Confessions

by JoAnn Ross

  "I wouldn't advise it," Trace replied blandly. "Accommodations at Whiskey River's jail are not up to the standards you're undoubtedly used to at the Beverly Hills Hotel."

  "There you go again, stereotyping me as some Hollywood rich bitch," she complained. "Besides, ridding the world of Alan Fletcher would probably be worth doing hard time."

  He thought about his long-ago days on the other side of the criminal justice system. When he'd spent eighteen months as a guest of the Texas State Correctional System.

  "That's easy to say. More difficult to do."

  They both fell silent, lost in their own thoughts.

  Mariah was looking out the passenger window. The view of the valley below was spectacular, but from the dejected slump of her shoulders, he suspected she wasn't enjoying the scenery.

  The guilt had crept back, like a thief in the night.

  "You know, you're not to blame," he said.

  She looked toward him, clearly surprised that he'd divined her thoughts so accurately. "Our fight ten years ago was all my fault." She felt a painful hitch in her heart. "If we'd stayed closer, I would have known what was happening in her life."

  Despite her vow not to cry, a lump rose in her throat. Mariah swallowed to force the words past it. "I could have helped her, dammit" Her voice was frail and fractured, her eyes forlorn.

  Although he knew little about comforting a woman, Trace was struck by an urge to pull over at the upcoming turnout, put his arm around Mariah's slumped shoulders, draw her close and kiss those full, trembling lips. An urge he resisted.

  "Maybe. Maybe not. It's still not your fault that Laura's dead."

  He was a fine one to talk, Mariah considered. She gave him a long, serious look. "The same way it's not your fault that Daniel Murphy died?"

  Even after all this time, his partner's name struck a painful chord. The sick frustration he always felt whenever he thought of that day twisted at his gut. Uncomfortable with both the subject and her examination, he shifted. "That's different."

  "Is it?" She looked at him for another full moment, her own pained eyes turning soft and thoughtful. "I don't think so."

  Silence settled over them again. Realizing that she'd gotten all she was going to get out of Trace for now, Mariah sighed and returned her gaze out the window.

  Neither spoke until he pulled up in front of the lodge. As he pulled beneath the porte cochere, she went for her door handle. "Thanks for the lift."

  "I'll walk up with you."

  Although she opened her mouth to tell him that it wasn't necessary, Trace had pocketed the key and was out of the truck before she could get a word out.

  She stopped at the desk and retrieved a stack of pink message slips. "Condolences, condolences, sorry for your loss," she read as they rode the elevator up to the third floor. She shook her head. "Your loss. As if Laura were some keys I misplaced. Or a ring that was stolen."

  "People have a hard time with death."

  "I know." Another faint, rippling sigh. As they walked down the hallway, her hips swayed, causing her red silk skirt to rustle softly, like the wind in the top of the pine trees outside. "And I suppose murder makes everyone even more uncomfortable."

  "Death is natural. Murder isn't."

  "Ain't that the truth," she muttered. As she went to unlock the door, Mariah was appalled to discover that she was not as calm and collected as she'd been trying so hard to appear.

  Without a word, Trace took the coded card from her trembling hand and slipped it into the lock. The door opened onto a room filled with flowers. Arrangements covered every flat surface; larger bouquets had been placed on the floor. Trace thought it looked as if someone had thrown a grenade into the middle of the Rose Parade.

  "You must have a lot of friends."

  "Mostly acquaintances. Hollywood's not exactly the type of place geared to deep and lasting relationships."

  He stopped in front of an enormous spray of orchids and tiger lilies. "'Keep your chin up, kiddo,'" he read aloud as Mariah crossed the room to the bar. " 'Sly'. " He shot her a quick look. "As in Stallone?"

  She shrugged. "I did a little fix-up work on one of his scripts a few years ago. Actually, he might be one of the few people who qualifies as a friend. He taught me some martial arts and I taught him that putting a little romance into his stories wouldn't drive away his core audience of teenage boys."

  Even as he told himself that it was absolutely none of his business, Trace wondered if she'd added a little romance to the actor's personal life. That was when he realized that if the sight of her in Garvey's arms had caused a prick of jealousy, the thought of her in a clinch with some overly macho movie star was even worse.

  Cursing himself for allowing Mariah to get under his skin this way, Trace reminded himself that these flowers were proof positive that the lady was definitely out of his league.

  She was looking into the bar refrigerator. "Want a beer? Or I seem to have quite a selection of hard stuff."

  Annoyed by his reaction at the innocuous card, Trace said, "No time. I've got to go."

  She glanced up, surprised by the sudden gruffness in his tone. "Fine." She refrained from pointing out that if he was in such a damn hurry, he shouldn't have bothered coming upstairs with her in the first place. "Thanks for the lift."

  "No problem."

  He was already headed toward the door. Weaving her way through the baskets of flowers, Mariah caught up with him.

  "I've got another cheery Swann family meeting in the lawyer's office tomorrow morning at nine." The reading of Laura's will. "I'll drop by your office afterward and fill you in on the details."

  "Fine." He'd already tried to get a copy of the victim's will prior to today's funeral, but her attorney—a stubborn old cowboy lawyer from the old school—had refused to let him see it until after the reading, citing attorney-client privilege. Trace had considered getting a court order, but decided that since none of the suspects were going anywhere, he could wait a few hours.

  He was standing in the open doorway, looking down at Mariah in a way that made her feel as if she were not being looked at, but into. His eyes were like warm, sensual fingers, touching her everywhere. She felt the sudden charge in the air and couldn't quite decide whether to fight it or go with the flow.

  "Is there something else?" she asked.

  "Yeah." Driven by a recklessness he could not quite understand, nor control, he did what he'd been wanting to do since she'd climbed down from her Jeep at the Fletcher ranch and came stomping toward him in her pointy-toed boots, her long legs eating up the ground, breasts bouncing in that scarlet silk blouse, eyes hidden by wide wraparound glasses, radiating a fuck-you, rebellious attitude that was palpable. She'd reminded him of a female James Dean in skintight designer jeans. The kind of woman who could give any red-blooded male a fever.

  His head swooped down, like an eagle diving for prey, and then his mouth was pressed hard against hers. The suddenness of the kiss, and the way it literally stole her breath away, made Mariah's head swim. Sensation after sensation streamed into her system like a fast-flowing river, crashing into hot rising tides of desire.

  His hands fisted in her hair, holding her hostage to the mind-blinding kiss, preventing her from breaking away. As if she could, even if she'd wanted to. Which she didn't.

  Through her wildly spinning senses, as she plunged greedily into the kiss, Mariah realized that for the first time in her life, she had neither mind nor reason. Nor will. Swept along on that raging torrent, she was totally in this man's power. And what was even more of a surprise was that instead of finding such surrender frightening or demeaning, Mariah found it thrilling. Emotions she'd kept locked up inside her since identifying Laura's body broke free, like from behind a broken dam. With a shudder and a half sob, she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung. A low, throaty moan escaped her when he changed the angle of the kiss and separated her lips with his tongue, filling her mouth with his taste.

  Control disintegrated as she me
t the probing thrust of his tongue eagerly, desperately. Never had she been so helpless. Never had she been so needy. And never had she felt so aroused.

  She would have done anything. Given him anything. Sensing that, Trace reluctantly decided that things had already gone far enough. If she kept moving her hips against his groin that way, he'd end up taking her here and now, surrounded by all those flowers. And while it might do something for the ache, it would be an unneeded complication to his case.

  As quickly as the heated kiss began, it was over. Trace abruptly severed the wonderfully devastating contact, leaving Mariah stunned. She blinked up at him, uncomprehendingly.

  "I'm sorry." His tone was more gruff than planned.

  "Sorry?" She was stunned, confused and resentful about the way he'd made her lose control, then had the nerve to look at her as if it had been all her doing. "About what?"

  "That shouldn't have happened."

  She refused to let him see how his words stung. "You didn't do it alone." She crossed her arms over her chest and willed herself to some semblance of calm. Which was difficult since every nerve ending in her body was still tingling from that devastating kiss.

  "No." Both his expression and his tone were grim. The consequences of his impulsive behavior had been as uncalculated as the kiss had been unplanned. Trace was furious at himself for wanting her so badly and irritated at her for making him want her. "But it could be a problem."

  "Only if we let it." She could still taste him on her lips. Unconsciously Mariah gathered in the lingering flavors of rich, dark coffee, cinnamon chewing gum and aroused male.

  The sight of her tongue circling those rosy lips he could still taste caused a surge of unbridled lust. Cursing under his breath, Trace took off his hat and dragged his hand through his hair. As she watched the thrust of his fingers, Mariah was struck by a needle sharp desire to feel those strong dark hands on her body.

  From the expertise in his heated kiss, she had no doubt that the sheriff had bedded more than his share of women. And, she had no doubt, satisfied them all. So why should the act of two adults sharing a simple kiss make him so angry?

  All right, she admitted reluctantly, it was more than a simple kiss. It was a world-class humdinger of a kiss that had left her feeling hot as sin and tingling all over. But the attraction, and their heated response to it had been entirely mutual. So what was his problem?

  As she continued to look up at him, Trace, who was a pro at keeping his mouth shut during interrogations, felt an uncharacteristic need to fill in the lingering silence.

  "Damn." He jammed the black Stetson back atop his head. "The thing is, you've had a rough day. I had no right taking advantage of you that way."

  "Ah." He was, she considered with grim humor, definitely one of the good guys. In fact, from what she'd seen of him thus far, if she'd been working in Hollywood during those days of the old western melodramas, she couldn't imagine a man more suited to wearing a white hat.

  "Let me see if I understand this correctly." She leaned against the doorjamb, feeling a sense of humor she'd thought had died with Laura beginning to return. "You're feeling guilty because you're afraid that in my weakened emotional condition, I wasn't able to say no. Is that it?"

  He frowned, sensing where she was going and knew there was a trap at the end of the road. "In a way, I suppose, that's what I was thinking."

  "You were supposed to be a hotshot detective in your past life, Callahan. So tell me, did you happen to notice any signs of resistance?"

  "No, but—"

  "You didn't because there weren't any. I wanted that to happen. Actually, I was hoping you'd kiss me earlier, back at the ranch. And for the record, that kiss was the first time I've felt alive in days."

  Trace felt foolish and relieved at the same time. "In that case, I'm glad to have been of service. Any time you need a booster, just let me know."

  Her laughter was quick and appreciative. "I'll dial 911."

  "I'll see you at my office tomorrow morning, then," he said, even as he reminded himself that back in Dallas, he never would have permitted civilians this much access to a case.

  "Before noon," she agreed. After all, how long could it take to legally inform Alan what everyone already knew—that he was now the proud owner of a century-old ranch?

  Promising to latch the door behind him, she stood in the open doorway and watched Trace walk back down the hall to the elevator.

  For a moment, just before the elevator door shut, Mariah was tempted to call him back. But having nothing left to say, she resisted the impulse.

  Trace returned to his office and was studying the crime scene photos when his intercom buzzed.

  "It's Fredericka Palmer," Jill announced.

  He slipped the photos into his top desk drawer. "Send her in."

  The Realtor entered the room surrounded by a cloud of perfume designed to hit a man straight in the groin. Her black silk suit revealed an enticing shadowing of breast and her stiletto high heels were more suited to a city hooker than a rural real-estate agent. Then again, he reminded himself, Fredericka Palmer was no typical rural real-estate agent.

  "Hello, Sheriff." Somehow, her tone and her smile managed to make the usual greeting sound like a sexual invitation.

  From the day he'd met her, the woman had made it obvious that she wouldn't be adverse to a more intimate relationship. Although he'd yet to take her up on her not-so-veiled offers, that hadn't kept her from continuing to try.

  He stood up. "Afternoon, Ms. Palmer."

  "Please." A soft sigh escaped pouting lips. "I keep telling you, Trace, it's Freddi."

  She sat down in the visitor's chair and crossed her legs, displaying a flash of lacy black garter. Above the tops of the jet nylons, her thighs were porcelain pale. The contrast, Trace admitted in spite of his best efforts to remain unmoved, was more than a little appealing.

  Trace sat down as well.

  "I was sorry we didn't have a chance to speak at the funeral supper," she said.

  "I wasn't exactly there in a social capacity," he reminded her.

  "Actually, what I need to discuss with you is business. I'm afraid I might have bad news." She paused. For effect, Trace thought. "The Worths are considering putting their house up for sale." Trace was currently renting the house in question.

  "I see." Trace figured it was a good thing he'd never gotten around to unpacking everything.

  "I warned you about the possibility when you agreed to that month-to-month lease," she reminded him. "Instead of buying something of your own."

  Trace shrugged. "That you did," he agreed easily.

  He'd resisted the agent's attempt to sell him a home when he'd first arrived in town because he hadn't known if he'd find Whiskey River to his liking. And although lately he'd begun to feel as if he were settling in, finding someplace new to live was the least of his worries right now.

  She tapped a scarlet finger thoughtfully against a white front tooth, drawing attention to her wide mouth. "You know, Sheriff, my development company is about to break ground on a new golf course community. We expect it to be quite popular. This is a golden opportunity to get in before the prices escalate."

  "I'll think about it."

  "Do you play golf?"

  "Never had the time to learn." Nor the bucks to join one of Dallas's exclusive country clubs.

  "You should." She crossed her legs again. "I've always believed that we should play as hard as we work."

  "That's not a bad philosophy," he agreed mildly, having a very good idea of what game Fredericka was playing right now. "So, when do I have to move out?"

  "Oh, no time soon." She waved away the potential problem with a crimson-tipped hand. "I just thought I should keep you apprised as to the possibility." Her smiling face turned worried. "There is another thing."

  "What's that?"

  "There's some concern, what with this terrible thing that's happened to Laura, along with the attempt on the senator's life, that there might not b
e sufficient security for the Fourth of July rally. The Cow Belles are hosting our annual barbecue and I'd hate for anything to happen."

  "I've assigned all my deputies to the rally and I plan to be there as well. In addition, DPS is loaning us what officers they can spare from highway patrol."

  "I'm so glad to hear that." Her deep sigh of relief drew his gaze once again to her lush breasts, just as she'd planned.

  As she leaned toward him, giving him an unrestricted view of her cleavage, it crossed Trace's mind that Fredericka had all the tenacity—both professionally and personally—of an aluminum-siding salesman.

  "You've no idea what a relief it is to be able to assure the girls that you'll have things well in hand." She stood up.

  "We do our best."

  She smiled. "So I hear." She was almost out the door when another thought occurred to her. "By the way, that was quite impressive, the way you rescued Mariah today. You reminded me of Lochinvar. Or Sir Galahad."

  Trace was getting a little tired of the shining armor comparisons.

  "Did Mariah tell you that she may be staying on in Whiskey River?" Freddi asked conversationally.

  "I don't believe it came up." It sure as hell hadn't.

  "She called me last week from L.A. to set up a meeting. She was behaving rather strangely, even for her."

  "Strangely?"

  "Secretive. She asked me not to tell anyone about her call. Or the meeting. Even Laura. Naturally, that piqued my curiosity."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Then, a few days later, when I first saw her in the lodge, she told me she had to cancel, which was a surprise, of course, but when I heard about what happened to Laura, I understood. Obviously, Mariah isn't in any shape to even think about negotiating a realty contract. Especially since she must be feeling so horribly guilty."

  "Guilty?"

  Fredericka flushed, as if realizing she'd gone too far. "It's nothing. Really." She managed a weak laugh. "Sometimes I really do talk too much."

  He gave her his hard cop stare. "What would Mariah have to feel guilty about?" His tone was mild, even friendly. But his eyes had turned to flint.

  "Well, you have to understand that Laura and I were best friends forever." She was obviously flustered. A sheen of perspiration glistened on the creamy flesh framed by the jet collar of her funeral suit. "And although I've tried to understand Mariah, I never approved of the way she treated her sister. Who'd always tried to make up for their mother's desertion," she said with a flash of hot loyalty.