by Terri Reed
Tension coiled, her stomach churned and her lungs burned. She couldn’t go back. She had to go forward.
With a deep breath, she pushed from the wall and forced her legs to move fast. Adrenaline coursed through her limbs and her heart raced. She could see the front door. She just had to make it across the open entry way. Three more feet…iron cords wrapped around her, stopping her momentum with a jerk. She screamed as she was tackled to the ground.
Her head smacked against the hardwood and spots of light exploded before her eyes. A huge, muscled body landed on top of her, effectively pinning her beneath his hulking figure, and drove the air from her lungs.
Fear blasted up her spine. She was going to die, and it was all Paul’s fault.
With a grip of steel, the man yanked her arms over her head and held her wrists captive while another probing hand ran over her body. Numbing shock rippled through her, then the roaming hand stilled.
The man swore in a deep hiss near her ear and eased off her.
She took a shallow breath.
“You’re a woman,” a deep, rich voice accused.
The observation seemed ridiculous. Of course she was a woman. Did Paul’s murderer think Paul had been married to a monkey?
The ridiculous thought brought fear raging headlong into her consciousness. This man was here to get something she hadn’t a clue about, and then he would probably kill her the way he’d killed Paul. Then another thought flittered across her mind: what if he assaulted her before killing her? Oh, Lord, take me home quickly.
No. Not yet. Sheer terror spurred her into action. She twisted and turned, her body bucking in an effort to throw him off balance. Her hands pulled against the restraint of his grip, her legs struggled to find leverage on the floor, pushing and kicking wildly. The toe of her shoe made contact with a shin, eliciting a grunt of pain from her attacker. A moment of satisfaction brought a tightening to her lips.
Her knee flew upward but he rolled slightly, deflecting her hit to his hip. She ground her back teeth. She wasn’t going to let him win. She wasn’t ready to die.
“Hey, lady. Calm down.”
Calm down? He wanted her calm so he could kill her. Her grandmother had taught her that God hadn’t made women to be passive, but proactive. She’d fight with everything she had before she’d calmly let this man do her in.
Arching upward, she used her forehead as a ramming device. She connected with his chin, causing his teeth to come together with a snap. Pain shot through her.
For a moment his grip lessened and she took advantage of the opportunity. Freeing a hand, she lashed out, aiming for his eyes. She fell short, her nails raking sharply down his face, evoking a yowl of pain.
“That’s it!” The harsh words echoed through the house. He held her hands in a grip so tight she knew she’d never get free.
“No!” But still she fought, determined not to give up until the last breath left her body. Too many questions remained unanswered, too much pain still lived in her heart. Blind fear made her body convulse, desperate to break free.
The chink of metal somewhere above her head made her close her eyes. She didn’t want to see the torture device he would use on her and she prayed for oblivion. Oblivion and a painless death.
She cried out in surprise as he twisted her arm behind her and flipped her over. Cold metal encircled her wrists. A sharp snap filled her ears. And only then, from the far reaches of sanity, did she realize she’d been handcuffed. The man spoke in low, smooth tones, but her terror-fogged mind couldn’t grasp the words.
“Do you understand?” The steady cadence of his words, the richness of his voice, washed over her and a sense of unreality set in. Closing her eyes tightly, she readied herself for the journey to heaven.
The man grasped her shoulders and gently shook her. “Do you understand? Answer me!”
“No.” She didn’t understand why she was about to die. She didn’t understand how she’d come to this point in time. And she didn’t understand how she could have been so wrong about Paul. Who had she been married to? What kind of man had he really been? And why had he allowed this to happen to her? Unfortunately, she would die without the answers.
“Lady, how hard is it to understand? You’re under arrest.”
TWO
The woman beneath him stilled.
“Arrest?” The word came out in a dry croak.
“Yes, you’re under arrest.” Brody couldn’t see her face but he heard the rapid labor of her breath, felt the rise and fall of her chest where their ribs connected. And he was all too aware of the fact that his intruder was female. Soft and full of curves. The smell of lilacs he’d detected earlier wasn’t a remnant of the owner’s last visit, sporadic as they were.
The scent clung to his captive’s hair.
Pushing away, he came to his knees and helped her to a sitting position.
“You’re…you’re not here…to kill me?” Her voice faded to a hushed stillness and Brody heard the fear behind the words.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he said in a calming tone. “Do you understand that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law—”
She made an odd noise. “You’re a cop?”
“Yes, ma’am. You have the right to an attorney. If—”
“I haven’t done anything,” she interrupted.
Brody ignored her protest and finished her Miranda rights then helped her to her feet as a bolt of lightning whitewashed the room. He caught a glimpse of an impish face and large, luminous eyes. The tip of her head barely reached the top of his shoulder. So much spirit in one so little. A spark of admiration for the way she’d fought him flared hot.
The light faded and the shadows returned, leaving him feeling unsettled. She certainly didn’t look like a criminal.
He heard her test the strength of the metal links between the cuffs.
“Are these really necessary?”
In the blackness, her voice rang cool and clear, yet Brody heard the underlying tension in her tone. Why did she think someone was out to kill her?
“I’ll take them off when we get to the station.” His natural caution took precedence. Regardless of the gender of his intruder, experience had taught him how deceptive people could be—especially the female sort.
“The police station?”
“Actually, the county sheriff’s office. Let’s go.” His terse answer harbored no room for discussion.
“My purse!”
Brody paused by the grouping of luggage. He picked up the leather bag that he’d mistaken for a carry-on piece of luggage. “This?”
She nodded.
The damp shirt on his back itched and the house grew colder by the minute, making his hip hurt and his limbs grow numb. He resisted the urge to limp by placing a hand on her arm to guide her out of the house. She tried to pull away but he tightened his hold.
Beneath his palm, she trembled as he helped her into his cruiser. Her flowery, lilac scent once again reminded him of his mother’s garden. A place where he used to find a sense of serenity. Even if he took up Mom’s constant invitations to come home, he doubted he’d find that kind of peace now.
With the heater cranked high, they rode in silence through the small town of Havensport, Massachusetts, the quaint buildings of the New England community surveyed by Brody with a sheriff’s eye.
Stores dark and locked tight, no suspicious characters roaming the streets. There never were. Until tonight. Havensport was as boringly safe as a small town could get, but old habits were hard to break.
The sheriff’s office kept keys of all the summer homes in case of emergencies. Lucky for Pete Kinsey that Mae Couch, the elderly lady who lived next door, had been looking out her window and seen someone lurking about. So unusual an occurrence was it, Sheriff Brody McClain had immediately responded.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. The woman’s face was turned toward the window, but he could make out the straight line of her nose, which tilted upward s
lightly at the tip and a wide, generous mouth set into a firm crease. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left the house.
Within the enclosed space of his cruiser he couldn’t tell the color of her hair. The lights of the station would tell him soon enough. He returned his gaze forward as he slowed to park the car in his spot by the door of the station.
The Havensport County Sheriff’s Office stood at one end of town like a sentinel on guard duty. Though the redbrick building, built in the early part of the century with a high peaked roof and multipaned windows, had withstood updates both in and out, it still remained a historical landmark, due mainly to the fact that the first sheriff’s family still owned most of the property within a thirty-mile radius around the town.
Brody got out and opened the back door. The woman refused his help and struggled out of the vehicle on her own. With reluctance, he again felt admiration for her grit.
Rain poured from the sky, rolling in rivulets down his face. Quickly, he ushered his charge into the station.
Her hair was copper. He’d always liked redheads. He should have stuck with them instead of being tempted by Elise’s willowy blond good looks.
The station’s warmth seeped through his drenched clothing, bringing life back to his numb limbs and chasing away the cold reality of Elise.
After settling the woman into a chair, he unlocked the handcuffs. She rubbed at the rough, red marks left by the metal rings. Brody lowered his gaze and busied himself at the antique oak desk, ignoring the uncomfortable twinge of guilt that rose at the sight of her reddened, slender wrists.
Deputy Warren Teal stepped from the bathroom, still drying his hands with a paper towel. “Hi, boss.”
Warren’s curious gaze settled on Kate as he crumpled the sheet into a ball. After tossing it into the wastebasket, he perched his lean frame on the edge of Brody’s desk. “What do we have here? This the perp at the Kinsey house?”
Brody arched a brow at the deputy. The young rookie was overeager at times, but fairly competent.
“Sorry.” Warren moved away and sat at the only other desk in the room. “She do that to your face?”
Ignoring the questions and the reminder of his stinging cheek, Brody took a blank report, a pen—he preferred to write out the reports first and key them in later—then turned to the woman. “Name?”
Her gaze pinned him to his chair. Confusion radiated from the depths of her large green eyes. “You don’t know?”
Brody’s mouth twisted with wry amusement. “Lady, I’m good, but not that good.”
She blinked. “Why did you arrest me?”
“B and E is a felony, ma’am.” At her blank expression, he clarified, “Breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t break in,” she insisted, leaning forward. “I own the house. My late husband left the property to me.” Her voice wavered. “If you’ll let me call my attorney, he’ll be able to straighten this whole mess out.”
He glanced at her left hand. No band of gold encircled her ring finger. “Pete Kinsey’s your husband?” That was a surprise. The womanizing stockbroker had commented often enough how marriage turned men into jellyfish. Not exactly the marrying type.
“My husband’s name was Paul Wheeler. He owned the house. Pete Kinsey was my husband’s business partner.”
Warren turned in his chair, his gray eyes round with interest. “Pete never mentioned a business partner.” He shook his head in bemusement. “Wow, can that man party.”
Pete Kinsey’s parties were legendary on the Cape. Every summer he’d host a big bash with the big society types in attendance—Hollywood celebrities, corporate big shots, political figures. The affair lasted a full weekend and the locals looked forward to the money it brought in. And as long as they didn’t break any laws, Brody left them alone.
“Don’t you have some work to do, Warren?”
The deputy shrugged and picked up a report.
Intrigued by the situation and by the petite redhead, Brody tapped his pen against the form in front of him as he studied her. “Your full name?”
“Katherine Amanda Wheeler.”
Brody wrote out her name. “Address?”
The Beverly Hills address took him by surprise. “You’re a long way from home.”
She ignored his comment. “Don’t I get a phone call?”
“As soon as I have the paperwork filled out.” He laid his hand on her purse which he’d deposited on top of his desk. “Is your ID in here?”
“Yes.”
He picked up the satchel and unzipped it. “Mind?”
Her deprecating gaze bored into him. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.” But still he waited for permission.
“Then go ahead.”
He dumped the contents of her purse onto the desktop. A compact, a black tube of lipstick, three granola bars and a thick black wallet spilled out. He unclasped the single snap on the folded wallet and plucked her ID from the first plastic sheath. He wrote down the information on the form. “Your occupation?”
“I work for Valley Savings Bank as the Vice President of Operations. You want to call my boss for a reference?”
Brody cocked his brow. “No. That won’t be necessary.”
She rolled her eyes. The harsh fluorescent light overhead failed to wash out the sparks of fire in her shoulder-length hair. His gaze strayed to the curling ends where they teased the collar of her pink silk blouse. He tightened his grip on the pen in his hand to keep from reaching out to test the curls. Would they be as silky as they looked?
Her clothing spoke of the kind of money that went along with her address. The tailored suit she wore, though wrinkled and damp, couldn’t hide the curves beneath.
“What were you doing there, Mrs. Wheeler?” he questioned, bringing his mind back to business.
“I wanted to see the house.” Katherine wrapped her arms around herself. He noticed her shiver while some of the fight drained from her eyes. The coat he’d failed to take with him hung on the back of his chair. Reaching behind him, he grabbed the jacket and handed it to her.
She wrapped the too-large jacket around her shoulders. “Thanks.”
He gave a short nod of his head. She looked small and vulnerable and in need of protection. Seeing her in his coat made his chest burn. Irritably, he pushed the phone across the desk. “Make your call.”
He didn’t have to offer twice. Her long, tapered fingers moved over the keypad. Brody watched her hands and then, like a gawker at a crime scene, his gaze was drawn to her mouth. Pink, soft-looking. Well-shaped lips. Kissable lips
Yanking his mind away from that treacherous path, he decided he was more tired than he’d thought. The last thing he should be thinking about was his suspect’s kissability.
He forced his attention back to the phone, on the faint metallic sound of a male voice coming through the line. From the look of consternation on Katherine’s face, he guessed an answering machine had picked up.
“Gordon, its Kate. You won’t believe this. I’m at the Havensport Sheriff’s office, of all things. The number here is…” She raised her brows in question.
Brody gave her the number, which she repeated into the phone before hanging up. Circles of fatigue darkened the skin beneath her eyes, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He dearly wished his mother hadn’t raised a gentleman. Despite how much he might want to let Katherine Wheeler go lie down, he still had questions that needed answers.
Swallowing his inclinations, he got back to business. “Why did you think someone was coming to the house to kill you?”
A watchful wariness filled her gaze. “I was alone. You attacked me. What was I supposed to think? That you wanted to dance?”
A spurt of amusement kicked up the corner of Brody’s mouth.
She picked up his nameplate and toyed with it between her slender hands. Her manicured nails clicked against the brass. “Where do we go from here?”
“I need to verify your story, check out your ID—”
“Then you’ll tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.”
For a brief second her gem-colored gaze locked with his before darting away. “The only trouble I have is you, Sheriff.”
Brody smiled grimly, tossed his pen on the desk and sat back in his chair. Here we go again.
She was lying.
On the mean streets of Boston, Brody had learned how to read people, learned to watch for the signs, and she definitely showed signs. And this time he wasn’t going to ignore the obvious. She was holding back and not for one second did he believe she’d thought him a random intruder.
The scratches left by her nails itched, reminding him of her blind terror. He dabbed at his face with a tissue. Tiny spots of red soaked into the material. “So, what has you so spooked?”
“Are you going to book me, Sheriff McClain?” Her knuckles turned white around the nameplate. “I’m cold and tired. And I don’t want to sit here while you play amateur psychologist.”
He would have been amused if he hadn’t noticed the fleeting look of disdain in her eyes. She didn’t know the extent of how much psychobabble he could recite or the reasons why. He told himself to forget it, not to offer his help or advice. “You’re afraid of something, Mrs. Wheeler. I can help you, if you let me.”
“This is unbelievable.” Her voice escalated with each syllable. “Of course I’m afraid. You’ve just arrested me.” Her eyes flared with anger, deepening in color to a dark forest green.
“How did your husband die?”
She flinched. The anger drained from her eyes before her gaze shifted downward and her fingers flexed around his nameplate.
“He was murdered,” she answered at last, sounding forlorn and defenseless.
Her distress affected him. He didn’t want to be affected. He wanted to stay detached, uninvolved. But his protective instincts reared up, refusing to be ignored.