by Nora Roberts
Seth was forced to admit that he wanted to talk to her personally and hoped to slide a few details out of her on Grace Fontaine.
M.J.’s was a cozy, inviting neighborhood pub that ran to dark woods, gleaming brass and thickly padded stools and booths. Business was slow but steady in midafternoon. A couple of men who looked to be college age were sharing a booth, a duet of foamy mugs and an intense game of chess. An older man sat at the bar working a crossword from the morning paper, and a trio of women with department store shopping bags crowding the floor around them huddled over drinks and laughter.
The bartender glanced at Seth’s badge and told him he’d find the boss upstairs in her office. He heard her before he saw her.
“Look, pal, if I’d wanted candy mints, I’d have ordered candy mints. I ordered beer nuts. I want them here by six. Yeah, yeah. I know my customers. Get me the damn nuts, pronto.”
She sat behind a crowded desk with a battered top. Her short cap of red hair stood up in spikes. Seth watched her rake her fingers through it again as she hung up the phone and pushed a pile of invoices aside. If that was her idea of filing, he thought, it suited the rest of the room.
It was barely big enough to turn around in, crowded with boxes, files, papers, and one ratty chair, on which sat an enormous and overflowing purse.
“Ms. O’Leary?”
She looked up, her brow still creased in annoyance. It didn’t clear when she recognized her visitor. “Just what I needed to make my day perfect. A cop. Listen, Buchanan, I’m behind here. As you know, I lost a few days recently.”
“Then I’ll try to be quick.” He stepped inside, pulled the picture out of his pocket and tossed it onto the desk under her nose. “Look familiar?”
She pursed her lips, gave the slickly handsome face a slow, careful study. “Is this the guy Jack told me about? The one who killed Melissa?”
“The Melissa Fontaine case is still open. This man is a possible suspect. Do you recognize him?”
She rolled her eyes, pushed the photo back in Seth’s direction. “No. Looks like a creep. Did Grace recognize him?”
He angled his head slightly, his only outward sign of interest. “Does she know many men who look like creeps?”
“Too many,” M.J. muttered. “Jack said you came by the memorial service last night to show Grace this picture.”
“She was…occupied.”
“Yeah, it was a rough night for her.” M.J. rubbed her eyes.
“Apparently, though she seemed to have been handling it well enough initially.” He glanced down at the photo again, thought of the man he’d seen her kiss. “This looks like her type.”
M.J.’s hand dropped, her eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“Just that.” Seth tucked the photo away. “If one’s going by type, this one doesn’t appear, on the surface, too far a step from the one she was cozy with at the service.”
“Cozy with?” The narrowed eyes went hot, angry green flares. “Grace wasn’t cozy with anyone.”
“About six-one, a hundred and seventy, blond hair, blue eyes, five-thousand-dollar Italian suit, lots of teeth.”
It only took her a moment. At any other time, she would have laughed. But the cool disdain on Seth’s face had her snarling. “You stupid son of a bitch, that was her cousin Julian, and he was hitting her up for money, just like he always does.”
Seth frowned, backtracked, played the scene through his mind again. “Her cousin…and that would be the victim’s…?”
“Stepbrother. Melissa’s stepbrother—her father’s son from a previous.”
“And the deceased’s stepbrother was asking Grace for money at his stepsister’s memorial?”
This time she appreciated the coating of disgust over his words. “Yeah. He’s slime—why should the ambience stop him from shaking her down? Most of them squeeze her for a few bucks now and then.” She rose, geared up. “And you’ve got a hell of a nerve coming in here with your attitude and your superior morals, ace. She wrote that pansy-faced jerk a check for a few thousand to get him off her back, just like she used to pass bucks to Melissa, and some of the others.”
“I was under the impression the Fontaines were wealthy.”
“Wealth’s relative—especially if you live the high life and your allowance from your trust fund is overdrawn, or if you’ve played too deep in Monte Carlo. And Grace has more of the green stuff than most of them, because her parents didn’t blow the bucks. That just burns the relatives,” she muttered. “Who do you think paid for that wake last night? It wasn’t the dearly departed’s mama or papa. Grace’s witch of an aunt put the arm on her, then put the blame on her. And she took it, because she thinks it’s easier to take it and go her own way. You don’t know anything about her.”
He thought he did, but the details he was collecting bit by bit weren’t adding up very neatly. “I know that she’s not to blame for what happened to her cousin.”
“Yeah, try telling her that. I know that when we realized she’d left and we got back to Cade’s, she was in her room crying, and there was nothing any of us could do to help her. And all because those bastards she has the misfortune to be related to go out of their way to make her feel rotten.”
Not just her relatives, he thought with a quick twinge of guilt. He’d had a part in that.
“It seems she’s more fortunate in her friends than in her family.”
“That’s because we’re not interested in her money, or her name. Because we don’t judge her. We just love her. Now, if that’s all, I’ve got work to do.”
“I need to speak with Ms. Fontaine.” Seth’s voice was as stiff as M.J.’s had been passionate. “Would you know where I might find her?”
Her lips curled. She hesitated a moment, knowing Grace wouldn’t appreciate the information being passed along. But the urge to see the cop’s preconceptions slapped down was just too tempting. “Sure. Try Saint Agnes’s Hospital. Pediatrics or maternity.” Her phone rang, so she snatched it up. “You’ll find her,” she said. “Yeah, O’Leary,” she barked into the phone, and turned her back on Seth.
He assumed she was visiting the child of a friend, but when he asked at the nurses’ station for Grace Fontaine, faces lit up.
“I think she’s in the intensive care nursery.” The nurse on duty checked her watch. “It’s her usual time there. Do you know the way?”
Baffled, Seth shook his head. “No.” He listened to the directions, while his mind turned over a dozen reasons why Grace Fontaine should have a usual time in a nursery. Since none of them slipped comfortably into a slot, he headed down corridors.
He could hear the high sound of babies crying behind a barrier of glass. And perhaps he stopped for just a moment outside the window of the regular nursery, and his eyes might have softened, just a little, as he scanned the infants in their clear-sided beds. Tiny faces, some slack in sleep, others screwed up into wrinkled balls of fury.
A couple stood beside him, the man with his arm over the woman’s robed shoulders. “Ours is third from the left. Joshua Michael Delvecchio. Eight pounds, five ounces. He’s one day old.”
“He’s a beaut,” Seth said.
“Which one is yours?” the woman asked.
Seth shook his head, shot one more glance through the glass. “I’m just passing through. Congratulations on your son.”
He continued on, resisting the urge to look back at the new parents lost in their own private miracle.
Two turns down the corridor away from the celebration was a smaller nursery. Here machines hummed, and nurses walked quietly. And behind the glass were six empty cribs.
Grace sat beside one, cuddling a tiny, crying baby. She brushed away tears from the pale little cheek, rested her own against the smooth head as she rocked.
It struck him to the core, the picture she made. Her hair was braided back from her face and she wore a shapeless green smock over her suit. Her face was soft as she soothed the restless infant. Her attention was totally focused o
n the eyes that stared tearfully into hers.
“Excuse me, sir.” A nurse hurried up. “This is a restricted area.”
Absently, his eyes still on Grace, Seth reached for his badge. “I’m here to speak with Ms. Fontaine.”
“I see. I’ll tell her you’re here, Lieutenant.”
“No, don’t disturb her.” He didn’t want anything to spoil that picture. “I can wait. What’s wrong with the baby she’s holding?”
“Peter’s an AIDS baby. Ms. Fontaine arranged for him to have care here.”
“Ms. Fontaine?” He felt a fist lodge in his gut. “It’s her child?”
“Biologically? No.” The nurse’s face softened slightly. “I think she considers them all hers. I honestly don’t know what we’d do without her help. Not just the foundation, but her.”
“The foundation?”
“The Falling Star Foundation. Ms. Fontaine set it up a few years ago to assist critically ill and terminal children and their families. But it’s the hands-on that really matters.” She gestured back toward the glass with a nod of her head. “No amount of financial generosity can buy a loving touch or sing a lullaby.”
He watched the baby calm, drift slowly to sleep in Grace’s arms. “She comes here often?”
“As often as she can. She’s our angel. You’ll have to excuse me, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you.” As she walked away, he stepped closer to the isolation glass. Grace started toward the crib. It was then that her eyes met his.
He saw the shock come into them first. Even she wasn’t skilled enough to disguise the range of emotions that raced over her face. Surprise, embarrassment, annoyance. Then she smoothed the expressions out. Gently, she laid the baby back into the crib, brushed a hand over his cheek. She walked through a side door and disappeared.
It was several minutes before she came out into the corridor. The smock was gone. Now she was a confident woman in a flame-red suit, her mouth carefully tinted to match. “Well, Lieutenant, we meet in the oddest places.”
Before she could complete the casual greeting she’d practiced while she tidied her makeup, he took her chin firmly in his hand. His eyes locked intently on hers, probed.
“You’re a fake.” He said it quietly, stepping closer. “You’re a fraud. Who the hell are you?”
“Whatever I like.” He unnerved her, that long, intense and all-too-personal study with those golden-brown eyes. “And I don’t believe this is the place for an interrogation. I’d like you to let me go now,” she said steadily. “I don’t want any scenes here.”
“I’m not going to cause a scene.”
She lifted her brows. “I might.” Deliberately she pushed his hand away and started down the corridor. “If you want to discuss the case with me, or have any questions regarding it, we’ll do it outside. I won’t have it brought in here.”
“It was breaking your heart,” he murmured. “Holding that baby was breaking your heart.”
“It’s my heart.” Almost viciously, she punched a finger at the button for the elevator. “And it’s a tough one, Seth. Ask anyone.”
“Your lashes are still wet.”
“This is none of your business.” Her voice was low and vibrating with fury. “Absolutely none of your business.”
She stepped into the crowded elevator, faced front. She wouldn’t speak to him about this part of her life, she promised herself. Just the night before, she’d opened herself to him, only to be pushed away, refused. She wouldn’t share her feelings again, and certainly not her feelings about something as vital to her as the children.
He was a cop, just a cop. Hadn’t she spent several miserable hours the night before convincing herself that was all he was or could be to her? Whatever he stirred in her would have to be stopped—or, if not stopped, at least suppressed.
She would not share with him, she would not trust him, she would not give to him.
By the time she reached the lobby doors, she was steadier. Hoping to shake him quickly, she started toward the lot. Seth merely took her arm, steered her away.
“Over here,” he said, and headed toward a grassy area with a pair of benches.
“I don’t have time.”
“Make time. You’re too upset to drive, in any case.”
“Don’t tell me what I am.”
“Apparently that’s just what I’ve been doing. And apparently I’ve missed several steps. That’s not usual for me, and I don’t care for it. Sit down.”
“I don’t want—”
“Sit down, Grace,” he repeated. “I apologize.”
Annoyed, she sat on the bench, found her sunglasses in her bag and slipped them on. “For?”
He sat beside her, removed the shielding glasses and looked into her eyes. “For not letting myself look beneath the surface. For not wanting to look. And for blaming you because I don’t seem able to stop wanting to do this.”
He took her face in his hands and captured her mouth with his.
Chapter 6
She didn’t move into him. Not this time. Her emotions were simply too raw to risk. Though her mouth yielded beneath his, she lifted a hand and laid it on his chest, as if to keep him at a safe distance.
And still her heart stumbled.
This time she was holding back. He sensed it, felt it in the press of her hand against him. Not refusing, but resisting. And with a knowledge that came from somewhere too deep to measure, he gentled the kiss, seeking not only to seduce, but also to soothe.
And still his heart staggered.
“Don’t.” It made her throat ache, her mind haze, her body yearn. And it was all too much. She pulled away from him and stood staring out across the little patch of grass until she thought she could breathe again.
“What is it with timing?” Seth wondered aloud. “That makes it so hard to get right?”
“I don’t know.” She turned then to look at him. He was an attractive man, she decided. The dark hair and hard face, the odd tint of gold in his eyes. But she’d known many attractive men. What was it about this one that changed everything and made her world tilt? “You bother me, Lieutenant Buchanan.”
He gave her one of his rare smiles—slow and full and rich. “That’s a mutual problem, Ms. Fontaine. You keep me up at night. Like a puzzle where the pieces are all there, but they change shape right before your eyes. And even when you put it all together—or think you have—it doesn’t stay the same.”
“I’m not a mystery, Seth.”
“You are the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met.” His lips curved again when she lifted her brows. “That isn’t entirely a compliment. Along with fascination comes frustration.” He stood, but didn’t step toward her. “Why were you so upset that I found you here, saw you here?”
“It’s private.” Her tone was stiff again, dismissive. “I go to considerable trouble to keep it private.”
“Why?”
“Because I prefer it that way.”
“Your family doesn’t know about your involvement here?”
The fury that seared through her eyes was burning-cold. “My family has nothing to do with this. Nothing. This isn’t a Fontaine project, one of their charitable sops for good press and a tax deduction. It’s mine.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he said calmly. Her family had hurt her even more than he’d guessed. And more, he thought, than she had acknowledged. “Why children, Grace?”
“Because they’re the innocents.” It was out before she realized she meant to say it. Then she closed her eyes and sighed. “Innocence is a precious and perishable commodity.”
“Yes, it is. Falling Star? Your foundation. Is that how you see them, stars that burn out and fall too quickly?”
It was her heart he was touching simply by understanding, by seeing what was inside. “It has nothing to do with the case. Why are you pushing me on this?”
“Because I’m interested in you.”
She sent him a smile—half inviting, half sarcastic. “Are you? Yo
u didn’t seem to be when I asked you to bed. But you see me holding a sick baby and you change your tune.” She walked toward him slowly, trailed a fingertip down his shirt. “Well, if it’s the maternal type that turns you on, Lieutenant—”
“Don’t do that to yourself.” Again his voice was quiet, controlled. He took her hand, stopped her from backtracking the trail of her finger. “It’s foolish. And it’s irritating. You weren’t playing games in there. You care.”
“Yes, I do. I care enormously. And that doesn’t make me a hero, and it doesn’t make me any different than I was last night.” She drew her hand away and stood her ground. “I want you. I want to go to bed with you. That irritates you, Seth. Not the sentiment, but the bluntness of the statement. Isn’t it games you’d prefer? That I’d pretend reluctance and let you conquer?”
He only wished it was something just that ordinary. “Maybe I want to know who you are before we end up in bed. I spent a long time looking at your face—that portrait of you in your house. And, looking, I wondered about you. Now, I want you. But I also want all those pieces to fit.”
“You might not like the finished product.”
“No,” he agreed. “I might not.”
Then again, she thought… Considering, she angled her head. “I have a thing tonight. A cocktail party hosted by a major contributor to the hospital. I can’t afford to skip it. Why don’t you take me, then we’ll see what happens next?”
He weighed the pros and cons, knew it was a step that would have ramifications he might not be able to handle smoothly. She wasn’t simply a woman, and he wasn’t simply a man. Whatever was between them had a long reach and a hard grip.
“Do you always think everything through so carefully?” she asked as she watched him.
“Yes.” But in her case it didn’t seem to matter, he realized. “I can’t guarantee my evenings will be free until this case is closed.” He shifted times and meetings and paperwork in his head. “But if I can manage it, I’ll pick you up.”
“Eight’s soon enough. If you’re not there by quarter after, I’ll assume you were tied up.”
No complaints, he thought, no demands. Most of the women he’d known shifted to automatic sulk mode when his work took priority. “I’ll call if I can’t make it.”
“Whatever.” She sat again, relaxed now. “I don’t imagine you came by to see my secret life, or to make a tentative date for a cocktail party.” She slipped her sunglasses back on, sat back. “Why are you here?”
He reached inside his jacket for the photo. Grace caught a brief glimpse of his shoulder holster, and the weapon snug inside it. And wondered if he’d ever had occasion to use it.
“I imagine your time is taken up mainly with administration duties.” She took the picture from him, but continued to look at Seth’s face. “You wouldn’t participate in many, what—busts?”
She thought she caught a faint glint of humor in his eyes, but his mouth remained sober. “I like to keep my hand in.”
“Yes,” she murmured, easily able to imagine him whipping the weapon out. “I suppose you would.”
She shifted her gaze, scanned the face in the photo. This time the humor was in her eyes. “Ah, Joe Cool. Or more likely Juan or Jean-Paul Cool.”
“You know him?”
“Not personally, but certainly as a type. He likely speaks the right words in three languages, plays a steely game of baccarat, enjoys his brandy and wears black silk underwear. His Rolex, along with his monogrammed gold cufflinks and diamond pinkie ring, would have been gifts from admirers.”
Intrigued, Seth sat beside her again. “And what are the right words?”
“You’re the most beautiful woman in the room. I adore you. My heart sings when I look into your eyes. Your husband is a fool, and darling, you must stop buying me gifts.”
“Been there?”
“With some variations. Only I’ve never been married and I don’t buy trinkets for users. His eyes are cold,” she added, “but a lot of women, lonely women, would only see the polish. That’s all they want to see,” She took a quick, short breath. “This is the man who killed Melissa, isn’t it?”
He started to give her the standard response, but she looked up then, and he was close enough to read her eyes through the amber tint of her glasses. “I think it is. His prints were all over the house. Some of the surfaces were wiped, but