“Further, I don’t have much to go for a lead. There’s no apparent personal motive. You and your grandfather hardly knew folks around here, and surely no one with a grudge, you said.”
“There couldn’t be anything like that,” she affirmed.
“So we’re talking your basic random vandalism. And I know we got some fingerprints, but I have to warn you not to count on that much. Maybe they’ll match up to a felon on record. Doesn’t rule out anybody else, and there’s nothing else to go with—no tire tracks outside, no boot prints, nothing left behind to give us a lead. And we haven’t had any trouble like this in the area, so it’s not like a pattern I could look at.”
“Honestly, I really do understand.” Off to the deputy’s left, Cole made a sound—not loud, but distinctly reminiscent of an uncivilized snort. Burt pretended to ignore it but his whole body stiffened. Regan thought he looked like a great big puppy whose feelings were hurt—she was tempted to pat his hand—and his tone turned even more earnest.
“And you’ve been in every room. Nothing’s missing. Nothing’s taken. Heck, honey, the only thing broken was that vase yonder. Apparently somebody just wanted to make a mess, but at least there was no real harm done. I know that’s cold comfort, but it sure could be worse.”
“Yes, I—”
“Regan, will you stop telling him that you understand. As far as I can tell, Langston, all you’re doing is giving her excuses why you’re not going to do a damn thing!”
“That was not what I meant to imply.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Regan agreed soothingly.
“I’ll go through the records, check out the prints, have a car ride by here a couple times a day.” Burt rose to his feet, fingering his Stetson. Regan rose to her feet, too, and swiftly angled between the deputy and Cole as they walked to the front door. “You can call me any time you want. Once you get things cleaned up, though, it’s my best advice that you plain put it behind you. Naturally, you want to keep your doors locked when you’re alone, but in my experience—” Cole made another cynical sound that made Burt clear this throat. “I have had experience with this kind of random violence before—”
“I’m sure you have,” Regan murmured.
“And I honestly doubt that you’ll have any more trouble, now that the house is occupied.”
There was a little more in the same vein before he fitted the Stetson on his head of curly blond hair and left.
When Regan closed the front door, Cole was standing in the hall window, his hands tucked under his armpits. The last time he’d brushed his hair was probably in Kansas. A belligerent yank of hair hung over his brow, his jaw was clamped shut and the pulse in his throat was beating like a blinker light. Throw him on a motorcycle, Regan mused, and he’d fit right in with the gang.
It amazed her that she’d been fooled, for five years, by a laid-back grin and a lazy drawl.
“That was the most worthless excuse for a cop I’ve ever met,” he snapped.
“Actually, I thought he was nice. And extremely helpful. And you, Shepherd, were incredibly rude. Would you care to tell me why you gave him such a hard time?”
“I didn’t give him a hard time.”
“No? Could have fooled me. He’d barely walked in the door before you were telling him how to do his job. In fact, the whole scene astounded me. I never once figured you for a short fuse, much less that I’d personally ever see you riled up—”
“I wasn’t riled up. I never rile up. I was just trying to get his attention off your legs long enough for him to pay attention to what he was here for—and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
At that precise instant, she was bobbing around the kitchen, closing every cupboard and door in sight. The excitement was over. Regan wanted nothing more than to put her house back in order and forget it.
Cole, she knew, couldn’t comprehend why she was reacting so calmly. To crash was tempting. But not over the stupid thief. She never again needed personal experience with a burglar, but that initial feeling of violation had eased. The thief hadn’t bridged the safe—all that mattered to Regan—and she’d carried the gems with her while traveling, so they were never at risk. Cole hadn’t been living her life, so there was no way that he could understand. Every day in the past month had been filled with one dreadful traumatic nightmare after another. This was just one more thing.
“I asked you—”
“Yes, I heard you, Cole. But I didn’t think you expected an answer, since you could obviously see what I was doing. Closing cupboards. Then plugging in the coffeepot. When the coffee’s done, I’ll dig up something for you to eat before you go...and at the moment—” she illustrated, her tone full of humor because she was trying to coax a smile “—I’m getting out a broom and dustpan to clean up the pottery in the hall before someone else gets hurt.”
You’d think she’d suggested dancing naked on a tabletop in an all-male bar.
“I don’t believe you.” Cole crossed the kitchen in five long strides. “Number one, the last thing you’re going to do is cook. Much less for me. And number two, if you think you’re going anywhere near the broken vase again—much less with a bandaged hand—you got another think coming.”
He snatched the broom right out of her hand, the charged expression in his eyes begging for an argument.
Regan didn’t argue. She did what she’d been tempted to do all day. She lifted her hands to his face—or more accurately, one hand and one bandaged paw—and kissed him.
If a rattler had crawled into the room, Cole couldn’t have responded with more shock. His gaze froze on hers and every muscle in his body stiffened like a man suffering the early stages of rigor mortis.
Such panic! All she had in mind was a kiss. And only a little one. What else could she do? She could hardly thank him for championing her problems with the beleaguered deputy, because Cole would deny it. She could hardly thank him for peeling her off the airfield, or bandaging her hand, or just for listening...because Cole was liable to take major offense if she accused him of qualities such as kindness and compassion. Cole, the womanizing, unprincipled wastrel who considered personal involvement a form of malaria, had stood by her through this long terrible day.
Apparently slugger didn’t want it known that he was a damn good man. Regan wasn’t about to blow his cover. She just wanted to kiss the faker, once, quickly, and all she intended was an affectionate peck.
It started that way.
Only his mouth was soft. Far softer than she’d expected, far warmer than she’d guessed. She felt the texture of his rough beard against her fingertips, the strong bones under his skin. His flesh had a dark man scent, and his hair ruffled around her fingers as her lips rubbed gently, curiously against his.
She never meant to prolong the kiss. Never. But her heart was suddenly beating, beating. She tried to remember other men she’d kissed and suddenly couldn’t. Cole was different. The taste and texture and scent of him kindled strange, unfamiliar nerves and a wild infusion of warmth. It made no sense, she kept telling herself. All her life she’d searched for a Tristan, a Rhett, a man who believed in the magic of love, a man unashamed to share his heart.
Slugger, damn him, claimed to have none beyond the practical pump in his chest...yet like earlier today, Regan felt a specialness, an excitement that shivered through her senses. He was so...real. Disturbingly real and fallibly human and more of a man than she was sure she knew what to do with, yet she felt safe in his arms. Safe, not scared. Trembly vulnerable, but not threatened. And she had the curious, crazy feeling that she’d been waiting for this one man for twenty-seven years.
Cole hadn’t moved to touch her—in fact, he showed symptoms of cardiac arrest—but he swallowed so hard that she heard it.
And the pulse in his throat started hammering.
And his eyes, a dark charcoal, seem to fire with sparks like the underside of a thundercloud lit by lightning.
Regan never guessed she was testing his con
trol...until Cole took control of the kiss. The crushing pressure of his mouth snapped her neck back; his tongue dove between her parted lips. The flavor of his tongue was dark and sweet, a dip in carnal heat, and he dipped again. And again.
Not nice. The way he kissed wasn’t at all nice. It was hungry and lusty and lonely and raw. Slugger was supposed to have experience with this. He didn’t kiss as if he had any. He kissed like a sexual, earthy man who’d been living with gunpowder for years, who’d been pushed too far and was just going to let it explode. On her.
The broom he’d been holding clattered to the floor. His hands chased down her spine and intimately tugged her to him. He was aroused, and made no secret of it. Her soft breasts crushed against the trapped heat of his chest. Nerves spiraled where he touched and Regan guessed her mouth would be bruise-red in the morning—he was that angry. Yet she sensed something more than anger in Cole, something deeper, darker, a taste of longing—harshly denied. A taste of need—unwillingly unleashed. A taste of desire—more real, more sinfully hot than she had ever understood desire. And she clutched his shirt in a small fist, because she was suddenly afraid of falling if she let go.
Abruptly, Cole’s hands wrapped around her upper arms and she found herself planted, spine-jarring hard, a half foot away from him. Breathing space. And he was suddenly breathing very hard.
“Just what does it take to scare you, princess?”
“I—” Her mouth was still tingling. She could still feel the strain of his bunched muscles, still see the heat in his flashing dark eyes. A hundred times he’d teased her with innuendos, but until that kiss it had never occurred to Regan that he wanted her. Badly. “I wasn’t afraid.”
“Then you should have been. And you’d better separate me from the other men you know right away. I’m not a nice guy. If you invite something with me, don’t think I won’t take advantage. Didn’t anybody ever teach you not to provoke a sleeping bear?”
“Actually, it never occurred to me that you and I had a problem with a sleeping bear—”
“We don’t,” Cole snapped.
“Okay.” She sought his eyes, feeling suddenly unsure. A moment before, a vulnerable man had seemed to come apart in her arms, had seemed to need her—honestly, powerfully. Something rare had happened between them. Something special and momentous. She thought he’d felt the same.
He faced her now, though, with the stance of a defensive fullback and a lecture on denial in his eyes. Regan had been raised to trust her emotions, to have faith in her heart’s judgment...but this past month, her judgment about everything had been thrown in doubt. Too often she’d confused illusion for reality. Cole couldn’t be making it more clear that he never wanted that embrace—or her—and she felt a stab of guilt.
She knew he felt on an awkward hook because of her. Again. “Slugger, listen to me—”
“I don’t want to talk about it—”
“You have to go home,” she said firmly. Instantly, she could see it was the right key for the lock. The tension immediately faded from his expression and his shoulders relaxed. “I got stuck with a little mess here, but that was never your problem. If in any way you felt indirectly responsible for me—”
“I didn’t.”
That wasn’t what his eyes told her, but she swept on. “You have a business to run in Chicago. Your plane isn’t making you any money if it’s sitting on my runway—”
“Exactly.”
“And there’s no reason for you to stay. I have mountains of cleanup to do here, but honestly, no one can help—not you, not Hannah, not anyone—simply because no one knows where everything goes but me. And for the record—”
“Regan, you don’t have to tell me anything—”
She nodded. “I know, but I just wanted you to know that I’m not afraid to be alone. The broken lock on the front door needs to be fixed, but no burglar could get in a second time—not while I’m here. The house is more secure from the inside than the outside, and for good reason. It’s while we were here that Jake worried about security because we both traveled with gems. If you’ll look around—there are dead bolts on every door. The doors themselves are practically cannon proof, and the external windows are all narrow. Gramps used to say that we could hole up in our fortress for a medieval siege. Which means that nobody has to worry about me.”
“I wasn’t.”
She smiled. “I just wanted to make sure you knew, slugger. That you’re perfectly free to leave.”
His eyes narrowed. “There was no question I was doing anything else.” He swooped down and snatched the fallen broom. “I’ll take care of the mess in the hall, and then I have to make a few phone calls, and then I may dip into that pot of coffee since you already made it. But after that, I’m out of here.”
A few minutes later, Cole closed the library door. He dug in his back pocket for the card of phone numbers Dorinsky had forced on him, and dialed the first number from an old-fashioned black telephone.
He’d promised to call one of Thorne’s partners to let them know Regan was all right. Promises weren’t particularly sacred to Cole, and now that the old man was dead, he could give a hoot if the other three sent freight work his way. The burglary, though, changed his mind about calling. Someone needed to know what had happened to Regan. The cop had been as helpful as manure, and God knew Cole didn’t trust Regan to take care of herself.
The way she’d kissed him had definitely proved that for all time.
High-stepping books and debris, the cord dangling behind him, he carried the phone with the receiver crooked to his shoulder toward the glass doors. All the inside rooms had the same glass doors, leading to the open courtyard. Dusk had fallen, but not full night, the time of no shadows when everything was gray. His gaze swept past the drained swimming pool and patio furniture and focused back inside. Regan had turned on a light in the living room. She was crouched on the floor, picking up things, putting them back on the shelves by the fireplace.
Cole jammed a hand through his hair, watching her.
She was barefoot and she’d pushed up her sleeves, unbuttoned her blouse at the neck. He saw her touch her hand—the one she’d sworn didn’t hurt. And he saw her stretch suddenly, as if trying to shake off exhaustion. For that instant, her figure was silhouetted against the lamplight—the soft ripe breasts, the curve of her fanny and tight slim thighs, the grace she had just breathing, damn her, and beyond that damn grace was an innate sensuality Cole wasn’t positive she knew she had.
Listening to Dorinsky’s phone ring fifteen times, Cole thought that if he had been Thorne, he’d have locked her in a convent until she was past menopause.
His conscience was screaming guilt for responding to her—and then being rough—but God, she’d taken him by such surprise. Her slim arms had wrapped around his neck before he could guess what she had in mind. He still didn’t know what was in that incomprehensible female head.
Innocent as spring, trusting as Bo Beep, she’d offered a kiss that had sabotaged his senses. Her mouth had been tender, soft, yielding, the taste of her luxuriously sweet. He’d tried to stay like stone. He’d tried. But dammit, he’d always been a better sinner than saint, and when he felt her breasts straining against him, her body going all wild and shivery, he forgot who she was. Hell, he forgot who he was.
Scowling, Cole jerked away from the view through the glass door. Failing to reach Dorinsky, he dialed Trafer. Then Reed. Both lines came through with perfunctory answering machine messages. Cole snapped out who he was, that he was calling as promised and then hung up.
He paced the room for another ten minutes, waiting. Lots of people plugged on answering machines when they were actually home but trying to avoid nuisance calls. If Trafer or Reed were around, there was still a chance they’d call back.
Only ten minutes passed, and there were no calls. Which made it fairly obvious that none of her three dubious caretakers were home. Which meant, if Cole left, that Regan would be about as alone as a woman in trouble c
ould get.
Forget it. She’s a walking keg of dynamite and she's looking for a hero. You’re not staying, Shepherd.
But it nagged him about her being alone. Restlessly he reached down to scoop up some papers on the red leather couch. Thorne always called the room a library-lab. The three walls of bookshelves made the label of library obvious, but the title of lab used to amuse Cole. In his experience, labs were places with beakers and fluorescent lights and people in white coats. Not this one. The lighting was soft, the working desk a slab of polished oak, the tile floor was covered by a thick white rug—-big enough to seduce a woman on—and there wasn’t a bunsen burner in sight.
Normally. Nothing was normal about the unholy mess in the room now. Equipment and books and tools were strewn as if a crazy man had had a temper tantrum. The other rooms were in rough disorder, but none this bad—which Cole had pointed out to the deputy. Langston didn’t see any significance. Langston had the brain of a pea. Something kept clicking in the back of Cole’s mind. The thief had chosen certain rooms to prey on, and there was a systematic sameness in the nature of mess he’d made—but Cole couldn’t get a mental handle on what that meant.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he let his gaze wander to the open doors of the liquor cabinet. Another thing that didn’t make sense—the thief had apparently opened the cupboard and then just left it, losing a fine chance to make a disastrous mess, because Thorne kept an extensive liquor supply. The old man always catered to the personal tastes of anyone visiting him, including Cole. Seeing the label of an expensive Kentucky bourbon made him forget about the thief.
Vaguely he recalled spending a night here about three years ago. Thorne had had a Black Russian; he’d had a bourbon. And Regan had had milk.
Back to you again, princess. As much as I’d like to get my mind on any other subject, you're there like a splinter.
Cole told himself he didn’t believe her about not using drugs. He’d grown up in downtown Chicago. He was cynical and street smart and a realist. At least twice that day, he’d seen her huge dilated pupils, her spells of the shakes, and drug use was an obvious explanation for the crazy story she’d told him. Regan had convincingly denied it, but anyone playing with chemicals was a convincing liar—it came with the territory.
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