She didn’t dislike him—he hadn’t fired her last year when the police tried to get rid of her. But there was no question Dells was a company guy—he’d laid off dozens of employees over the last five years.
And from the sounds of things, he was about to do it again.
He rested one ringless hand on her desktop as he scanned the article quickly.
They’d gone for a simple headline, and Harper had kept the opening paragraphs clean and succinct.
Murdered Girl Was Stalked by DA’s Son
By Harper McClain
Murdered law student Naomi Scott was repeatedly threatened and harassed in the final months of her life by Peyton Anderson, a fellow law student and son of former district attorney Randall Anderson.
According to a series of restraining orders filed in court by Scott, this pattern played out over more than a year. In those documents, she asserted that she feared for her life, and believed Anderson meant to do her harm.
When contacted by the newspaper, the younger Anderson rejected the allegations in the court documents, and denied any responsibility for Scott’s death …
When he reached that point, Dells stopped.
“Change that,” he said, pointing at the screen. “Make it, ‘denied any involvement.’”
Harper, who had seen most of the words changed by Baxter already, objected.
“Everything in that sentence is true. You can’t lose a libel lawsuit over truth.”
“I am aware of that,” he said evenly. “But fighting a lawsuit is too expensive for us right now. We cannot give Anderson a single hook to hang a court case on. ‘Responsibility’ is a more threatening word than ‘involvement.’”
Harper made the change.
It was like that all the way through the article. Dells made numerous cuts—all of them surgical.
Harper argued every point doggedly, until he finally lost his patience.
“Give the readers some credit, McClain,” he snapped, wearily. “Your writing is good. They’ll get it.”
When he finished editing, Dells emailed the article to the newspaper’s lawyer and asked him to read it over.
It was late by then. And there was nothing to do but wait. The rest of the paper was ready.
Baxter sent DJ home at midnight. After he’d gone, the three of them formed a small island of life in the sea of desks. Dells had draped his jacket over the back of an empty chair, and was leaning against Harper’s desk. Baxter, who had rolled a chair over, kept looking at her watch.
“We need to wrap this up,” she said, looking at Dells. “The printers are on double-overtime.”
“I’m not going to rush this.” He straightened. “Let’s look at that layout one more time.”
He and Baxter crossed the room to her computer to look at the final design. Harper didn’t follow—she’d seen enough of it. They’d run the story with two photos side by side: Naomi, eyes bright with youth and life. And a shot Miles had taken of Peyton Anderson the night of Naomi’s service at the Library Bar—looking confident and ambitious.
Harper knew this article would set off a firestorm. It was the kind of piece that could make or break a newspaper. The Anderson family didn’t issue idle threats.
But this was the kind of article that got picked up by the wire service. That won awards.
Her phone rang, pulling her back to reality.
It was Jerrod Scott.
“Miss McClain, I got your message,” he said. “I’m sorry to call you so late but I thought you’d want to know. Wilson says he’ll talk to you. He wants you to come to his house tomorrow. Says he’ll tell you everything he knows.”
Harper gave an air punch.
“Thank you, Mr. Scott,” she said. “I promise I’ll treat him fairly.”
“I expect you to. I told him I trust you.”
They talked a while longer, arranging that Harper would go to Shepherd’s home in Garden City at ten A.M. He gave her the address and some basic directions.
When they finished, Scott said, “He’s a little shook up, Miss McClain. Don’t be too hard on him.”
After they hung up, Harper raced over to Baxter’s desk.
“I’ve got Wilson Shepherd,” she said announced. “He’s going to sit down with me, tomorrow morning.”
“Nice job, McClain.” Dells turned to Baxter. “Our follow-up could include the…”
He was interrupted by his phone, buzzing.
Giving Baxter a look, he stepped into his office to take the call.
Harper and Baxter fell quiet, waiting. Harper strained her ears to hear but he spoke so quietly she couldn’t make out a word.
When Dells returned, his expression was grave.
“Tell them to print it,” he told Baxter, who picked up the phone.
Dells swept his jacket off the back of the chair and pulled it on.
“Randall Anderson will not take this lying down. Expect blowback.”
He glanced at Harper. “Can you come in early tomorrow?”
“You’ve got it.”
She had to admire his cool determination. He and Anderson traveled in the same circles. It would be Dells who caught most of the heat from this.
“It’s good, McClain,” he told her, knocking his knuckles on the desk as he passed on his way to the door. “Watertight.”
“That’s my job,” she replied, her tone so casual he might have thought his praise didn’t matter.
But his approval had sent hope through her. If there were more layoffs coming, she didn’t want to be one of those let go.
* * *
It was after one in the morning when she parked on East Jones Street. Before she even got out of the car, she saw Luke, standing on her front steps.
It took all her skill to keep her expression blank, hiding the whirlwind of emotions swirling through her. Confusion, excitement, and worst of all, happiness.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
He must have come straight from work. He’d taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
“Can we go inside?” he asked. “We need to talk.”
The tension in his voice told her not to argue.
Without another word, she moved past him on the narrow landing to unlock the door.
As she punched in the alarm code still visible on her wrist, he kept his eyes on the street.
Even inside, he seemed twitchy—uncomfortable.
“Want something to drink?” Harper asked.
“Are you having something?” he asked. “I will if you do.”
“All I’ve got is whiskey and coffee,” she said, apologetically. “I haven’t been to the store.”
“Whiskey’s fine.”
Harper, who’d never known him to drink anything stronger than a beer, said nothing as she headed for the kitchen.
She pulled the bottle of Jameson from the cupboard, grabbed two glasses, and poured them each a generous measure.
When she walked back into the living room, he was standing in front of the fireplace, looking up at the blank stretch of white wall above the mantelpiece.
“You never put the painting back,” he said, as he accepted the glass she held out.
He didn’t have to explain which one he’d meant. When her house was broken into a year ago, the intruder had slashed a portrait Bonnie had painted of Harper, putting a knife through her face.
“Bonnie tried to fix it, but it was too damaged.” She gestured at the sofa. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She took a seat across from him, waiting as Luke took a sip and set the glass down on the coffee table and pulled the plastic bag containing the note from her car out of his pocket.
“We didn’t get any prints off it,” he told her, quietly. “He must have worn gloves.”
“Dammit.” Harper sagged back.
She’d spent all night working on a story about a stalker. She wasn’t missing the parallels in her own life right now. Was this how Naomi Scott felt? Trapped and helples
s?
Luke set the note down next to his drink.
“What are you going to do, Harper?”
“Oh, hell, Luke, I don’t know.” She rubbed her forehead, wearily. The day had been too long already. And the hits just kept on coming.
“I feel like I’m fighting a ghost.”
She finished her whiskey in one swallow, knowing it wouldn’t help. Wishing it would.
Across from her, Luke did the same.
“The thing I can’t figure out,” he said after a second’s reflection, “is what does he want from you?”
“I don’t know but that note didn’t exactly make me feel like I’ve found my soul mate,” Harper told him, caustically.
Luke gave her a look she couldn’t read and then, grabbing their glasses, headed for the kitchen.
“Well, as long as we don’t know who he is or what he wants, he’s holding all the cards,” he said, over his shoulder.
Harper thought of her conversation earlier that day with Smith. She didn’t want to tell Luke what she’d learned, or try to explain how she’d come to those conclusions.
In fact, right now, she didn’t want to talk about this at all. She was too tired to make good decisions.
A moment later, Luke returned, holding a glass out to her.
When she reached up, her fingers brushed against his.
Electricity crackled between them.
And then he ruined it.
“Well, I don’t like you staying here alone until we know more.”
“That’s too bad,” she said, shortly. “Because I live here.”
“Stay at a hotel then. Anywhere but here.”
She almost laughed before she realized he was serious.
“Oh come on, Luke. I’m not walking away from home because of this.”
His face darkened. “You’ve cut off his access, Harper. You didn’t run, when he told you to. If he’s crazy enough and obsessed enough, he could come in here to do whatever he wants.”
“Let him,” she said, her voice heated. “I can protect myself.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen your baseball bat.”
The way he said it made it clear he didn’t think much of her self-defense plan.
“I’ll be fine, Luke.”
“I know you will.” Finishing his drink, he set the glass down on the coffee table, and stood up. “Because I’m going to be standing right outside your door.”
Turning, he strode across the living room.
It took Harper a second to process what was happening. When she did, she jumped to her feet and hurried after him.
“Wait. What? What do you mean?”
She caught up with him in the entrance hall, where he was opening the front door.
“I’m going to stay out here,” he said, pointing at the front steps with a gesture that said this made perfect sense to him. “And keep watch. Let him see me. Let him realize you’ve got people looking out for you.”
Before she could think of an appropriate response to this insane decision, he walked out and closed the door behind him.
Harper stood in the glare of the entrance hall light, staring at the closed door with frank astonishment.
What had gotten into him? He’d come back into her life after months, and all of a sudden he was an avenging angel, protecting her from unknown assailants.
She opened the door and stepped outside.
It was dark, and uncannily quiet. Harper couldn’t even hear cars in the distance.
The night air was warm silk against her skin. Insects fluttered around the streetlight, dicing with death.
Standing a few steps down, Luke turned to look up at her.
“Come back inside, Luke,” she whispered.
“It’s fine,” he assured her. “I’ll keep an eye out. Until the sun comes up.”
“This is ridiculous.” Harper let her voice rise just a little. “Will you come inside? You can guard me there if you want.”
When he didn’t react, she said, “For God’s sake, Luke. What if a patrol car comes by? Riley put the house on the patrol list. They’ll see you. Word will get around. It’ll be like last time.”
He stood unmoving for a long second as if thinking about arguing. Then, slowly, he mounted the steps to join her inside the door.
“I hadn’t thought about that.” He let the door shut behind him. “Fine. I’ll stay inside.”
They stood inside the door, facing each other.
“You don’t have to protect me,” she told him.
He held her eyes.
“I want to.”
The entrance hall was narrow, forcing them close together. She could smell the fresh air on him. Beneath that, the familiar, sandalwood scent of the soap he used.
It had been such a long, lonely year. She’d never stopped hoping that someday he would stand here again, looking at her the way he was looking at her right now.
Without even knowing she was going to do it, Harper reached out and touched his arm.
She felt the twitch of his muscles beneath her fingertips.
If she hadn’t had that whiskey, if it hadn’t been such a long day, if she hadn’t gone out to Reidsville that morning—maybe she wouldn’t have been brave enough to let her hand trace up the length of his arm to his shoulder, and from there to the fine edge of his jaw.
She’d forgotten how his skin felt. The warm life of him.
She kept thinking he’d pull away.
Instead, he leaned into her touch. His eyes fluttered shut, dark lashes soft against his tanned skin.
“Luke,” she whispered, moving close enough to feel his body against hers. “I miss you so much.”
His eyes opened and looked down into hers.
“I miss you, too.”
It was the only thing she’d wanted to hear.
Reaching up, she pulled his head down, raising her lips to meet his.
Their kiss was tentative at first, and searching. But it grew in intensity almost instantly as they both accepted what was happening. His hands slid up her hips to her waist and pulled her hard against him as he kissed her hungrily.
Harper smiled against his lips, touching his teeth with her tongue. Giving in to the heat of him.
She’d waited so long for this.
“Harper,” he whispered, hands touching her everywhere. As if he, too, needed reassurance this moment was real. “Harper.”
Each time he said her name she felt it inside her.
She’d never wanted anyone as much as she wanted him right now.
“Luke,” she whispered. “Please stay.”
Breathing heavily, he tightened his grip on her, resting his forehead against hers and looking into her eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
23
“Why did we wait so long?” Harper murmured. “We’re so stupid.”
Her head was on Luke’s chest, her fingers drawing loops against the smooth skin of his chest. She could feel his breath soft against her hair.
He’d been very quiet for a long time now, and she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But she didn’t look up at him. She didn’t want to break the spell.
Sex had always been good with Luke. Tonight was no different. It was just as it had been before—they were perfectly in sync.
Everything between them had been fierce and hungry—as if they were starved for each other.
Now she felt like she’d ended up right where she belonged.
She was so happy. She wanted to stay happy.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “It’s been a hard year. For both of us.”
There was a curious note to his voice. A kind of distance. She could feel his chest rising and falling more rapidly beneath her cheek.
Reluctantly, Harper raised herself up on one arm to look at him. There was a new heaviness in the lines of his mouth. It hadn’t been there earlier. He looked so … sad.
“Hey,” she said, softly. “What’s the matter?”
He didn’
t reply. But she could feel his muscles tighten beneath her.
“Luke?” she said.
He drew in a long breath.
“It always feels so right with you, Harper.” He reached for her hand, holding it in both of his. “That’s why I don’t understand.”
Swallowing the trepidation rising in her throat, Harper sat up. They were both naked. The sheets swirled around her waist, her hair lay tangled across her shoulders.
“What don’t you understand?” she asked, weaving her fingers through his.
“Why we can’t get it together.” The pain in his eyes sent shards of worry through her heart. “There’s always something stopping us from making this work. Something you do. Something I do. Our work. The timing. We never get it right. And yet, it feels right. Every time.”
Around them, the old house was so quiet it might have been holding its breath. No cars drove down the street.
“We couldn’t before,” she said, watching him carefully. “But we can now, right?”
Luke raised their joined hands to his mouth and kissed her fingers. Then he slipped his hand free of hers with clear reluctance and met her gaze.
“What just happened shouldn’t have happened,” he said.
“Oh.” Reaching for the sheet, she pulled it up to cover herself.
She didn’t ask for more information. She didn’t want any. She knew all she needed to know from looking at his face.
Twisting her body until she could slide to the side of the bed and put her feet on the floor, she reached down, finding her top where they’d dropped it an hour earlier.
With her back to him, she pulled it on, and then, keeping the sheets tight around her waist, felt the floor for her pants.
“Harper,” he said. “Look at me.”
“I need my pants,” she said, refusing to turn around.
“Harper…”
“Let me get dressed.”
Her voice shook.
She finally found them thrown across the footboard of the antique brass bed. Still not looking at him, she pulled them on and stood up.
Only then did she turn to face him.
“Just say it.”
He sat up, the sheet loose beneath the smooth muscles of his chest. In the cool wash of moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains, he might have been carved from marble. He was so beautiful it killed her.
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 18