey eyed the sinister-looking liquid. It looked as vile as a witch’s brew.
Noting her reaction, he said blandly, “Of course, you can always try the old-fashioned method.”
She lifted her gaze to his. “What’s that?”
“Waiting for the hangover to pass. Shouldn’t take more than, oh—” he cocked his head, pretending to calculate “—twenty-four hours or so.”
“Twenty-four hours!” The thought was horrifying. She’d die in that amount of time—slowly, painfully, degree by torturous degree. She looked at the liquid in the glass, then at Cage again. “I’ll feel better immediately?”
“Two minutes, tops,” he assured her.
Taking a deep breath, she reached for the glass and lifted it to her lips. Gulping it down as quickly as she could, she found that it didn’t taste as it looked. It was worse. Far, far worse. Her stomach heaved with each swallow, until she drained the glass and slammed it on the table.
Peering at her closely, he could tell the remedy was doing its work. She was looking more than a little green around the edges.
“That is—without a doubt—the most disgusting, noxious stuff I’ve ever tasted.” She aimed a baleful glare at him. “It isn’t working.”
He reached into his pocket and removed his watch, slipping it on his wrist again. “You don’t feel any better?”
Her face drained of all color. “No, I feel awful. Truly, truly awful.” Abruptly she lunged from her chair and raced out of the room.
Cage checked his watch. “Yep. Right on time.” Whistling between his teeth, he opened her refrigerator and surveyed the contents. A woman after his own heart, she kept it well stocked. A few more vegetables and a bit less meat than he would suggest, but all in all, he couldn’t quibble much with her selections. He took out milk, cheese, butter, eggs and bacon and set them on the counter.
He’d found her pans and had the bacon sizzling and the eggs in the microwave by the time she returned. He threw her a quick glance. She looked depleted, drained, and lethally dangerous.
Dragging herself to a chair, she collapsed into it. “I will kill you.” What her voice lacked in strength it made up for in conviction. “So help me, as soon as I can get off this chair, you’re a dead man. I’ll stake you naked to a hornet’s nest and let garden slugs feast on your rotting carcass.”
She was obviously feeling better. “The naked part sounds promising. I think I’ll pass on the rest.”
Her eyes narrowed at his cheerful tone. “Kiss your ass goodbye, Gauthier. I’m a Scorpio. We invented the concept of revenge.”
“Tell the truth.” Expertly, he forked the bacon over. “How do you feel now?”
Horrible. Rotten. She opened her mouth to say the words, then paused as she realized they weren’t true. Not quite. And not anymore. Her stomach had settled to a general allover queasiness and the Black & Decker chorus in her head had softened to a power-drill duet. “I still have a headache,” she said sulkily. She fixed him with a malevolent glare. “But don’t think you’re off the hook. You neglected to mention that in the course of your two-minute cure I would become violently ill.”
He opened the door of the microwave and stirred the eggs. “Details. You were better in two minutes, as promised. And we’re just about ready for stage two of Dr. Gauthier’s Tea-Drinker’s Remedy.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
Moving competently around her kitchen, he drained the bacon, then began shredding cheese for the eggs. “The next stage is…grease.”
“Grease?” She waited for her stomach to roll viciously in response. Instead, it made only a halfhearted rumble that might have been interest. Surely not. Most likely this was yet another step in his torture routine.
“It will coat that acid in your stomach. Then you follow it with eggs, toast dripping in butter, and milk. You still won’t feel one hundred percent until tomorrow, but you’ll feel human. Believe me.”
“You’ve lost a few points on the credibility scale this morning, Sheriff. And you still haven’t explained why you were in my bed this morning.”
“On your bed.”
“Whatever,” she said through gritted teeth. He slid a plate in front of her and poured her a glass of milk. “Start talking.”
Folding his arms, he leaned against the kitchen counter and surveyed her. “First, you start eating.”
Their gazes clashed—hers mutinous, his patient. After several seconds her stomach unsubtly reminded her that she hadn’t had anything to eat since the soup he’d finished off for her yesterday afternoon. She picked up her fork, stabbed at the eggs.
He watched, satisfied, as she began to eat—at first testingly, then with real appetite. He turned and filled his own plate and sat down opposite her. “Don’t forget the grease.”
She picked up a strip of bacon and bit off a piece with barely restrained violence. He knew better than to push his luck. “Fern called me about suppertime last night.”
Her hand froze in the act of reaching for a slice of toast. “Called you? Why would she?”
He couldn’t resist needling her. “Seems she had Charity’s newest resident passed out at her dinner table. I suppose she was fixing to eat and you were in the way.�
� She was making short work of her breakfast, he noted approvingly. It always pleased him to see a woman with an appetite. His mother and sister never used to do more than poke at their food, and complain about the way the pounds went on. He’d bet Zoey didn’t have that problem. She usually radiated energy; it fairly crackled from her. It would take ample replenishments of fuel to keep her going at the speed she kept.
“I still don’t understand why she would think to call you.”
“Maybe she was thinking it was my duty as sheriff to take care of a drunk-and-disorderly call.”
Her eyes flashed. “I was not…”
He reached for his glass, his brows skimming upward. “Not…” he prompted, when she didn’t go on.
Steamed, she dropped her gaze and shoveled more eggs into her mouth.
“I think we’ve established the ‘drunk’ part,” he said cheerfully. “As for ‘disorderly’—” he tipped his head back and scratched his unshaven jaw “—I reckon that would be pushing things a bit. Actually, you were kind of cute, singing off-key, throwing your arms around my neck when I carried you to the car.”
She raised her eyes skyward. God had saved her from death by hangover only to subject her to this? How many times was He going to repay her for putting Mr. Bubble in the church fountain? She’d been eight, for heaven’s sake.
“You still haven’t explained why you felt it was necessary to spend the night here.” She wasn’t one to ask for, or accept help readily. However, under the circumstances, she decided there was a period of time last night on which she really didn’t feel the need to be updated.
He wasn’t in the mood to let her off the hook. “Despite your rather enthusiastic welcome when you saw me…”
She was sure, very sure, that she didn’t want to know what he meant by that.
“You were fading fast by the time I got you home.” What she’d been was unconscious by the time he’d laid her on the bed, but he was too gentlemanly to remark on it. “You mentioned someone by the name of Patrick several times.” His tone, when he imparted the words, was nonchalant. It revealed none of the vicious emotion the name had elicited. Any other man might have identified the emotion as jealousy, but Cage had never been jealous of a woman in his life.
As if the words he’d uttered didn’t matter, not wanting them to, he went on. “I know from personal experience that Fern’s ‘tea’ packs a hell of a wallop. When Tanner and I were fourteen we snuck a pitcher of the stuff and drank it at his daddy’s hunting cabin. We were sicker than dogs for three days, and had to pretend nothing was wrong, in order to keep our folks from suspecting what we’d done.”
He paused, eyeing the toast on her plate. “Are you going to eat that?”
She picked up the piece and bit into it, almost smiling at his look of disappointment. Swallowing, she prompted, “And you stayed because…”
Belly pleasantly full, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. “Well, like I said, I knew from personal experience that you were going to be pretty sick. It was only a matter of time. I figured I’d just stay around to help in any way I could.” Because she still didn’t look convinced, he added, “You could have had alcohol poisoning. Someone needed to keep an eye on you.”
His story sounded almost plausible, so she let it drop for the time being. Fragments of her afternoon with Fern were filtering back. “Fern thinks she knows who killed Janice Reilly.”
“Does she?” He picked up his plate and stacked it on hers with a clatter, reminding her that her headache hadn’t completely abated. She watched with more interest than she wanted to admit, to see what he’d do next. A man who could cook a decent breakfast was a rarity. One who would do the dishes afterward was a saint.
She smirked when he piled all the dirty dishes in the sink. It appeared she wouldn’t have to worry about having him canonized. She doubted he’d meet those pesky Vatican criteria, anyway. “Aren’t you interested in Fern’s theory?”
He sauntered back with a wet dishcloth to scrub the table. “Nope.”
Astonished, she stared at him. “Why not?”
“Because Fern Sykes is a harmless old woman who rarely bothers a soul. And she believes that Elvis is alive and well and raising mutant kangaroos in Australia. There’s not a conspiracy theory that she doesn’t subscribe to, not a wacky notion that she doesn’t embrace.” He walked back to the sink and hung up the wet cloth. “She’s called my office six times this year alone to report UFO sightings. In her case, even an eyewitness account of the murder would be suspect.”
“She claims that one of the Rutherford family did it.” She had to think for a moment to recall the name. “Donny Ray, I think she called him. She seemed to think that he has more in common with his Great-uncle Carl than anyone is willing to believe.”
He stiffened very slightly. Then he turned to her, his face expressionless. “Donny Ray Rutherford is a scumbag of the lowest order. There’s no denying that. But he’d have no reason to murder Janice Reilly.”
Zoey studied him closely. Her words had struck a nerve of some kind, she could tell. “You seem sure.”
“As sure as I can be.” He heaved a sigh. “Sounds like Fern filled you in on some old history of Charity. Did she also tell you that she holds the Rutherford clan responsible for her husband’s death?”
Somewhere that rang familiar in her memory. “I think so.”
“Claims one of them gave her husband the evil eye, or some sort of superstitious nonsense.” He shook his head. “Fact is, the poor devil was probably eaten with cancer. Neither he nor Fern trusted doctors, the way I hear it. She’s hardly a reliable source.”
“You’re not even going to check it out?”
He walked toward her, propped his palms on the table in front of her and leaned forward. “Zoey.” His voice was gentle. “You stick to writing the mysteries, and let me concentrate on solving this one, okay?”
She lifted her chin to a regal angle. “Fine. Who’s stopping you?”
“You are.” He watched awareness flash into her eyes, followed by wariness. Good. She’d be wise to feel both. “I’ve got to tell you my concentration hasn’t been the same since you came to Charity.”
There was a smart retort on the tip of her tongue. Her gaze met his and the words slid back down her throat. Gray eyes should be cold, impersonal. They shouldn’t be capable of such warmth, such promise.
“’Course,” he mused, his gaze tracing her brows, her lips, “it didn’t help my concentration any to lie next to you all night. Listening to the soft sound of your breathing. Watching your face while you slept.”
She stared at him, transfixed, as if hypnotized by that low voice.
“All that in-your-face toughness of yours disappears when you’re sleeping, did you know that?” His voice was husky; the finger he trailed down her cheek was featherlight. “I’m not the kind of man to spend a lot of time thinking about any one woman, but damned if I can figure a way to get you out of my mind.
“If you want a mystery to solve, Zoey, maybe you can start with that one.”
Chapter 5
“Chief Runnels to see you, Sheriff.” Patsy, the dispatcher going off duty, gave Cage a sympathetic look before opening the door wide enough to allow Charity’s chief of police to enter.
He closed the file he’d been studying. “Boyd.” It was more difficult than usual to work up an agreeable tone. It would have been easier, he imagined, after a decent night’s sleep. But he hadn’t gotten one of those since a pair of serious green eyes had started haunting his every moment.
Twirling his chair around to greet the visitor, Cage crossed one foot over his knee. “Sure is a pretty day today, isn’t it?”
“Heat index is over one hundred and fifty already,” the chief corrected him. Cage mused that one would never know it to look at Boyd Runnels. The man never seemed to sweat. Nothing so human would be allowed to mar the uniform he wore with rigid pride. A couple of decades older than Cage, he’d come home from Vietnam a d
ecorated war hero, and had exchanged his army uniform for his current one. Two years ago he’d tried to trade in his badge for that of sheriff.
Cage always wondered which fact ate at Runnels more—that he’d lost the election or that he’d lost it to him. He’d never made any secret of what he thought of the hometown boy who had quit the NOPD with a folderful of commendations and a citation for bravery in the line of duty. A record like that might impress some, but not Runnels—not when, to his mind, he had a record to match it.
Cage didn’t hold Boyd’s feelings against the man. Only those closest to Cage knew how he felt about that shiny medal they’d hung around his neck over two years ago. He’d spent a fair amount of time trying to forget just how he’d earned it.
He focused on the man before him. There wasn’t a spare inch of flesh on Runnels’s tall, lean frame. His uniform was crisply fresh, his boots polished to a glossy sheen. He wore his gray hair cut short and combed severely back from his narrow face. Whenever Cage spent any time at all with the man, he invariably envisioned him at home with the missus and his troop of kids, all wearing starched uniforms and saluting each other before meals.
Boyd roamed the office, ignoring Cage’s offer of a seat, studying the pictures hanging on his bulletin board and the mass of files opened across the desk. “You got yourself a real mess here, don’t you, Sheriff?”
Deliberately misunderstanding, Cage said, “Don’t you worry about it, Boyd. The janitor will clear away these coffee cups and such after hours.”
Runnels shot him a humorless look. “I mean in the parish. First a drug lab, then a murder, and now random shootings.” He failed to conceal the satisfaction in his voice. “Yep, I’d say the parish is in a fine mess with this shocking increase in criminal activity.”
Cage reached for the slim cigar in his pocket and ran his fingers over it consideringly. “Well, I guess that all depends on your perspective. Some folks might consider the fact that a meth operation was busted up as evidence that our office is tough on crime. Helps that we have charges pending against one of the operators. And there was nothing random about those shootings. The suspects were just released on bail this morning.”