by Lyn Stone
She glanced up and saw the lights barreling toward them. The trooper had dropped to firing stance, sheltered behind the open door of the van.
Mary cursed him for it. Ford must be standing out there in the open with no place left to hide.
Chapter 5
Mary quickly grabbed the hidden pistol, opened the passenger door and slid out to crouch on the grassy bank, hoping to see Ford come around the back of the van. Where was he?
Deafening bursts of gunfire riddled the vehicle, shattering glass, thunking into metal. Mary pushed away from the van and rolled down the shallow embankment through foothigh weeds, choking on silent shrieks and pure fright. When she came to rest against a wire fence, she lay flat on her stomach and buried her head in her arms, shaking.
“Good instincts,” said a voice just behind her. “Quick, he might be back!” Before she could react, Ford dragged her upright and flung her bodily over the fence and into a thicket. Briars scratched her arms and face as she struggled to make her way deeper into the trees.
Suddenly she found herself surrounded by his arms, huddled into a crevice formed by several large boulders
Almost immediately they heard a car peel away. A siren blared. For a brief time, faint blue flashes penetrated the trees and illuminated the top of their stone cocoon.
Mary swallowed hard and buried her face in the crook of one elbow. The heavy pistol clunked against her head. She had forgotten she held it. As tightly as she gripped it, she might have shot them both. She hurriedly groped for Ford’s hand, found it and placed the gun in his palm.
He smoothed her hair once and she felt his lips against her crown. “Wait here,” he instructed.
“No!” she pleaded, grabbing his arm. “Don’t leave!”
He patted her shoulder and untangled himself. “I’ll be right back.” With that, he disappeared.
Shortly, Mary heard an engine cough to life, briefly emitting the rumble of a faulty muffler. Then it fell silent. That had to be Ford trying the van.
At least there were no more shots. Long moments passed with nothing but crickets to break the silence. Temporarily removed from the worst danger, Mary tried not to think of snakes, spiders and other large crawly things that might be anticipating the taste of her exposed ankles and hands.
“You tired of this place yet?” he asked softly.
“Ford!” she groaned, uncurling to leap at the sound of his voice. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. “They’re gone?”
“Yeah, the kid took off after him. We need to get out of here, though. During that little delay in pursuit, I expect he called for backup and gave them our location. Let’s go find your grandma’s house.”
They made it through the small town of Franklin without incident. Mary pointed out the first road leading them to Fernshaw Farm. After two more turns, traveling on a narrow two-laner without any traffic, she indicated he should go left. A few minutes later, they reached the entrance to the property.
Mary hopped out when he stopped, unlatched the gates, waited for him to drive through, and closed them again. Well, here they were, for good or ill, she thought with a fatalistic sigh.
“You’d better park around back,” she said as she climbed into the van.
“Holy cow!” Ford breathed out the words, staring owlishly at the house in the glow of the headlights. “This is where your grandma lived?”
“Where I grew up,” she admitted. “Well, some of the time. I don’t have my key, so I’m afraid we’ll have to break in. But that’s okay. It’s mine now.”
“Yours,” he said with a click of his tongue. “Figures.”
He threw the van into gear and rolled slowly up the long, curving drive. “Your other house looked pricey enough, but this is a freakin’ mansion. And to think, I’d about decided you were just a regular person.”
“What do you mean by that remark? I am a regular person!” Mary snapped.
“Yeah, right. In jet-set circles, maybe,” he said, laughing at her furious glare.
“But not in yours,” she retorted, annoyed by his assumption.
“Honey, my social circle’s so small, it barely qualifies as a dot.”
She smirked and rolled her eyes. “And includes only you, I’ll bet. I wonder why that is. Could it be your way with an insult?”
“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he answered with a grin and a wink. “Why don’t we go on up to the big house, Miss Gotrocks? Maybe you can teach me some manners.”
“I doubt that’s possible!” she declared, crossing her arms over her chest.
“But you’ll try, anyway,” he said with a low chuckle. “Civilizing the uncouth rabble, and all that.”
“Why, Agent Devereaux, I do believe you are a snob.”
“Nope,” he said with a sigh. “Just a realist.”
Ford drove past the huge white mansion with its six majestic columns. He noticed, even in the dark, that the shrubbery adjacent to the paved driveway probably cost more than he’d agreed to pay for the new condo.
In the course of his work, Ford occasionally visited some very expensive homes. He had searched more than a few, plundered through them from the bottoms of toy boxes to the backs of underwear drawers. But unlike the plush palaces of the nouveau riche he had investigated, this particular house indicated old money.
“Lawsy, Miss Scarlett,” he muttered, unaware that he’d spoken aloud until Mary laughed at him.
“It’s a little ostentatious, I admit,” she said, her gaze locked on the old home place illuminated by the headlights.
“Right out of Gone With the Wind,” he agreed.
He followed the curve of the driveway around to the back of the mansion.
“Just park there behind the carriage house,” Mary instructed, and pointed to a structure that stood perpendicular to the main house. He pulled close to the back of the smaller building.
Quickly, he replaced the pistol in his belt and the cell phone in his jacket pocket. Then he got out and went around to open Mary’s door, not really surprised that she waited for the gesture, though most women didn’t these days.
From the first, Mary had struck him as an old-fashioned girl, one accustomed since birth to having doors opened for her. Like Nan. But was she really like his ex-wife? Was he being unjust to lump Mary in the same category with her?
The inborn haughtiness seemed to be missing in Mary, but then Nan had been sweet, too, at first. She’d tried sugar to start with, then tearful pleas, then whines and demands. All women weren’t like Nan, Ford knew.
It didn’t matter all that much what Mary Shaw turned out to be like, anyway, he told himself. Why should he care? He wouldn’t have to deal with her for long.
Mary had handled herself pretty well up till now, but Ford still figured she would probably fold up like a fan once she had time to stop and think about everything she’d been through today. Some were like that. Delayed reaction.
He would have to offer a little sympathy when it happened. Standard procedure for him. But he would keep a comfortable emotional distance, no matter how appealing she was. It didn’t help that she seemed attracted to him, too, even though he knew why. She had to depend on him to stay alive. That provided another excellent reason to keep her at arm’s length.
For his own sake as well as Mary’s, he needed to ignore, if he couldn’t extinguish, whatever seemed to be drawing them to each other. Self-preservation had ranked high on his list of priorities since his divorce.
Mary led him to the back entrance of the house through a little flower garden. The first frost hadn’t yet arrived to strip it of blooms. The heavy scent of roses reminded him of his mother’s perfume, the kind she always bought on special at Wal-Mart. He chuckled to himself. Yeah, he had so much in common with Mary Shaw, it was downright laughable. Not that he was trying to find anything in common with her.
“Here,” she said as she stooped and lifted one of the good-size rocks that bordered the flower beds. “Break a window.”
“Surely you’ve got an alarm,” he said, hefting the stone in his palm.
“A three-minute delay. I know the code. Go ahead.”
Ford wished he had his pick tools, but he didn’t. He shrugged and tapped the glass pane in the back door that was closest to the knob, and had them inside in less than half a minute. “Terrific security,” he commented. “A burglar’s wet dream.”
Mary ignored his crudity. She opened a small cabinet beside the door and punched in the numbers. “We don’t get much traffic out here, so security’s not a problem. Haven’t had a break-in since 1865. You recall that unpleasantness?” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Mr. Knoblett checks on the place every other day to make certain everything’s all right.”
“Who’s he?”
“He runs the little store we passed about five miles down the road. His wife was Grandmother’s housekeeper. They’re family friends.”
Ford’s reply went right out of his mind when she flipped on the lights. “Good God, it’s a restaurant!” The kitchen contained enough space and appliances to accommodate an army of cooks and at least eight diners at the trestle table near an enormous bay window. And there would be a formal dining room, too, Ford was sure. “How big did you say your family was?”
“We used to entertain a lot.” Mary went to the refrigerator and retrieved two bottles of Perrier. She handed him one. “Sony, water’s all we have to drink.”
“Ah, just simple folk, huh.” He opened it and sipped. People actually paid good money for this stuff in bars. Wasn’t bad, he admitted. Wasn’t good, either. It was just water.
“The place isn’t very well stocked,” she explained. “I’ve been trying to make up my mind to sell, but I haven’t cleared anything out yet. There are some canned goods, I think, and a few things left in the freezer from before—before Gran died.”
“That’s okay. We’ll make do,” he assured her, not encouraging the grief that flashed in her eyes. He didn’t want to get tangled up in her life or her mourning for the woman who raised her. All he had to do was protect Mary, just as he would anybody else he was responsible for on a case. Stick to the job, he told himself firmly.
While she rummaged around in the walk-in pantry, Ford ran a hand over the smooth gray marble counter, shaking his head in wonder. He couldn’t imagine why she would even consider getting rid of a house like this. Did she have something even grander in mind? Her place in Nashville seemed downright modest by this standard, though even that exceeded by far any place Ford had ever lived in.
Don’t even think about stepping out of your league here, boy. He dismissed any lingering notions of pursuit. It wasn’t that he thought Mary was too good for him just because she was rich. Ford simply knew firsthand the problems involved in trying to blend two such disparate life-styles. Even a casual relationship wouldn’t work for long.
He forced his mind back to business. “We’d better kill these lights, just in case. Nobody followed us, but there’s no use advertising our presence.”
“Come with me,” she said. Clutching several cans and an opener in one arm, she led the way, pausing only to open a drawer and fish out a couple of spoons and forks.
The flip of a switch as they left the kitchen threw them into total darkness. He felt her grasp his hand as she spoke. “We’ll stay in the den. It’s an interior room and the lights won’t show.”
He was deprived of his sight, but the scents of lemon wax, expensive leather and potpourri invaded his nostrils. The place even smelled rich.
He felt her draw him through a doorway and heard the solid click as it closed behind him. No glaring overhead lights for this room, he saw, as she flipped a switch. Four antique lamps, each different, each perfectly chosen for its location, shed comfortable warmth evenly around the paneled walls and over the thick Persian carpet—an inviting page out of Country Estates.
“Hungry?” she asked brightly. “I’m starved.” Not waiting for an answer, Mary whisked around the side of one of the huge leather sofas and plunked all the cans down on a low, round coffee table of inlaid wood. “Do the honors, will you?” she asked, handing him the can opener. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Ford did as he was told. Absently, he glanced down at the can he had just opened. Asparagus? It must be a joke. Poor Mary sure wouldn’t find the way to a man’s heart with this. Not that she’d ever be looking to find her way to his, of course. Did rich guys like this stuff?
He grimaced and picked up another, expecting artichoke hearts or something. It was good old-fashioned spaghetti and meatballs. Ah, now she was talking. And canned peaches, just like Mom used to make.
Leave it to a nursery-school teacher to put together a balanced meal, he thought with a short laugh. She’d probably bring out the crayons next to keep him occupied. Another playtime activity that would suit him better popped into his mind. Ms. Shaw would probably give him a time-out just for thinking about it.
Ford didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t seem to get that kiss out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried. He reminded himself of Nan and all that had gone wrong because he had wrapped his life around her. But that memory of kissing Mary continued to hang in there, bothering him.
In spite of everything, Ford wanted to do it again, and do it right this time. Maybe ego figured into it. Maybe he just wanted to make sure Mary knew he could kiss with the best of them when he wasn’t in a hurry. He had to laugh about that.
His physical attraction to her was a joke on himself. Even if Mary were interested, he couldn’t afford to be. No woman had stirred him up this way in years, but he knew it was just because she was forbidden fruit. She intrigued him. That was all.
“Um,” she said as she reentered the room. “That spaghetti is calling my name. You want to—ah—wash your hands? The bathroom’s that way,” she said, pointing behind her.
Later, they ate in relative silence, sitting opposite each other on the matching sofas, passing the cans back and forth since she hadn’t brought any plates. It seemed an oddly intimate thing to do, he thought, as their fingers brushed.
“I didn’t think. I could have warmed this in the microwave,” she said belatedly, plopping her fork in an empty can.
“We didn’t need it heated.” That was for damned sure. She raised the temperature of everything in the room by a good twenty degrees as it was. He added, “I like it cold.”
When they had finished, Mary asked, “So, what do we do now?”
Ford fished around in his pocket for his cell phone. “Call in. Gotta follow procedure.” He flipped it open and punched in the number, his gaze unwavering on hers, his words rapid. “Devereaux here. We had a shooter on the road, probably Perry,. He’s got a Smokey on his tail. Check and see if he got him. Catch you later.”
He disconnected and returned Mary’s grin when they heard the urgent trill that followed. A flick of the On/Off button silenced it.
“You’re going to get yourself fired with little tricks like that,” she warned with a chuckle.
“Then you can hire me. Need a chauffeur? Gardener? Gigolo?”
What a laugh she had—low and sensuous, as stimulating as a touch in the right place. And his right place responded, damn it all. Nothing would equal crossing the eight feet of space that lay between them and giving way to that response. Not an option, unfortunately.
“If you ever need a reference as a bodyguard, I’ll write you one that glows,” she offered.
“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” He leaned back against the soft, chocolate-colored leather and felt it squish comfortably. The determination to keep his distance grew fainter by the second. “We should get some sleep, I guess. You must be tired.”
“I am,” she admitted.
She looked it, he thought, as he watched her gather the fringed afghan from the corner of her sofa and knead the velvet cushion next to her. Her long, dark lashes drooped with exhaustion. The circles beneath her eyes looked like bruises, and her movements were slow, as thoug
h her muscles protested her efforts.
Without further ado, Mary lay down, knees tucked nearly to her chest, pulled up her cover, and sighed. She blinked up at him and smiled. “Good night, Ford.”
The urge to go to her, to brush a kiss across her hps, to tuck that long strand of silky hair behind her ear so that it wouldn’t drape across her cheek, almost undid him. He fought it—a fight as difficult as any physical confrontation he’d ever experienced. He’d had some doozies, too.
“Good night, Mary,” he said softly.
He watched and waited until her breathing evened out in sleep before he got up and turned off the lights, then tried to rest.
One by one, he began ordering his muscles to relax, an old technique he had used time and again when coming down from an adrenaline high. The problem was, there was enough danger on that other sofa to keep his blood rushing indefinitely.
Ford could understand why he wanted to kiss her again. But his powerful fascination for this woman baffled him. It could very easily jerk him right past his decided line of demarcation. He prided himself on his iron will, but it seemed that had gotten a little rusted out somewhere along the way—enough so that it felt as if it might crumble any minute. Strong as the attraction was, he just couldn’t figure it out.
Mary was a beauty, that was for sure. And she moved like a dancer, slender and as graceful as a ballerina. Yeah, but he hated ballet, Ford reminded himself. That, and opera. And the theater. All things she probably loved. He was strictly a two-step, bluegrass, video-and-popcorn good ol’ boy. They were total opposites, and she was off-limits in just about every way he could list. What was he doing even thinking about this, anyway?
All he needed to do was keep Mary alive and kicking until Blevins and the guys rounded up Perry and found those damned stones. Then he could say goodbye, send her a dozen roses just for the hell of it, and get on with his next case.
He drifted off, imagining Mary opening a box of long-stemmed American Beauties, smiling down at the roses, trailing one finger over the petals. Just the way he wished she would trail it over his—