by JoAnn Ross
"So what happened? With you and your wife?"
He removed her gold earring and began working on the sternocleidomastoid behind her lobe. Her skin was as soft as silk. Trace wondered if it would be so soft all over. He also knew he was asking for trouble allowing his mind to even consider the state of Mariah Swann's naked body.
"Typical cop marriage story. It didn't work out."
He frowned as he remembered the day he'd met Ellen. She'd been working in the ER and he'd been investigating a hit on a minor league drug pusher. At first they'd seemed the perfect couple. After all, who else but an emergency room nurse could understand the shit he spent his waking hours wading through? Who else but a trauma nurse could possibly share a cop's warped perspective about life and death?
They would have a psychologically symbiotic marriage, they'd both thought in those heady days of early romance. Unfortunately, neither had envisioned the consequences of having death as a constant companion. At the dinner table, on holidays, not to mention in bed.
"Ah, yes." Mariah pulled off her other earring, inviting him to change sides. "I've written a few of those episodes."
"Hard not to," he agreed. "Considering divorce is a professional police hazard." A Kevlar vest could protect the heart from bullets. But nothing shielded against the pain of a failed marriage.
"Were you in love with her?"
"I wanted to be." He rolled his knuckles across her shoulders and felt the tautness ease. "So, what about you?"
"Me?" Mariah was thinking that it would be nice if she could just take off her dress, lie facedown on that nearby bale of hay and let his strong fingers do their magic all the way down her spine. She hadn't realized exactly how tense she'd been until he'd started to relax her.
"You ever been married?"
"Once. To an up-and-coming director of teenage horror films. It didn't work out, either."
"Why not?"
She shrugged and brooded out over the pasture. "We were married for eighteen months. For seventeen of those months, we had an ongoing disagreement."
"You divorced a guy over a disagreement?" He wouldn't have thought her willing to toss in the towel so easily.
"It wasn't exactly your standard, run-of-the-mill disagreement," she corrected, somewhat relieved to discover that what had, at the time, seemed a humiliating personal failure, no longer possessed the power to cause pain. "Steven couldn't see any reason why he couldn't continue dating after we got married. I thought it might be a nice idea to give monogamy a try."
Trace wondered what kind of idiot would want any other woman when he had Mariah Swann all to himself. "The guy's obviously nuts."
She laughed at that, a rich, bubbling sound Trace found himself liking too much for comfort. She turned around again, placed her hands on his shoulders and smiled up at him.
"You know, Callahan, I just may have to reassess my original opinion of you."
"Oh?"
"Actually, when you put aside your Dirty Harry impression, you're not so bad. And I definitely like the way you think."
Her eyes were gleaming with that warm light he'd only caught a glimpse of a few times before. Her wide rosy lips were tilted up at the corners and parted just a whisper. They were standing close enough that it would take only the slightest lowering of his head…
"Thank you," she said softly.
"For what?"
"For making me laugh." From the moment she'd learned of Laura's death, Mariah hadn't believed she'd ever be able to smile—let alone laugh—again.
Deciding the man must be some kind of miracle worker, she drew back ever so slightly to look up at him, to search his face as he was searching hers. She kept her eyes steady and level with his. They were filled with the same doubts he was feeling. And the same needs.
His fingers moved from her neck to play with the tips of her hair. The palm of his other hand cupped her chin; his fingers spread so that her lips were framed between them and his thumb.
"I suppose you've written this scenario more times than you care to count, too."
His voice was deep and rough and did wonderful, frightening things to each and every one of her nerve endings. "What scenario is that?"
Her voice had thickened to a lush and sultry ribbon that wrapped around him in a sensual way that made him ache. He imagined how that voice would sound when she was lying beneath him, warm and naked and oh, so willing.
"A cop falling for a gorgeous, wealthy woman who's worlds beyond him."
She felt a tug—deep and physical. Mariah had never been one to dance around an issue. "Is that what's happening here?" The lingering laughter left her eyes. Her soft, siren's mouth sobered. "Are you falling for me, Callahan?"
The tension Trace had massaged away from her returned to settle at the base of his neck.
He could have been glib. He could have evaded. Trace had used both tactics successfully with women before. "I don't know," he said, opting for honesty.
Yesterday, he'd tried to assure himself that this unruly desire he'd been feeling for Mariah Swann was nothing more than a result of his recent celibacy. It wasn't really her he was lusting after, he'd told himself as he'd driven to Jessica's house. His malady was purely physical; any woman would suffice.
But dammit, as good as things had been with Jess, their lovemaking still hadn't managed to drive away his desire for this woman. And now, as his eyes drifted to her mouth, Trace tried telling himself that perhaps if he could just taste those lips once, his curiosity would be satisfied.
Like hell it would, he blasted himself. One taste and he'd be wanting more. And more. Still grasping at straws, Trace almost managed to convince himself that perhaps it might be easier to quit fighting it and let things progress to their natural conclusion.
If he could only have her, this nagging need would pass. And he'd be free to get on with his investigation. And more importantly, his life.
Even as he told himself that to continue touching her was playing with fire, Trace's fingers left off playing with her hair and stroked her throat. "I do know I'm not immune to you."
"You don't sound exactly thrilled."
It was difficult to hear over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. His callused thumb was resting at the base of her throat. Mariah resisted swallowing and wondered if Trace could feel the increased beat of her pulse.
A pregnant silence settled over them. Mariah had to ask. "Does part of your reluctance have anything to do with Ms. Ingersoll?"
"Jess?"
Mariah could not miss the intimacy in the way he'd said the prosecutor's name. "Are the two of you still sleeping together?"
"What?" The question had come out of left field, both surprising and embarrassing him.
"I watched you during your press conference. You're comfortable in each other's space. That suggests more intimacy than you'd get merely working together."
"Is that so?" His frown suggested he was not at all pleased by her observation.
"There's also the fact that the town gossip line says you're an item."
"My relationship with Jessica Ingersoll has nothing to do with my feelings for you," he said. It was the truth. So far as it went.
"I'm in the middle of a homicide investigation," he reminded them both needlessly. "And unfortunately, at this point, I don't exactly have a plethora of hard evidence. I can't afford distractions." Even ones that smelled like a spring garden and had legs that went all the way up to her neck.
His gritty tone and his description of her as little more than a pesky hindrance to his work stung, but Mariah had spent too many years on the performing end of a television camera not to be able to act, when called upon. She also noticed he hadn't exactly answered her question about the current state of his affair with the sexy blond attorney.
"With compliments like that, Callahan, I'm amazed you don't have to beat away the hordes of women with a stick."
The sensual mood eased. For now.
"Why do you think we cops carry a nightstick?"
&nbs
p; She smiled at that. "You know, Callahan, sometimes I think I really like you."
"And other times?"
"I don't know. I'll have to think about it."
"Fine. You can think while we drive over to Garvey's place. I need to talk to the guy some more and having you there might ease the process."
Her smile faded. "I'm not going to help build a case against Clint."
Knowing how eager she was to be in on the investigation, Trace once again admired her loyalty. "I just want to talk to the guy, that's all. Besides, if you're friends, it seems as if you wouldn't want him to be alone on the day the woman he loves is buried."
"You're sneaky," she accused. "But right. Let's get going. I've had about all the strolls down memory lane I can handle for one afternoon."
"Why don't you wait in the truck," Trace suggested, handing her the keys to the Suburban. "I'll go tell everyone you're coming with me."
"Fine." He'd turned and was headed back toward the house when she called out to him.
He looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"
"Would you do me a favor and check on Maggie?" Trace could see Mariah's frown all the way across the crushed gravel parking area. "I'm worried about her."
Trace discovered the reason for Mariah's concern when he entered the library in search of Maggie and found her filling a sterling silver flask from a crystal decanter.
"Oh!" She spun around at the sound of the door opening and sloshed the clear liquor onto the Navaho rug underfoot. "You startled me, Sheriff."
Her voice was slurred and her remarkable eyes even brighter than usual. Trace was not surprised that Maggie was on her way to getting drunk. Hell, if he was burying his kid; he'd probably tie one on, too. What saddened him was that she was drinking alone. And in secret.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't worry 'bout it." She returned the decanter to the desk with exaggerated care and managed to replace the top on the second try. "I do hope you're not planning to give me a breathalyzer test, Sheriff. Because I'm afraid I might fail."
With several percentage points to spare, Trace agreed silently as she made her way unsteadily toward him. "You're not driving back to the lodge, are you?"
"Of course not. I'm a star, darling." Frown lines momentarily furrowed her brow. "Or I once was." The frown faded, chased away by a soft smile he suspected was directed inward. "Surely you know that we stars always travel in limos."
"That's what I've heard."
"Well, as we speak, mine is waiting for me outside." She waved a slow, graceful hand. "I never—ever—drive drunk. Not since…well—" she shook her head distractedly "—that's not important."
"Mariah wanted me to tell you that she's leaving with me."
"I don't blame you both for wanting a little time alone." She sighed. "I certainly remember when I was young."
"Actually, your daughter's assisting me on the investigation."
"What a good idea." She nodded enthusiastically, causing a few more hairs to escape the French roll. "Mariah's a very bright girl. And she writes crime dramas all the time, so she'll be a grand help in solving your crime."
She was literally swaying, like a graceful willow in the breeze. Trace worried that she was on the verge of passing out.
"Would you like me to help you out to your car, Ms. McKenna?"
"That would be charming." She gave him her full, thousand-watt Technicolor smile. "But please, darling, you must call me Maggie. Ms. McKenna makes me feel so horridly old."
She placed a beringed hand on his arm. Several excellent quality diamonds glittered like ice beneath the diffused light of the overhead brass and copper chandelier. "It's so nice to know chivalry still exists." Only her remarkable acting talent kept her words understandable. Her breath was warm and tinged with the scent of juniper berries. Trace felt his stomach lurch at the all too familiar aroma. Although never known to be overly choosy—about her men or her liquor—his mother had favored gin.
"May I ask you one more favor, Sheriff?"
"Of course."
"Please don't tell Mariah I've fallen off the wagon. The poor darling does worry so."
From her concerned expression when she'd asked him to check on Maggie, Trace had a feeling Mariah knew exactly what was going on with her mother. "Don't worry." He put his hand over hers and wrapped his other arm around her wasp-slender waist, to hold her up. "Your secret's safe with me."
"You're such a nice man. My knight in shining armor." She went up on her toes and kissed him. Smack on the lips. A wet, friendly kiss that Trace was relieved carried no sexual undertones.
Unwilling to submit her to her ex-husband's contempt, Trace slipped Maggie out the back way, through the kitchen door.
"Aren't you clever." Relief at avoiding Matthew vibrated in Maggie's husky voice. "Do you know, if I were only a few years younger, and Mariah wasn't my daughter, I believe I might be tempted give her a run for her money where you're concerned, Sheriff."
"I don't think you understand my relationship with your daughter."
In a sudden move that took him by surprise, she straightened and gave him that riveting gaze that had transfixed two generations of moviegoers. "I may be tipsy, Sheriff. But I'm not stupid. Nor am I blind. You're attracted to Mariah. As she is to you."
Her high heels were not made for walking in gravel. When she stumbled, Trace was there to catch her and keep her on her feet "I think it's wonderful Mariah has finally found someone good enough for her," the older woman declared. "If only poor dear Laura had stayed with Clint." A single tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and trailed forlornly down her cheek, sparkling like a loose diamond on her porcelain skin. "She'd still be alive today."
Her eyes chilled with an icy anger that reminded Trace of stilettos of ice. "Damn Matthew for breaking them up," she spat out. "If only Laura had held her ground… If only she'd trusted in love…"
The Phoenix limo driver—his crisp navy uniform incongruous in this rural western setting—saw them coining. He tossed down his magazine and scrambled out of the car to open the back door with a flourish.
"Thank you, darling." Maggie patted the driver's tanned cheek.
"Do you believe your son-in-law killed your daughter?" Trace asked.
Maggie's eyes momentarily cleared again. Her direct, no-holds-barred gaze reminded him of Mariah.
"Of course Alan killed Laura. Who else is there?"
Who else, indeed? Trace wondered as he returned to the Suburban.
"She's drunk, isn't she?" Mariah asked in a flat tone.
"Look," he began to defend Maggie, "she's had a rough couple of days, and—"
"You don't have to make up excuses. I know them all." Mariah slumped down in the seat, folded her arms across her breasts and shot a baleful look after the departing limousine. "Damn. She's been dry for nearly a year."
He twisted the key. The motor came to life with a roar. "Dry isn't sober."
She glanced over at him. "True."
He appreciated her not asking. Enough so that he decided yet again to tell her the truth. "My mother was a drunk."
"Oh." She digested that. "So, I guess you and I have something in common after all, Callahan." Besides a dangerous desire to jump each other's bones, she tacked on silently.
If anyone had ever suggested that he and Mariah Swann might have anything in common, he would have compared the surface of their individual lives and insisted the idea was crazy. But now, thinking back on that all too familiar glaze in Maggie McKenna's movie-star emerald eyes, Trace decided there was some truth in Mariah's softly issued statement.
There were seemingly no similarities between Maggie McKenna and Reba Callahan. One had been a movie star, the other a prostitute. One spent her days in a mansion in Beverly Hills that had once belonged to a famous silent film star, the other, while she'd been alive, had moved from trailer to trailer, jail to jail. One lived in a world of privilege, the other struggled in an endless cycle of abuse and pain.
But the single
common, undeniable denominator shared by both women was an overwhelming weakness for gin.
And that being the case, Trace realized that Mariah might actually know something about his own days spent in hell.
"You might just have something there," he conceded.
Chapter Twelve
The interview with Clint Garvey was short and would have been mostly uneventful if it hadn't been for the unwanted surge of emotion—a feeling dangerously like jealousy—that coursed through Trace as he watched Mariah being enfolded into the rancher's strong arms.
"Poor Clint," she murmured later, as she and Trace drove back to town. "He looked even worse than I feel."
Trace silently concurred. Garvey's weather-hewn face had been the unhealthy color of ashes and his eyes had been home to a thousand-yard stare Trace had witnessed in cops who'd seen one too many grisly homicides. The slightly glazed look in those distant eyes suggested Maggie hadn't been the only one hitting the bottle that afternoon.
He'd considered telling Garvey that booze wouldn't help, then decided against it. Hell, he was a cop, not a social worker. And besides, Trace knew all too well that the way out of hell was long and hard.
"I hope you're not using Clint's financial problems as a motive," Mariah said. "Most of the ranchers play the futures market. And they all take a bath from time to time."
"Maybe some can afford it more than others."
She shrugged. "The greater the risk, the greater the reward."
To herself Mariah vowed to figure out some way to talk Clint into letting her lend him some money. The problem was, the man was a typical rancher—frustratingly independent.
"By the way, what was it you wanted to talk to Alan about?"
"Nothing in particular. I'm just trying to reconcile some discrepancies in his story."
"Any you care to share with me?"
"Not particularly." If Fletcher had murdered his wife, Trace wanted to be able to hand a prosecutable case over to Jess. He had the feeling that Mariah would be willing to stomp all over the senator's constitutional rights to put him behind bars.
Her next words confirmed his suspicions. "I should shoot him myself."