"But you must have asked him."
"He got angry," she said simply. "That's when I realized he always had, whenever I questioned him." Hair a dark halo, her face pretty and earnest, she looked at Connor as if she really wanted him to understand her SOB of an ex. "You know, Simon was actually born in Yugoslavia—well, Serbia, now. He has some old-world notions. His grandmother stayed with us once, and she wouldn't sit down to dinner while he was eating. She hovered, hurrying to refill his glass, asking if he wanted more of anything, waiting on him. Simon's mother isn't quite that bad, but she's deferential to his father. Maybe, in his view, a woman should never question a man."
And they had a daughter. Hadn't that ever worried Mariah? "Zofie seems pretty outspoken," Connor commented.
"Simon always talked about how she could be anything. A doctor, a lawyer, the president of the United States. I really think he expected his children to be American in a way he isn't quite, even though he doesn't even have an accent. Zofie has never hinted that he's squelched her. But apparently I was another story."
"You were his wife."
"Exactly." She smiled sadly. "We'd been married five years, and I hadn't noticed that he didn't confide in me. Pretty dense, huh?"
Damn the bastard for making her sad.
"I wouldn't say that. The problem is, we look to be swept away by love. Analyzing someone's character, habits and values flies against the romanticized notion of love overcoming all. Maybe when you're older and considering a second marriage, you tick off the good versus the bad. I suspect very few people do the first time around. He must have had appealing qualities. Would you have listened if a friend had said, 'Hey, he's kind of old-fashioned about women. He isn't going to like being challenged by you'?"
"I didn't listen," Mariah said ruefully. "My parents didn't like him at all. They're old-fashioned in a different way—Mom was forty when she had me, but I probably wouldn't have listened if they were young and hip. Or if my best friends had said the same things. I have to say, though, that Simon did talk to me more in the early days, about his family and growing up and what he hoped for in life. It was once we were married that he became more serious, more reserved, more impatient when I asked him for something he didn't think he should give. Men did not, in his view, wash dishes." She gave a wry smile. "And why are we talking about my ex-husband? Do all trails lead to Rome?"
Connor lifted his wineglass to her. "Ex-girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands and wives are one of those subjects couples have to get out of the way right up-front. Didn't you know that?"
"I'm not very experienced at this," she reminded him.
"Oh, yeah." He let a smile play around his mouth. "Well, them's the rules."
"Oh, are they?" She tilted her head coquettishly. "I haven't heard about your girlfriends yet."
He sipped wine, shrugged. "Nobody serious to tell about."
"Never?" Mariah looked incredulous. "In your whole life, you've never fallen in love? What about … oh, sixth grade?"
He laughed. "Yeah, I had a big crush on a girl in my class. Can't even remember her name. I do remember that she sat in front of me for a whole month, and her hair smelled like lilacs. I wanted to touch it so bad. When she wore it in a ponytail, I yanked it until she hit me."
Mariah laughed, a merry sound. "Weren't you a jock in high school? You must have had girlfriends."
"I played football and basketball. Yeah, I had girlfriends." More like, a girlfriend.
He'd given something away. Mariah's eyes were dark and knowing. "But not somebody you want to talk about."
Why was he reluctant? Did too many years of silence on a subject rust your ability to talk about it? He tried not even to think about Becky, although he couldn't help doing so at odd moments. Hell, how could he not, given that his job was more a crusade in her name than in his mother's.
"I went with a girl named Becky for a couple of years." Even his voice sounded rusty. "Her dad didn't like her dating, so we hung out at school, I'd drive her home, she'd sneak out sometimes at night." He shrugged. "She was scared of him. I knew that. I thought he was just an SOB who'd ground her, maybe give her a hard time if he ever caught us. Talk about old-fashioned, not letting a sixteen-year-old date. Then she turned seventeen, and she still couldn't."
Mariah watched him across the table, her expression compassionate. "What happened?"
"I wanted her to go to the prom. She freaked. She couldn't possibly ask her father. I said I would." How clearly he remembered his teenage arrogance and blindness. "That's when Becky finally told me she had been having sex with her father for years. Since she was about twelve. He was jealous. That's why she couldn't date."
Mariah let out a small, anguished sound echoing the pain he had felt. "What did you do?" she whispered.
"Tried to talk her into going to the school counselor. Didn't she know how sick that was? I said." He shook his head, hearing the incredible insensitivity. Yeah, it was her father who was sick, but she must have known she could stop him, and she hadn't. At that age, she wouldn't have understood the difference in responsibility between the adult and the child, the power he had over her. Connor continued, "Of course, she wouldn't go. Her mom was dead, her dad was all she had. No little sisters to worry about. She'd be out of high school in just another year, and then she'd move out of the house. She begged me to be patient."
"But you weren't." Mariah said it as if she knew the rest of the pathetic story.
"In my defense, I don't think it was my own impatience driving me. I thought I was in love. I was the knight on the white charger. I was determined to save her. Hell, I knew what was right and wrong. The real trouble was my inflated belief that I could fix anything."
"You confronted him?"
"I was smart enough not to do that." He gave a harsh, humorless laugh. "I called Child Protective Services. Becky denied the whole thing, he beat the crap out of her and she ran away after telling me she hated my guts." Until his dying day, he would remember her swollen, battered face and the terrible sense of betrayal in her eyes. "I heard later she was pregnant, living with some sailor in Bremerton. The baby couldn't have been mine. I don't want to think about whose it was."
"Oh, Connor." Her hand crept across the table and shyly covered his. "I'm sorry. I could tell you didn't want to talk about her. I guess I'm pushy, too."
He gripped her hand, too hard, feeling the fragile bones under his fingers. "No. It's okay," he said gruffly. "It happened a long time ago."
She nodded, her face grave. "You couldn't have done anything differently, you know."
"I should have talked to her." A rough sound came from his throat. "I never imagined she'd lie to the CPS worker. Somehow, even though she wouldn't make the call herself, I was sure she'd be grateful to be rescued." He gave another harsh laugh. "Rescued. More like sending a lifeboat that drove right over the top of her."
"You had to tell," Mariah repeated.
"Yeah. I did." He tried to smile, felt how bleak his effort was. "Right and wrong have never looked as clear-cut since."
Her forehead crinkled as her eyes searched his. "You face these dilemmas every day, don't you?"
"No, what I do is deal with other people facing them. It's never easy."
She bit her lip. "And they all look at you later the way I did."
"Most of them."
She squeezed his hand back, hard. "I think, Connor McLean, that you're a good, kind man. I'm sorry it took me so long to notice."
He hoped she found him a little more exciting than that implied, but he appreciated the thought.
"If we were anywhere else, I'd kiss you," he said roughly.
"Oh." Her cheeks flushed and her gaze wavered from his.
"Or do good, kind men not do that?"
Mariah firmly reclaimed her hand. "I don't know all that many." She sounded prim. "But since you already have kissed me…"
Too long ago. At odd moments the entire week he'd remembered her taste, the faint flowery scent of her hair, the
quiver of her lips and her tiny gasp. He hadn't kissed a woman in months. The dating game had palled for him years ago. Every so often he met someone he liked enough to make the effort for. That seemed to be happening less and less often, which made him wonder if there was a reason he was thirty years old and hadn't fallen in love since high school.
Tonight, he was thinking he just hadn't met the right woman yet. Or, more accurately, he had met her and just hadn't broken up her marriage yet, he thought dourly.
Forget Simon, Connor told himself. She was single now. She wouldn't be getting back together with her ex. Why shouldn't he kiss her?
"And I'm looking forward to doing it again," he said, letting his gaze drift for a brief moment to her mouth.
Her blush was gratifying.
They sipped coffee and talked about politics at work and the school board and the city council, avoiding any more land mines. After he paid, they strolled out into a misty night, smelling the salt air and hearing the roar of the surf.
Mariah had already fastened her seat belt by the time he got behind the wheel.
"I was thinking," she said.
He glanced at her, keys in his hand.
"I promised myself I wouldn't talk about Tracy tonight at all."
"I don't mind if you have something to say."
"Well." Mariah pushed her hair back from her face. "It was what you said about your girlfriend. How determined she was not to rock the boat. To … protect her father, I suppose."
"Tracy doesn't have contact with her father."
"So she says." Her face was indistinct in the dark parking lot. "I was just wondering whether there was some chance she does, and her mother doesn't know."
Connor considered. "I asked about him. I didn't get any sense she was hiding anything, but what the hell. I'll locate him."
"You can do that?"
"It's harder than you'd think to disappear. And this guy doesn't have any reason to be hiding, unless he's skipped on child support. I had the impression from Tracy's mother that she's happier he's out of the picture."
Mariah sounded worried. "If it's not her father she's protecting…"
"She might be telling the truth," Connor reminded her.
"What do you think?"
He shoved the key into the ignition. "I think she's lying," he said baldly.
"Then…"
"Then if it's not her father she's protecting, I have to look at her mother."
Distress made her voice husky. "You think she collaborated with someone, or…"
"Or just turned her eyes the other way. Do you know how often that happens?" He sounded savage; couldn't help it.
"No. I've read…" Mariah drew an audible breath. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought this up at all."
"No." He deliberately relaxed. "You're right. I'll find Tracy's father first. Then I'll have a talk with the last boyfriend."
"Thank you," Mariah said softly.
"Just doing my job."
As he hoped he'd done it when her husband was accused.
As was habit for a cop, he had stayed aware of their surroundings. He knew the parking lot was quiet, no one getting out of a car or exiting the restaurant. So he didn't hesitate when impulse had him reaching for her.
He wrapped his hand around the back of her head and covered her mouth with his, sharp-edged need making this kiss hungrier than it should have been. But instead of stiffening, she sighed and parted her lips. His other hand found her shoulder, traced the fragile line of her collarbone, stroked her throat, flattened on her chest just above the swell of cleavage. Damn, he wanted the plump weight of her breast in his hand, but he had enough restraint to know it was too soon, would scare her off.
He stroked her tongue with his, explored the soft contours of her mouth, nipped at her full lower lip. She kissed him back with a passion that seemed somehow innocent, unpracticed. It made him wonder what kind of lover her husband had been.
None of his business.
Yes, it was, damn it! The way Simon Stavig had treated Mariah was a part of the experiences that made up who she was, how she would react to another man's touch and promises and excuses.
Right now, Connor thought, nuzzling the hollow at the base of her throat, he couldn't complain. The quick rise and fall of her breasts, the ragged vibration of her pulse beneath his mouth, gave him intense satisfaction.
Whatever had come between them before, Mariah wanted him. She'd forgiven if not forgotten. He was a lucky man.
With a deep-throated groan, he lifted his head, kissed her one more time and then reluctantly let her go.
"Time to get you home," he said.
"I…" Her voice was high, breathless. Attuned to her, he felt her draw in a sustaining breath that allowed her to steady her voice. "Thank you."
The drive was too short. He asked her about her drama program, and she talked almost at random about auditions for the play to be performed in early December, A Christmas Carol.
In front of her house, before releasing his seat belt, he kissed her again, but didn't let it get serious. This was a first date. He had a chance, if he didn't blow it.
When he opened her door, she seemed to fit so naturally against him that he found himself sliding his hands down her back, gripping the soft curve of her buttocks, nipping at her mouth, finally losing himself in a long, drugged kiss.
She sounded dazed when they surfaced. "I should go in."
"Yeah." Her hair was fluffy beneath his cheek. "I didn't intend…"
Surprisingly she laughed, a delicious gurgle. "If you're claiming it wasn't premeditated, I don't think you'll get off. You did warn me, you know."
"I did, didn't I?" He found himself smiling, which made it easier to let her go. They walked to the front door hand in hand. "Can I take the baby-sitter home?"
"She lives in the complex."
"Then this is good night." One last slow kiss during which he savored her soft mouth, her slender neck under his hand and the pillow of her breasts against his chest. Then he let her go and backed away. "I'll call."
"Thank you for a nice evening, Connor." He was pleased to see her fumble the key before she got it in the door. "Good night." She disappeared inside.
Walking back to the car, he wondered how soon before he could decently call. Was tomorrow morning pushing it?
* * *
Chapter 10
« ^ »
It took Connor less than two hours in front of a computer to discover that Randy Mitchell had been dead for half of Tracy's life. When her mother and she said no contact, they meant it.
Although Saturday wasn't a schoolday, Tracy's mother did work, Connor knew, leaving at around four-thirty in the afternoon. He rang their doorbell at three-fifteen.
An eye peered at him through the peephole. A moment later, he heard the rattle of a chain being unfastened and a dead bolt being unlocked. Ms. Mitchell, dressed for work in a tiny miniskirt, fishnet stockings and three-inch heels, opened the door.
"I'm sorry it took ten minutes to let you in. That kid!" she said irritably. Over her shoulder, she yelled, "Tracy! Why did you fasten all the locks?" She shook her head and made an apologetic moue at Connor. "She's gotten so timid! Honest to God, I swear she'd put bars on the windows if the landlord and I would go for it."
"She was raped." He had to remind her?
"At school!" She shrugged. "If you can call it rape, when she went along with it."
Connor immediately developed a deep distaste for Tracy's mother.
As if reading his expression, she said hastily, "Not that a teacher should have been seducing a little girl like my Tracy! I hope he's fired at the very least! Still, it's not as if a lock would have kept him out."
He kept his tone stolid. "Ms. Mitchell, I hope you'll consider counseling for Tracy. She's very young to have had this kind of experience. Her fear—" he nodded at the door "—suggests she feels very vulnerable. I know you work evenings, which leaves her here alone. Talking out what she really fears might hel
p."
She pressed a hand to her generous bosom, three-quarters bared by a plunging neckline. "Do you know how much those robbers charge? I can't…" She stopped and aimed a patently false smile past his shoulder. "Tracy. See who's here to talk to you again."
He'd missed her first reaction to his presence. Connor turned and nodded. "Tracy. How are you?"
Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that said, Surfer Girl, she gazed at him expressionlessly. "I'm okay."
"I'd like to talk to you again, if that's all right."
Momentarily hopeful, she asked, "Does that mean I can say no?"
"I know it's hard." He imbued his voice with sympathy. "Unfortunately, going over and over your story is an unavoidable part of the investigation. I can't make an arrest until I have my ducks lined up, and you can help me do that."
"Of course she wants to help!" Steel in her voice, her mother wrapped an arm around Tracy and urged her toward a chair.
Her daughter dug in her heels, eyes widening with panic. "I've said everything! I've said it and I've said it and I've said it!"
He made his expression grave. "We won't go over the whole thing again. In fact, I'm hoping you'll be more truthful with me today, Tracy." Let her stew for a few minutes, he thought.
Her mouth opened as if she wanted to flare defiantly back, but the fear in her eyes gave her away. She closed her mouth with a snap and sat down, hugging herself.
"Ms. Mitchell," Connor said to the mother, "I'd like to speak with you privately for a moment."
She nodded. "Sure. Come on into the kitchen."
From there he could see the top of Tracy's head in the recliner. In a low voice, he said, "Are you aware that your husband is dead?"
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