Beckett's Convenient Bride

by Dixie Browning

  That was sheer wishful thinking on his part. There was nothing of a personal nature happening here—although sexual was not necessarily personal. On the other hand, with Kit, it would be.

  Oh, yeah.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked out of the blue.

  “Nothing,” he said, guilt and embarrassment making him feel like a raw kid. He’d known her for what—two days? He was no stranger to the occasional random attack of testosterone. But not with Kit. Whatever was between them was about to end, once he’d handed over the check—that damned check.

  Besides, there was Margaret.

  “You know what?” she said suddenly, squirming deeper into his coat like a kitten on a feather pillow. “I’m going to make some excuse to Jeff and just disappear until everything’s settled. I hate to leave him shorthanded, but it’s not like he’s really rushed yet. Bambi can handle it.”

  She turned up the collar of his jacket, and without thinking, he reached out and lifted her hair outside. It was warm and alive. Her faint fruity scent eddied around him, and he thought, I gotta get out of here, I’m flat-out losing it.

  As if totally oblivious to the meltdown taking place in the seat beside her, Kit said thoughtfully, “I’m pretty sure I can finish the illustrations from memory. I’ve already done the sketches and value studies. I can look around for another job and a place to stay. I really like Gil’s Point, but you know what? I think something—or someone, is trying to tell me it’s time to move on.” After a moment she added, “I believe in fate, I really do.”

  She believed in fate?

  When it came to the F word, Carson believed in family, food and fishing, in that order. Fate was not something he’d spent a whole lot of time pondering.

  “I have a better idea,” he heard himself saying. “Why not come home with me, like we told your grandfather?”

  Jesus. Where did that come from?

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said, but he could tell it was a halfhearted protest.

  Before his brain could cut in, he dug himself in even deeper. “I wasn’t lying when I said my mother loves company. I have to warn you, though—she might not even recognize me. She’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.”

  Without waiting for a response to his impulsive invitation, he switched on the engine and shifted into Reverse. Both his hands were occupied, so this time instead of touching his arm, she laid her hand on his thigh. Same cold fingers; same electrifying grip. Margaret wasn’t a toucher. His mother was, and so was his Aunt Becky.

  Kit’s touch was in a whole different category.

  “Carson, I’m so sorry. You certainly don’t have to follow through just because of what you told my grandfather. I’ve been on my own for seven years, and I’ve managed just fine. I drive hundreds of miles, looking for story locations—you see, I have to be able to visualize things— I mean, even before I start writing, I need to know where a story will take place. What I’m trying to say is, I know lots of places to go if I want to disappear for a while.”

  “Sure you do,” he said, pulling out onto the highway. They were no more than fifteen or twenty minutes from Gil’s Point. “Still, why not humor me? See, I have this personal problem…”

  He toyed with the idea of telling her about his mother’s fixation on weddings and Margaret, his “sort-of” fiancée, who’d been taking a few too many trips to New York lately. Before he could decide, she leaned forward and peered through the windshield.

  “What’s that glow up ahead? Look—over there.” They were approaching the bridge at Coinjock over the inland waterway. To the north, about where Gilbert’s Point would be located, the night sky was suspiciously red.

  “Wrong season for the Northern Lights,” he murmured. “Brush fire reflected on low clouds?” He had a funny feeling it was something far different. The only thing he’d seen in that general direction was water, marsh and a few wooded knolls. Nothing to support a sustained fire.

  By the time they topped the bridge, the location was no longer a mystery. The brightness had diminished to a sullen glow, and it was definitely centered in the vicinity of Gilbert’s Point.

  “Oh, God, not the Crab House,” Kit murmured. “They’ve been on him about that exhaust fan….”

  Carson didn’t bother to ask who “they” were. It wasn’t the restaurant, or anything else along the waterfront. By the time they’d reached the tiny waterfront settlement, the source of the glow was all too evident. Creeping along through the huddled spectators and emergency vehicles, Carson pulled up beside the abandoned house that stood a few hundred feet away from what remained of Kit’s rental house.

  She hadn’t said a word, but he could hear her shuddering breath. Feeling a degree of rage that was surprising, considering the kinds of cases he’d been working on for the past few years, he swore silently. She didn’t need this, not on top of everything else. A total loss—the house, everything in it—even her car.

  They’d left the Ladybug parked in its usual place, beside a lone section of picket fence. The fence was down, either burned or trampled by the emergency crews. They were all there—firemen, deputies, EMTs—an ambulance was pulled over to one side.

  Silently, he surveyed the crowd before turning his attention back to the ruins. The fire was mostly out by now, only a few hot spots flaring up. The only thing left standing was a chimney, the plumbing and the refrigerator.

  He turned to Kit, an irreverent crack on the tip of his tongue. Stress occasionally brought out that sort of thing among cops. Sometimes the tension needed just releasing.

  Whatever he’d been going to say went unsaid.

  Staring straight ahead, she was about as still as a body could be and still breathe. As if sensing his gaze on her, she turned to him, her eyes dark with pain. With shock. “I had an appointment to get the transmission repaired,” she said with quiet dignity.

  Carson unsnapped his seat belt, then reached over and unclipped hers. And then he did what he’d been wanting to do all evening, but for entirely different reasons—or maybe not.

  He hauled her into his arms. “Shh, we’ll take care of it,” he murmured. He’d buy her another car. Hell, he’d buy her a fleet of the things if it made her happy, he thought irrationally.

  She didn’t say a word, just burrowed into his warmth, her fists working their way up under his arms like a pair of heat-seeking missiles.

  If she wanted heat…

  Not now, dammit!

  Holding her, feeling the small shudders that coursed through her body, Carson heard himself making the kind of ineffectual sounds that were meant to comfort. Meanwhile, his mind was racing along three separate tracks at once.

  Had to be arson, but why? Insurance? He could easily find out who owned the place, but the timing was too pat.

  A warning?

  Or something more serious. A calm sort of resolution came over him. Let the locals figure out what it was all about—that was their job. His was getting her the hell away from here.

  She wasn’t crying, at least he didn’t think she was. He almost wished she would. Evidently the pressure had been building since before he’d ever met her. Before she’d practically knocked him off his feet.

  His arms tightened. He moved his hands up and down her back, his palms sliding over the slick fabric under his own jacket. When his fingers felt the band of her bra, his imagination took off on a course of its own before he could rein it in.

  Back off, man, you’re way out of line!

  What was it with this woman? It had to be some bizarre chemical reaction that triggered a hormone attack every time he touched her—or even thought about touching her. He reminded himself for the second time in less than an hour that he was too old for this kind of thing. Not old-old, just too old for Kit, he amended quickly.

  Forcing his mind away from the woman in his arms—the woman who was clinging to him, her arms around his waist, her knee poking into his hip and her head burrowed under his jaw, Carson directed his attention to
the scene in front of him. The situation warranted his full attention, because something dirty was going on here.

  As if sensing his change of focus, Kit took a deep breath and pulled away. Together they stared at the half-dozen volunteer firemen watering down the ruins. Not that there was anything left to save. The fire had burned too hot, too fast. Carson had to wonder if she’d had any sense of precognition when she’d mentioned the refrigerator as a safe place in case the house caught fire. Good thing he hadn’t taken her at her word.

  She finally spoke, her voice low, but steadier than he would have expected. “I didn’t know—I never dreamed—I’m so sorry about your check. I guess if something, even a refrigerator gets hot enough, anything in it might get scorched.”

  “Scorched. Yeah, that about describes it.” His mind was busy gathering and collating impressions. “It was your check, not mine. And in case you were worried, it’s in my briefcase in the back seat. I didn’t leave it.”

  He’d seen the blackened refrigerator and thought about her earlier suggestion that she leave it there in case the house caught fire. Along with being psychic, was she also a mind reader? Somehow, it wouldn’t surprise him. He only hoped she didn’t pick up on the way his body reacted to the scent of her, the feel of her—hell, even the sight of her in her crazy, wild-colored clothes.

  “My poor car,” she whispered.

  “I’m really sorry about that, honey. I know it meant a lot to you.” The endearment just slipped out. In his family, it was a comfort word. As in, “Have another piece of chicken, honey, you need to build up your strength.”

  “It needed a new transmission, did I tell you? And some other parts, too,” she said wistfully. “I made an appointment for next week. I can’t really afford it yet—royalties won’t be out until May, and they’re not all that much. But I have to have my car in case I want to—to move or something.”

  When her voice squeaked and broke it was all he could do not to drag her back into his arms and promise to buy her the car of her dreams. The woman was obviously screwing up his mind on more than one level.

  He started to tell her that with ten thousand dollars to spend, she could easily afford a new transmission, but under the circumstances, it might be better not to mention it. “Look, I need to speak to the firemen, but—”

  But I hate to leave you here alone, he finished silently. Fortunately, he had sense enough not to say it. Fragility mixed with independence and impulsiveness was a dangerous combination.

  Someone rapped on the window and he turned away. Seeing a familiar face, he rolled down the glass, but didn’t speak. His look said it all.

  “Man, this is rough,” Jeff said. “When we saw Kit’s car, we thought—” The Crab House proprietor broke off, obviously shaken. Leaning down, he looked past Carson and said, “Thank God you were gone, Kit. Look, I’ve got a spare room I can clean out if you need a place to stay, and Bambi—she’s right over there—” He indicated the cluster of onlookers still huddled behind one of the bright yellow fire trucks, “She says she can put you up if you don’t mind sleeping double.”

  “Thanks Jeff, but—”

  Carson took over. “She appreciates it, but she’s going home with me. Sorry about leaving you in the lurch like this, but under the circumstances…” He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. The guy was sharper than he looked, and he was obviously deeply concerned.

  Jeff nodded and straightened up, but left both red-knuckled hands on the door. “Hey, we can handle things okay at the restaurant. Bambi’s got a friend that can fill in if we get in a bind, so you go ahead—do whatever you need to do. Too much going down around here lately anyhow, if you ask me.”

  “You got that right,” Carson muttered. “Hang around a minute, will you, Matlock? I want to go speak to one of the firefighters.”

  Carson left after telling Kit he’d be back in three minutes. After surveying the scene, he homed in on one of the firemen in full turnout gear. He needed certain suspicions confirmed. If these guys were as sharp as they appeared, they could tell him what he needed to know without waiting for lab results.

  And then he’d get her to hell out of this place, the sooner, the better.

  Nine

  Less than twenty minutes later they were on their way, Carson’s worst fears confirmed. The deputy sheriff had dismissed his questions about the cause of the fire, even though the smell of gasoline still hung in the air, mingled with the acrid smell of smoke.

  “Nah, these old houses, they go up this way all the time,” the young law officer had replied. “Wiring shoulda been inspected, but you can’t get these locals to do a damned thing.”

  These locals? Who did the little jerk think he was working for? Carson had seen similar cases, when some kid fresh out of training pinned on a little too much attitude along with his badge.

  “Funny, it doesn’t smell like an electrical fire,” Carson had observed. He didn’t know what an electrical fire would smell like when the house had burned to the ground, but he’d lay odds that it didn’t smell like gasoline.

  The deputy had abruptly wheeled away to bark orders to a bystander who wandered too close while Carson lingered a few more minutes, looking for something that would deflect his suspicions. Lightning, for instance.

  But if there’d been a lightning storm, someone would have mentioned it. And lightning didn’t smell like gasoline. According to the volunteer firemen he’d spoken with, no effort had been made to disguise the agent used. “Don’t know if there was any insurance or not. These old places…” He shook his head, his meaning clear. Houses this old weren’t worth insuring, especially if they contained a woodstove or a working fireplace.

  Carson had brought up the fact that the VW had been far enough from the house so that it shouldn’t have ignited on its own.

  “Gas tank coulda had a leak. Might’ve flashed over. Shame, though. I wouldn’t mind owning it, myself. Old times sake, y’know. Used to have one, but mine was gray. Coulda painted it up like a moth, I reckon, if I’da thought about it.” He shook his head, and Carson left him to his job of wetting down the surroundings and any flare-ups.

  Whether or not the car had burned was not as important as what its presence outside the house indicated. This time of night, whoever had poured gasoline around all four sides of the house and tossed a match had to have considered the possibility—hell, the probability—that Kit was inside. That thought alone chilled him right down to the marrow.

  Ruling out insurance fraud and accident, one question remained. Had the fire been intended to scare a witness into silence?

  Or to silence her permanently?

  Fortunately, she hadn’t asked questions when he’d come back to the car. The locals had their work cut out for them, but with a few notable exceptions, they were probably up to handling it. Not all the brains were found in the big city. Some of the county offices he’d had dealings with could be every bit as effective. They always had access to the SBI—and in this case, possibly the DEA.

  Back at the car, he exchanged places with Jeff Matlock. “Thanks, I’ll take over now. We’ll be in touch in a day or so.”

  His instincts told him the guy was trustworthy, and until this case was wrapped up he was going to need a contact here, someone who was on the site, someone who knew who belonged in the neighborhood and who didn’t. Because no matter how long it took, Carson wasn’t about to bring her back here until this business was wrapped up with no loose ends left to trip over.

  Legally, any dwelling could be considered inhabited whether or not it was actually occupied at the time of a fire. Getting rid of the gunshot victim had indicated a certain level of professionalism, but in this case, the job had been crudely and quickly done, with little attempt to make it look like an accident. Either the perp was an idiot, or he was desperate. Either way, Carson wanted Kit out of there.

  They were on the way out Waterlily Road when Kit spoke for the first time since they’d driven away from the scene. She was wearing his
sport coat over her dress, but with her arms wrapped around her body, she still looked cold. She was quiet, too. With Kit, that was a cause for concern, because she was a talker. Carson made a mental note to watch for signs of shock.

  “Do you think I should call the sheriff again and tell him what we know?” she asked.

  “Your call, but think about it first. You heard an argument, you heard a shot, you saw a body, right? You’ve already reported all that.”

  “I know.” She sighed, her hands now clasped between her knees.

  Nearing the intersection with Highway 158, he rolled to a stop. One look in those wide gray eyes of hers and he wanted to pull over, take her in his arms and hold her until some of the sense of unreality she must be feeling went away. Something like this was all in a day’s work for him, but not for Kit.

  Not for any civilian, but Kit in particular. She was too much like one of the fairytale creatures in her own stories—not that he’d actually read one, but he’d seen the covers, marveling that this woman—this flaky creature who had tried to run him down, and who showed no interest in the money he kept trying to give her, had actually created those images.

  She wasn’t crying. He would have expected her to be crying by now. Hell, she was homeless. She’d lost everything but that wildly impractical dress and those sexy, accident-waiting-to-happen shoes.

  Funny thing about crying, he mused as the miles rolled past in silence. Kids cried when they were physically hurt—sometimes when they were scared. Adults didn’t. He’d seen women endure unbelievable pain without shedding a single tear. Emotional injuries, though….

  When did it change? Was it part of the rite of puberty? No more crying over ouchies now, you’re an adult. Cry when your heart’s breaking—curse when anything else gets broken.

  Crying or not, she needed holding. He wanted to hold her, too, but he didn’t dare, not now. She was so brittle it wouldn’t take much to break her, and until he could get some answers, he needed her whole and functioning.