by Maggie Price
“You’ll get there in time. Right now you’re on the verge of tears, and I don’t figure it’s because I told you about my brush with losing my badge.” His dark gaze focused on her like a laser. “Talk to me, Regan.”
She retreated a step back. “I’m not close to tears.”
“I’ve got three sisters. I know when a woman is on the verge of opening the floodgates. They’d all tell you they highly recommend a good cry as a way to vent. Purge.”
“I don’t need a good cry. I don’t need anything….” Except a life where she wasn’t constantly in turmoil. Forever afraid.
Turning her back on him, she covered her face with her hands and broke.
“That’s a good start,” Josh murmured. His hands settled gently on her shoulders, turning her to face him. “Get it all out.” He drew her close, stroking her hair. “All of it.”
The tears came as if there was no end to them. It didn’t matter that Josh McCall wore a badge. His arms were strong, his voice understanding. With her face buried against his chest, Regan sobbed out the grief, the frustration, the fear.
One of his hands slid up her back to close over the nape of her neck while the other continued stroking her hair. She kept her face pressed against his chest, relying on his strength now that her own had evaporated. His small gift of comfort meant more to her than she should have let it.
As the tears passed, she leaned back, wiping them from her cheeks with the back of her hands. “I’m sorry. Dammit.” Her breath came out shaky and she would have pulled away, but he continued to hold her.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said quietly. “It’s not healthy to hold everything in.”
“I got your T-shirt all wet.”
“It’ll dry.” He skimmed his hand from her hair to her cheek. The tender, caring gesture sent a quick, sharp pang of arousal through her. She didn’t want to want him. But she did. Standing there, his strong, sturdy arms around her and moonstars glittering in the distance, he was all she wanted.
“What’s in your past, Regan?”
The question should have been enough to have her pulling away. Instead she leaned toward him. It was only a hint of surrender, but it was enough to appall her, knowing for an instant she’d been tempted to tell him.
Too tempted.
Her heart took one hard, violent leap into her throat that was part fear, part long-suppressed desire. He’s a cop, she reminded herself. If she told him the truth, he would lock her in a cage—no matter what was between them. He would do what had to be done. And it wasn’t just her fear of going to jail that held her back. His arresting her would forge an undeniable link between them. She knew better than anyone how methodical, how thorough Payne Creath was. He would want to know exactly how a vacationing cop had gotten close enough to her to unearth her secrets. No, even if she wanted to tell Josh the truth, she couldn’t. Not when doing so would risk his life.
“Tell me,” he repeated softly.
Her throat was burning dry. Why was she drawn to him again and again, when all she should do was step away? “I can’t.”
“Regan—”
“I’m sorry.” She slipped from his arms, but continued to face him. After the solace he’d given her she couldn’t turn her back on him. “I’ve told you all I can.”
His jaw set, Josh kept his gaze locked on her face. She’d paled, and he saw what was now a familiar glimmer of fear in her eyes when she took another step back. He clamped a lid on the frustration and edgy need that rippled inside him.
She swept a hand toward the lake. “Thank you for sharing your moonstars. And lending me a shoulder to cry on.” She attempted a smile that didn’t gel. “You’re a good man, Josh McCall. I won’t ever forget you.”
The finality in her tone sent something hot and lethal spreading in his gut. Dammit, no woman had ever made him feel this shaky. Unsettled. “You sound like you’re saying goodbye.”
“I shouldn’t have come here with you.” She shoved a hand through her dark hair, leaving it tousled. “I can’t do this, Josh. I can’t be with you. Anywhere. I need to get back to Etta’s.”
“Fine.” Her secrets were still her secrets, and his desire to unravel them was stronger than ever.
When she started to turn, he put a finger under her chin, stilling her movement. While she didn’t jerk away, she did shoot up an invisible wall.
He slicked his thumb over her bottom lip, and felt her tremble. The reaction was enough to cement his determination. If he couldn’t get over that wall of secrecy she’d erected, he’d damn well tear it down with his bare hands.
I want you, was all he could think.
“I’ll take you back, Regan, but we haven’t finished with each other,” he said in a low, murmured challenge. “Not by a long shot. And we both know it.”
Chapter 9
Because Seamus O’Toole had driven to Dallas to handle a business matter, Josh and Chief Decker had to wait a day to interview the used car dealership owner. They caught up with O’Toole early in the morning in the parking lot of a busy stop-and-rob convenience store a mile from Paradise Lake.
Since the peeper case was Decker’s, Josh chose to stay in the background, leaning against the front of the patrol car. Already the June air was heating, raising a sheen of sweat over his skin.
Decker stepped up to the lemon-yellow pickup displaying a dealer’s tag in the next parking space just as O’Toole used his remote to unlock the driver’s door. “Mr. O’Toole, we need a word with you.”
O’Toole turned, eyed Decker in his sharply pressed uniform before flicking Josh a look. “Who’s he?”
“Sergeant McCall. We’re working on a case where your name came up.”
“Yeah? What case?”
O’Toole was approximately six foot two and weighed around two hundred pounds, Josh estimated. His face was round; thatches of gray edged the temples of the dark hair combed in a style that Elvis would have favored. He was dressed in olive pants and a stained T-shirt that strained over his gut. Two plastic bags dangled from his right hand, a twelve-pack of beer was clenched in his left.
“You were spotted out walking the other night around 1:00 a.m.,” Decker said.
“There a law against taking a stroll?”
“A burglary occurred in the vicinity of where you were seen. We need to know if you saw anyone during your stroll.”
“Nope.” O’Toole shrugged. “Least I don’t remember if I did.”
Decker nudged his mirrored sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “If you did see someone, why wouldn’t you remember?”
“’Cause I was strolling home from Truelove’s.”
“You telling me you were drunk?”
“I’m saying I had one too many.” O’Toole hoisted the beer and bags into the back of the pickup, then turned to Decker, his eyes telegraphing his annoyance. “I don’t remember seeing nobody, so I can’t help you.”
“Someone mentioned you were talking to a nice-looking redhead at Truelove’s,” Decker said.
Josh sent a mental attaboy to the chief. His mention of Karen Nash, the woman whose black thong had been stolen during the burglary, was a bluff to see if O’Toole took the bait.
The puzzled look on his face told Josh he hadn’t.
“I didn’t talk to no redhead.”
“Since you had one too many, how would you know?” Decker asked mildly.
O’Toole’s face reddened. “I don’t know nothing about a burglary or a redhead. You want to stop wasting my time and do some real police work? Find out who unlocked my back gate, unscrewed the porch light and scared my wife.”
Josh pushed away from the patrol car while sharing a look with Decker. “When did that happen?” Decker asked.
“Hell, I don’t know,” O’Toole said. “Ask Yolanda.”
“I will,” Decker said. “I don’t remember a report about this.”
“I don’t think she called the cops, either time.”
Josh raised a brow. “It happened
more than once?”
“Both nights I was out fishing.” He checked his watch. “Which is where I ought to be now. I’m ahead in points in the derby and I intend to win.”
Decker held up a hand. “Who else has a key to your gate?”
“Nobody.”
“How about your landlord?” Josh asked.
“It’s my lock. I put it on so no kids would let Kinsey out.”
“Kinsey?” Josh asked.
“My wife’s miniature Chihuahua.”
Decker angled his chin. “Was Kinsey in the yard on the nights the gate got unlocked?”
“No, in the house.”
“Why didn’t your wife report the incidents?” Josh asked.
“Ask her. I told her to, but she don’t listen to me.”
“You’re sure about the gate key?” Decker asked. “No one else has one?”
“Yeah, I’m…” O’Toole’s eyes narrowed. “Except Regan. She’s that dark-haired bartender at Truelove’s.”
Josh took a step forward. “Ms. Ford has a key to your gate?”
“She’s taken my keys away a couple of times. Kept ’em overnight. She could have had a copy made.”
“Why would she do that?” Josh asked.
O’Toole’s mouth curled. “I was trying to be friendly and she about tore off my thumb. Maybe the bitch wanted payback, decided to scare Yolanda.”
Josh set his jaw. It was all he could do not to plow his fist into the idiot’s face.
“We’ll check that out, Mr. O’Toole,” Decker said. “You can go now.”
Through narrowed eyes, Josh tracked O’Toole as he backed the pickup out of the lot and turned toward the lake. “If that bastard was the peeper, I doubt he’d have mentioned unscrewing lightbulbs.”
“I agree.” Decker paused. “Did Regan tell you where she puts his keys when she confiscates them?”
“In a drawer behind the bar. She said he comes by the tavern after he sobers up to get them.”
“While the day shift is there?”
“That I don’t know.”
“I’ll stop by Etta’s and ask Regan. You want to come?”
Josh diverted his gaze back to the lake road. While a steady stream of traffic rolled by, his thoughts went to the previous night. The woman who’d sobbed in his arms was on the edge. Vulnerable.
How would he feel, he wondered, if he’d had to cut himself off from his family, his friends, his job? His life. By doing that, Regan had placed herself in emotional isolation, refusing to let anyone past the wall she’d erected around herself. A wall made even more inviolable by her insistence on protecting him.
Dammit, how the hell could he keep her safe when she wouldn’t open up to him, trust him?
He could taste the frustration, the edgy need inside him. He ached for a woman who wanted only distance from him. And if he didn’t give it to her, she might take off.
The thought of her leaving, of never seeing Regan again put knots in his gut.
As far as he was concerned, life was about acquiring what he wanted, not losing it. For the first time, he didn’t just want a woman, he wanted this woman. And all of his senses told him his only chance for success was to give her the space she demanded.
Right now wasn’t the time to try to stretch Regan’s rules.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he looked back at Decker. “There’s an order of supplies I need to pick up at the lumber-yard. I’ll leave Regan to you.”
Decker nodded. “Since I’m not paying for your help on this case, you’re calling the shots.”
No, Josh thought. Not yet I’m not.
“This is the biggest turnout yet for the annual fish fry,” Etta commented.
“Since A.C.’s marina is the main sponsor, I imagine he’s happy,” Regan replied as she steered Etta’s wheelchair along the walk that led toward the lake.
When they reached the grassy bank that fronted the marina, Regan swept her gaze over the crowd. People milled around rows of tables covered with red-and-white-checked plastic cloths. Some sat at the tables, others on the grass. Babies were passed from hand to hand. The old had found spots in areas where the massive oaks provided shade against the still-searing early-evening sun. The young raced around them.
A stereo had been set up at the farthest point of the marina. A group of teenagers were gathered there.
As Regan edged the wheelchair up to the table where several of Etta’s female cronies had congregated, it occurred to her that she knew the name of almost every person there. Some she recognized from the tavern, others she’d met on the times she’d attended church with Etta. Still others she’d come into contact with while at the market and other shops.
Soon she would have to leave the people and the town with its yawning pace that she’d begun to feel a part of. Knowing that was like a dull-edged knife to her heart.
“Regan, are you okay?” Etta asked, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “You went pale all of a sudden.”
“It’s just the heat,” she improvised. She gave Etta’s hand another squeeze before setting the brake on the wheelchair. “How about some iced tea?”
“That sounds good.”
Less than five minutes later, Regan was back with foam cups filled with icy tea.
Etta took a sip. “That hits the spot.” With her gray hair smoothly brushed, her blue shirtwaist dress perfectly ironed and color back in her cheeks, Etta looked like the picture of health. “It’s good to get out of the house and be around other folks. I was going stir-crazy.”
“Doc Zink said he’d stop by tomorrow evening after he’s done at his clinic,” Regan said as she settled into the chair beside Etta. “I think he’ll lift your home detention.”
“Does that mean no more IVs?” Etta asked, her lined face brightening.
“Yes. Your temperature’s been normal for days and your ankle’s healing. He’ll probably prescribe antibiotics in pill form.” Regan smiled. “When he does, I’ll have to reprogram your recorder.”
Etta chuckled. “That’s all I need is another voice coming out of my memory box, reminding me to take more pills.” She nodded toward the area in the distance where platters of fried fish, hot corn-on-the-cob and vats of coleslaw were being set out. “Well, now, there’s someone we haven’t seen in a couple of days.”
Regan looked up, and felt everything inside her go still at the sight of Josh hauling a tray of pies to one of the tables. He was dressed in snug jeans and a white T-shirt. His dark hair ruffled in the breeze; a day’s growth of stubble shadowed his jaw. While she watched him, the smell of good food and sounds of laughter faded from her mind.
Although Etta hadn’t seen Josh for two days, he was all she’d seen, Regan thought. In the mornings when she’d gone out to jog she’d spotted him working on the roof of his house. Stripped down to only faded cutoffs and a tool belt, his tanned muscles slicked with sweat, he’d distracted her so that she’d had to force herself to stay her course. Both evenings when she left for work he’d been in his front yard, cutting boards stretched over sawhorses. This afternoon when she went for a swim, he’d been working on the engine of the speedboat moored at the dock behind his house.
Each time she’d seen him she’d barely managed to keep her distance, caught on the thin edge between temptation and common sense.
Each time, he’d barely given her a glance.
Which was what she wanted, she reminded herself. What she’d demanded of him.
She pulled her gaze from his strong profile and forced herself to focus on the infant someone had settled in Etta’s arms. Still, her thoughts remained on Josh. On the sturdiness she’d felt when he’d held her. On his compelling scent. His taste.
She closed her eyes against the desire thudding in her stomach. Desire she didn’t dare sate. She reminded herself of the sudden urge she’d felt to tell him the truth about herself. The fact she’d even entertained doing that had scared the hell out of her. It still scared her. And was ample reason for her to stay away
from him. Even if all she wanted was to step back into his arms.
“Just the woman I’ve been looking for.”
Burns Yost’s voice had Regan’s muscles clenching tight. She gazed up into the reporter’s round, pleasant face, thinking how benign he looked, dressed in a red golf shirt and khakis, with a newspaper folded under one arm. She knew his unassuming countenance masked a sharp mind that went after a story like a pit bull after a hunk of steak. And she was the story he wanted.
“Hello, Mr. Yost.”
“Regan.” He touched an index finger to the brim of the ball cap that shaded his eyes. “Etta.” His gaze swept the length of the table. “Ladies.”
“Nice to see you, Burns,” Etta said, adding to the chorus of greetings he received. Grinning, she bounced the baby in her arms. “This here’s Mildred England’s new granddaughter. You ought to put this angel’s picture on the front page of the Sundown Sentinel.”
“She sure is pretty,” Yost said, then sliced his gaze back to Regan. “I thought you might like an advanced copy of tomorrow’s edition.”
He dropped the newspaper, faceup, on the table in front of Regan. She looked down and said nothing.
There was a well-framed, very clear picture of her standing beside the car at the accident scene, her skin and clothes smeared with blood. The photograph had captured the agony she’d felt moments after Amelia died.
The column beneath it was brief, giving her name and a summary of the accident.
Her gaze locked on the photograph of herself, Regan felt her already tenuous hold on control slip further. Her lungs seemed unable to pull in enough air. She pressed a hand to her stomach and tensed against the emotions that were buffeting her like hurricane winds.
“Who…took this?” she managed.
“Quentin Peterson,” Yost said. “He used his cell phone to call the paramedics, then stayed on it to relate information to them.”
A wave of dizzy faintness swept over her. Sweat pooled beneath her shorts and cotton tee.
“Peterson’s cell is a photo phone.” Smiling, Yost tapped an index finger against the newspaper. “I’ve posted your picture on the Sentinel’s Web site. And made calls to a few of my contacts in the business. I’m hoping one of the wire services’ll run the photo.”